The paper-thin curtain separating them had finally been torn open to reveal a welcoming intimacy. They had been in love all along, a secret, private, heartbreaking love. But now the most important thing shifted from love and the expression of that love to something else, something they had to face and confront together: Their only hope for the future was to never let their love come to light.
The consequences of public exposure were unthinkable; that thought paralyzed them. They stared at each other, and the more they stared, the stranger the other one looked. Unable to gaze any longer and incapable of believing what they’d done, they nearly stopped breathing from the anxiety, as if they were in a minefield where any misstep could be fatal. Still breathing hard, the teacher listened at the window to make sure no one was within earshot.
“Do you understand?” he asked mournfully. She stared at him through teary eyes and nodded. How could she, his student, not understand? Not completely convinced, he said, “Tell me you understand.”
She burst out crying. “I do.”
Love is essential, but sometimes it is even more essential to hide and shun it so as to escape watchful eyes. They made a pact to stop seeing each other and to wait until she graduated. With their arms around each other, they gave voice to their love with unusual vows. Over and over they vowed to stay apart while fantasies filled their heads over what awaited them after her graduation. But they tried not to think about that, for the uncertainty brought only sadness.
Vows are loud and clear, firm and vigorous, but it doesn’t take much for them to become laughable or unrealistic. The teacher and Fenghua both forgot one thing: People who are in love cannot control their feelings. They simply couldn’t do it. It was as if their lives were in danger and they needed to be together every second of every day. So they continued to see each other, to shed endless tears, and to repeat their vows, as if they were meeting not because they missed each other but because they needed to review and reaffirm their promises.
“This is the last time, absolutely the last time,” they’d say, but it didn’t help. They felt that they were on the verge of insanity.
Fenghua’s eyes brightened like clear glass one moment and darkened like frosted glass the next, depending on whether they could meet. Try as she might to be calm and control herself, she couldn’t hide her abnormal behavior from Yuyang’s watchful eyes. Fenghua used every trick in the book to hide what was going on, but in the end it was all in vain. Yuyang knew what was going on in Fenghua’s life more thoroughly and in greater detail than Fenghua herself. Here is what Wang Yuyang recorded in her diary.
Wednesday: Pang Fenghua left the classroom at 8:27 P.M. and returned to the dorm at 9:10; she was sobbing under her blanket after lights-out.
Saturday: 4:42 P.M., the homeroom teacher and Pang Fenghua had a brief conversation in the hallway before going their separate ways. Pang Fenghua did not eat in the dining hall and did not return to the dorm until 9:32. At midnight, she turned on a flashlight to look at herself in the mirror.
Saturday: Pang Fenghua washed her hair at 6:10 P.M., left the room at 6:26, and did not return until 9:08. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying.
Monday: Pang Fenghua complained of a headache during evening study period and asked to be excused, leaving the classroom at 7:19. She was not in the dorm room when study period was over; she returned at 9:11. Her spirits were high and she was very talkative. After getting into bed, she sang “The Waves in Honghu Chase Each Other” softly.
Saturday: Pang Fenghua washed her hair and brushed her teeth at 6:11 P.M. Left the room at 6:25; returned at 9:39.
Saturday: Pang Fenghua washed her hair and brushed her teeth at 6:02 P.M.; she left the room at 6:21. At 7:00 the homeroom teacher came to inspect the dorm, talking loudly at the door of Room 412, but he did not enter. He left at 7:08. Pang Fenghua returned at 9:41.
Sunday: Pang Fenghua was lost in thought in front of a mirror. She had a wound on her neck; it was oval in shape, like a human bite. Pang muttered to herself, “What lousy luck to be scraped by a branch.” She was lying; a scrape from a branch looks different.
Naturally Fenghua’s name did not appear that way in Yuyang’s diary; it was represented by the letter P. Pang Fenghua was now just P. As mysterious as P might be, she would not come to a good end. How could she? She simply couldn’t. Yuyang was not just keeping a record; she was also analyzing the data. Using impeccable logic, she compared the times listed in the diary and reached a definitive conclusion—Pang Fenghua was in love. When Saturday rolled around, she gave herself a thorough cleaning, including her teeth.
Except for going out to see someone, why else would she do that? That was point one.
Point two: Pang’s love interest was still unknown, but in Yuyang’s view, it could very likely be the homeroom teacher. Leaving other possible signs aside, Yuyang noticed that he had been ignoring Pang for a while. He never asked her a question during class, and sometimes he even avoided looking in her direction. That was a new wrinkle, one that could only invite suspicion. When someone tries too hard to hide something, they usually wind up drawing attention to it.
Point three: Except for Saturday, which clearly was their meeting day, they occasionally saw each other on Mondays or Wednesdays. Yuyang had yet to determine where they met, and that was something she needed to work on. She had to increase her surveillance, but she was confident that all the secrets would be exposed like sprouting seeds. All she had to do was follow and observe Fenghua a while longer. As time went by, it became easier to detect a routine in her movements, and routine meant regularity. That would help explain the situation. Regularity is the biggest and most powerful thumbtack that, with adequate pressure, can pin you to the pillar of shame and humiliation.
To be absolutely accurate, Yuyang began tailing Pang Fenghua and digging up dirt on her simply as part of her job; she had no particular motives of her own. After a while, though, she found to her surprise that she had developed a fondness for the job. It was a good job, which she became so powerfully addicted to that she didn’t think she could give it up. She was convinced that even if Pang Fenghua had not offended her, she’d still have enjoyed the work.
Nothing escaped her attention; she saw everything. This was a special gift, an extra reward from life that gave her an extraordinary sense of accomplishment. No wonder Wei Xiangdong wanted to cultivate “all-hearing ears” and “far-seeing eyes.” She found it easy to like whatever he liked. It was simply perfect; her life was filled with all sorts of activities, colors, trepidation, and stirring emotions when she hid in dark corners to ferret out others’ secrets. She was grateful to life and to her job.
And yet Yuyang was not happy, not really. Something still weighed on her; it was the money order, a zombie that had come back to life and opened its eyes to glare at her. She saw it, an eerie blue light: the light of death. It was during the afternoon extracurricular activities period when it reentered her life. Teacher Wei walked up and asked her to come with him to the duty office. She did not want to go, not now, not ever, for whenever she saw that building, she was reminded of how she’d bared her body for Teacher Wei. But she had no choice; she had to go, especially when Wei mentioned the money order, so she followed him without a word.
The money order lay on Wei’s desk. He said nothing, nor did she. But as she looked down at it, a sense of calmness came over her, and she sneered inwardly as she realized what he had in mind. He might be older and appear proper, but what he wanted was simple enough—to touch her.