by Ha Jin
From then on, Zhou spent more time studying in the room. In the morning, when he was supposed to sleep, he would doze for only an hour and then read for three hours downstairs. His comrades wondered why his bed was empty every morning. When they asked where he had been, he said that Director Liang had work for him to do and that if they needed him, just give the Liangs a ring. Of course, none of them dared go down to check or call the director’s home.
Now the “study” was clean and more furnished. The floor was mopped every day. On the desk sat a cup and a thermos bottle always filled with boiled water. Liang’s orderly took care of that. Occasionally, the director would come and join Zhou in the evenings. He wanted Zhou to tell him the stories in The Three Kingdoms, which in fact Liang knew quite well, for he had heard them time and again for decades. Among the five generals in the classic, he adored Guan Yu, because Guan had both bravery and strategy. After The Three Kingdoms, they talked of All Men Are Brothers. Liang had Zhou tell him the stories of those outlaw heroes, which Liang actually knew by heart; he was just fond of listening to them. Whenever a battle took a sudden turn, he would give a hearty laugh. Somehow Zhou felt the old man looked younger during these evenings — pink patches would appear on his sallow cheeks after they had sat together for an hour.
Naturally Zhou became an enigma to his comrades, who were eager to figure out what he did downstairs. One afternoon Chief Huang had a talk with Zhou. He asked, “Why do you go to Director Liang’s home so often, Young Zhou?”
“I work for him.” Zhou would never reveal that he studied downstairs, because the chief could easily find a way to keep him busy at the station.
“What work exactly?”
“Sometimes little chores, and sometimes he wants me to read out Chairman Mao’s works and newspaper to him.”
“Really? He studies every day?”
“Yes, he studies hard.”
“How can you make me believe you?”
“Chief Huang, if you don’t believe me, go ask him yourself.” Zhou knew the chief dared not make a peep before the director. Huang had better keep himself away from Liang, or the old man would curse his ancestors of eight generations.
“No, it’s unnecessary. Zhou Wen, you know I’m not interested in what you do downstairs. It’s Secretary Si Ma Lin who asked me about what’s going on. I have no idea how he came to know you often stay in Director Liang’s home.”
“Thanks for telling me that, Chief Huang. Please tell Secretary Si Ma that Director Liang wants me to work for him.”
After that, the chief never bothered Zhou again, but Zhou’s fellow comrades didn’t stop showing their curiosity. They even searched through his suitcase and turned up his mattress to see what he had hidden from them. Zhou realized how lucky it was that he had put his Ocean of Words downstairs beforehand. They kept asking him questions. One would ask, “How did you get so close to Director Liang?” Another, “Does he pay you as his secretary?” Another would sigh and say, “What a pity Old Liang doesn’t have a daughter!”
It was true Director Liang had only three sons. The eldest son was an officer in Nanjing Military Region; the second worked as an engineer at an ordnance factory in Harbin; his youngest son, Liang Bin, was a middle school student at home. The boy, tall and burly, was a wonderful soccer player. One afternoon during their break from the telegraphic training, Zhou Wen, Zhang Jun, and Gu Wan were playing soccer in the yard behind the church when Liang Bin came by. Bin put down his satchel, hooked up the ball with his instep, and began juggling it on his feet, then on his head, on his shoulders, on his knees — every part of his body seemed to have a spring. He went on doing this for a good three minutes without letting the ball touch the ground. The soldiers were all impressed and asked the boy why he didn’t play for the Provincial Juvenile Team.
“They’ve asked me many times,” Bin said, “but I never dare play for them.”
“Why?” Gu asked.
“If I did, my dad would break my legs. He wants me to study.” He picked up his satchel and hurried home.
Both Zhang and Gu said Director Liang was a fool and shouldn’t ruin his son’s future that way. Zhou understood why, but he didn’t tell them, uncertain if Director Liang would like other soldiers to know his story, which was profound indeed but not very glorious.
Every day the boy had to return home immediately after school, to study. One evening Zhou overheard Director Liang criticizing his son. “Zhou Wen read The Three Kingdoms under the road lamp. You have everything here, your own lamp, your own books, your own desk, and your own room. What you lack is your own strong will. Your mother has spoiled you. Come on, work on the geometry problems. I’ll give you a big gift at the Spring Festival if you study hard.”
“Will you allow me to join the soccer team?”
“No, you study.”
A few days later, Director Liang asked Zhou to teach his son, saying that Zhou was the most knowledgeable man he had ever met and that he trusted him as a young scholar. Zhou agreed to try his best. Then Liang pulled a dog-eared book out of his pocket. “Teach him this,” he said. It was a copy of The Three-Character Scripture.
Zhou was surprised, not having expected the officer wanted him to teach his son classical Chinese, which Zhou had merely taught himself a little. Where did Liang get this small book? Zhou had heard of the scripture but never seen a copy. Why did a revolutionary officer like Liang want his son to study such a feudal book? Zhou dared not ask and kept the question to himself. Neither did he ever mention the scripture to his comrades. Instead he told them that Director Liang ordered him to teach his son Chairman Mao’s On Practice, a booklet Zhou knew well enough to talk about in their political studies. Since none of his comrades understood the Chairman’s theory, they believed what Zhou told them, and they were impressed by his comments when they studied together.
As his demobilization drew near, Zhou worried desperately and kept asking himself, What will you do now? Without the Party membership you won’t get a good job at home, but how can you join the Party before leaving the army? There are only five weeks left. If you can’t make it by the New Year, you’ll never be able to in the future. Even if you give the dictionary to Secretary Si Ma now, it’s already too late. Too late to do anything. But you can’t simply sit back waiting for the end; you must do something. There must be a way to bring him around. How?
After thinking of the matter for three days, he decided to talk to Director Liang. One evening, as soon as Zhou sat down in the room, the old man rushed in with snowflakes on his felt hat. “Little Zhou,” he said in a thick voice, “I came to you for help.”
“How can I help?” Zhou stood up.
“Here, here is Marx’s book.” Liang put his fur mitten on the desk and pulled a copy of Manifesto of the Communist Party out of it. “This winter we divisional leaders are studying this little book. Vice Commissar Hou gave the first lecture this afternoon. I don’t understand what he said at all. It wasn’t a good lecture. Maybe he doesn’t understand Marx either.”
“I hope I can help.”
“For example,” Liang said, putting the book on the desk and turning a few pages, “here, listen: ‘An apparition — an apparition of Communism — has wandered throughout Europe.’ Old Hou said an apparition is a ‘spook.’ Europe was full of spooks. I wonder if it’s true. What’s an ‘apparition,’ do you know?”
“Let’s see what it means exactly.” Zhou took his Ocean of Words out of the drawer and began to turn the pages.
“This must be a treasure book, having all the rare characters in it,” Liang said, standing closer to watch Zhou searching for the word.
“Here it is.” Zhou lifted the dictionary and read out the definition: “ ‘Apparition — specter, ghost, spiritual appearance.’ ”
“See, no ‘spook’ at all.”
“ ‘Spook’ may not be completely wrong for ‘apparition,’ but it’s too low a word.”
“You’re right. Good. Tomorrow I’ll tell Old Hou to dro
p his ‘spook.’ By the way, I still don’t understand why Marx calls Communism ‘an operation.’ Isn’t Communism a good ideal?”
Zhou almost laughed out loud at Liang’s mispronunciation, but controlled himself and said, “Marx must be ironic here, because the bourgeoisie takes the Communists as poisonous snakes and wild beasts — something like an apparition.”
“That’s right.” Liang slapped his paunch, smiling and shaking his head. “You see, Little Zhou, my mind always goes straight and never makes turns. You’re a smart young man. I regret I didn’t meet you earlier.”
Here came Zhou’s chance. He said, “But we can’t be together for long, because I’ll leave for home soon. I’m sure I will miss you and this room.”
“What? You mean you’ll be discharged?”
“Yes.”
“Why do they want a good soldier like you to go?”
Zhou told the truth. “I want to leave the army myself, because my old father is in poor health.”
“Oh, I’m sorry you can’t stay longer.”
“I will always be grateful to you.”
“Anything I can do for you before you leave?”
“One thing, though I don’t know if it’s right to mention.”
“Just say it. I hate men who mince words. Speak up. Let’s see if this old man can be helpful.” Liang sat down on the sofa.
Zhou pulled over the chair and sat on it. “I’m not a Party member yet. It’s shameful.”
“Why? Do you know why they haven’t taken you into the Party?”
“Yes, because my comrades think I have read too much and I am different from them.”
“What?” The thick eyebrows stood up on Liang’s forehead. “Does Secretary Si Ma Lin have the same opinion?”
“Yes, he said I had some stinking airs of a petty intellectual. You know I didn’t even finish middle school.”
“The bastard, I’ll talk to him right now. Come with me.” Liang went out to the corridor, where a telephone hung on the wall. Zhou was scared but had to follow him. He regretted having blurted out what the secretary had said and was afraid Director Liang would ask Si Ma what he meant by “stinking airs of a petty intellectual.”
“Give me Radio Company,” Liang grunted into the phone.
“Hello, who’s this?… I want to speak to Si Ma Lin.” Liang turned to Zhou. “I must teach this ass a lesson.”
“Hello,” he said into the phone again. “Is that you, Little Si Ma?… Sure, you can tell my voice. Listen, I have a serious matter to discuss with you.… It’s about Zhou Wen’s Party membership. He is a young friend of mine. I have known him for a while and he is a good soldier, a brilliant young man. For what reason haven’t you accepted him as a Party member? Isn’t he going to leave soon?”
He listened to the receiver. Then he said out loud, “What? The devil take you! That’s exactly why he can be a good Party member. What time are we in now? — the seventies of the twentieth century — and you are still so hostile to a knowledgeable man. You still have a peasant’s mind. Why does he have to stand the test longer than others? Only because he’s learned more? You have a problem in your brain, you know. Tell me, how did we Communists defeat Chiang Kai-shek? With guns? Didn’t he have American airplanes and tanks? How come our army, with only rifles plus millet, beat his eight million troops equipped with modern weapons?”
The smart secretary was babbling his answer at the other end. Zhou felt a little relieved, because the director hadn’t mentioned what he had told him.
“That’s rubbish!” Liang said. “We defeated him by having the Pen. Old Chiang only had the Gun, but we had both the Gun and the Pen. As Chairman Mao has taught us: The Gun and the Pen, we depend on both of them to make revolution and cannot afford to lose either. Are you not a Party secretary? Can’t you understand this simple truth? You have a problem here, don’t you?”
The clever secretary seemed to be admitting his fault, because the old man sounded less scathing now. “Listen, I don’t mean to give you a hard time. I’m an older soldier, and my Party membership is longer than your age, so I know what kind of people our Party really needs. We can recruit men who carry guns by the millions, easily. What we want badly is those who carry pens. My friend Zhou Wen is one of them, don’t you think?… Comrade Si Ma Lin, don’t limit your field of vision to your own yard. Our revolutionary cause is a matter of the entire world. Zhou Wen may not be good in your eyes, but to our revolutionary cause, he is good and needed. Therefore, I suggest you consider his application seriously.… Good, I’m pleased you understood it so quickly.… Good-bye now.” Liang hung up and said to Zhou, “The ass, he’s so dense.” Zhou was sweating, his heart thumping.
Director Liang’s call cleared away all obstacles. Within two weeks Zhou joined the Party. Neither Secretary Si Ma nor Chief Huang said a word alluding to the call. It seemed the secretary had not divulged to anybody the lesson he had received on the telephone. Certainly Zhou’s comrades were amazed by the sudden breakthrough, and he became more mysterious in their eyes. It was rumored that Zhou wouldn’t be discharged and instead would be promoted to officer’s rank and do propaganda work in the Divisional Political Department. But that never materialized.
The day before he left the army, Zhou went downstairs to fetch his things and say good-bye to Director Liang. No sooner had he entered the room than the old man came in holding something in his hand. It was a small rectangular box covered with purple satin. Liang placed it on the desk and said, “Take this as a keepsake.”
Zhou picked it up and opened the lid — a brown Hero pen perched in the white cotton groove. On its chunky body was a vigorous inscription carved in golden color: “For Comrade Zhou Wen — May You Forever Hold Tight the Revolutionary Pen, Liang Ming Present.”
“I appreciate your helping my son,” the old man said.
Too touched to say a word, Zhou put the pen into his pocket. Though he had taught the boy The Three-Character Scripture, Liang had helped him join the Party, which was an important event in anyone’s life, like marriage or rebirth. Even without this gift, Zhou was the one who was indebted, so now he had to give something in return. But he didn’t have any valuables with him. At this moment it dawned on him that his Ocean of Words was in the drawer. He took it out and presented it to Liang with both hands. “You may find this useful, Director Liang.”
“Oh, I don’t want to rob you of your inheritance. You told me it’s your father’s book.” Liang was rubbing his hand on his leg.
“Please keep it. My father will be glad if he knows it’s in your hands.”
“All right, it’s a priceless treasure.” Liang’s three fingers were caressing the solid spine of the tome. “I’ll cherish it and make my son read ten pages of this good book every day.”
Zhou was ready to leave. Liang held out his hand; for the first time Zhou shook that crippled hand, which was ice cold.
“Good-bye,” Liang said, looking him in the eye. “May you have a bright future, Little Zhou. Study hard and never give up. You will be a great man, a tremendous scholar. I just know that in my heart.”
“I will study hard. Take good care of yourself, Director Liang. I’ll write to you. Good-bye.”
The old man heaved a feeble sigh and waved his hand. Zhou walked out, overwhelmed by the confidence and resolution surging up in his chest. Outside, the air seemed to be gleaming, and the sky was blue and high. Up there, in the distance, two Chinese jet fighters were soaring noiselessly, ready to knock down any intruder. It was at this moment that Zhou made up his mind to become a socialist man of letters, fighting with the Revolutionary Pen for the rest of his life.
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