‘He said if he were president, he’d make sure everyone had food and clothes, not just an example here and there, when there is such disparity between rich and poor. If he were king he would govern by a system of virtue and punishment. Rebels would be cut down, and the law-abiding would be rewarded. The forms of punishment used in ancient times should not be discarded. He would bring back the old punishments like dismemberment, drawing and quartering, disembowelling, flaying of the skin, boiling in oil…For officials who committed petty theft or small-scale corruption, he would punish them with permanent scarring… Anyway, when he had some free time, he intended to write a book on The Genetic Code of the City-State. He said he would create a template for a city-state with excellent genes, and implement the reign of virtue…Sometimes, we would talk about criminal law, institutions, democracy, freedom and so forth, talking until the middle of the night. Sometimes we carried on until well into the next day. Heh…I said that in his heart of hearts, he was a tyrant. Of course, the nature of one’s blood — hot or cold, sticky or dense — is nourished by one’s natural environment and the climate. All of us born in the 60s were born with a sense of responsibility, of throwing in our lot with that of the nation. We were born for hardship…Those who came after us were more individualistic, with nothing inside them except a desire for material gain. They were heartless. Then again, moral standards had stabilised by then, and the economy was more developed, the country bigger and stronger, and the people had grown fatter. It’s only natural that the people felt they had nothing to worry about.’
13
The canteen in the Wisdom Bureau wasn’t the normal noisy sort of cafeteria. The food didn’t look good, and the staff wore no expressions under their white caps. The ladle scooping the food was always precise — no matter how tasteless and bland the food was you couldn’t expect to get a generous portion from that ladle. As a result of eating the canteen’s food your appetite grew larger, and eating more left you feeling hungrier than ever. You grew hungrier, in fact, from eating there than from foregoing food altogether. Even the girls couldn’t be bothered with good manners. Only Shunyu thought the canteen’s food was all right. She especially loved the braised pork, saying it was even better there than in her father’s bar.
The queue moved slowly. The only sound was the banging of metal on metal, like ping-pong balls bouncing back and forth, as the staff knocked their ladles against the edge of each plate after asking loudly, ‘Do you want baozi or mantou? ribs or braised pork?’ The faces of the white-clothed, white-capped workers shone with an oily sheen. There was even more grease on their faces than on the food. Wearing plastic gloves, they proudly ladled out the food, scratched their chins, and handled the meal tickets. Rats’ tails, dead cockroaches, wire, grass clippings and hair were found regularly in the food, but for the young diners it was just business as usual as they made their way through the long queue.
The food at lunch was better than at dinner, when it was mostly leftovers. Meals on the weekends were simpler, since many students travelled home and others went out to restaurants. Only a few remained for the canteen to deal with, most of them ‘country folk’ and some from a background of poverty. They insisted on eating mantou, or maybe pickled vegetables with rice. Putting all their efforts into their studies, they could often be found at the library, sitting until their legs were numb. They rarely went out.
The midday sun beat on the cherry trees, the flowers had already dropped from the branches, and the leaves were all new and shiny. Mengliu had just got his meal and was sitting by the window. The glass was covered with a layer of dust, forming a halo around the glaring sun. When he’d taken a couple of bites, he saw Shunyu walking toward him. She sat her tray down, took a seat, and said, ‘How come you’re having tofu and spring onions again? Here, take some of my braised pork.’
She was wearing a white long-sleeved silk shirt, and a low-collared black cashmere Chinese-style unlined jacket, secured by silk ribbons tied in a bow at her chest. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, and almost into her plate. She used a finger to slip a hair band off her wrist, and pulled her hair back into a bun, all in one neat movement.
‘Your braised pork? You shouldn’t try to bribe me. I don’t know anything about what Hei Chun has been up to.’ Mengliu laughed. ‘These past few days I’ve seen him in the square writing poetry. He looked a little deranged.’
Shunyu replied, ‘Don’t second guess my intentions. I saw you sitting here alone looking bored, so I came over to keep you company. Anyway, I’m also a part of the Dayang Poets’ Society, and share its joys and sorrows. If you feel you owe me, you can dedicate a poem to me some day.’
‘When it comes to writing poetry for pretty girls, Hei Chun is much better at it than I am.’
Shunyu gritted her teeth, and appeared ready to beat Mengliu over the head with her chopsticks.
‘The most beautiful thing about you is that pair of canines.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. Do you think Hei Chun will get arrested? He would have to go back to sleep at the dorm, wouldn’t he?’
‘Even if he gets picked up, it’s nothing to worry about. You go and check on him tonight. I bet he will be in his bed snoring.’
‘I’m just asking. I don’t really care. It’s not my business. He’s so busy, he doesn’t have time to waste looking after anyone else.’
‘Well, look who’s showing her temper again! I’ll organise a little dinner party to create an opportunity for you. After that, it’ll all be up to you.’
Shunyu glared at Mengliu, then took the braised pork from her plate and plopped it onto his.
Just as Mengliu finished up and was scraping his plate, Qizi came into the cafeteria. He waved to her. Her pale face suddenly turned an angry scarlet. She marched over to him, scattering everything in her path.
‘Yuan Mengliu, please explain what’s going on!’
As she said his name, she raised a hand and dropped a piece of paper onto his tray. It had apparently been torn from the double-tracked wall, and the glue still stuck to it. There were tears in her eyes.
Mengliu’s mind was in a haze. He picked up the paper and looked it over. It was a list of activists in the Wisdom Bureau, the so-called Core Group Unit, and his name was included. He was stunned. Then, in some confusion, he stood up and said, ‘What is this? I really have no idea what is going on!’
Qizi retorted, ‘You’re lying! If you didn’t agree to join the rally, why would they add your name to the list?’
Mengliu couldn’t utter a word, but inside he was overwhelmed by a new sort of joy — as if his talent was being recognised — and also a little vanity. In no hurry to justify himself, he humoured Qizi. ‘It must be that those sons of bitches liked what I had to say, and so they thought they’d just act first and then consult me later. They’re a bunch of jokers. They play an autocratic hand, shouting about democracy all the while.’