On that day the red sun shone brightly on the East as the god of freedom sang with loud passion, as described in a poem posted by Chu Tian, a student in the class of ’81.
December 9 was a holiday for the great mass of students; it was a holiday for Zhao Shanshan, a holiday for Pang Fenghua, and a holiday for Wang Yuyang. A holiday required celebration because that was what people did. There was nothing particularly memorable about their school’s form of celebration, which was to gather the students on the athletic field between classes for singing contests. The holiday would not be considered celebrated until they had all sung, had enjoyed a good and festive outing, and had seen the top three prizes awarded. Of course, the prizes lent the celebration a special character because every class fought hard to win them; and it wasn’t just the students who wanted to win. The homeroom teachers wanted to win, so did the music teachers. Section Three of the class of ’82 had fired blanks at that year’s sports meet, having come in fourth among the six sections of that class.
It was an utter failure that naturally made the homeroom teacher even more fervently hopeful about the singing contest. Having graduated from college in 1982, he did not plan to spend the rest of his life at the school; he intended to take the graduate school entrance examination. On the other hand, his reputation was on the line, and he could not take the contest lightly. He’d received his degree in political education from the provincial teacher-training college, and upon graduation, his counselor had impressed upon him the importance of honor and reputation.
“What is work?” the counselor had asked. “It is winning honors and gaining recognition. So don’t be shy or timid. Nothing happens when everyone wins honors, but if you are the only one who does, then a staircase will appear before you, allowing you to ascend to a higher level and see what others cannot see. That will be especially beneficial when it comes time for promotions, housing assignments, evaluations, selection as a representative, and marriage. If everyone has it, but you don’t, then you have wasted your energy. Your exhaustion will be a sign of poor health and nothing else. So you must strive for honors and recognition. You can break your skull and shed your blood, but you must turn around and start over. Never, ever be shy and timid.”
The homeroom teacher had already had a taste of what the counselor had talked about. On the night of the sports meet, the teacher whose class came in first even found a new way to smoke a cigarette. With his head held high and his chest thrust out, he looked less like a smoker than a tiger ready to conquer the world. With its defeat at the sports meet, Section Three must win back its honor at the singing contest so the homeroom teacher called a prebattle meeting to spur on the students.
Section Three began preparing for the contest earlier than the other sections. To keep the practices secret, the teacher found a nearby factory warehouse to rehearse in. This time they enjoyed a number of advantages. To begin with, Zhao Shanshan played the piano, which eliminated the need for a music teacher to accompany them. The extra points that earned would give them an edge with the judges. Unfortunately, the teacher held an unfavorable—actually, a quite bad—opinion of Zhao, who had been picking fights with Pang Fenghua. What had Zhao meant when she called her Taken? It seemed clear that Zhao was targeting him and that he had to be very careful. Yet, for the sake of the big picture—winning the contest—he had to put up with things the way they were and wait to execute the problem case after the contest.
“To execute” was the homeroom teacher’s favorite expression; it denoted a grand, decisive tone that conveyed a sense of power and authority. When he uttered the phrase, he sounded unwaveringly resolute, as if the culprit would be shot on the spot and the problem solved. Or he might execute a class representative who failed an assignment. Who doesn’t fear being executed? His temperament demanded that he execute Zhao Shanshan as soon as possible because the brassy girl, bolstered by her belief that she was the backbone of the class’s arts and cultural activities, was nearly out of control.
During the selection process for choral director, he had tested Zhao. Knowing that he preferred Pang Fenghua, Zhao insisted on Hu Jia’s being the director, going so far as to say that there was a problem with Pang’s deportment.
What kind of talk is that? What does she know about deportment anyway? Ridiculous. Absurd. His face darkened to show his displeasure. So Shanshan was out as a member of the committee for cultural activities, and when the contest was over, he’d have to execute her.
The music teacher was very accommodating, and Section Three’s choral practice at the warehouse was taking shape. The forty-eight students were lined up in four rows representing the four vocal parts; the separate vocal sections intersected, corresponded, and contrasted with each other to produce a musical performance with such depth and breadth that it seemed created, not by forty-eight students, but by thousands of singers. It was the unified strength of a social class; better yet, it was the unified strength of a nation that was permeated with the intensity of boundless hatred and bottomless anger mixed with the flames of struggle and resistance. Standing off to one side, the homeroom teacher pulled a long face as he hugged his elbows and stood as straight as a javelin about to be hurled. He was happy, but he kept gnashing and grinding his teeth; that, of course, might well have been the effect that the singing had on him. In art, hatred and anger are infectious; that is what art is all about.
When the music teacher was done with his work, the homeroom teacher sought the assistance of the dance teacher in an attempt to “replace the old with something new.” The dance teacher added a bit of choreography and some standard gestures, such as a sudden clapping of the hands or the abrupt thrusting of fists into the air. The addition of this high-spirited movement to the resonating tempo gave the song a rhythmic flair that elevated its power; the performance now exuded a dauntless, do-or-die quality. The dance teacher’s ingenuity was fully displayed in the lyrical segment when he asked the students to stand with their feet apart and let their arms hang to their sides, their balled fists turned inward. With their chests thrust out, they swayed from side to side as they shifted their weight from one foot to the other. Though their feet were firmly planted on the floor, they looked as if they all were forging their way through fire and water together. And yet the gentle movement, done with juvenile clumsiness, evoked a tender feeling, like willows in a spring breeze do, and conveyed a deep affection, a longing, and a tribute to the motherland. These winsome actions, executed in a uniform manner, were breathtakingly beautiful.
But most of the boys were too shy to make the necessary gestures, and as they were trying not to laugh, the do-or-die determination was lost. Several practice rounds fell short of the desired results. The athletic committee member, a tall, strapping student, was the worst, for he came across as especially bashful and awkward when he balled his fists and swayed back and forth.
“Sun Jianqiang, watch what you’re doing,” the homeroom teacher shouted.
As a smile crept over his face, Sun Jianqiang looked as if he’d rather die, and that made the teacher redouble the severity in his voice. “Sun Jianqiang!”