Unlike Director Qian, who always looked glum, Wei seemed to be outgoing and laughed easily. Finally he broached the subject. “We have been secretly observing Wang Yuyang with the intention of making her someone we should cultivate.” Teacher Wei had said “we,” not “I,” which meant that he represented the gigantic, tight-knit, behind-the-scenes leadership—mysterious, sacred, and impossible to see in its entirety. He pointed out in a somber voice that as a target of cultivation Wang Yuyang was still lacking in certain areas. In her current state, she wasn’t quite up to par. She was, for instance, inadequate in the area of “one heart and one mind” dedication. Although he was subjecting her to criticism, there was a kindhearted message in his words that implied anxiety over turning iron into steel and potential into substance, and this underscored his expectations and hopes for her.
He was stern yet earnest, hinting at a different kind of organizational trust. No one had ever extended a helping hand of that magnitude or indicated this kind of enthusiasm and trust to Yuyang before, and it moved her profoundly. With myriad emotions surging inside her, she fell into a daze as Teacher Wei gave her instructions and an assignment. From now on she was to give a weekly written report to “us” on any and all anomalies, even those involving members of the security team, whether on campus, in class, or in the dorm. In other words, Pang Fenghua might be on the security team from the perspective of organizational procedures, but she was, in reality, under Yuyang’s surveillance and control. It was too appealing for words.
The conversation with Wei lasted only twenty minutes, but those twenty minutes were immensely important to Yuyang, a landmark that woke her up and convinced her that she was not dispensable, not useless. She was, in fact, regarded with trust and esteem by the people who mattered. The most enthralling quality of her job was that it required secrecy and underground activity. With the knowledge that she’d been given considerable responsibility, she suddenly felt grown up. On her way out she kept turning over what Teacher Wei had said to her; his words echoed in her ears. He’d told her to “observe more, listen more, record more, talk little, and make yourself less noticeable.” How kind his words had been. She’d never sought the limelight, not because she hadn’t wanted to, but because she was too shy and didn’t know how to. Now, however, everything was different; keeping out of the public eye was an essential feature of her mission.
Real student life began after nine-thirty at night. During the long daylight hours the students could not be themselves. Their time was divided into filing cabinet drawers, into which were placed daily meals, calisthenics, eye-health exercises, and rest periods. The biggest drawer was further divided into class times. There was a bit of flexible time in the late afternoons, but that was like a cupboard for odds and ends. This chunk of time might have appeared enjoyable, but it was monotonous, taken up by group activities, physical education, or the arts, which after a while, became repetitive. Once the evening study period was over, the students tidied up, rinsed out a few of their things, washed up, and climbed into bed before beginning their real activity. If you looked at the dormitories from a distance you’d find them quite attractive during this time. Every window was lit like a scene from a fairy tale. Then at nine-thirty Beijing time all the windows went dark. At lights-out, the campus quieted down, the dorms included; only the soft nightlights in the bathrooms remained on. The windows turned pitch-black as indoor activity began to die down; but this did not mean the day was ending. On the contrary, it was just beginning.
In the brief span of time before they fell asleep, the students lay in bed in the dark, full of energy. Their minds, bright and shiny as if washed clean, became sensitive, sharp, and discerning, capable of philosophical research or poetry composition. The students became transient philosophers and momentary poets. Their tongues sharpened, and even the shiest and least articulate among them seemed to possess a supercharged mouth that emitted the blue flame of wisdom. They chattered away, talking about everything—ancient and modern, domestic and foreign, trivial and outdated—covering interpersonal relationships, the future, their resentments and rancor, their happiness, and anything they could think of.
Of course, everything was twisted, colored by pubescent exaggeration, passion, and sorrow. Lying calmly under their blankets, they spoke with naïve sophistication interspersed with mature recklessness. In fact, they were honest, exposed, and transparent, convinced that they knew everything, that whoever considered them naïve would suffer when the time came. Understandably, their conversations tended to center on the school and their classes, young Zhang and young Li in their classrooms, Mr. Zhang and Miss Li among the teachers, Old Zhang and Little Li at the eatery by the campus gate. With their eyes shut, the students appeared to rest, but their faces were no less expressive than when their eyes were wide open and were often even more colorful and intense. Since the door was bolted, their conversations assumed private, secretive airs. But that was an illusion. Each room had eight mouths, and the following morning, eight would become sixteen, sixteen would become thirty-two, and in no time the secrets would be public knowledge. But this bothered no one.
If the conversations got really animated, the girls would open their eyes and look into the darkness, which had no effect on their cleverness. Their voices would grow louder with uproarious talk or wild laughter. At such moments, a shout would rise up from the teacher on night duty downstairs: “Who’s talking up there?”
Sometimes the general became specific: “Room 323. Do you hear me? Room 323.” The disturbance would die down again as everyone shut her eyes, savoring the best part of the conversation with happy, contented smiles.
Yuyang lived in 412, a standard room with five girls from the cities, plus Pang Fenghua, Wang Yuyang, and Kong Zhaodi. The most active and conspicuous girl in the room was Zhao Shanshan, who played the violin and the piano, was the class’s literary mainstay, and, predictably, was on its arts and literature committee.
A favorite of the teachers, she was outstanding in every respect except for her predilection for giving her classmates nicknames, starting with the boys. She had a gift for giving names that were right on target in mocking the subject’s unique features. The name sometimes sounded contrived at first, but the more one mulled it over, the more one had to agree that it was the perfect nickname. She said that one of the boys was like a camel except for his lack of fur. Sure enough, many of his movements did resemble a camel. When the girls ran into Camel on the street, he’d nod and they’d smile knowingly. He does, he looks like a camel. In this wondrous world, seeing is believing.
Her victims included Mantis, Hound, Frog, and Toad. As for so-and-so, he definitely resembled a rooster, but only if you looked at his profile when he thrust out his neck, alert and jerky. Of course he was a rooster. The boys in class were unaware that she’d turned them into zoo animals.
After naming her way through the boys in the class, she hadn’t yet exhausted her talent, so she moved on to the girls—with Wang Yuyang as her first target. There was nothing malicious in her choice of Yuyang; she simply was in love with all the attention and wanted to show off her clever tongue. One night, when she was washing up, she abruptly asked the other girls if they knew what Wang Yuyang looked like. Trying to supply an answer, the girls silently scrolled through all the animals they could think of, but none reminded them of Yuyang. Zhao waited till lights-out to reveal the answer: Wang Yuyang was a steamed bun. That drew the girls’ focus away from animals. Yes, Yuyang’s back, especially the nape of her neck, did look like a steamed bun. So it was settled—Yuyang was Steamed Bun. As Yuyang lay in bed feeling hurt, she did not say a word. Zhao was clearly picking on her—as if she were pushing Yuyang’s head down and sticking her nose up her bottom. The following morning Yuyang did not show up in the cafeteria; the thought of seeing steamed buns enraged her. The day dragged on till nightfall, when she blurted out, apropos of nothing that was being said at the time, “Zhao Shanshan, you’re an oily fritter.”