For some reason Mr. Yang’s Genesis story came to mind. How these donkeys differed from that one who begged God to abridge his life span so as to reduce his suffering! Then I remembered that when I turned seven, one summer night, a starving donkey had broken into the tofu mill on the tree farm where my parents worked. A militiaman on patrol heard the noise inside the shed and shouted, “Who’s there? Password!” The dumb animal, frightened, dashed out and ran away. Believing it was a thief and unable to stop it with his command, the man fired his rifle and a bullet struck the donkey down. It bled to death an hour later. The next morning my father helped the kitchen skin the carcass, so the cooks gave him a chunk of the boiled meat to bring home in the evening. That was the first time I had tasted donkey meat, which was delicious. My mother cut it into small cubes and seasoned it with mashed garlic, soy sauce, vinegar, and sesame oil.
Now, standing before the painting and thinking about the caption, I realized how people had humanized animals and animalized human beings. These creatures represented an abnormal species created purely for human needs. If man hadn’t imposed his will on animals or abused his power and intelligence over them, no donkey would ever have kept its head close to the ground, not to mention have worn a humble look like these creatures in the painting. Without human subjugation, donkeys would have eaten grapes, cucumbers, melons, tomatoes, and would have borne nothing on their backs; they wouldn’t have given a damn about the quality of roads. Without the iron shoes, they’d have had soft hooves, too lazy to take any trip. In short, they would have been donkeys as donkeys.
I grew dubious and angry, feeling the painting must be either false or satirical. To some extent I was perturbed by my response to it. This kind of artwork used to touch me easily, but now it had lost its impact because I had begun to look at things with doubtful eyes.
When I came out of the exhibition, it was already past twelve o’clock. The sky was grayish with smog, and the air thick with automobile exhaust and frying oil. With less than an hour before my shift started, I had to find a place to eat lunch without delay. I mustn’t be late again.
11
As I opened the door to the sickroom, Mr. Yang was sitting on the bed and reading the People’s Daily, a pair of bifocals on his nose. His left cheek still bore the marks of the wrinkles in the pillowcase. In a gray cashmere cardigan he looked casual and calm, as if he were taking a break from his work. I glared at Banping and said, “Come out, I want to have a word with you.” We both turned to the door.
“What is it?” he asked the moment we were in the hall.
“Why did you give him the newspaper and the glasses?”
“He wanted to read.”
“But that may hurt his brain. Why are you so careless?”
“Go easy, Jian. How come you’re so crabby today?”
“Dr. Wu told us not to let him read anything, you know that.”
“But if I didn’t give him the newspaper, he’d cry like a little boy and even call me names. He wanted to sit up and study something. What else could I do? The paper at least can keep him peaceful. He said he must know our country’s current affairs.”
“Like a statesman, eh?” I couldn’t help being sarcastic, then heaved a sigh.
He grinned and said, “He’s like a little kid now and we should humor him.”
We both went back into the room. Banping had been rereading Jean-Christophe recently; he picked up the book from the armrest of the wicker chair and thrust it into the side pocket of his jacket. He looked unhappy and left without a word.
I felt bad as I realized I shouldn’t have blown up at him. He might not have had a comfortable time staying with our teacher in this depressing room either.
Soon Mr. Yang began reading an editorial aloud. His voice grew stronger and stronger as he continued. The newspaper was an old back issue. The article was about a flood in the provinces on the Yangtze River. Hundreds of people had drowned; sixteen thousand houses flooded; troops were sent over to help the victims; Vice Premier Zhang was flying from place to place to express the government’s sympathy and solicitude to the victims and to inspect the flood relief measures. Mr. Yang was reading the article ardently as if he were an official addressing an audience of hundreds of people. His mouth was ringed with foam, and spittle darted in every direction, some of it falling on the newspaper and some on the dark green blanket over his legs. He was so excited that he was trembling a little, his eyes glinting behind the lenses.
I went up to him and tried to take the newspaper away, but he gripped it tightly. So I gave up.
A few minutes later he put the newspaper down on his lap and started an official speech. “Comrades,” he shouted with his eyes closed, “our country has difficulties now, what shall we do to help? Under the wise leadership of our Communist Party, we are not afraid of any natural disaster. As long as we rally closely around the Party Central Committee and as long as we help one another, we shall defeat the river and conquer the flood. We Chinese are heroic men and women, capable of holding up the sky and restoring the earth. No natural calamities can daunt us, because we live in a new society now. In the old days a cataclysm of such magnitude would toss millions of corpses everywhere and turn our land upside down. But now it cannot overcome us at all. Why? Why is everybody here still alive, well clad and well fed? Why do many of you still have smiles on your faces? Why are you still healthy and hopeful? The reason is clear and simple — because we have our greatest Helmsman Chairman Mao and the wise leadership of the Communist Party. Comrades, our Chairman is deeply concerned about our well-being. He doesn’t go to bed at night. Instead, he pores over maps and holds emergency conferences to make plans. Although he’s tired and sleepy, he eats oranges and smokes Ginseng cigarettes to keep himself awake. He’s working his heart out to save us from this flood. There’s no doubt he will save us, every one of us! Comrades, we must work ten times harder, care for the old and the young, and faithfully follow the Party leaders. Remember, solidarity is strength!” He paused, panting, then resumed: “Most important of all, we must not lose hope. If you lost your house, our country will build you a new one. If your crops are gone, our country will allocate you seeds and provisions. If your livestock are drowned, our country will supply you with money and young animals. In one word, we shall have everything back and we shall defeat nature. There’s no reason to lose heart.”
He lifted his right hand halfway, looking around with an air of authority; then he held the newspaper with both hands again. “Comrades,” he went on, “in a time like this, we must be more alert to class struggle. Our enemies will not sleep when we are in trouble. I’m sure they will creep out of their holes and sabotage our efforts at every opportunity. They will spread rumors, fan evil fires, and sow the seeds of discontent. Comrades, keep your eyes open on those blackhearted evildoers and redouble your vigilance against—”
“Shut up!” I yelled with a shudder. He was pathetic. He had forgotten that he himself used to be maltreated as one of those so-called class enemies. Oppressed for decades, now he dreamed of ruling others. He didn’t know who he was anymore. I rushed to him, seized the newspaper, threw it to the floor, and stamped on it.
He looked shocked and remained silent for a moment, still holding two tiny scraps of the paper with his thumbs and forefingers. Then he said wistfully, “They ought to have appointed me the general director of the flood relief work. I’m more capable than any of those bureaucrats, who are just rice bags and wineskins.”