To his surprise, his loose talk turned out to be a real blunder this time. Doesn’t Teacher Qi have a sense of humor? I’ll have to talk to her about that.
Qi’s husband showed up at his door that night with murder in his eyes, which were as red as a rabbit’s. He held a kitchen knife in each hand, one big and one small. His arms shook and his lips trembled. Wei knew what this was all about the moment he opened the door, and he smirked inwardly at the sight of Qi’s husband.
What do you think you’re doing? You’re out of your league here. You want to play games? Well, you’ve come to the right place.
Smiling, he said, “Little Du, why are you being so formal when visiting a colleague? And there’s no need to bring gifts. Come in, come in and have a seat.” Draping one arm over Du’s shoulder, Wei escorted him inside and shut the door. Then he took the knives from him, laid them on the table, and offered him a cigarette while he brewed some tea.
Wei sat down, crossed his legs, and started chatting in an amicable tone. He told Du that his wife was doing a good job at school and that the responses from other comrades were encouraging; everyone liked and respected her.
After that, Wei changed the subject and told Little Du about plans for the school. “Construction of a natatorium and an all-weather athletic field and the renovation of the library’s second floor will all begin next semester. Everything is moving in the right direction. Since society is taking great strides toward progress, we have to do the same. Everyone knows that making no progress is the same as backpedaling, a truth that can be applied to any place and time.”
Wei, who had not occupied a leadership position for a long time, was surprised to discover that talking like this made him feel like a leader again. He had regained the tone and gestures of an official. But the crux of the matter was that a leadership mentality had come back—the damn thing had returned.
For his part, Little Du acted respectfully. Wei was somewhat unfocused, but that did not affect his speech, which became more lucid and decisive as he went along; his professional level had not fallen, and he was now sure that he could be entrusted with leadership work at the section level. Little by little, Little Du’s anger subsided; he had lost his righteous edge and began nodding his head in response.
Finally, Wei stood up, smoothed the front and back of his jacket, and picked up the knives, which he wrapped in a copy of People’s Daily before handing them back.
“Stop by whenever you like, and next time no gifts. There’s no need for that.” Du was about to say something, but was stopped by Wei, who added with a smile, “My door is always open.”
After seeing Little Du off, Wei turned and saw his wife, her face contorted by a sneer. He returned to reality as the illusion of being a section-level leader evaporated. He felt like explaining but didn’t know where to start, so, with a nod, he said, “It’s all right. I cracked a joke about Teacher Qi this afternoon. Everything’s fine.”
Her face stayed frozen in the sneer. “I know everything’s fine. How could I not know? You may not be good at much, but you’ll never have a ‘lifestyle issue’ now.”
Wei’s face darkened at her insinuation. “Tan Meihua!” he shouted.
She ignored the tone of rebuke as she turned and went into the bedroom, closing the door with a final comment, “A dog never gets out of the habit of eating shit.”
Deeply hurt, Wei Xiangdong felt a deep loathing for Tan Meihua and for his home life. But he was Wei Xiangdong, a man who knew how to turn grief into vigor by redoubling his devotion to work.
Wei had requisitioned an extra-long flashlight with added weight and heightened brightness, and every night after nine-thirty he took it along to inspect the athletic field, the brush behind the bleachers, the art studio, the music room, the grove of trees to the left of the laboratory, the dining hall, and the area around the pond. For the most part, he seldom had to turn on his flashlight, for little escaped his keen eyes, even in the dark. He’d developed a sort of sixth sense so that most of the time, even when there was no sign or evidence, his innate perception helped him identify a spot where a couple was kissing or touching in the dark. Once he verified it, his flashlight would snap on, sending a blinding searchlight across the night sky and nailing the suspects to the ground. More precisely, the white light acted like a loudspeaker or a hood descending upon the suspicious objects. The dark mass on the ground would separate immediately to reveal itself—a panicky boy and girl exposed by the powerful flashlight.
As a whole, the undercover school security team, represented by Wang Yuyang, was a functioning aspect of Wei Xiangdong’s project. Secret lovers or signs of a budding love on campus did not escape his attention. The only blemish on his record was his failure to catch any of the transgressors in the act. If he ever did, he would not stop at punishing one couple to warn the others, or as the saying goes, “Kill a chicken to scare the monkeys.”
If he caught one, he’d punish one, and if he caught two, he’d punish two. Where romance was concerned, Wei was pigheaded to the point of obsession. Viewed from a certain angle, this was not loathing; it could even be seen as a kind of affection, a fondness. He wanted to catch them, and he wanted to punish them, expose them in broad daylight.
Yuyang worked hard, but the quality of her work was low. Her reports were generally worthless and covered only trivial matters, to Wei’s disappointment. On the other hand, he liked her more than the others. Why? Because the intelligence she gathered was generally accurate and undiluted. She never used her power to serve her own interests or to attack or to exact revenge. This was a work ethic deserving of emulation. Some of Wei’s undercover agents performed much worse than she. Zhang Juanjuan of Section One of the class of ’82, for instance, or Li Jun of Section Four of the same year were highly problematic. Zhang Juanjuan would send in false reports on anyone she didn’t like and abused her power for personal gain. What displeased Wei most were the lies. She had once given a vivid description of a romantic liaison between so-and-so and so-and-so, who “sneak out to the grove every night for a quarter of an hour.”
Wei had lain in wait at the grove twice, each time emerging empty-handed. It turned out that Zhang had fought with the girl in question and had reported her to gain revenge. That had to be stopped. So he called her into the duty office, only to have her stick to her story, insisting that she’d reported the facts. Teacher Wei had not gotten there in time. For the first time, he lost his temper with an undercover agent and felt like slapping her. Zhang’s eyes reddened. She even managed to shed a few tears, as if suffering a great injustice.
By comparison, Yuyang was much better. For Wei, her sense of duty was secondary to her playful, loveable side. He’d always thought that she was a simple girl, like the knot on an elm tree, but in fact, she could be a lot of fun, even a riot when she shed her timid self.
This he discovered one evening behind the library when he found her playing with a Pekinese dog belonging to Teacher Gao. It was a furry, pudgy animal with short legs that made jumping difficult. But Yuyang knew what to do. Teasing the dog by putting her finger in its mouth and pulling it out over and over, she leaped into the air, higher and higher. This excited the dog and it stood up on his hind legs and tried to bite her fingers. Quite a sight. The dog looked like a clumsy but obedient child. When he licked her fingertips, she let out an exaggerated, energetic scream as if there were no one else around. And, of course, no one else was around. Yuyang kept at it over and over, as did the dog; neither was bored by the monotony of the game. They must have been playing for quite a while before Wei spotted them because Yuyang had taken off her winter jacket and had on only a thin sweater.