by Da Chen
I went to my room and knelt before the makeshift shrine to Buddha for a good ten minutes, not knowing what to beg from his benevolence. I was a total mess. Guilt ate away at my soul for goofing off what precious time I had before the national entrance examinations. I banged my head on the floor, swearing to work hard from now on. In the end, I became dizzy and went to sleep with a big smile on my face. I was sure that Buddha, my smiling, chubby spiritual light, had heard me this time. I’d banged hard enough.
At dawn, I heard a gentle knock at my door and saw Mom’s nose sticking through the crack.
I moved my fingers slightly to let her know that I had heard her. She closed the door and went back to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the family. My room was still dark and chilly, the morning sea breeze blowing through the window frames. A little voice in the back of my head sang the awful get-up song while the rest of my body lay sleepily under the warm quilt. This was the time when the sweetest dreams were made. The birds were just beginning to sing, not too noisily yet, because they, too, had just awoken, and the insects from the surrounding fields were ending their nightly jazz session. Tired and dragging a little, a few hard workers still hummed along with the gurgling of the frogs. Their voices filtered down and thinned as light invaded the universe. I could hear their yawns.
Sleep took over and dreams knocked me on the head. I shrunk myself into a little meatball, the cocoon of my blanket feeling like a velvet nest in which my dream ship rocked gently among the waves of sleep. Long live lazy autumn mornings. Let the sun be warm and the air cool forever. And someone please shoot the commune team leader, who was banging the gong along the street, urging his members to hit the fields.
Knock, knock.
It was Mom again. She knew her son, and didn’t trust me with a pillow. This time she stuck her whole head inside and tapped her finger on the wooden wall, a severe warning. I moved one limb at a time, slowly dragging myself out of bed like a rusty old machine. I could hear each drowsy part of me creaking and tearing. I slipped into the cool sandals that stood neatly at the foot of my bed. My toes curled and twitched. Good sign. The chill was waking my feet up. I put on my shirt and stumbled into the backyard and down the stone steps leading to the river. I squatted and splashed my face with the icy water of the Dong Jing. It was a shock to my system. Now I was awake.
I climbed back up the steps, took out my schoolbag, and laid all the books on a small table in the backyard. I figured that with eighteen months left until the national exam, I simply had to use every waking moment of my life for studying. It would be four years’ worth of work squeezed into eighteen months. My life was over for the time being. No friends, no movies, no chatting. No sitting in class passively awaiting the inept teacher to feed you. It had to be a flat-out attack on all the books I hadn’t touched. I was going to breathe and live those books.
But which book did I start with? I looked at them, puzzled. I needed a scheme, a method, or I would never beat the competition. Only one out of a hundred made it in. I could easily kiss the books and my life good-bye and say hello to rice paddies.
A wise man once said that the difference between going to college and not going was the difference between wearing genuine leather shoes and going barefoot. To me, it was more like life and death.
In all the books I had read, college men were tall and handsome, wore western suits, ties, and glasses, and had their hair well oiled and neatly parted in the middle. All the girls dreamed about them, they kicked ass in society. If they happened to be from a rich family, they were the rebels who ran off with the sexiest, prettiest maid in the household. If they were from a poor family, they ended up marrying a rich girl, but were still rebels. It was only their due.
Girls, money, with no need to shovel manure or plow the fields. They simply moved their fingers and out flowed the most romantic poems, words that moved people’s hearts. They were the intelligent and privileged winners. All others were born to the destiny of mud and manure, working in the same fields as the cows and the buffalo.
A cold breeze swept across the fields. I shuddered at the thought of getting up this early, rolling up my pants, and wading into the chilly fields to weed the wheat. Many had lived like that for generations. I’d rather die. Quickly I opened my English book and attacked the first thing that appeared before me.
A BIG OFFICIAL poster about the new college system was posted conspicuously on the wall of the commune’s headquarters. Hundreds of young people traveled miles just to stand before it for hours, half believing what it said in black and white. Some copied it down on a small piece of paper and brought it back for others to see, as if they couldn’t trust their memory. Confusion reigned among the people of Yellow Stone.
Only months ago, Chairman Mao was alive and kicking on his sickbed under the loving care of his young nurses, who saw it as a heroic, patriotic act to mix their business with his pleasure. School was bad and revolution was good. Young people had gotten used to it. They liked it that way. They beat up the teachers, burned down schools, marched out of classes, and drank and smoked as they saw fit. There were no tests, no grades, no good students, no bad students. They were all bad, therefore all good. Everything was fine because Mao said so.
Now everything was upside down again. The announcement explained nothing. It didn’t make any distinction between the children of the politically good and the politically bad families. It said the tests were open to all and that admission into college was based purely on performance.
One day the team leader of the commune took my brother aside and asked what he thought about the new policy. Brother Jin said he dared not think that such a policy applied to him. The team leader, a Communist party member, slapped my brother’s knee and said he was smart for thinking that way. He added that if Jin believed the policy was what it said on paper, he was too naive. The landlords were still the landlords, there was no future for them. After the party member left, Jin gave him both fingers.
Within days, there were rumors that some cadres of the commune had cooperated on an open letter to the government of Fujian Province, showing their indignation over the admissions policy. Emotions were running high at the inequality; the fate of the Communist country was at stake. They said they were worried about the revolution, not themselves. They also said that to educate children from the Black families would sabotage the revolutionary cause.
In a month, the education commissioner of Fujian replied, in a letter that was published in the Fujian Daily. It confirmed the policy as presented. The Red families felt left out, deserted. They felt betrayed, and were willing to do anything to block the Black families from participating in the examinations.
My cousin Tan, the son of my mother’s brother, had taken the plunge and signed up for the first examination. He hung up his tools, skipped farm work, and hit the old books. He locked himself up in the family attic with only the alarm clock for company. He lived on three hours of sleep and some sporadic meals that were passed through the opening on the floor. He lost five pounds in ten days and grew a long rough beard on his narrow chin.
Unfortunate things happened. The team leader was incensed when he heard the reason for Cousin Tan’s disappearance. The leader ran to their house and cursed and shouted names until the whole village could hear the racket and a crowd gathered before the house. Then the leader threw a stone at Tan’s window and made him come down. Tan hadn’t seen the sun since he disappeared into the attic several days ago, and blinked at the sunshine, while the crowd shouted as if they were seeing a rat crossing the street in broad daylight. The team leader called him the son of a landlord and questioned his sanity. He humiliated him, and made him go to work on a chore that could very well have waited till the following spring. Tan was in tears, and swore that if he was ever admitted to college he would take the admissions letter and shove it up the guy’s ass. The team leader threatened to withhold the food ration to Tan’s family if he was ever absent again without approval. During the next few days, h
e was assigned to tedious, unnecessary jobs, while the rest of the farmers on the same team rested at home doing nothing. It was off-season. Tan had to hide his books in his pockets and read them during long water breaks.
The matter reached the Putien county education commissioner. He quietly sent a letter to the team leader, calming him down. My cousin was finally allowed some time off. The team leader, however, withheld the food ration for Cousin Tan, notwithstanding the commissioner’s order. He swore that he would screw the revolution before it screwed him, a true revolutionary martyr.
Suddenly, everyone was talking about college. People gathered in knots, swapping gossip about who would be the most competitive in the tests. The bridge where my friends used to sit and chat about women and gambling was now a forum in which they discussed who the next math or English wizard might be. War stories about some legendary teachers from our high school began to circulate among the people of Yellow Stone.
There was the fat math teacher, Du, with bushy eyebrows and a birthmark as ugly and prominent as a dark cloud on a sunny day. Before the Cultural Revolution, each year on the day prior to the national college exam Mr. Du would call an emergency meeting for all the graduates, flip open a portable blackboard, and show the lengthy solutions to a few complicated math questions he predicted would appear as major score-gainers. He would come in and talk briefly but importantly for ten minutes. The meeting was over when he lit his cigarette. Nervous students hurriedly jotted down all the details and committed them to memory. Du’s track record had been consistently eight out of ten. Marginal students had been brought to tears when they saw the questions appear on the real exam.
Then there was the history teacher, Mr. Wa, who was no pretty boy either. He looked frighteningly like someone from the Pleistocene age, minus the thick body hair. All he needed to do to give us a living picture of the Peking man was to bend his back a little, walk slowly in front of the class, and let his long arms dangle on both sides. His head had only two parts, the forehead and the chin. His eyes gleamed wildly under a steep cliff of a forehead, and his small nose flattened out above a set of teeth so big that he had a hard time closing his mouth. He spoke in a stutter, spattering everything around him with saliva. His voice roared like a Peking man’s must have done, seemingly unaccustomed to the gentility of evolution.
And then there were the super-students, who had attended high school before the Cultural Revolution and had a solid foundation in all the subjects. Among them were my Cousin Tan and a neighbor by the name of Li. Candidates worked on old college exam questions; these guys breezed through effortlessly. In the eyes of youngsters like me, they were heroes.
As the first national examination drew near, the talk of legends stopped. Everyone watched silently as the candidates nervously waited their date of trial.
On the first day of the examination, pale students walked toward the test sites, quiet and anxious. Mr. Du called for a meeting. So did the Peking Man. The meetings were open to all. Thousands of students crowded into the high school’s open-air gym and listened through crackling loudspeakers to the two legends at work. The atmosphere was as sacred as at a religious event, and hearts were just as pious.
At 9:00 A.M., I put down my books and joined the rest of the crowd to watch the uniformed county police ride into town on three-wheeled motorcycles, carrying the examination papers. The street was quiet as the police honked their way noisily through the thick crowd. Hours later, some of that crowd would be winners and many would be losers. I held my head between my hands and sneaked back to my room. I felt weak in the knees just thinking about those poor guys who opened up their papers and registered a blank. One of them could be me. It had definitely been me at midterm. I buried my head hopelessly among my books, then stared out the window.
I was getting ready to go to my fifteenth lesson with Professor Wei. I had gotten into the habit of combing my hair and scrubbing myself neatly before leaving. Having no brain was something you couldn’t help, but having no manners was unforgivable. Besides, I was afraid the dog would chase me if I looked any different from the day he first saw me. He didn’t have to like me. All I asked was that he get used to me, which he didn’t seem to be doing. He had to bite his tongue each time my dirty feet shuffled in front of his eyes.
Professor Wei opened the door with the same smile she’d given me fourteen times before. The dog gave me his usual glare, sleepy, bored, and mean. Here comes the loser again. If I did anything different, like walk a little faster or snap my fingers, he would frown like an old man and growl a warning. Don’t piss me off, you brat, he seemed to be saying. It was he who set the tone of the day.
But this time Professor Wei didn’t give me her singsong “good afternoon” in English like she always had. She walked a little faster guiding me through the garden, and didn’t say a word about my hair. I sensed something was wrong, but what? I had scrubbed the soles of my sandals clean before entering her living room. The carpet shone in the afternoon sun like on any other day. My seat on the couch felt like velvet, hugging my skinny bottom as it had always done.
Professor Wei sat rigidly in front of me, her eyes icy, her mouth set. Something had upset her terribly.
“My friend saw you smoking in school. Is that true?” She came right to the point. “I am shocked to hear this.”
So was I. Who was that little friend of hers? I had been smoking for ages, but I didn’t mind keeping it secret from the professor. I didn’t want to hurt her. What went on beyond the serene wall of her security would surely be too harsh for her gentle, loving heart to bear. She would faint, not once but many times, if she were allowed access to the list of my terrible evildoings. But now someone had broken the unfortunate news to her. She had probably been crying and praying to her god the whole night. I fought the temptation to lie. She seemed so trusting and believing, but the thought of her western god, Jesus Christ, invisibly hovering over us made my heart skip a beat. I could fool her, but not her god. All I needed was another sin to add to my troubled record.
“My friend in school makes me do it occasionally,” I said weakly. A half lie was better than a whole one. “It was for fun.” But there was no such thing as fun when it came to nicotine. Either you were addicted or you were not. I hoped she didn’t know that.
“It is an evil thing, and a curse to men. It broke my heart to hear about your smoking. God made you healthy so you could be useful. Don’t ruin everything,” she preached. She spoke calmly now that I had confessed. Her smile returned. She believed me completely. What a relief! I relaxed and sank back into my seat, ready for a lesson, when she suddenly grabbed my schoolbag and said firmly, “Let me see your bag. I think you carry cigarettes with you.”
I held on to the bag tightly, surprised by her quickness. “I swear I only smoke for fun.”
“For fun! You tell me it’s just for fun. Your teeth are stained beyond recognition. You think I am naive? That’s all right. I think you are a hopeless addict. There!” She stuck her hand into my bag and came out with a handful of Flying Horse. She shook with rage and seemed totally disgusted by the tobacco in her hands.
My face went pink, red, and pale at the same time. What a feisty lady! I had underestimated her by a big margin. I felt shaken with embarrassment.
“Aha! Little old lady knows.” She gave me a sly smile. “Now why don’t you take these poisonous cigarettes, dump them in the trash can for me, and wash your hands with soap. Then we can start our lesson.” Like a little girl, she almost danced across the floor to wash her own hands.
I did what she ordered me to do, like a puppet, still numb.
When I got back from washing my hands, she was in her usual seat, peaceful again, as though nothing had happened.
We carried on with our lesson as we had many times before, but I found it hard to concentrate. My mind kept thinking about this new person inside nice Professor Wei. Who was she? I had a lot to learn.
I WAS MAKING slow progress. Math, physics, and chemistry wer
e hard. I was behind a couple of years, and the formulas seemed to have gotten longer since I last studied them. The teacher was lecturing on calculus and matrices, while I was still struggling to catch up on geometric equations. I attended the classes. The teacher and the good students treated me as if I didn’t exist. Each time I raised my hand, there was an uncomfortable hush in the room. Another stupid question. My math teacher would roll his eyes and reluctantly give me the chance to ask my question. Then he would ask his protégé, the Head, to answer it.
“The Head” was a nickname we gave to the class president, who had this huge, shiny forehead. He was also the school’s Communist Youth League president. He was the kind of guy who made exaggerated speeches in public meetings and shouted slogans while parading on National Day. He walked with a stiff neck and a pair of duck feet. He looked at other lowly classmates with disdain, and was considered the biggest snob on campus. He was doing fine among other equally snobbish highfliers until the day he was caught writing a love letter to a girl in class. Now he was in another league, a womanizer and a snob.
When the Head was done, the teacher applauded slowly, nodding and smiling. Another superb performance by his young talent. The teacher himself was distantly cool. He openly avoided talking to me, such a lowly student. Once was enough, but again and again? I quickly lost interest in his class. My mind wandered off on dangerous paths. Ideas flitted around inside my head about how best to torture such an evil being. It would have been fitting to have him and his protégé tied up, butt naked, to the old pine tree at the school entrance and let them beg for mercy as the chilly sea wind nipped at their skin. I hated them and I hated myself.