Unable to decide what to do, I wrote to Meimei that evening to sound her out.
May 10, 1989
Dear Meimei,
Your father is recuperating, though slowly. Don’t worry about him; he is in good hands now.
Recently I have been going through a crisis. I can no longer see any point in earning a Ph.D. I love you, Meimei. Rationally, I am supposed to take the exams, so that I can join you in Beijing and we can build our nest there. Yet deep down, I cannot help but question the meaning of such an endeavor. By “meaning” I mean how this effort is significant to my existence as a human being. I know the capital can offer me better living conditions and more opportunities, but I cannot see any meaning in the material benefits. To be honest, I don’t care much about creature comforts.
At the bottom of my crisis lies this question: What is the good of becoming a scholar who serves as no more than a clerk in the workshop of the revolution? I cannot answer this question, which your father thrust on me. At times he is delirious, but at last he speaks from his heart.
For a week or so, I haven’t been able to study for the exams. Now I feel reluctant to attempt them; probably I will withdraw my application. Don’t be angry with me, Meimei. I will explain more when you are back. Please write to me, my love.
Yours always,
Jian
PS: Your father once suggested that I apply to graduate programs at American universities. This is infeasible now. Even if I passed TOEFL and got a scholarship from abroad, my school here would not allow me to leave. A faculty member in the Foreign Languages Department got a research fellowship from the University of Pennsylvania, but she could not obtain a passport, which is contingent on the official permission from our school, so she had to forfeit the fellowship. You may know her. Her name is Kailing Wang — she collaborated with your father in translating Brecht. I just heard that outraged, she has joined the student movement. In fact, I saw her demonstrating on the streets four days ago. She claims that her human rights have been violated.
In my crisis another question is also overwhelming, namely, what can I do?
18
When I entered the sickroom, Mr. Yang was sleeping with the quilt up to his chin. The room was brighter than the day before; a nurse’s aide had just wiped the windowpanes and mopped the floor, which was still wet, marked with shoe prints here and there. The air smelled clean despite a touch of mothball. “How is he today?” I asked Banping.
“Awful.” He shook his heavy chin, then motioned for me to go out.
In the corridor he said to me, “He’s been sleeping since eight o’clock. At the beginning I thought it would be a quiet morning, but it turned out to be awful.”
“What happened?”
“He had bad dreams, shouting at the top of his lungs and kicking his feet. He also talked about you.”
“Me? What did he say?”
“He said you were studying at Beijing University. He was proud of you and praised you to somebody.”
“Did he really mean that?”
“I think so. By the way, do you know who asked him for a recommendation besides yourself?”
“For what?”
“I’m not sure. Somebody asked him to write a recommendation for a young man, but Mr. Yang wouldn’t do it and said, ‘I know nothing about your nephew.’ He was mad at that person, and they had a row.”
I was puzzled and said, “He never quarreled with anyone except Professor Song.” Then I remembered that the other day Mr. Yang in his sleep had begged someone to leave him and his family alone and refused the offer of a large apartment and a full professorship. But that didn’t sound like a fight.
“It couldn’t be Professor Song,” said Banping. “He can write recommendations himself.”
What confused me more was Mr. Yang’s praising me in his dream. Did he really want me to become a Ph.D. candidate at Beijing University? Why this reversal of attitude? I wished he were himself so that I could ask him.
After Banping left, I began to mull over the letter of recommendation he had mentioned. Intuitively I felt it might have some bearing on Mr. Yang’s stroke. The thought came to me that probably the person asking for the letter might be the same one who had promised Mr. Yang the apartment and the full professorship. What kind of recommendation was this? Perhaps it was for college admission. But what did the person’s nephew want to study? For what kind of degree, a B.A. or an M.A.? In what field? Classical literature? And at what school?
Unable to figure out any answers to these questions, I began to read the current issue of Beijing Review, an English-language weekly, to which I had subscribed ever since I was a graduate student. It carried a lengthy article about Mikhail Gorbachev’s visit to China; I could follow its general drift without consulting a dictionary.
About an hour later, Mr. Yang started to talk in his sleep. He said calmly, “Why did you turn down my proposal?”
At first I thought he referred to some departmental business, so I didn’t think much of it. Gradually it became clear that he was having an exchange with a woman. I closed the magazine, trying to follow him.
“I don’t give a damn about my scholarship!” he said, gnashing his teeth. “Can’t you understand? I wrote you more than two hundred letters, which you discarded like trash. How much time did it take me to write them? Couldn’t I have used that amount of time to make a book? Nothing but my love for you mattered to me at that time. I wanted to waste everything on you, even my life.” He stopped with a catch in his throat, his lips bloodless and quivering.
He had written over two hundred love letters? Evidently this woman didn’t reciprocate his love, so she couldn’t be Mrs. Yang. Who was she? Was she someone I knew? Was she still alive? She must be. Did he—
He cut my thinking short. “Don’t cry. I just want to speak the truth. You are old enough to take the truth now.” He swallowed and bit the corner of his mouth.
Where was he now? Had the woman expressed her regret for turning down his proposal and ignoring his love letters? That seemed implausible; otherwise he wouldn’t have spoken with such an unforgiving heart. Did this exchange actually take place, or was it just a figment of his imagination?
“Ah, my scholarship,” he said bitterly. “After you dumped me, how could I have killed time except by reading and writing, creeping like a worm among book piles? If only I could have found another way to while away my life!” He chuckled mockingly. “Who would want to be a useless scholar and a lifeless bookworm? I’d prefer not to.”
My mind was spinning. Why did the woman refuse his offer? He couldn’t have been a bad-looking man when he was young. At least he must have been very intelligent and a good conversationalist.
“What do I mean?” he scoffed. “I mean I’d prefer to be a househusband, as I told you thirty years ago. Have you forgotten that? Ah, my dear, what a poor memory you have. I wanted to cook meals, wash laundry, take care of our kids and home after we got married. I promised you to do all that, didn’t I?. . I would prefer to be a happy donkey bearing the whole load of the family without a murmur. To hell with my scholarly work! To hell with my lectureship! To hell with my books! My true ambition is to become a househusband. But how many women would take such a family man seriously? Who wouldn’t think of him as a weakling or a disgrace? Oh, my real dream will never come true.” Although his voice was impassioned, the words were as clearly articulated as if spoken by an actor. He must have rehearsed them many times to himself.