“Good afternoon, comrade,” greeted Shen cordially. “What magical dish has our esteemed cook managed to put together today?”
“You won’t be disappointed, Captain,” Guan Yin answered. “My own mother could take a lesson in cooking dumplings from Comrade Chi.” /
Almost on cue, a slightly built, bespectacled figure dressed in a spotlessly clean white uniform joined them. An effervescent smile graced the senior cook’s smooth-shaven face as he placed a ceramic pot of steaming tea and an empty porcelain cup in front of the newly arrived officer.
“Do I surmise that someone here is hungry?” asked the personable cook with a wink. “And here I just went and prepared a wokful of enchanted shrimp.”
“Ah, my very favorite!” exclaimed Shen. “Bring it on, comrade, as ‘well as plenty of rice and some of those delicious-looking dumplings that the commissar is enjoying.”
“My, you do have an appetite this afternoon, Captain,” noted Chi, who turned and passed through the hatch leading to the adjoining galley.
Shen poured himself a cup of tea and listened as the background music built to a gradual crescendo. It was a haunting tune, evoking visions of home, and perfectly accompanied the cup of flavorful oolong that he thoughtfully sipped.
Noting Shen’s apparent interest in the music, Guan Yin washed down his dumplings with a mouthful of tea and asked, “Have you ever visited Xihui Park in Wuxi, comrade?”
Shen shook his head no and the commissar continued. “Too bad. It’s one of the most beautiful sites in all the motherland, especially its famous Erquan pool. In fact, it was this pool that inspired the great composer Hua Yanjun to compose this particular piece of music, aptly entitled, “The Moon Mirrored in the Pool.”
“This erhu solo has a sad quality to it,” observed Shen, refilling his cup.
“What more would you expect from a master musician who spent all of his life poor, and a good part of it blind, as well?” added the commissar.
Shen sipped his tea and listened as the music faded. Another mournful folk song replaced it, this one dominated by an expertly played gaohu, a bowed string instrument much like the erhu.
The song made him think of Mei-li again. His bride had tried to play the gaohu once. Thankfully, only once. By her own admission, she was terrible at it. But she had succeeded in making the instrument a lasting reminder of her modesty and great passion for all aspects of life.
Shen exhaled a long, forlorn sigh as Chi Chiang emerged from the galley, tray in hand. Shen eagerly unwrapped his chopsticks and dug into a platter heaped with large shrimp, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, diced peppers and onions, all topped with a garlic-flavored sweet and-sour sauce and served on a thick bed of white rice.
“I’ll be right back with your dumplings,” promised the cook, who next addressed the commissar. “Anything more for you, sir?”
Guan Yin was watching Shen attack his meal, and he conveyed his response with a wave of his pudgy hand. With Chi’s exit the commissar pushed away his now empty plate and picked up a nearby notebook and pen.
“I’ve been making a list of those officers and enlisted men who have missed two or more Komsomol meetings this week,” said Guan. “Your name and that of Senior Chief Wang appear on this list most prominently.”
This observation caused Shen to momentarily lower his chopsticks and reply in mid bite “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Comrade Commissar, but both the senior chief and I have been extremely busy insuring the integrity of this vessel. Must I remind you that we’ve only just come out of a major refit?”
As if to underscore this comment, a loud electronic ring sounded. Shen reached under the table’s lip, pulled out a red telephone handset and put it to his ear.
“Captain here,” he said into the transmitter. After a brief pause to listen to his caller, Shen again addressed the handset, this time making sure to meet the commissar’s inquisitive stare. “I understand, Chief. When you get a chance, I’d like to see the final readings. And please, pass on a ‘job well done’ to the maneuvering watch.”
Shen hung up the receiver and took the time to fully devour a mouthful of shrimp before explaining the nature of this call. “That was Chief Wang with the latest rad count. The radiation spike we encountered last watch appears to have been an anomaly of some sort. And as for that Party disloyalty that you speak of — here it’s the chiefs second complete watch in a row and not a word of complaint from him.”
“It’s not Party disloyalty that I’m concerned with, Captain,” returned the political officer, a light sheen of perspiration matting his furrowed forehead. “As senior leaders aboard the Lijiang, I’m depending upon your presence at my Komsomol meetings to set an example for the junior crew members.”
Shen Fei returned to his food, while Guan Yin dared to add, “And one other area that I’m having problems with is your insistence on wearing that Yankee uniform.”
Shen could hardly believe what he was hearing. He disgustedly lowered his chopsticks. “We’ve been through this before, comrade. The admiralty is aware of my desire to wear this poopy suit while on patrol, and I’ll proudly do so until officially notified otherwise.”
Guan made a brief note on his pad before replying. “I beg to differ with you, Captain. Admiral Liu’s latest directive insists that the proper uniform code be strictly enforced while on naval patrol.”
“You know as well as I that this directive isn’t meant to be applied to submarine duty,” Shen retorted. “The unique nature of our workspace allows us greater freedom of dress than our comrades in the surface fleet.”
The commissar realized that it was a waste of breath to further argue this point. He completed yet another entry into his notebook before lightly muttering, “At the very least, your so-called poopy suit displays the patch of one of America’s exploited minorities. The great Admiral Rickover was a contemporary of our own Admiral Liu. His birthright as a Jew was condemnation to second-class-rank status, to the waning days of his long U. S. Navy career.”
Not willing to give this comment the benefit of a reply, Shen directed his attention back to his meal. He polished off the last of the shrimp, then went to work on the newly arrived dumplings. He tried his best to enjoy them, but found his enraged thoughts focused elsewhere.
How dare the fat political officer question the true degree of Shen’s loyalty to the Party! If he weren’t one of the faithful, why else would he dedicate the best years of his life to protecting the motherland’s maritime interests? To be given command of the PLA Navy’s most sophisticated nuclear-powered attack submarine was an honor in itself. Surely it spoke well of the immense trust his superiors placed in him. For this ignorant slob of a man to even hint at any dogmatic impropriety on Shen’s part was the ultimate insult, and he winced at the thought of having to be cooped up with such a pompous fool for the rest of their patrol.
As the background music switched to a rousing folk melody entitled “Dance of the Yao People,” Shen fought to control his rising emotions. The mere idea of having an officer like Guan Yin aboard the Lijiang was an anachronism. The rank of commissar belonged to a past decade, when Communism was still in the process of being introduced into the PRC. In the early days of their republic, the political officer was an instrumental part of every military unit. Their vital responsibilities in those exciting days were to teach Socialist principles and policies, and insure Party loyalty. Aboard submarines, they were in charge of chairing the triweekly Komsomol meetings, and helping the senior officers with morale.