Remembering 1942

by Liu Zhenyun

  He explained to everyone that the general manager’s office had said they had to pick baskets without examining what was inside and take them back to their own offices. A while later he returned looking greatly relieved.

  “It’s the same for everybody. Section One, Section Two, and Section Seven all got rotten pears.”

  Now the complaints targeted their unit.

  “Labor Day, the one day a year we’re sent a truckload of pears. Just our luck to get nothing but rotten ones.”

  Xiao Lin walked in with the scale at the moment.

  “Hold on,” someone said. “They’re all rotten, so why weigh them? Just divide them into piles.”

  Laying down the scale, he began putting the pears into piles, then rubbed off the mush stuck to his hands and told everyone to choose a pile. In the past there’d always been big and small pears, which got people interested in picking a pile; now they just took the pile closest to their desks and let that be the end of it. They cut out the rotten spots, starting with the worst looking ones, and soon the sound of people eating pears filled the office, unlike previous times, when they saved the fruit to take home. Only Lao He washed his pears before biting into them, as if savoring unspoiled fruit.

  “Don’t do that, Lao He. Skip the rotten spots. They could cause cancer.”

  “The rotten parts are edible, too,” he said unashamedly. “Apple sauce is made from rotten apples, you know.”

  They all knew he had to support a large family, including his wife’s grandparents, on what little he earned, so they said no more and let him eat his pears.

  As they were eating, Lao Qiao went out to check around and returned to tell them why the pears were rotten: the truck had broken down on the road (the pears had come from Zhangjiakou) and it had taken two days to repair, hence the rotten pears. Why had the truck broken down? Well, during the previous round of housing assignment, Lao Diao, head of the drivers unit, had asked for a large three-room apartment, but had been given a small one instead. Upon hearing the news, everyone turned their anger on him.

  “That’s outrageous. How could he give us rotten pears just because he’s unhappy?”

  Later that afternoon, when everyone was gathering their pears in old newspaper before the commuter bus took off, they heard the latest news: there had been a few baskets with perfectly fine pears, but they were kept aside by the general management office for those in higher positions. This rekindled flames of outrage that had died down in the course of the day.

  “Damn him. We got a truckload of rotten pears that still had enough good ones for them.”

  “The bus is about to leave,” Deputy Section Chief Sun said. “Don’t listen to rumors. All pears in the same truck will go bad together once there’s even one bad one. Fruit does that. This is common knowledge, so how could they have good pears?”

  Before he finished, Xiao Yu, an office clerk, walked in with a mesh bag filled with fine looking pears. They were for Lao Zhang, he said. Zhang hadn’t come to work that day, so Xiao Yu wanted someone to take the pears to him. Lao Zhang, their one-time section chief, had recently been promoted to Deputy Bureau Chief. Everyone turned on Lao Sun.

  “You see. One of the bosses is getting good pears. He was just promoted, and see what he gets?”

  Sun looked down to gather up his pears.

  “Enough of that talk. Whoever lives closest to Chief Zhang will take the pears to him.”

  Xiao Peng lived in the same building as Zhang, No. 5 and 6, so she was the one. Lao Qiao, still resentful over the basket Xiao Peng had taken, needled her, “Xiao Peng, you got rotten pears, but have to deliver good ones. Only a wimp would do that.”

  Xiao Peng didn’t get along with Lao Zhang, who, as section chief, had written a review criticizing her for being “muddled-headed,” and they had banged on each other’s desk. Zhang might have been promoted, but she was too hotheaded to be bothered by consequences of her actions. Provoked by Lao Qiao (another one with whom she didn’t get along), Xiao Peng glared at her and tossed the bag of pears into a corner.

  “Whether I’m a wimp or not has nothing to do with delivering the pears.”

  They left the office with their rotten pears, leaving the good ones behind. Lao Sun was the last to leave. He and Lao Zhang were friendly only on the surface. He glanced at the bag of pears before locking the door with a loud click.

  2

  Deputy Bureau Chief Zhang walked into the office at eight o’clock the following morning, since his desk had not yet been moved to his new office. His promotion meant he could be driven to work, but he insisted on riding his bike. It took him an hour or more to cycle from his home in the Chongwen District to the office in the Chaoyang District, so he arrived in the office with sweat dripping from his thick, fleshy neck. But while limbering his neck, he liked to say, “It’s not too tiring.” Or, “Riding a bike is good exercise.”

  On this day, he spotted the pears the moment he walked in the door.

  “Ah, I see we got pears,” he said happily. “That’s nice. Pears are great.”

  By then the others had arrived.

  “Don’t talk about the pears, Lao Zhang,” one of them said. “The rest of us all got rotten pears.”

  “I could only make stewed pears with my share,” Lao Qiao commented.

  “Really?” Zhang was surprised. “That wasn’t nice.” He picked up the mesh bag and put it on his desk. “Have some, everyone. My wife got some at work, so I won’t take these home.”

  So everyone crowded around his desk to get a pear. As they ate, they started in what had happened the day before. Sun didn’t take one; he smoked instead, saying it was a bad idea to eat cold food so early in the morning, that it could cause diarrhea. Xiao Peng stayed away too; she slammed her kidskin purse down on the desk and pouted. Earlier that morning she’d heard that someone had broadcast her refusal to deliver the pears the day before, turning it into a minor news item. Sooner or later, Zhang would get wind of it, which didn’t bother her. What incensed her was the turncoat in her own office; she suspected Qiao or Sun as the traitor who had sold her out.

  After they finished, Xiao Lin gathered up the skins to throw them away, as Lao Sun rapped his knuckles on his desk to share a central government document with everyone. He began reading aloud: “All autonomous regions in every city and province, every major military command …” When he finished the page, he passed the document to Lao He, who read the second page and then passed it to Lao Qiao for the third page, and then it went to Xiao Lin. It was Lao Zhang who, as section chief, had started the practice of taking turns reading the documents to stop people from ignoring him; he’d been so upset seeing them trim their nails or knit a sweater that he came up with the idea to get everyone’s attention. Even that was not enough for him—he said they did not have to read it in Putonghua. Why not use their hometown dialects? After all, they’d come from all parts of China and it would be enjoyable to read the documents in a variety of dialects. After his promotion, he was no longer a member of the office and did not have to read, but he sat there listening with his hand over his vacuum mug.

  When they were two-thirds into the document, two men from the general manager’s office showed up to tell Zhang that his new office was ready and they were there to help him move his desk.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be next week?” he asked.

  “The office is ready, so the bureau chief asked you to move now. It will be easier if he needs to talk to you.”

  “All right then. They’re reading a document, so we’ll wait till they’re finished.”

  The men waited by the door.

  Finally it was finished, and people got up to help move Zhang’s desk.

  “You’ve been promoted, Lao Zhang,” someone said, “so you’ll have to treat us to something.”

  “Didn’t I treat you with some pears?” he said with a smile.

  “That doesn’t count. Pears don’t mean anything. You have to treat us to a meal at the Furong Hotel.”


  Amid a flurry of activity, the desk was moved, the wastepaper basket was picked up, and desk drawers were removed. Everyone joined in except Xiao Peng, who was still pouting. She had handed the document to the next person earlier, saying, “My mouth is rotten.” Obviously, she hadn’t gotten over what had happened that morning.

  After moving the desk to the second floor, they realized it was wasted effort, because Zhang had gotten a big desk, the same size as those for other deputy chiefs. The new desk had a large, spotless glass top, on which stood a programmable phone. A few potted plants were scattered in the office, which was also furnished with easy chairs and a large sofa, all draped with new cotton covers. The sparklingly clean room was as big as the whole office in the section he had formerly run.

  “Lao Zhang has exchanged a fowling piece for a big gun,” someone quipped.

  “But I’ll have to be here alone,” he said with a smile. “I’d rather be there with all of you; it feels better that way.”

  “The old desk is useless here, Lao Zhang,” one of the moving men said. “Should we put it in storage?”

  “Sure, go ahead. Thanks for your hard work.” He handed them each a cigarette, then handed them out to his former officemates.

  They went back to their office, the men puffing on cigarettes, where they discovered that the empty spot left by the desk looked strange. Xiao Lin got a broom and swept the dusty outline. The reality that Zhang had truly been promoted to deputy bureau chief set in. Now, who should take the spot? Lao Sun, naturally.

  “Hey, Lao Sun, you should move your desk here now that Lao Zhang has left,” someone teased.

  “Oh no, not so soon,” Sun said, still puffing away.

  As a senior member of the party, Lao Qiao didn’t think much of Sun, so she said, “Stop pretending! Listen to you, you’re obviously quite sure about it.”

  “How can I be that sure?”

  After having some fun at Sun’s expense, the others began to wonder who would replace him if he was promoted to be the section chief? That got everyone thinking about their own future, and they were no longer in a joking mood. Their talk turned to Zhang and the reason behind his promotion. Someone said he was decisive, someone else mentioned his amiable personality, while a third person focused on his competency at work. Then Xiao Peng piped up, “Rubbish. I saw him giving the bureau chief two whole fish on the first of the year.”

  Someone offered a dissenting view, saying that Zhang got promoted not because of the bureau chief but a particular deputy bureau chief. Yet another said it was neither, adding that Zhang was connected to someone high in the ministry. While they talked on, Zhang pushed open the door and came in to pick up a pair of office slippers he’d left behind. They clammed up, looking awkward, as they could tell that he’d heard everything. But he didn’t seem to mind. Pointing at Xiao Peng with his slippers, he joked, “You’re in charge of the two potted plants on the window sill now. Water them with some leftover tea in the afternoon before you go home.”

  That eased everyone’s concern.

  “Yes, water them with tea,” they said in unison.

  After he left with his slippers, someone said, “Maybe he didn’t hear us.”

  “So what if he did?” Xiao Peng said.

  They continued their speculation, while Zhang returned to his new office. He’d heard them gossiping about his promotion, but it hadn’t upset him, since it was to be expected. Would he have joined in if one of them had been promoted instead? He put himself in their shoes and forgave them, since they had worked side by side. But he couldn’t stop from cursing angrily as he leaned against the sofa after changing into his slippers and shutting the door.

  “Damn you, assholes. What are you gossiping about? You don’t know shit. I didn’t rely on anything but my own luck.”

  He was fully aware that originally he hadn’t been considered for the position that had remained unfilled since one of the deputy bureau chiefs died of cancer. The bureau chief had favored another section head, named Qin, while a deputy minister had wanted to promote a fellow named Guan who headed the Seventh Section. A tug-of-war broke out and lasted a year, angering the minister, who said, “For a whole year, you’ve been fighting over recommendations. Are you Communist party members or aren’t you? Well, I’m not going to take either one. I’m picking one no one has recommended.”

  Which was how Lao Zhang ended up getting the promotion. It was a convergence of opportunity and good luck, which he concluded with the traditional Chinese saying, “The fisherman benefits when a snipe and a clam are locked in a fight.” The chief and his deputy each had a talk with him, both claiming to have strongly recommended him, with the mistaken assumption that he was completely in the dark. Zhang nodded as he said to himself, “To hell with you both. You think I’m a fool? I owe nothing to anyone, only to the party.”

  On that particularly morning, he ran into Section One Chief Qin and Section Seven Chief Guan when he came to work. They were vocally jealous, so Zhang made a joke to smooth things over, but deep down he was gloating.

  “What’s the point of being jealous? Now that I’m sitting in that chair, all you people had better watch out. I have a vote on the bureau party committee.”

  He walked around with his hands behind his back, sizing up his office. It was spacious, clean and quiet, with lots of light. By nature he preferred being alone and had never enjoyed sharing an office with so many people. A sadness rose up at the thought that he’d had to work so hard to finally have his own office at the age of fifty. Time waits for no one. But a sense of gratification made its way in when he recalled that Qin and Guan still shared offices with the people who worked for them. It hadn’t been easy. He’d never dreamed of becoming a deputy bureau chief, and had made preparations for his retirement. The promotion came as a total surprise; now that it had happened, he’d sit in this office for a few years. After lunch, he lay down on the sofa, draped a jacket over himself and dozed off. He could never have done that in the big office, where, in addition to having no sofa, he could not have fallen asleep with the noise of people washing their lunch boxes and knitting sweaters, plus the click-clack of Xiao Peng’s high heels.

  He was startled awaken by the sudden realization that he had yet to learn how to use the programmable phone. Jumping to his feet, he rushed over to his desk, where he read the instructions and punched in some numbers. He placed a call to his wife and then his daughter at work to tell them his new number and to make sure they didn’t dial the old one. He even added an instruction for his wife—buy a roast chicken on her way home.

  3

  A luncheon for everyone in the building was held on April thirtieth; they were given meal coupons from the general manager’s office. With them they could select two dishes, a preserved egg, and a bottle of beer, all free of charge in the dining hall. They would eat in their offices, selecting the dishes individually, then bringing the eggs and beer back to a large dining table formed by moving several desks together. They would also use money from selling scrap newspaper to buy a large packet of peanuts and set it in the middle of the table. By ten thirty, everyone began looking for bowls and platters and getting the desks ready, creating a sense of festivity. Even those who normally didn’t get along were friendly enough that they could order each other around—you go buy some steamed buns, you go wash the cups, and so on. By eleven, they picked up the bowls and platters before heading to the dining hall, where they could get a spot at the head of the line to pick the food they liked. But then Lao He came up to Sun with his bowl.

  “We’re out of coal briquettes at home, Lao Sun, so I have to go home and get them some.”

  That dampened the mood, for everyone knew that was just an excuse; Lao He treasured the free food too much to share with them, and wanted to take it home for his family, especially his wife’s grandparents. He was famously henpecked, and they heard that he never had more than fifty cents in his pocket. Naturally he didn’t smoke.

  “Don’t do that, Lao
He,” Xiao Peng said. “There’s no need to fight the crowds on the bus for the sake of two free dishes.”

  “Forget it then,” one of the others said. “If Lao He isn’t going to eat here, neither will we. We don’t need a free lunch.”

  “We really did run out of coal briquettes.” Red and white splotches appeared on He’s anxiety-ridden face as tried to explain.

  “Don’t worry about it, Lao He.” Sun waved him off. “Stay and eat with us. You can go get the coal this afternoon. I want to talk to you about something. We’ll air it out downstairs.”

  He had to stick around now. He laid down his bowl and said again,

  “We really did run out of coal briquettes.”

  While the others picked up their bowls and platters to line up in the dining hall, Sun took He down to get some fresh air beyond the metal fence. The so-called “airing-out” was a term unique to their office, meaning two people having a heart-to-heart talk, with no others around. They did a lot of that; sometimes after airing out, the two people would pretend they hadn’t on their return to the office; they’d exchange a meaningful smile and say,

  “We went out to buy something.”

  Sun never hid his intent from the others; he always announced openly that he wanted to have an airing-out with so-and-so.

  Sun and He walked beside the fence. When they reached the far end they turned and walked back. Lao Sun, dressed in a steel blue suit, was a short, squat man with a belly. Lao He was tall and thin, wearing a tattered tunic jacket was a mass of wrinkles; on his sallow face sat a pair of glasses in a yellowed plastic frame. The two men had started work at the same time twenty years before and had even lived in the same dorm for a while. Sun had done much better, eventually being promoted to deputy section head, while He was still a clerk. After his promotion, Sun moved into a three-room apartment, while He remained in the slum area of Niujie, nine people from four generations crowded into a space of fifteen square meters.