by Tie Ning
是啊，杨必然还能是谁呢？
June's Big Topic
On May the second, one thousand nine hundred eighty-three, a letter to the editor with an editorial note was printed in the lower right-hand corner of the front page of the provincial daily newspaper. The letter charged that four bureau chiefs of the Cultural Bureau of S. Municipality had taken advantage of the opportunity to accompany a modern dramatic troupe on tour to engage in corrupt practices. Although the accusations in the letter were not potentially explosive, the editor's response was curt and sober, and it looked very much as if he meant to get to the bottom of the matter.
The letter was signed: Mo Yu, S. Municipality Cultural Bureau.
When Mr Da, the custodian at the Cultural Bureau, had distributed the day's paper, the office building was rocked by a medium-size shock wave, as might be expected.
There was no one named Mo Yu at the S. Municipality Cultural Bureau, nor had there ever been; Mr Da was clearer on that point than anyone. Yet the Mo Yu who had written the letter was as familiar with the details of the situation as with the palm of his hand: which bureau chief had taken along his wife and children and stayed at which big hotel for how many days, which had used blocks of tickets for personal gain, which had taken a car at public expense to go sightseeing, and even which had neglected to pay for how many meals. In a twinkling an investigative team was sent from the provincial level, and in the face of the "ironclad evidence", not only were the bureau chiefs forced to make self-criticisms, they also had to repay all expenses deemed to have taken advantage of the State.
After the whole thing blew over, the bureau grew quiet again—at least on the surface. But now in the halls, on the stairs, in the dining hall, in the lavatories—wherever there were people, in fact—a suppressed excitement was clearly discernible, as if all the chairs and vacuum flasks were whispering among themselves, asking each other, "Who is Mo Yu? Mo Yu—who is he?"
Mo Yu was, of course, a pseudonym; Mr Da knew this as well as anyone. Before Liberation he'd done underground work for the Party, so he was particularly sensible of the importance of using pseudonyms in special situations.
On June the second, one thousand nine hundred eighty-three, Mr Da received a money order from the provincial daily addressed to Mo Yu. In the space labelled"additional comments" the sender had written that this was payment for a letter to the editor, calculated at the rate of twelve yuan per thousand characters for a total of twenty-four yuan—half of Mr Da's monthly salary. Mr Da's usual practice upon receiving a money order for someone was to write on his small blackboard, "So-and-so, please pick up your money order, " prop the order against the little sliding window of his office, which stood next to the courtyard gate, and wait for the recipient to pick it up. But this time, after taking the money order from the postman's hand, he thought for a moment, then quickly slid it into a locking drawer. As the lock closed with a snap, Mr Da looked furtively around, but he was alone in the custodian's office—an incredibly rare situation, but just what he had been hoping for.
That night, Mr Da tossed and turned as he lay in bed. He turned once, and Mo Yu appeared before his eyes. It was the driver Big Liu. Big Liu had been at the Bureau one year as a temporary worker. However, he neglected to exhibit in his bearing and speech the docility and caution befitting this status; in fact, he was a regular loudmouth. If he wasn't cursing his old lady he was bragging about his driving skills, as if he were at once the world's most unfortunate husband and its best driver. Recently he had been dismissed. But during the tour he had driven the bureau chiefs everywhere. Now, drivers'eyes and ears are sharper than most; even the tidbits Big Liu might have picked up from the bureau chiefs'chatting as he shuttled them from meeting to meal and meal to meeting would make top-rate first-hand material.
Mr Da tossed again, and another Mo Yu appeared; this time it was Du Yanrong, head of the Finance Section, a mild-mannered, middle-aged woman who was just beginning to run to fat. She would know everything there was to know about the bureau accounts—in fact, maybe that was why she had just been sent off to one of the theatrical troupes. After all, wouldn't all the expenses from the performance tour have gone on the books?
Mr Da rolled over again in bed, and yet another Mo Yu appeared: Dr Lu from the bureau clinic, who had been taken along on the trip to provide medical services. He was no fool; he knew more than how to give shots and write prescriptions. After all, just look at all the juicy stories that had come from his direction.
As Mr Da continued to toss and turn, Mo Yu after Mo Yu floated into view. He wished he could use his two old eyes to pick out the real Mo Yu without anybody noticing, then quietly slip him(or her)the money order—again without anybody noticing. It would be just like his work in the underground long ago; he'd been a messenger and had had to take care not to leave so much as a glance behind when departing from a rendezvous with his contact. Then Mo Yu would be grateful to him, as he had been grateful to Mo Yu all along.
The next morning, not one of the Mo Yus Mr Da had envisioned showed up, but Shi Zhengbin, the vice bureau chief in charge of cultural artifacts, came to the custodian's office, which was unusual. Casually surveying the letters ranged against the window, he remarked, "The letters arrived rather earlier today than they did yesterday, didn't they, Mr Da?"
"Those are yesterday's. Today's haven't come yet—won't till nine o'clock."
"And in the afternoon? What time do they come then?" the vice bureau chief Shi inquired.
"Four-thirty."
Shi left, but Mr Da was sure that as he did so he glanced at the locked drawer. Could it be he knew something—knew that Mr Da had locked something in the drawer he would normally have propped against the window? If that were the case, wouldn't the vice bureau chief Shi be convinced that Mr Da was Mo Yu?
Mr Da was not Mo Yu, nor had he ever schemed to play a Mo Yu-type role. At home, his youngest son was still waiting for a job assignment and was in fact planning to take over Mr Da's job when he retired. If one of the bosses had his eye on your drawer, that meant he suspected you, and even if it was only a mild suspicion it might be enough to bury your son's rice-bowl for good. Having reached this conclusion, Mr Da fumbled at his waist for the key of the drawer.
At nine o'clock, when the day's letters and papers arrived, Mr Da hung out the familiar little blackboard by the door to the custodian's office. Among the names of people requested to pick up registered letters and money orders was that of Mo Yu.
Fifty-nine days passed, and the names on the little blackboard were changed fifty-nine times, but that of Mo Yu remained as if frozen there. The money order was still propped against the window, too, but the June sun had already baked it to a brittle yellow.
The custodian's office had always been a little haven people stopped in at on their way from one place to another in the courtyard, but during these fifty-nine days it suddenly became quiet and deserted. The head of the Research Department, who often showed up to kill a little time playing chess with Mr Da, no longer came, and Kong Linglan, that typist with the bobbed hair who was forever running down to the custodian's office, now also hid from Mr Da for reasons of her own. Lately Mr Da had been an indispensable fixture in her life; she was in love, and he was in charge of the mail. Now he had to carry each of her heavy letters up to the second floor himself. But she wasn't saying what was on her mind. She simply smiled apologetically, and as Mr Da was not one to hold a grudge, he let it go.
Throughout the fifty-nine days, people did their best to stare straight ahead when passing the custodian's office; Mr Da's little window seemed to have become some kind of terrifying black hole into which they dared not look. Only the bureau chiefs did not skulk past; in fact, their faces positively shone with moral rectitude as they marched past that little piece of paper, heads held high, and cast long and meaningful glances at Mr Da through the little window. This reminded him of his days
as an underground messenger, and he idly imagined they were going to exchange code signals with him.
They would stand outside the window and say, "Sesame cake." His answar would follow, quickly and fluently:"Crullers and buns."
"The boss wants to order ten bolts of Hangzhou silk gauze, " they would mutter.
"There are not Hangzhou gauze, " Da would answer. "All we've got is gambiered Guangzhou gauze."
"How much is a packet of Hadamen smokes?" they'd ask. His code answer would be, "We don't have any Hadamens. We've only got Pirates."
But all through the fifty-nine days, not once did anyone exchange code signals with Mr Da, and the furtive eyes Mr Da imagined did not appear outside his little window. In fact, the glances the bureau chiefs sent his way led him to conclude these must be enemy fakes trying to pass themselves off as comrades. Mr Da had no alternative but to keep changing his contact code signals, over and over.
During the fifty-nine days, the person who came most often to the custodian's office was Shi Zhengbin. Mr Da figured he must be up to no good, since the good folk were all staying away, so every time Shi appeared at the door, Mr Da switched on the transistor radio and began to fiddle with the station selector. In the loud crackling that ensued, Shi Zhengbin would open his mouth several times as if to speak, but in the end he was always forced to beat an ignominious retreat from the office. Mr Da would chuckle to himself and think, "Ha. That's right. I kept fiddling with the dial just so you wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise. Your name wasn't mentioned in that letter to the editor. but you went along on that trip, too. If they didn't mention you by name, it probably just means you weren't as deeply involved as the others, and besides you're younger. But if You think you can gain any kind of foothold here—if you think you're going to find out from me who Mo Yu is—you'd better think again."
It had always taken a lot of patient waiting to find one's contact. Whenever he thought of the secret contact he was to meet, Mr Da's eyes would stray to the calendar. Time had been flying, and tomorrow the money order would have been at the bureau for two months already. It was written clearly on the slip that if the order was not cashed within two months, the post office was to return it to the sender.
When he realized that tomorrow was the last day the money order could be cashed, Mr Da suddenly grew nervous. He switched off the transistor and stared for a long time at the little slip of paper propped against the window. In his eyes was an apologetic expression; he regretted having stood so much in awe of the money order these past two months, regretted having put so great a distance between himself and it.
The next day at eight, as the bureau personnel trickled in through the main gate, practically all of them noticed that the little window suddenly seemed much brighter. The keener among them realized immediately that the brittle, yellowed slip of paper had sprouted wings and flown. Amazingly, the disappearance of even such a thin, small piece of paper made everyone much more relaxed, though no one said as much. People began to edge towards the window as if attracted by a magnet, and it seemed as if a longstanding curfew had been lifted, or a deep abyss safely crossed, or...what did it seem like? Each person had his own impression. But they all had the same intention, and that was to collar Mr Da and squeeze out of him who had claimed the money order.
Kong Linglan of the bobbed hair had sharp eyes, and it was she who discovered the door was locked. Now she was running about wildly, announcing the fact to all and sundry.
"Where could old Da be? It's about time we played a game or two of chess!" The head of the Research Department was getting excited too.
"Da? I know, he's gone back to buy some coal briquettes for his old lady, " said Dr Lu, his spectacles glinting in everyone's eyes.
"Now, why would Mr Da go buy briquettes during working hours?" the vice bureau chief Shi had been in the crowd all this time; this realization seemed to throw a wet blanket on everyone's spirits.Just as the crowd was breaking up, Mr Da appeared at the gate riding a delivery tricycle, which was loaded not with coal briquettes but with floor mops. Riding right in, he stopped at the door to the custodian's office, looked at everyone and suddenly realized what they were all waiting here for. Swinging a leg over the seat and dismounting, he pulled out a rather grey face towel, wiped the sweat off his brow, and stood awaiting the barrage of questions.
"Mr Da, did someone pick up the money order?" the vice bureau chief Shi was the first to speak, slowly and deliberately.
"That's right. Took it away."
"Well, then who is—"
"Mo Yu is me. I am Mo Yu, " Mr Da cut in. He leaned back on the soft pile of mops.
A shocked gasp rippled through the assembly, and all eyes came to rest on Mr Da—with various expressions in them. Shi Zhengbin also stared fixedly at Mr Da for a long time, but no one seemed to notice the peculiar light in his eyes.
Only when the crowd had dispersed did the vice bureau chief Shi turn on Mr Da and hiss, "So you wrote that letter?"
"If I hadn't, could I have presumed to cash the money order and buy all these mops? The mops in all the offices have been worn down to their nubbins; it's high time we got some new ones."
"Then...the letter was actually written by you?" Shi was incredulous.
"Why don't you believe me? Think I haven't got the education? Allow me to inform you that the platoon leader who taught me my letters is now a minister in the Central Government."
"If you wrote it, then how come the handwriting..."
"You mean you've seen it? How could a letter to the provincial daily fall into your hands? That'd be strange indeed."
Mr Da took a mop from the cart and thrust it into the vice bureau chief's hands. Shi Zhengbin said nothing, but took the mop and walked towards the office building. Ever since the beginning of this affair, he had winced every time someone mentioned the topic of handwriting.
In October, one thousand nine hundred eighty-three, several senior chiefs of the bureau were transferred to other posts, and Shi Zhengbin became head of the Cultural Bureau of S. Municipality. Whenever he passed the custodian's office, his eyes were always drawn to the little window, as if he half expected to see a brittle, yellowed piece of paper there. After his appointment, he always meant to seek out Mr Da for a long chat, but he was always prevented from doing so by more pressing business.
Shi Zhengbin always thought he might slip in the observation that it had not been Mr Da who wrote that letter; it had been...Who had it been? On the other hand, he no longer felt a pressing need to reveal the truth of the matter to the whole bureau; after all, he was now bureau head.
Brave men often suffer from timidity. Shi Zhengbin could not bring himself to accept such illogieal logic, yet every day as he passed the custodian's office, this very thought, bizarre as it was, often returned to haunt him.
六月的话题
一千九百八十三年五月二日，省报在头版右下角，刊出一封加了编者按的读者来信。信中揭发S市文化局四位局长借现代戏调演之机，大搞不正之风。信中所涉及的问题虽不具爆炸性，但编者的口气却十分认真，大有一追到底之势。
来信者署名：S市文化局莫雨。
当S市文化局传达室的达师傅把这天的报纸分送到各个办公室后，局内不免出现一阵不大不小的骚动。
S市文化局没人名叫莫雨。不仅现在没有，历史上也没有。这一点达师傅比谁都清楚。可这位写信人莫雨，对当时的一切却了如指掌：哪位局长携同夫人、子女在宾馆住了多少天；哪位局长利用机动票谋取私利；哪位局长驱车游山玩水；甚至哪位局长少交了几顿饭费他都一清二楚。很快，省里派来了调查组，局长们在“铁的事实”面前，不仅作了检查，还掏出自己腰包补上了那被称为“占国家便宜”的部分。
事情了结后，局里表面安静了下来。可�
��在走廊里，在楼梯上，在食堂，在厕所，在一切有人出没的地方，又分明感到一种压抑着的激动，你甚至觉得每一把椅子、每一只暖瓶都在窃窃私语。都在互相打听：谁是莫雨？莫雨是谁？
莫雨自然是化名，这一点达师傅也不比别人傻。解放前他在城里做过地下党的交通员，比一般人更懂得化名在非常时期的重要意义。
一千九百八十三年六月二日，达师傅收到一张报社寄给莫雨的汇款单。“汇款人简短附言”里注明那是稿费，一千字按十二元算，共二十四元——达师傅每月工资的一半。按照惯例，达师傅接到汇款单后，应在小黑板上写明“某某取汇款”，然后将汇款单贴着玻璃靠在传达室的窗台上，让收汇者来领取。这次，他从邮递员手中一接过它，经过片刻思考，却迅速塞进了一个带锁的抽屉。锁子咔嗒一响，达师傅留心了一下四周，传达室只有他一人。千载难逢的时刻，这正是达师傅所希望的。
晚上，达师傅躺在床上翻身。翻一次身，眼前出现了一个莫雨，那是司机大刘。大刘在局里干了一年临时工，说话、做事却没有临时工特有的驯顺和谨慎，老是咋咋呼呼。除了诅咒老婆就是吹嘘技术，好像他是全世界最不幸的丈夫和最高水平的司机。前不久大刘被辞退了。
那次调演，从头至尾都是局长们的司机。司机的眼睛、耳朵是常人不可匹敌的，单是首长们车里聊的那些饭余会后的事儿，就能毫不逊色地被称为第一手材料。
达师傅又翻一次身，眼前又出现一个莫雨，这次是财务科长杜彦荣，一个刚刚发胖的、好脾气的中年妇女。账面上的事她最清楚。也许就因为账面清楚，前不久才被调到剧团当会计去了。调演，什么开支不下账？