“I see,” sighed Mr. Yang. “There has been so much gratuitous suffering in our lives.”
I peeked in at them. My father’s face grew more rugged, his little nose twitching. “My family suffered a lot because of me too,” he went on. “Jian and his brother often got beaten up on the streets. One evening I was released by the revolutionaries and returned home, only to find that my boys both had swollen faces and broken skulls. Jian still has a scar above his eye.”
True, my right eye would still blur a little in sunlight, owing to a stone a boy had thrown at me when they kicked and slapped me outside the elementary school. After that beating, for a week, my right eye could hardly distinguish two from three fingers put before my face, but later my mother fed me cod-liver oil every day and gradually my vision was restored.
Mr. Yang said, “No wonder Jian often seems sad and gloomy like an older man.”
“For many years he didn’t have any friends except for his younger brother. I was terribly worried about him and afraid he might be traumatized. He was more withdrawn than my other son. I wondered if he’d lost the ability to smile, but after he went to college, he seemed to become more open.”
“He gets along with others well here, he’s a fine young man.”
“Now with Meimei, he should be all right.” Father laughed.
“You have raised him well, Old Wan.”
“I would say so too. I often did homework with him and the younger one together.”
More than that, my father had also told stories and recited classical poetry to us. With his help, I had memorized many poems. That was the origin of my love for literature. In every way he was a devoted family man; my brother and I often slept with him so that we could hear him tell us folk tales. Although my mother, from a local peasant family, was almost illiterate, he had always treated her with respect and gratitude for her loyalty and endurance. She had seldom complained about the humiliation and hardship we had gone through. She was a strong woman and for many years had driven a mule cart selling tofu on the streets, which was the only job she could get. Her rawboned face often reminded me of that painful period of our life.
My father had dexterous hands. Several times the tree farm’s leaders had wanted to transfer him to its propaganda section, but he refused to go, saying he couldn’t write anymore and preferred to remain a carpenter. He was well respected for his craftsmanship, and so many people wanted him to make wardrobes, chests, and dining tables for them that he always had his hands full. He told Mr. and Mrs. Yang that when they had a more spacious apartment, he’d like to come and build some furniture for them. If they couldn’t get lumber here, he could send them some before he came.
Gradually the two men began talking about poetry. My father was no expert in poetics, but he knew many of Tu Fu’s poems by heart. Mr. Yang got excited as they went on. They both loved the later Tu Fu more than his early work, believing it represented the peak of classical Chinese literature.
“It’s poverty that refined his poetry,” remarked my father, repeating the cliché, but with genuine feeling.
“Well, for many years I thought that way too,” said Mr. Yang.
“You don’t think so anymore?” my father pressed on.
“Honestly, I’m not sure.”
“How come?”
“Two years ago I went to a conference in Chengdu, so I had an opportunity to visit ‘the straw hut’ where Tu Fu spent his last years. Believe it or not, it’s not a hut but a big house, much bigger than a regular cottage. Before the house there were flowerbeds filled with chrysanthemums and roses of various colors. The yard was so large that it took me a few minutes to walk across. His residence was more like a wealthy landowner’s. Tu Fu seemed well provided for in his last years. He had powerful friends who gave him money and provisions.”
“But didn’t he starve to death?”
“That’s a legend without any proof. The belief that he lived in dire poverty could just be a sentimental invention, meant to comfort poor scholars and intellectuals like us. Frankly, I don’t see much connection between poverty and the refinement of poetry. I dare say that Tu Fu might have had a better life than many of us.”
“That’s very interesting.” My father sounded dubious, but said no more.
Mr. Yang added, “In Chinese history, this must be the toughest time for us intellectuals. So many lives have been wasted and so many talents destroyed. In addition to material poverty, there’s spiritual sterility too.”
They both turned silent.
In class Mr. Yang would never speak so candidly. His remarks indicated that he had reservations about some of the comments in our textbooks. The notion that poverty can refine poetry is a principle in the conventional poetics, but according to my teacher, this idea could be erroneous. Probably, I thought, I should write a paper on this subject if he doesn’t dare to do it himself. Later I brought this up with Mr. Yang, but he told me to forget about it.
15
On my way to the hospital for my afternoon shift, I was stopped by a traffic jam at May First Square. About six hundred students from the Yellow Plain Mining College, the City Institute of Industrial Arts and Crafts, the Teachers College, and our school — Shanning University — were demonstrating there. They held up large banners with slogans written on them, such as PUNISH CORRUPT OFFICIALS! DOWN WITH PARASITES! SAVE OUR COUNTRY! LONG LIVE DEMOCRACY! GIVE ME FREEDOM OR DEATH! Some of them wore white headbands as if they belonged to a dare-to-die team, though they were all empty-handed except a thickset fellow toting a lumpy bullhorn. As they marched, drums and gongs thundered between rounds of shouted slogans.
On the eastern fringe of the square, near the Second Department Store, stretched a line of workers, three or four deep, all in white Bakelite helmets, which had the name STEEL PLANT printed on them. Every one of these men carried a wooden cudgel across his back. They looked lighthearted and once in a while cursed the demonstrators loudly. Despite their role as law enforcers, they seemed spoiling for a fight, waiting to wreak mayhem. I had heard that the Mayor’s office had sent them over to keep order, and that they were paid double for this kind of “work.” Some of them smoked self-rolled cigarettes and some sucked hard candies, laughing in whoops as they swapped wisecracks and insults with one another. Meanwhile, thousands of onlookers gathered along the sidewalks; some gave the students the thumbs-up, and a few even joined the procession moving northeast. With both hands raised above her head, an old woman displayed a white neckerchief bearing the word WRONGED! Apparently she was seizing this opportunity to air her grievances.
“Down with the privileged class!” a short girl shouted in a sharp voice. People followed her, flourishing their fists or tiny flags.
“Give us democracy!” cried a boy. Again hundreds of voices roared together.
“All are equal before the law!” a male voice immediately shouted through a megaphone, but the timing was out of sync and few people responded.
To my surprise, I saw Kailing Wang among the students. She held up a small rectangle of cardboard displaying the slogan UPHOLD HUMAN RIGHTS! Her face was sweaty and tan, but she looked spirited, her abundant hair hanging down over her shoulders. As I wondered how she had gotten mixed up with these demonstrators, she caught sight of me and stepped out of the procession. She came over, saying in a fluty voice, “Hi, Jian Wan, want to join us?”
“No. I’m going to the hospital.”
“How’s Mr. Yang doing?” Her voice turned earnest, and her smile revealed her even teeth.