On the morning of April 15, 1974, my family accompanied me to the People’s Square. Ten huge trucks were parked in the center of the square. Red flags with characters the color of gold were tied to the side of every truck, proclaiming “Red Fire Farm.” The flags were blown to their full size, bright as the color of fresh blood.
I registered. A woman of about twenty-five, with short hair cut to the ears and half-moon-shaped eyes, greeted me. She was warm. She introduced herself as Comrade Lu. She said congratulations to me repeatedly and leaned over my shoulder and said, Be proud of yourself! She smiled. The half-moon eyes became quarter moons. She shook hands with me and tied a red paper flower to the front of my blouse. She said, Hey, smiling, we are family now.
I got on a less crowded truck. My father passed me my suitcases. Mother looked ill. Blooming and Coral went to hold her arms. Space Conqueror stared at me. His deep-set eyes were two wells of chaos. My father waved at me and forced a smile. Now get out of here, he said, trying in vain to be funny.
My family stood in front of me, as if taking a dull picture. It was a picture of sadness, a picture of never the same. I was out of the picture.
I wanted to tell my family to leave because the longer they stayed the more bitter I grew. But I was not able to say anything. I was too sad to say anything. But I was seventeen. I had courage. I turned toward the direction where the wind blew. I said to the future, Now I am ready, come and test me!
When the trucks pulled away, the crowd moaned. Parents would not let loose of their children’s arms. I looked away. I thought of my heroic past, how I had always been proud to be a devoted revolutionary. I forced myself to feel proud, and that way I felt a little better. Comrade Lu saw me, saw that I did not wave goodbye to my family. She came to my side and said, Good guts. She asked us to sing a Mao quotation song. She led: “Go to the countryside, go to the frontier, go to where our country needs us the most…”
We began to sing with Lu. Our voices were dry and weak like old sick farm cows. Lu waved her arms hard, trying to speed up the singing. People paid no attention to her. It was a moment when memory takes root. The moment youth began to fade. I stared at my parents who stood like frosted eggplants-with heads hanging weakly in front of their chests. My tears welled up. I sang loudly. I screamed. Lu said into my ear, Good guts. Good guts. Her arm was holding the flag of Red Fire Farm. The trucks advanced, facing the blowing wind. The dust blurred, the image of Shanghai faded.
On the truck no one introduced himself to the others. Everyone sat right next to his luggage, listening to the roaring sound of the wind. We sat, as if mourning. In a few hours we were greeted by the night stars of the sky. I started to miss my father. I thought of the night he dragged me, Blooming, Coral and Space Conqueror out of our beds at midnight to observe the Milky Way and the stars. He wanted us to be astronomers. The dream he had not had a chance to complete himself. It was as clear as tonight, the sky, the Milky Way, Jupiter, Mars, Venus and a man-made earth satellite in orbit…
It was in drowsiness that I smelled the East China Sea. Lu told us that we had arrived at Red Fire Farm. It was late afternoon. There was an ocean of endless sea reeds. The trucks spread out in different directions. Like a little spider our truck crawled into the green. The sky felt so murky and short. Short like a reachable ceiling.
I got off the truck with tingling legs. There were two rectangular gray-brick barracks standing on each side of me. Between the barracks there was a long public sink with many taps. I saw people walk in and out of the barracks. People who looked tired, bored, in dusty clothes, with greasy hair. They paid no attention to us.
I was picking up my suitcases when I heard someone shouting suddenly, Assemble! The commander is coming!
Commander? Was I in a military camp? Confused, I turned to Lu, who was staring tensely toward the east. Her smile had disappeared completely. She looked hard. I followed her eyes toward the open field. A small figure appeared on the horizon.
She was tall, well-built, and walked with authority. She wore an old People’s Liberation Army uniform, washed almost white, and gathered at the waist with a three-inch-wide belt. She had two short thick braids. She had a look of a conqueror.
Stopping about five feet away from us, she smiled. She began to examine us one by one. She had a pair of fiery, intense eyes, in which I saw the energy of a lion. She had weather-beaten skin, thick eyebrows, a bony nose, high cheekbones, a full mouth, in the shape of a water chestnut. She had the shoulders of an ancient warlord, extravagantly broad. She was barefoot. Her sleeves and trousers were rolled halfway up. Her hands rested on her waist. When her eyes focused on mine, I trembled for no reason. She burned me with the sun in her eyes. I felt bare.
She began to speak. Her words carried no sound. People quieted down and a whisperlike voice was heard. Welcome to you, new soldiers to Red Fire Farm who join us as-she cleared her throat and spit out the words one by one-as our fresh blood. She said she welcomed us to break out of the small world of our personal concerns to be part of an operation on such a grand scale. She said that we had just made our first step of the Long March. Suddenly raising her voice, she said that she wanted to introduce herself. She said, My name is Yan Sheng. Yan, as in discipline; Sheng, as in victory. You can call me Yan. She said she was the Party secretary and commander of this company. A company that was making earth-shaking changes in everything. She lowered her voice again to a whisper. She said she did not really have much to say at an occasion like this. But she did want to say one thing. Then she shouted, Don’t any of you shit on my face! Don’t any of you disappoint the glorious title of “The Advanced Seventh Company,” the model of the entire Red Fire Farm Army! She asked whether she had made her point clear. And we, startled, said, Yes!
Fanning her hand in front of her nose as if to get rid of some bad smell, she asked did we wish not to be as weak as we were. She repeated her phrase again. She wanted to hear us say Yes! in the proper manner of a soldier. And we shouted in one enthusiastic voice.
She said, That’s better, and then smiled. Her smile was affectionate. But it lasted only three seconds. She looked hard again and told us that the farm had thirteen thousand members and our company four hundred. She said that she expected every one of us to function as a screw in a big revolutionary machine. Keep yourself up. Run, run and run, said she, because if you stop, you rust. She wanted us to remember that although we would not be given formal uniforms, we would be trained as real soldiers. She said, I never talk nonsense, never. This phrase of hers stuck in my mind for a long time, for it was expressed in such a roughneck way.
As if blanketed by shock, no one moved after Yan called us to be dismissed. Lu raised her hand at Yan. And Yan took a step back from the ranks and introduced Lu as her deputy commander.
Lu said that she had a couple of things to say to the ranks. She marched in front of the ranks. Big smiles piled up on her face before she opened her mouth. With a surgical voice she said that although she was newly transferred to this company, she was an old member of the Communist Party family. She started to recite the history of the Communist Party, beginning with its very first establishment meeting on a small boat near Shanghai. She talked and talked until the sun drew back its last ray and we were covered by the descending fog.
I was assigned to house number three, occupied by females. My room was about nine by fourteen feet, with four bunk beds. I had seven roommates. The only private space was within the mosquito net that hung from thin bamboo sticks. The floor was packed earth.
The next day we were ordered to work in the rice fields. The leeches in the muddy water frightened me. A girl named Little Green was working alongside me. A leech was on her leg. When she tried to pull the leech out, it went deeper. It soon disappeared into the skin, leaving a black dot on the surface. She screamed in horror. I called up an experienced soldier named Orchid for help. Orchid came and patted the skin above the leech’s head. The leech backed itself out. Little Green was very appreciative for my help and we became good friends.
Little Green was eighteen. She had the bed next to mine. She was pale, so pale that exposure to the sun all day did not change the color of her skin. Her fingers were thin and fine. She spread pig shit as if she were organizing jewelry. She walked gracefully, like a willow in a soft breeze. Her long braids swayed on her back. She looked down at the floor whenever she spoke. She was shy. But she liked to sing. She told me that she was brought up by her grandmother, who used to be an opera singer before the Cultural Revolution. She inherited her voice. Her parents were assigned to work in remote oil fields, because they were intellectuals. They came home once every year on New Year’s Eve. She never got to know her parents much, but she knew all the old operas though she never sang old operas in public. In public she sang “My Motherland,” a popular song since Liberation. Her voice was the platoon’s pride. It helped us to get through the tough labor, through the days we had to get up at five and work in the fields until nine at night.
She was daring. Dared to decorate her beauty. She tied her braids with colorful strings while the rest of us tied our braids with brown rubber bands. Her femininity mocked us. I watched her and sensed the danger in her boldness. I used to be a head of the Red Guards. I knew the rules. I knew the thin line between right and wrong. I watched Little Green. Her beauty. I wanted to tie my braids with colorful strings every day. But I did not have the guts to show contempt for the rules. I had always been good.
I had to admit that she was beautiful. But I and all the other female soldiers said she was not. We tied on brown rubber bands. The color of mud, of pig shit, of our minds. Because we believed that a true Communist should never care about the way she looked. The beauty of the soul was what should be cared about. Little Green never argued with anyone. She did not care what we said. She smiled at herself. She looked down on the floor. She smiled, from the heart, at herself, at her colorful string, and was satisfied. No matter how tired she got, Little Green always walked forty-five minutes to a hot-water station and carried back water to wash herself. She cleaned the mud off her fingernails, patiently and gaily. Every evening she washed herself in the net while I lay in my net, watching her, with my pawlike fingernails laid on my thighs.
Little Green proudly showed me how she used remnants of fabric to make pretty underwear, finely embroidered with flowers, leaves and birds. She hung a string next to the little window between our beds on which she could hang her underwear to dry. In our bare room the string was like an art gallery.
Little Green upset me. She upset the room, the platoon and the company. She caught our eyes. We could not help looking at her. The good-for-nothings could not take their eyes off her, that creature full of bourgeois allure. I scorned my own desire to display my youth. A nasty desire, I told myself a hundred times. I was seventeen and a half. I admired Little Green’s guts. The guts to redesign the clothes we were issued. She tapered her shirts at the waist; she remade her trousers so that the legs would look longer. She was not embarrassed by her full breasts. In the early evening she would carry the two containers of hot water, her back straight, chest full. She walked toward our room singing. The sky behind her was velvet blue. The half-man, half-monkey male soldiers stared at her when she passed by. She was the Venus of the farm’s evening. I envied and adored her. In June she dared to go without a bra. I hated my bra when I saw her, saw her walking toward me, bosoms bouncing. She made me feel withered without ever having bloomed.
The days were long, so long. The work was endless. At five in the morning we were cutting the oil-bearing plants. The black seeds rolled on my neck and into my shoes as I laid the plants down. I did not bother to wipe the sweat that was dripping and salted my eyes. I did not have the time. Our platoon was the fastest in the company. We soared like arrows. We advanced across the fields in staircase-shape formation. When we worked, we were sunk into the sea of the plants. We barely straightened our backs. We had no time to straighten our backs. Little Green did, once in a while. She upset us. We threw unfriendly words out. We said, Shame on the lazybones! We did not stop until Little Green bent down to work again. We did this to everyone but Yan. Yan was a horse rider. We were her horses. She did not have to whip us to get us moving. We felt the chill of a whip on the back when she walked by and examined our work. I watched her feet moving past me. I dared not raise my head. I paid attention to what my hands were doing. She stopped and watched me working. I cut and laid the plant neatly. I tried not to let the black seeds rain down. She passed by and I let out a breath.
A pair of Little Green’s prettiest hand-embroidered underwear was stolen. It was considered an ideological crime. The company’s Party committee called a meeting. It was held in the dining hall. Four hundred people all sat on little wooden stools. In rows. The question regarding the theft was brought up by Yan. No one admitted to the theft. Lu was indignant. She said she could not bear such behavior. She said the fact of what was stolen shamed us all. She said the Party should launch a political campaign to prevent such behavior from taking place. She said it should be more the fault of the company leaders than the soldiers. Yan stood up. She apologized for being soft on watching her soldiers’ minds. She apologized to the Party. She criticized Little Green for vanity. She ordered her to make a confession. She told Little Green that in the future she should not hang her underwear near the window.
Little Green was washing her fingernails in the evening. She tried to wash off the brown, the fungicide that had stained her nails. She used a toothbrush. I lay on my hands. I watched her patience. Little Green said that she was disappointed in Yan. I thought she was more human than Lu, said Little Green. Lu is a dog. I do not expect her to show elephant’s tusks. But Yan was supposed to be an elephant. She is supposed to have ivory instead of jigsaw-patterned dog teeth.
I made no comment. I found it hard to comment on Yan. I was unaware of when I had become Yan’s admirer. Like many others in the company, I guarded her automatically. During field breaks we gossiped legendary stories of Yan. I learned from Orchid that Yan had joined the Communist Party at eighteen. When she had arrived five years ago, the land of Red Fire Farm had been barren. She had led her platoon of twenty Red Guards in reclaiming it. Orchid was among them. Yan was famous for her iron shoulders. To remove the mud to build irrigation channels, she made twenty half-mile trips in a day, carrying over 160 pounds in two hods hanging from a shoulder pole. Her shoulders swelled like steamed bread. But she continued carrying the hods. She allowed the pole to rub her bleeding shoulders. She believed in willpower. After a year her blisters were the size of thumbs. She was the number-one weight lifter in the company. Orchid told the story as if Yan were a god.
I saw Yan carry large loads in the afternoon. She piled reed upon reed upon her head until she looked like she had a hill on her shoulders, with only her legs moving underneath. She had a man’s muscles. Her feet were like animal paws.
The older soldiers never got tired of describing one image of their heroine. A few years ago, after the grain storage there was a fire. Straw huts and fields of ripe crops were burned and all the Red Guards cried. Yan stood in front of the ranks with one of her braids burnt off, her face scorched and her clothes smoking. She said that her faith in Communism was all she needed to rebuild her dream. The company built new houses in five months. She was worshiped. She was more real than Mao.
Late at night, when I listened to the sound of Little Green washing herself, I imagined Yan with a burnt-off braid, her skin scorched by fire raging behind her… Yan had become the protagonist in my opera. I began to sing Red Detachment of Women. Little Green hummed with me, then the other roommates. I was singing the song of Yan. Yan was the heroine in real life. In singing I wanted to reach her, to become her. I wanted to become a heroine. I adored Little Green as a friend, but I needed Yan to worship.
The willow outside the window swayed hard. The leaves tapped on the glass. The night was windy. Tomorrow would be another hard day. Depression sunk in. I pushed my thoughts to Yan. She inspired me, gave significance to my life. Little Green’s disappointment over Yan did not diminish my admiration for her. I needed a leader to get me up. My back was sore. My fingernails were all brown, my skin cracked. But my focus was on Yan. In thinking of her I fell into sleep.
I started to imitate Yan’s way of walking, talking and dressing. I was not aware of what I was doing. My belt was two inches wide. I wished it was one inch wider. I cut my long braids short, short to the length of Yan’s braids. I tried to carry as much as I could when our platoon was sent to dig a new irrigation channel. I allowed my shoulder pole to rub my bleeding blisters. When the pain drilled into the heart, I forced myself to think of Yan, to think of the way she dealt with the pain.
To impress Yan, I gave speeches in every night’s self-confession and criticism meeting. I put my weakness on the table. Everyone did the same. We helped each other to examine our thoughts, to get rid of the incorrect ones. We believed if we failed to do so, our hearts would be murdered by bourgeois evil spirits. Mao had warned us that those bad spirits were everywhere, hiding and waiting for the right time to get us. The class struggle must be talked about every day, every month and every year, said Mao. We discussed our characters, talked about how to improve ourselves and remain decent. We talked about building a stronger will. A will of magic. A will of ever-victory. I did not realize until later that these were the days of significance, days of ardent love and days of satisfaction. I was enthusiastic at these meetings. Though Yan didn’t seem to notice me, I was not discouraged. I rode on my sincerity and believed that I would finally win her trust.
I was among those ordered to attend a military training program organized by the farm’s headquarters. I was glad that I was considered politically reliable. The program was a series of intensive courses on shooting, handling grenades and combat. Yan said she would not pass us until we pickled in our own sweat. We were also called to go on midnight searches when we had to pull ourselves out of bed and be ready to leave with our rifles and flashlights in three minutes.
One night in the early summer I was awakened at midnight by an emergency call. The platoon leader called for me at my window and within minutes I was off with the group.
The air felt like water, soothing my face. We moved briskly, almost jogging, through the reeds. When we reached the wheat fields, a loading order was given in a whisper.
I snapped awake-this was the first order to use live ammunition-something serious had happened. I loaded my gun.
And then I heard Yan’s voice. She ordered us to lie down, then to advance. It was a killer’s voice.
We began crawling through the wheat. It was hard to see. The wheat whipped us, leaving its tiny needles all over me. I held my gun tightly. The male soldier in front of me stopped crawling and passed back a stand-by order.
I lay there holding my breath and listening. The insects began to sing and the wheat smelled sweet. The night was still. Mosquitoes began to bite me through my clothes. There was a noise in the distance. Then silence. I thought the noise had been my imagination. After about a minute, I heard the noise again. It was two sounds. One was a man’s and the other was a woman’s murmuring. I heard a soft and muted cry. And then my shock: I recognized the voice as Little Green’s.
My only thought was, I can’t let Little Green be caught like this. She was my best friend, the only air in our stifling room. She had never told me anything about being involved with a man, though I could understand why: it would be shameful to admit. A good female comrade was supposed to devote all her energy, her youth, to the revolution; she was not permitted even to think about a man until her late twenties, when marriage would be considered. I thought about the consequences that Little Green had to bear if she were caught. I could see her future ruined right here. She would be abandoned by society and her family disgraced. I crawled forward toward the noise. A firm hand immediately pressed me down to the ground. It was Yan. I struggled, trying to fight her off. But she was too strong. Her grip was firm as a rock. She seemed to know exactly what was going on.
The murmuring and hard breathing became louder. Yan clenched her teeth together and drew in a breath. I felt the force of her body. In a second she loosened her grip on my back and shouted suddenly, Now!
It was as if a bomb had exploded next to me. Yan turned her flashlight on Little Green and the man. About thirty other flashlights, including mine, were switched on at the same time.
Little Green screamed. It broke the night. She was in her favorite shirt-the one embroidered with pink plum flowers. The lights shone on her naked buttocks. Her scream pierced me to the core. My heart in slices.
The man with Little Green was skinny, wore glasses, and looked very bookish. He pulled up his pants and tried to run. He was caught immediately by the group led by Deputy Commander Lu, who pulled out her rifle and held it to the bookish man’s head. He was not from our company, but I remembered having seen him at the market. He had smiled at Little Green, but when I asked whether she knew him, she had said no.
Little Green was trembling and weeping. She scrambled back and forth for her clothes, trying to cover her buttocks with her hands.
I lowered my flashlight.
Yan slowly approached the man. She asked him why he had to do that to Little Green. Her voice was trembling. To my surprise, I saw her eyes glisten with tears.
The man bit his lip. He did not say anything.
Yan threw her belt down and ordered the male soldiers to beat the man. She walked away but stopped and said that she would be pleased if the soldiers could make the man understand that today’s woman was no longer the victim of man’s desire. She took off her jacket to cover Little Green. She said to her softly, Let’s go home.
The bookish man did not look guilty. As the kicking and whipping began, he struggled not to cry out.
I returned to the barracks with the other female soldiers. From a distance we could hear muted cries from the man and Lu shouting, Death to the rapist! Little Green could not stop whimpering.
A public trial was held in the dining hall. Little Green had undergone four days of “intensive mind rebrushing.” On a makeshift stage Little Green declared in a high, strained voice that she had been raped. The paper from which she read slipped out of her hands twice. Her bookish lover was convicted. I will never forget his expression when the death sentence was announced. As if waking from a nightmare, he looked suddenly relaxed. His bruised purple face had brightened when Little Green walked into the hall.
I sat next to Yan. I heard her exchanging words with Lu. They said that the man was too deeply poisoned by bourgeois thoughts. Yan sighed in a sad tone. Lu said that the good thing was that the Party had managed to stop the poison from spreading. Yan agreed and said that at least she had saved Little Green. Lu gave a short speech to end the trial. The overturned cart in front serves as a warning to the carts behind, she said to the company.
Little Green’s scream remained in my ear for a whole week. I thought about talking to Little Green but felt too guilty to face her.
No one talked about the man after the execution, although he was on everyone’s mind. Little Green stopped washing. Months passed. Still she had not washed. There were complaints about her smell. When I carried back two containers of hot water and asked if she would allow me to wash her underwear for her, she took a pair of scissors and cut them into strips. She chopped off her long braids and stopped combing her hair. Mucus dripped from her lips. At night she sang songs off-key. Then it got worse. She would not quit singing after midnight. She sang old operas. One after another. She played with the curtains of the nets in the rooms. Mosquitoes got into the nets. The roommates became furious. They tied Little Green up on her bed. But she laughed and then sang louder. The roommates spit on her face and told her to shut up. But she went on until daybreak. When we woke up, all the shoes were gone. Little Green took them. She threw the shoes into the pond behind the company’s storage. Little Green was going mad, but no one wanted to face the thought. I could not describe my feelings. I had destroyed her. We murdered her. We were mad. We strangled her into madness.
The roommates reported her behavior. Yan refused to believe Little Green was insane. She shut us all up. She asked Orchid, Lu and me to go with her, to send Little Green to the farm’s hospital.
We escorted Little Green on a tractor. Four of us holding her as if carrying an animal to a slaughterer’s shop. Yan had her jacket on Little Green. She protected her from the strong wind and covered her as if she were a newborn.
The doctors performed many tests on Little Green but could not figure out what was wrong with her. They told Yan that nothing more could be done and asked her to take Little Green back. Yan roared. She threatened that she would accuse them all of being reactionaries if they did not come up with an acceptable diagnosis. The doctors pleaded with her. Finally, they referred Little Green to a Shanghai hospital where she was diagnosed as having had a nervous breakdown.
When Little Green returned from the hospital months later, I did not recognize her. The drugs that had been prescribed for her had made her gain weight. She was as fat as a bear.
She was again given a bed in my room, where she sat quietly most of the day staring in one direction. Her pupils sometimes moved upward into her skull as if to read her own brain. Her hair was matted. I thought of the evenings when she would wash her hair after dinner and comb and dry it as the sun set. I remembered the song she sang well, “My Motherland.”
I spent the night of my eighteenth birthday under the mosquito net. A nameless anxiety had invaded me. It felt like a sweating summer afternoon. Irritatingly hot. The air felt creamy. It was the ripeness of the body. It began to spoil. The body screamed inside trying to break the bondage. I was restless.
The reeds were sprouting underneath my bed. I had to cut them because they pricked through my bamboo mat and scratched my cheek the night before. I had to stop them or they would hurt me. They had hurt me before. And I had weeded them by the roots. But the reeds were indestructible. They were excessive, saltproof. When I thought they were gone, they were back. They grew from nowhere. It must be the salt. The salt empowered the reeds, I thought. They worked hand in glove. They were the true Red Fire Farmers.
I got down from the bed and squatted. I pulled the reeds out and broke each of them in two. I got back to my net, sealed the curtain, clapped to death three mosquitoes. I pinched them down and looked at the bloody spots on the net. The restlessness overtook me like the growing back of the reeds, from nowhere. It was the body. That must be it. Its youth, the salt. The body and the restlessness worked hand in glove. They were screaming in me, breaking me in two.
I used a small mirror to examine my body, to examine the details of its private parts. I listened to my body carefully. I heard its trouble, its disturbance. It had been trying to capture something, a foreign touch, to soothe its anxiety, but in vain. The body demanded to break away from its ruler, the mind. It was angry. It drove me to where I did not want to go: I had begun having thoughts about men. I dreamed of being touched by many hands. I was disgusted with myself.
It was violent. My body was in hunger. I could not make it collaborate with me. I tossed all night, loneliness wrapped me, anxiety distressed me. I lay on my back, as if stretched on prison bars. My hands all over my body, I did not know how to gain back peace. I could feel a monster growing inside, a monster of desire. It grew bigger each day, pushing my other organs aside. I was defenseless. I could see no way out. The mosquito net was a grave with a little spoiled air. Feeling wounded, I could not cry. I had to guard myself because no one else cried in the room. Had my roommates nothing in common with me? The mosquitoes bit me. I looked for them. They parked in the corners of the net. They were fat and clumsy after bloodsucking. I aimed, clapped. The mosquito flew away. I waited, chased, waited, aimed again and attacked. I clapped one. It lay flat in my hand, bloody and sticky. The mosquito’s blood. My blood. I chased mosquitoes every night. Pinched them all to death. Bloody spots on the net pronounced my success. I played with long-legged mosquitoes. I admired the creatures’ elegance. I would allow one to land on my knee and watch it as it bit me. I watched it insert its tiny strawlike mouth into my skin, feeling its bite. I let it suck, suck to its satisfaction. Then I pinched it with two fingers, firm, and watched its dark brown blood drip.
The killing of mosquitoes didn’t put my mind to rest. My mind was no longer the mind I knew. It was no longer the perfect stainless mind. I began to have thoughts of those disgraced girls, the girls of my middle-school years. As a head of the class, I was assigned to sit by them for semesters to help them get on the right track. I was supposed to correct them and influence them. Though it was never explained to me what was wrong with them, it was known that they were called “La-Sai”-a slang word which indicated that the girls had done shameful things with men and were condemned by those who were moral. These girls had no self-respect. They were called “porcelain with scars.” No one wanted them. They looked forward to no future. They had no future. They were garbage. Placing them next to me showed the generosity of the Communist Party. The Party abandoned no sinners. The Party saved them. I represented the Party.
Sitting next to these girls for seven years, I learned how their hearts were chewed by shame. I learned to never put myself in their position, to stay clear of men. I looked up to the model women the society praised. The heroines in the revolutionary operas had neither husbands nor lovers. The heroine in my life, Yan, did not seem to have anything to do with men either. Did she too feel restless? How did she feel about her body? Recently, she seemed more serious than before. She stopped giving speeches at the meetings. She put on a long face and it remained cloudy all week. I saw her trying to talk to Little Green. Little Green reacted weirdly. She played with reeds or the buttons on Yan’s uniform absentmindedly. She laughed hysterically. Yan looked painfully confused. She shook Little Green’s shoulders. She begged her to listen. But she was talking to a vegetable.
Late in the evening after I finished sharpening my sickle, I went back to my room and sat by Little Green. My roommates were all busy. Like silkworms spinning silk, they were knitting sweaters, bags and scarfs. No one talked.
I went to sit in my net and closed the curtain. I looked at the net ceilings. Loneliness penetrated me. I was no different from the cow I had been working with. I told myself to bear with life. Every day we were steamed by the sun, kneeling on the hard land, planting cottonseeds and cutting the reeds. It dulled me. My mind had become rusted. It seemed not to be functioning. It produced no thoughts when the body sweat hard. It floated in whiteness. The brain was shrinking in salt, drying under the sun.
The cottonseeds we planted climbed out of the soil, like premature creatures with wild reeds all around them. When they first sprouted, they looked like little men with brown caps. They were cute in the early morning, but by noon they were devastated by the bare sunshine and many of them died in the evening before the fog brought them moisture. When they died or began to die, the brown caps fell on the ground and the little men bent sadly. The ones that survived stretched and grew taller. They struggled on for another day. In a week these caps came off and the little men’s heads split themselves in half. These were the first two leaves of the plants. At Red Fire Farm they never grew to be what was expected of them, because the crazy bully reeds sucked all the water and fertilizer. The reeds spread out their arms and took all the sunshine. The cotton plants would bend to the side; they lived in the shadow of the reeds. Their flowers were pitiful. They looked like pinkish-faced widows. The fruit-the cotton bolls they finally bore-were stiff nuts, thin, crooked, chewed by insects, hiding in the hearts of the plants. It was cotton of the lowest quality. Not even qualified to be rated. If some did qualify, the cotton was rated four. We would pick the bolls and put them into bags and ship them to a paper-making factory instead of a fabric-making factory.
I felt as if I were one of those stiff nuts. Instead of growing, I was shrinking. I resisted the shrinking. I turned to Orchid. I was thirsty. Orchid was eager to make friends with me. She invited me to sit on her bed. She chatted about patterns for knitting. She talked nonstop. She told me that it was her fourth time knitting the same sweater. She showed me the details of the patterns and said once she finished it, she would take it apart and reknit it, using the same yarn over. She said knitting was her biggest pleasure in life. She must knit. Nothing else interested her. She fixed her eyes on the needles. She did not go beyond that. Her moving fingers reminded me of a cricket chewing grass. I stared at the yarn being eaten, inch by inch. I suggested we talk about something else-for example, opera. She refused to hear me. She kept talking while her hands were busy working on the sweater. The cricket chewed the yarn, inch by inch, hour after hour, day in, day out. I began to talk about the opera. I sang “Let’s Learn from the Green Pine Tree on Top of the Tai Mountain.” Orchid dozed off. She slid down into her net. She snored, loudly. She made me want to murder her. Imagining this was how I would have to live the rest of my life drowned me in madness.
I saw Yan setting out alone for the fields in the late evenings carrying a jar. One day in heavy fog I decided to follow her. I waited in the sea of reeds. She came, carrying a brown-colored jar. She sought something at the root of the reeds. She was trying to catch poisonous water snakes. She was quick and nimble. She put the snakes in the jar. I followed her. Mile after mile. Led by the myths she radiated. I hid and smelled the reeds, the sea, the fog and the night. I followed her the next day. Miles in the reeds. My sleep got better. I was curious about Yan’s intention, her reason for risking her life to catch the snakes.
It had poured all day. We were ordered to wait in the room until the sky cleared up. As I sat, I prayed to the god of weather to have the rain last as long as possible. Only when it rained were we allowed to rest. When it did rain, I would be so relieved. I would run out of the room, raise up my face, stretch my arms toward the sky to feel, to taste and to say thank you to the rain. I would let the rain pour on my face, sink into my hair, go down my neck, waist, legs, my toes.
As I sat by the window, I got lost in my thoughts, staring at the willow tree. The rain turned to mao-mao-yu-“cow-hair rain,” as the peasants called it. I stared at a window opposite mine. It was the window of the room of the company heads. Yan’s window. The window intrigued me. I often wondered how the people lived behind that window. I knew them well in uniforms but not in their mosquito nets. What about their nights? Were any of their nights like mine?
The opposite window opened. I backed myself into my net. I watched through the curtain. It was the commander. She stuck an arm out. She was feeling the rain. She raised her chin toward the gray sky. Her eyes shut. She held that pose. It was such a private pose. Between her and the sky. Was she feeling the same way I was feeling: lonely and depressed? After Little Green went mad, my worship for Yan had turned sour. My sorrow for Little Green had transformed itself into anger toward Yan. I decided that Yan was no longer worth my respect. She was the murderer, although so was I. But she did it intentionally, and that was unforgivable. I executed her decision. Yet there was a stubbornness that grew inside of me. I found myself refusing to think that Yan was not worthy of my respect. For some strange reason I felt that I still needed Yan to be my heroine. I must have a heroine to worship, to follow, to act as a mirror. It was how I was taught to live. I needed it the same way Orchid needed knitting, to survive, to get by.
I developed a desire to conquer Yan. More truthfully, to conquer myself, because Yan symbolized my faith. I wanted her to tell me what it was that drove her to take such cruel action against Little Green; I wanted to tear away her Party secretary’s mask, to see what was inside her head. I wanted her to surrender. I was obsessed.
She suddenly turned toward my direction and stopped. She saw me staring at her. She put a finger into her mouth and whistled, Yan, the commander, whistled to order everyone to get back to work in the fields. She whistled. She drove away my thoughts. She closed the window without a wave of her hand, a word, a nod, a hint of anything.
The rain had stopped. The sky was loaded with heavy dark clouds. The clouds looked as if they were about to fall upon our heads. The clothes I put out to dry before going to bed were wet and muddy. I took them down from the string and put them on, then dragged myself to the field.
We were transplanting rice shoots. We worked for three hours without a break. I was working the edge of the field and noticed a trace of blood in the muddy water. I tracked the blood and found Orchid down on her knees in the water, her pants bloody red. Orchid always had problems with her period. It could last for half a month, bleeding her to exhaustion. She told me that she hadn’t understood what her period was when it first came. She felt too ashamed to ask anyone for advice. She stuffed unsterilized clothes into her pants. The blood was blocked but she got an infection. I asked her why she hadn’t told her mother or a friend about it. She said her mother was in a labor camp and her friend knew even less than she. Her friend was not sure whether Chairman Mao was a man or a woman.
I asked Orchid why she had not asked the platoon leader for a day off. She said she did. She was rejected. The head sent her to Lu, and Lu said that the transplanting had to be completed by midnight or we would lose the season. I told Orchid that I thought Lu was an armchair revolutionary who demanded other people be Marxists when she herself was a revisionist. Orchid disagreed. She said Lu was tough on herself too. She said that Lu had never taken a day off when her period came. Orchid said Lu had serious cramps every time. Orchid once saw Lu crying and twisting on the toilet because of the pain. I did not know what to say. I told Orchid that I would help her as soon as I finished with my own planting.
The rain started again and got heavier. I worked fast so I could go to help Orchid. My arms and fingers were moving as if they were not mine. Standing to stretch my back, I noticed Yan a few plots away. She moved like a dancer: passing the rice shoots from left hand to right and inserting the shoots into the mud in perfect time with her steps backward. Her wet clothes were pasted to her body.
I did my best to compete. Yan responded to the challenge. She toyed with me, like a cat does with mice. She sped up and I fell far behind; she then suddenly slowed down to allow me to catch up, before surging ahead again. She finished with one plot, then went to the next without turning her head.
The sky turned darker. A loudspeaker broadcast Mao quotation songs. The soldiers were exhausted like plants whipped by a storm. Two huge bright lights were carried to the fields and steamed bread was brought out. The soldiers crawled toward the breadbaskets. Lu stopped us. She yelled, No dinner until the work is completed. Our stomachs had begun to chew themselves. But we dared not talk back to Lu, the deputy of the Party secretary. We feared her. Then there was the commander’s voice. A voice of thunder: What kind of fool are you? Doesn’t your common sense tell you that man is the engine when food is his fuel? Yan waved her arm as if to shovel us to the bread. Go now, she shouted. We ran like pigs to the trough.
Orchid was in tears when I finally went to help her, and a long way behind. We chewed our bread while we planted the shoots. We finished at ten o’clock. Orchid thanked me, crying with relief. She said her mother would have wanted to kill herself if she had witnessed this. In frustration I told Orchid to shut up. I said if Yan could do this, so could we. We were not the only ones who were living this type of life. There were hundreds and thousands of youths in the same shoes. Orchid nodded. She used her sleeve to wipe off her tears. I was sorry for her. I did not like her pitifulness. As I dragged her out of the fields, a meeting was called.
One of the lights was being moved to the plot where we had worked; millions of mosquitoes swarmed into its ray. Lu shouted for attention. She wanted to talk about the quality of the day’s work. She passed the loudspeaker to Yan. Yan was coated with mud. Only her eyes were sparkling. She ordered for the light to be moved to illuminate a particular spot where dozens of rice shoots were floating on the water. The work was poorly done all the way to the edge of the field. Someone did a nice job here, Yan said sarcastically. The shoots will all be dead before daybreak. She wanted us to look at the dying shoots. To look hard. She said the shoots were her babies.
The soldiers began to survey the fields nervously. The word broke out that the section responsible for the careless planting was platoon number four-our territory. I knew it was the area I had worked as I tried to keep up with Yan.
Lu ordered the person responsible to step out of rank and receive public criticism. Orchid sensed my fear and grabbed my hand tightly. Lu said, No one leaves until the mistake is admitted.
As I gathered my courage and was about to step out, Yan suddenly said that she preferred to let the comrade correct his own mistake.
The fields had become quiet in the moonlight. The drizzle had stopped and the air was still. The insects resumed their nightclub singing. The fragrance of the plants wafted over me. The moon moved out of the clouds. I planted my feet in the mud and began to redo the work. My feet were swelling. I sang a Mao quotation song to fight off sleep.
The sky was piled with orange clouds when I awoke. The sun had yet to rise. I lay in the mud, joints sore, knowing I hadn’t finished the work. The thought of having to resume my work brought pain to my back. Leeches parked on my legs. I had no energy to pat them off. They sucked my blood until they were satisfied and fell off. I was in despair. Yet I knew there was no way to escape. I had to finish my work. I had no guts to face the Party’s abandonment. I feared being disgraced.
I forced myself to sit up. I looked around and thought I was dreaming. My work had been done. It had been done all the way to the edges. I looked toward the sun. There was someone. Someone about thirty yards away, pacing the field.
My tears welled up, because I saw Yan. She was pacing in the sun. She was the sun. My cold heart warmed.
I stood up and walked toward her.
She turned around, hearing me approach.
I stopped in front of her. I could not say anything.
She nodded at me, then bent down to finish the last few patches. She washed her hands in the irrigation channel. She saw the leeches on my legs and told me to pat them off. She said that Orchid came to her last night and told her everything. She said she was pleased that I stayed all night in the fields. She said I did what I was supposed to do. She unknotted her braids, bent and washed them in the channel. She squeezed the water from her hair and flung her head. She combed her hair with her fingers and braided it. She said when she had found me I looked like a big turtle. She thought I had fainted or something. She paused and said that I made her feel guilty, because I could have caught a disease like arthritis. It would be the Party’s loss if I did.
I rubbed my eyes, trying to look fresh.
She looked me in the eye, a thread of a smile on her face. She said she guessed that I was strong-willed. She said she liked strong-willed people. She looked at the sun for a while. She said, I want you to be the leader of platoon number four. She would arrange to move me to her room so that I could discuss problems with the company heads. She then walked quickly back toward the barracks.
I stood in the sunshine, feeling, feeling the rising of a hope.
I moved in with Yan and six other platoon heads. Yan and I shared a bunk bed. I occupied the top. The decoration in Yan’s net was a display of Mao buttons, pinned on red-colored cloth, about a thousand different kinds of them, from different historical stages. I was impressed. Yan put them up during the day and took them down at night. The room was the same size as the room I had lived in before. It served as a bedroom, conference room and makeshift dining room. It was also a battlefront. Although Yan was officially in charge and Lu was her deputy, Lu wanted much more. She wanted Yan’s position. She was obsessed. She called meetings without agendas. We had to obey her. We had to sit through her meetings in our drowsiness. She liked to see people obey her. To feel powerful was a drug she needed. Only in meetings could she feel that she was as in control of other people’s lives as she was with her own. She made warnings and threats at the meetings. She enjoyed our fear. She aimed at all our possible mistakes. She waited, had been waiting, for a precise moment, to catch a mistake and beat it into submission. She had been trying to catch Yan. Her incorrectness. I could tell that she would have pushed Yan off a cliff if she had a chance.
Lu’s full name was Ice Lu. She was the daughter of a revolutionary martyr. Her father was killed by the Nationalists in Taiwan. He was murdered when carrying out a secret assignment. Her mother suffered this loss to her death. She died three days after giving birth. It was a terrible winter. Strong wind, like scissors, cut through the skin. She named her baby Ice. Ice was raised under the Party’s special care. She grew up in an orphanage funded by the Party leaders. Like Yan, she was also a founder of the Red Guards. She had gone to visit Mao’s hometown in Hunan, where she had eaten leaves from the same tree Mao had eaten when besieged and pinned down in the valley by the Nationalists some thirty years ago.
Lu showed me a skull she had discovered in the backyard of a house in Hunan. She said it was a Red Army martyr’s skull. She pointed to a hole on the forehead of the skull and told me that it was a bullet hole. She fondled the skull with her fingers, going in and out of the eyeholes, touching its jaws. The strange expression on her face caught my breath. She told me that an old village lady buried the martyr secretly. Twenty years later the skull had risen above the soil. The old lady dug it out and gave it to Lu when she learned that her father had been a martyr too. Lu often thought it could have been her own father’s skull.
I stared at the skull, trying to comprehend its attractiveness to Lu. Maybe the threatening spirit? Maybe the coldness that only death could carry? Lu had a look that matched her name. Her look was chilly. Her enthusiasm did not feel warm. She spoke slowly, pronouncing each syllable clearly. She had a long face, the shape of a peanut. Her expression was determined and judgmental. Her features were located evenly on her face. Slanting eyes, icy, like a painted ancient beauty. But her beauty was ruined by her forever-correctness. Her half-moon-shaped eyes were no longer warm and sweet to the soldiers. Our respect for her was that of mice for a cat.
Lu liked action. She did not know hesitation. She attacked and invaded. It was her style to catch and chop. Stand by, aim and shoot, as she always like to say. But that did not impress me. On the contrary, it distanced me. She had a fixed mind. A mind full of dead thoughts. She observed me. In coldness. In suspicion. It started the moment I moved in. Her smile carried warnings. She gave me a copy of her Mao study notes. Her handwriting was extremely square. I wished my calligraphy was like hers, but her writing bored me. Her mind was a propaganda machine. It had no engine of its own. I told her so when she asked me for an opinion. I did not say her mind was a propaganda machine, but I suggested she oil the engine of her mind. She said she liked my frankness. She said people had been telling her lies. She was lied to by a bunch of hypocrites. She hated hypocrites. She said the country was filled with hypocrites. The Party in many respects was run by hypocrites. She said it was her duty to fight against hypocrisy. She would spend the rest of her life correcting the incorrect. She asked me to join the battle. I did not fully understand what she meant, but I did not say so. I said, Yes, of course. Hypocrites were bad in any case. She asked, Do you smell hypocrites in our room?
Our roommates came back after dining. They were singing and joking. They joked about how they punished those lazybones, the ones who refused to be content with their lives as peasants. The roommates quieted down when they heard Lu’s speaking about hypocrites. One after another, like fish, they shuttled into their own nets. There were sounds of groping. It reminded me of vampires in graves chewing human bodies.
Lu continued speaking. It was like a theatrical performance. As a daughter of a revolution martyr, I’ll never forget how my forefathers shed their blood and laid down their lives for the victory of the revolution, said Lu. I’ll never fail to live up to their expectations. I hope that all of you, my comrades-in-arms, will supervise my behavior. I welcome any criticism you have for me in the future. The Party is my mother and you’re all my family.
She tried to be a living opera heroine, but I would never see her that way.
I had a hard time imagining how Lu could sleep nose-to-nose with that skull every night. I began to have nightmares after I figured out that the skull was right next to my bed, since my bed and Lu’s were connected to each other. I dared not complain. My instinct told me not to, because I was sure Lu would take my complaint as an insult. How could I afford to be quoted as someone who was afraid of a martyr’s skull?
Lu watched everyone and recorded her observations in her red-plastic notebook. She made monthly reports to headquarters. I have learned my political skills from my family, she often said. Once she proudly told us about her family: Her adopted parents were Party secretaries in the military; her adopted sister and two brothers were Party secretaries at universities and factories. All her relatives had the honor of staying in private hospitals when they were sick. Their rooms were next to the prime minister’s.
Lu made political dunce caps. She would always single out one person to wear it at meetings. She always had her way. Phrases from Red Flag magazine and the People’s Daily dropped out of her mouth like a waterfall. She reminded me of how it would be if sheep were living with a wolf. She told me one day that a mirror was a symbol of self-love-a bourgeois extra. I dared not argue back. I said, Of course, and hid my little mirror inside my pillow cover. I knew Lu could make me a reactionary if she wanted. She had already made a number of people reactionaries. She sent them to work at jobs like blasting a mountain to make rice paddies, or digging up earth to make an underground channel. She arranged for their lives to be forfeited. Those who survived resembled Little Green. No one escaped from paying the price if they talked back to Lu. I feared Lu so much.
Strange enough, on the other hand, Lu tried hard to impress the soldiers by washing our clothes and sharpening our sickles and hoes. She visited each room every night, tucking in our blankets, making sure that no one left an arm or leg out to catch cold. She would send her entire salary anonymously to a comrade’s sick parents. She did that often. She was greatly praised. Lu liked to say, I don’t mind being the cloth used to wipe the greasiest corner of the kitchen for the Communist Party. She was good at saying things like that. We said we appreciated her caring. We had to. We put words of praise down on the monthly report to be sent to headquarters. That was what Lu wanted from us. The soldiers knew this by heart.
She pointed out Yan’s incorrectness whenever possible. She said Yan was too soft on brain reformation, too loose on the company’s budget, too impatient in conducting the company’s Mao study seminar. Yan fought back angrily, but she was a poor mouth fighter. She was not Lu’s rival. She spoke incoherently. In desperation, she would curse. Swear word after swear word, all kinds-Spoiled rice shoot, pig ass, mating worm, etc. Lu enjoyed seeing Yan in awkward predicaments. She liked to push her into a verbal corner and beat her hard. She attacked her ruthlessly. She showed the company that Yan was uncivilized, only capable of swearing. She then would say, Why don’t we report the case upstairs and let them decide who’s right and who’s wrong? Always, Yan would give up, withdraw, because she did not want to ruin her image as a secretary of a “well-united Party branch,” as Lu well knew.
Lu knew that I was a fan of operas. She used to ask me to sing a piece or two during field breaks. She said it soothed her addiction. I sang loudly. I called up my platoon to sing with me. Lu enjoyed it. We both did. But things changed after the Little Green incident. I could no longer sing anything. When Lu asked me to sing again, I could not put myself in the mood. I tried and my mind was full of Little Green’s voice singing “My Motherland.” My eyes would go to Little Green, who like a silent spirit floated in and out of the fields and rooms. The soldiers took turns taking care of her. We tried to hide the truth from her family. We imitated her handwriting and wrote to her grandmother. Our trick did not last. Her grandmother recognized the fake handwriting. She wrote to the Party committee of the company demanding to be told the truth. She said if she had not been restricted (she was put in a detention house where she was considered an enemy) she would have come to check Little Green out herself immediately. Yan took the time to write her back. I proofread the letter to polish Yan’s grammar and tone. It was a hard letter to write. Yan tried to explain what had happened. I could see Yan struggle through the writing. She did not really explain. She could not. She could not say we were the ones who had murdered her granddaughter. Yan said Little Green was very ill. She was suffering a mental distraction. But she was in good hands now. She had been taken care of. The farm had been looking for new medicine and treatment for her. It was a weak letter. It expressed nothing but guilt. It asked the grandmother to keep the big picture in mind, to see that it was just one incident. Hundreds and thousands of youths were assigned to the countryside by the Party. “Certain sacrifice is required when working with stamina for the prosperity of the country”-Yan ended the letter by quoting Mao.
Yan looked exhausted. Blue ink was on her fingers and lips. I made a clean copy of her letter and gave it back to her. She went to the farm’s headquarters to get a stamp and mail it. That night she said to me, When I die, I will be sliced into pieces by the demons in hell. She said she could see it clearly now.
Lu told me that I was a good sprout. Worthy enough to be selected as one of her “pillars of the state.” Her slogan-talk got on my nerves. I disliked it. Superficiality pervaded her speech. She tried to dominate everything. Many times she demonstrated her political and ideological expertise in meetings by giving long dissertations on the history of the Party. She wanted to be admired so much. She did it to remind Yan that Yan had none of the skills required of a leader. She succeeded in embarrassing her. I saw Yan’s awkwardness. She sat in the corner, rubbing her hands. Frustrated. I felt sorry for Yan. It made me like her more. I liked her awkwardness. I adored her clumsiness.
Neither the headquarters heads nor the soldiers were responding to Lu’s exhibited leader’s skills. Seasons passed and Lu was still where she had always been. Although Lu did not like to deal with frustration, she was a good fighter. She picked more fights with Yan, pointed out her imperfections in front of the ranks. Yan became even more furious. She wanted to eat Lu up. It took me a half month to figure out the words Yan had muttered when insulted by Lu. She called Lu a mother of fart. When Lu wished to extend a meeting in order to sharpen the soldiers’ minds, Yan said, Let’s sharpen the hoes first. Lu said, You’re going to get crushed in a blind alley if you only pay attention to pushing your cart forward without watching which track you’re on. Yan said dryly, Let’s get crushed. Lu said, As you make your bed, so you must lie on it. Yan said, Damn. I should do something to sharpen my teeth.
I often felt that Lu had more than two eyes when she watched or spoke with me. Lu once said that she would like to cultivate me to join her special advanced activist study team. I did not say that I was not interested, but I must have betrayed disinterest. She said she was greatly disappointed. I said I would do my best to stay close to her team. I promised to borrow her Mao study notes. She said she knew my reason for not joining her. She said it was bad to live under someone’s shadow. She said she would hate to leave a stone in her shoes. She said if one did not come to her political senses, one would lose her political future.
Though it was important for me to look noble to my troops, I made my choice to ignore Lu’s warning. I felt that I must stand by Yan. By supporting Yan, I would cast myself as the lesser of two evils in a bad play. I never wanted to be a soldier at the Red Fire Farm. I felt like a slave. Yan was my reason, my faith to go on. Yan made me feel at least that we were achieving something, the impossible, as it now seemed, but it was still something.
To make Yan proud, I assigned the hardest tasks to our platoon-applying manure, taking night shifts, digging canals. I told my soldiers that my ambition was to make the platoon well-known in the company so everyone would have the best chance to be considered for membership in the Communist Youth League. The soldiers believed in me. Orchid even quit her knitting. By the end of the year, my platoon was selected as the Vanguard Platoon and was given a citation at the entire farm meeting. I was accepted into the Communist Youth League.
At the oath ceremony Yan walked onstage to congratulate me. She shook my hands and squeezed them in her carrotlike fingers. Laughing, she whispered that she could not wait to have me join the Party. She said that I must become a Party member. She said, I could make it happen to you next spring. She said she would like to see it happen very much. I was excited. I could not say a word. I squeezed her hands back, hard. For many nights afterward, before going to sleep, I replayed the ceremony in my head. I dreamt of Yan’s laughing. I realized how much I liked it.
After the busy summer season ended, the soldiers were allowed a little time for themselves after dinner. The spare time made me feel empty in the heart. I missed Little Green terribly. I would comb her hair and wash her clothes, but although her body was getting back to its original shape-she was once again slim like a willow-her mind seemed to have gone forever. Nothing I tried made her respond to me. She still wore the shirt with the plum flowers on it-the one she had on the night she got caught-but it had holes under the armpits and elbows. The shirt reminded me of the night-I’ll never forget it-when I had my gun pointed at her. I did not know how other people were living with this guilt, if there was any guilt. No one talked about it. The company pretended it had never happened. Little Green was given light jobs working as a storage guard and was given coupons for sugar and meat. Yan was strange in the way she treated Little Green. She grabbed her and gazed into her eyes. She observed her anxiously. She tried to talk to Little Green when everyone else had quit a long time ago.
Little Green had become dangerous to herself. Once I caught her swallowing tiny stones. Orchid also caught her eating worms. I reported the incidents to Yan. From then on I often saw Yan follow Little Green around the fields late in the evening. They were like two lost boats drifting over the sea in a dense fog.
Yan still went to catch the poisonous snakes. And I still followed her. Her secretiveness and my curiosity became the melody of the farm’s night.
I began to dislike going into my mosquito net. It was too quiet. I avoided my bed and walked on a narrow path through the reeds. As the daylight faded, I found myself at the farm’s brick factory. Thousands of ready-to-bake bricks were laid out in patterns. Some stacks were eight feet high, some leaning as if about to fall, and some had already fallen. I could hear the echo of my own steps. The place had the feel of ancient ruins.
One day there was another sound among the bricks, like the noise of an erhu, a two-stringed banjo. I picked out the melody-“Liang and Zhu”-from a banned opera; my grandmother used to hum it. Liang and Zhu were two ancient lovers who committed suicide because of their unpermitted love. The music now playing described how the two lovers were transformed into butterflies and met in the spring again. It surprised me to hear someone on the farm able to play it with such skill.
I followed the sound. It stopped. I heard steps. A shadow ducked by the next lane. I tailed it and found the erhu on a brick stool. I looked around. No one. Wind whistled through the patterned bricks. I bent over to pick up the instrument, when my eyes were suddenly covered by a pair of hands from behind.
I tried to remove the hands. Fingers combatted. The hands were forceful. I asked, Who is this? and there was no reply. I reached back to tickle. The body behind me giggled. A hot breath on my neck. Yan? I cried out.
She stood in front of me, smiling. She held the erhu. You, was it you? You play erhu? I looked at her. She nodded, did not say anything. Though I still could not make my mind connect the image of the commander with the erhu player, I felt a sudden joy. The joy of a longing need met. A lonely feeling shared, and turned into inspiration. In my mind, I saw peach-colored petals descend like snow and bleach the landscape. Distant valleys and hills melted into one. Everything wrapped in purity.
She sat down on the stool and motioned me to sit next to her. She kept smiling and said nothing. I wanted to tell her that I had not known she played erhu, to tell her how beautifully she played, but I was afraid to speak.
She picked up the erhu and the bow, retuned the strings, bent her head toward the instrument and closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she stroked the instrument with the bow-she started to play “The River.”
The music became a surging river in my head. I could hear it run through seas and mountains, urged on by the winds and clouds, tumbling over cliffs and waterfalls, gathered by rocks and streaming into the ocean. I was taken by her as she was taken by the music. I felt her true self through the erhu. I was awakened. By her. In a strange land, faced by a self I had not gotten to know and the self I was surprised, yet so glad, to meet.
Her fingers ran up and down the strings, creating sounds like rain dropping on banana leaves. Then her fingers stopped, and she held her breath. Her fingertips touched and then stayed on the string. The bow pulled. A thread of notes was born, telling of an untold bitterness. Slowly, she vibrated the string. Fingers dipped out sad syllables. She stroked the bow after a pause, the notes were violent. She raised her head, eyes closed and chin tilted up. The image before me became fragmented: the Party secretary, the heroine, the murderer, and the beautiful erhu player…
She played “Horse Racing,” “The Red Army Brother Is Coming Back,” and finally “Liang and Zhu” again.
We talked. A conversation I had never before had. We told each other our life stories. In our eagerness to express ourselves we overlapped each other’s sentences.
She said her parents were textile workers. Her mother had been honored as a Glory Mother in the fifties for producing nine children. Yan was the eighth. The family lived in the Long Peace district of Shanghai, where they shared one wood-framed room and shared a well with twenty other families. They had no toilet, only a nightstool. It was her responsibility to take the nightstool to a public sewage depot every morning and clean the stool. I told her that we lived in better conditions. We had a toilet, though we shared it with two other families, fourteen people. She said, Oh yes, I can imagine your morning traffic. We laughed.
I asked where she had learned to play erhu. She said her parents were fans of folk music. It was her family tradition that each member had to master at least one instrument. Everyone in her family had a specialty, in lute, erhu, sheng with reed pipes and trumpet. She was a thin girl when she was young, so she chose to learn erhu. She identified with its vertical lines. Her parents saved money and bought her the instrument for her tenth birthday. The family invited a retired erhu player to dinner every weekend and asked him to drop a few comments on the erhu. The family hoped that Yan would one day become a famous erhu player.
She was fifteen years old when the Cultural Revolution began in 1966. She joined the Red Guards and marched to Beijing to be inspected by Chairman Mao at Tienanmen Square. As the youngest Red Guard representative, she was invited to watch an opera, newly created by Madam Mao, Jiang Ching, at the People’s Great Hall. She liked the three-inch-wide belts the performers were wearing. She traded her best collection of Mao buttons for a belt. She showed me her belt. It was made of real leather and had a copper buckle. It was designed by Comrade Jiang Ching, my heroine, she said. Have you read Mao’s books? she asked. Yes, I did, I said, all of them. She said, That’s wonderful, because that’s what I did too. I memorized the Little Red Book and know every quotation song.
I told her that I was a Red Guard since elementary school, my experience much less glorious than hers, though I would not be fooled about how much one knew about Mao quotation songs. She smiled and asked me to give her a test. I asked if she could tell where I sang.
The Party runs its life by good policies…
Page seven, second paragraph! she said.
If the broom doesn’t come, the garbage won’t automatically go away…
Page ten, first paragraph!
We came from the countryside…
Page a hundred forty-six, third paragraph!
The world is yours…
Page two hundred sixty-three, first paragraph!
Studying Chairman Mao’s works, we must learn to be efficient. We should apply his teachings to our problems to ensure a fast result…
She joined my singing.
As when we erect a bamboo stick in the sunshine, we see the shadow right away…
Where are we? I shouted.
Vice Chairman Lin Biao’s Preface for Mao Quotations, second edition! she shouted back, and we laughed, so happily.
We were still talking when we reached the barracks. We stood in the dark, filled with incredible delight. Be careful, she said. I nodded and understood: avoid Lu’s attention. We took separate paths and went back to our room.
I could not sleep that night. The room and the mosquito net felt very different from yesterday. Yan did not speak to me in the room, but there was life and fresh air. I felt spring. The growth of the reeds underneath the bed for the first time became tolerable. I thought I would like the green in the room. Would Yan? She was in the bunk beneath me. There was so much that I wanted to share with her. But I dared not talk to her. Lu’s bed was next to ours. We, eight people, sleeping in one room, compartmented by mosquito nets.
Lu would be jealous of us, of our delight. I felt sorry for her. I wished I could be her friend. It was sad that the only thing she was close to was the skull. I felt sympathy for her for the first time. It was a funny feeling. What made me care for Lu? Yan? Lu was two years older than Yan. She was twenty-five. She wanted so much. She wanted to control our lives. What was she doing with her youth? Wrinkles had climbed on her face. Soon she would be thirty, and forty, and she would still be at Red Fire Farm. She said she loved the farm and would never leave. I wondered how anyone could love this farm. A farm that produced nothing but weeds and reeds. A complete darkness. A hell. Lu spoke no truth. She did not know how. Did she have feelings? Feelings that Yan and I shared tonight? She must have. She was young and healthy. But who dared to be dear to her? Who truly cared for her besides flattering her for her power? Whom would she be sharing her feelings with? Would she marry? What a funny thought to think of Lu being married. Men in the company were afraid of her. They yielded to her, accepted her dominance. Men surrendered before they faced her. The shadow of her appearance chased men away. They treated her like a poster on a wall. They showed her their admiration but framed her on their mind’s wall. I saw loneliness in Lu’s eyes. The eyes that stared into fields on rainy days. The eyes of thirst.
Lu went to bed late. She sat on a wooden stool studying Mao’s works. Every night she practiced this ritual. She took about ten pages of notes each night. She was the last one to go to bed and the first to get up. She cleaned the room and the hall. I love to serve the people, she liked to say. She quoted Mao’s teaching when she was praised. She would say, I did only what the Chairman taught me. She would recite, It is not hard for a person to do a couple of good things for others; it is hard for a person to spend his entire life doing good things for others.
I found Lu’s behavior frightening. Her rigidness exposed her single-minded ambition for power. I became more careful, more polite toward her. I selected words carefully when I spoke with her. We talked around each other. She tried to grasp the core of my mind. She knew that neither of us could control the other. She was displeased. Lu sensed my intimacy with Yan immediately, like a dog to a smell. She came to me one day after work and said, I know why you have been looking excited, you are such a thief. I said, I don’t understand what you mean. She smiled and nodded. She told me to go on duty to inspect the soldiers’ suitcases room by room. She went with me. She told me to rummage about the articles to look for obscenity. As we were walking back to our room after duty, she said suddenly, Do you remember what you said last night? I almost stumbled over a rock. She hit my guilty conscience. I said, How would I know whether I had said anything? I was sleeping-how could I know? But you know, I just heard it, she said with an insidious smile. Just heard it, she repeated. Her words felt like bugs climbing up my back.
Lu opened the door to let me in first, then she followed in and closed the door. Tell me, what’s been on your mind? She looked at me as if I were a fly and she were a spider, as if we fought in the net she weaved. I said, I’ve got to go wash my clothes. I haven’t had clean clothes to wear for a week. I must hurry because I have a platoon meeting to hold. She looked at me, my dirty clothes, my bare feet. She said, I thought you were a sincere person. I said, I am a sincere person. She said, But not to me. I want you to be aware of your growing sophistication. You’re losing your purity. The purity which I saw when I first picked you in Shanghai. Remember what I told you about what I liked about you? Remember, I had asked you to keep what’s good in you? I said I had been keeping the goodness and would keep that but now I had to wash my clothes. She stepped back to let me walk through the door. Don’t pretend that you don’t understand me, she said. If you sincerely want to become a member of our Party, it won’t do you any good if you refuse to be honest with me.
As I washed my clothes, I thought about how easily Lu could destroy me by making false reports and dropping ambiguous words into my dossier, which only the Party bosses had access to. Words that could bury me alive. Words that once in the dossier would never be changed. They would follow me even after death. The dossier determines who I am and who I will be. It would be the only image of me the Party considered real and trustworthy.
As the Party secretary, Yan had the power to do the same as Lu, to manipulate people. But Yan never liked to play tricks. She believed in justice, no matter how unjust her justice was to me. She tried not to give expression to a personal grudge-a principle Mao had set for every Party member. She tried not to do that to Lu, though she wanted to very much. She never added extra salt or vinegar in her reports to the headquarters. I was moved by this when I read her reports as I copied them for her. It brought me closer to her. I saw no such quality in Lu. Lu often volunteered to work longer hours in the fields doing all the good things anyone could think of, but she would never forgive anyone who had stepped on her toes by disagreeing with her at meetings or disobeying her orders. I’ll pinch him like pinching a bug if anyone has the guts to make a fool of me, she said to our faces. I’d be glad to give the enemy a taste of the iron fist of the proletarian dictatorship.
Lu brought back a dog from the headquarters. His name was 409. 409 was a military-trained German shepherd. It was said that he could do anything. 409’s mission was to watch a pig named Tricky Head. Tricky Head, a male pig weighing almost two hundred pounds, was the company’s big headache. He was the trickiest of his group. The company did not have enough fine animal feed. The pigs were given half fine feed and half coarse grain. One day the farmhands found that a few of the bags of fine feed were gone-one of the pigs must have eaten them, but they could not figure out which one. Two days later another few bags of fine feed were gone. This time the farmhands noticed that the pigs were eating the undigested shit of Tricky Head. They suspected that Tricky Head was the thief. They targeted him and caught him in the middle of his theft. The strange thing about Tricky Head was that he had the face of a dog and he acted like a dog. He could jump out of the pen and into the grain storage and afterward, when he had enough fine feed, he would run back to the pen and pretend nothing had happened. He did not eat any less at the last feeding of the day. He was bigger than the others.
Lu adored 409. She spent all her savings and bought the dog dry meat. She trained him and rewarded him. 409 soon became very attached to her. They would take a walk by the sea every night. Lu became more pleasant than she used to be. 409 was mean to everybody but Lu. Lu was proud of 409’s loyalty. She encouraged his meanness. She often recited one particular Mao quotation to 409. She ordered 409 to sit by her feet, then she would say, Isn’t it a key question that one must learn to be able to tell who is his friend and who is not? 409 would bark a yes to her. And he would be rewarded with a piece of dry meat. Then Lu would go on, Is it not a capital question that one must answer as a true revolutionary: Who is the people’s friend and who is not? 409 would bark again and receive another piece of meat.
When 409 stood on his feet, he was as tall as Lu. Lu often had him walk on his back legs while he put his front legs on her shoulders. One day when Lu was out at headquarters for a meeting, 409 wailed all day. It sounded like an old woman crying. By noon he began to hit himself against the wall. Two male soldiers shut him in a pigpen and he hurled himself into the bars until they broke in half. No one could stop him until Lu got back. Seeing that the dog could not do without her, Lu broke into tears.
409 was a terrible watchdog. The soldiers said that he must have had a past-life relationship with Tricky Head-the two animals got along the moment they met. They stared at each other uncertainly, then went to smell each other and they accepted each other. Was it because Tricky Head had the face of a dog? They sat by each other like brothers. When it came to stealing the fine feed, not only did 409 not stop Tricky Head; he helped him rake out the feed from the bags so Tricky Head could eat faster. They played in the pigpen. 409 was always excited about the sawdust. When the farmhands came, 409 put on a sincere face as if he had fought to guard the feed but failed. Yan did not like 409. She called him a traitor. She kicked him and suggested that Lu send him back to the headquarters. Lu reluctantly said yes. As if knowing Lu’s feelings, 409 went up to her and put his tongue all over her face.
Lu begged Yan to let 409 stay. She showed Yan the dog’s file. It said that 409 had good credit in his war records. She said, Give me two weeks to train him to watch Tricky Head. I promise he’ll be as good as he was promised to be. Yan said that the fine feed was running short. The company could not afford to lose one more bag. The other pigs were going to starve. Lu took night shifts to watch the animals. 409 was still the same. Lu could not get him to behave correctly. Yan was upset and ordered Lu to send 409 away. The same day, the day when 409 was supposed to be sent, Lu caught Tricky Head stealing the fine feed. She went to Yan and said that sending the dog away was not going to stop Tricky Head. Why don’t we kill Tricky Head instead of sending the dog away? She was permitted.
Lu had the pig killed for supper. Tricky Head was in everyone’s bowl. 409 chewed the pig bones, and afterward he went to look for Tricky Head everywhere. He smelled Tricky Head’s pen and stayed in the sawdust until Lu called him out. Lu was happy; she combed 409’s back hair with her fingers. Lu spent hours with 409, putting her whole hand in his mouth and making him do all kinds of tricks.
Lu took 409 to local villages where he could mate. 409 was nice to the female dogs but mean to their owners. It was said that he would mate with the female dog and afterward, in expressing his pleasure, would tear the owner’s pants. He would jump on the owners, stand on his back legs, and bark. The villagers said that he woke up the dead. The villagers told Lu never to bring 409 around again. Lu just laughed. She did not know just how serious the villagers were.
Early one evening when Lu brought 409 back from a nearby village, 409’s face was turning green. He vomited and vomited. Lu tried to feed him water and porridge, but 409 could take nothing in. I was sharpening the hoes when Yan came to me with the news. Yan said, Lu is singing an opera. I went to the grain storage where 409 usually slept. Before I saw 409, I heard Lu’s sobbing. 409 was lying in Lu’s bosom, dead. Lu sobbed like a village widow. A vet was standing next to them. Yan came and passed Lu a wet towel. As Lu wiped her face, Yan asked the vet about the poisoning. The vet said that it was in a steamed bread. The villagers did it, said Lu. They are reactionaries, she added, clenching her teeth. We must make them pay for it. Yan did not respond to her at first. After dinner when she noticed Lu was still sitting by 409, Yan said, If I were you, I wouldn’t have taken him to mate so much.
Lu buried 409 by the river. When our platoon went to work hoeing the fields the next dawn, Lu was already at work. She had swollen eyes. I asked her if she slept well last night, and she said that she had sat by the grave the whole night. At break time she asked me to accompany her to the grave to visit 409. I went with her. I was moved by her sadness. I did not know Lu was capable of being sad. She kneeled in the mud and planted wildflowers on top of the grave. She sobbed as she was doing so. I took her up by the arms and she leaned on my shoulders. She thanked me. I wished that I could do more for her. She looked at me and said, I’ve lost my only friend, my best friend. What am I going to do? Her tone scared me. I dared not say a word. I looked at her. She stared into the fields. The wind blew her hair up from its roots. She murmured to herself, I will, I will. You will have new friends, I said. She looked at me suspiciously. You see, 409 never lied to me, she said.
Lu knew I was not really saying what I meant. She knew I did not want to be her friend. I could not tell her that I was afraid of her being too capable. She had the quality of a murderer, and that was what kept me away.
Lu and I worked shoulder-to-shoulder all day. We exchanged few words. I was thinking of Yan, her hearty laughter. Lu was quick at work. Her slim figure moved like a mountain goat on a cliff, her every move was precise and sufficient. Like a mountain goat, she had thin ankles and thin wrists. It enabled her to run faster and bend quicker. She was an ardent worker. She was a hard-liner. But to me she was like a stage light: she was bright in the dark. But when the sun rose, she lost her brightness. She faded in the sunshine, and Yan was the sun.
Yan and I betrayed no intimacy in public. We silently washed each other’s clothes and took trips to fill hot-water containers for each other. We became accustomed to each other’s eye signals. Every couple of days we would go separately to meet at the brick factory. Yan would make excuses such as checking the quality of the day’s work. I would take the thickest Mao book and my notebook and pretend to find a place to study by myself. We shuttled through the reeds, hand in hand. She taught me how to make whistles with reeds. She would roll up a piece of reed to make a green trumpet. She told me to blow when she blew hers. We made music of the reeds, of the evening. We messed with each other’s tones and laughed when the tone sounded like the cough of an old man.
Even when winter came, we continued to meet. Sitting by the bricks, Yan would practice her erhu; I would just lie back and listen. We began to talk about everything, including that most forbidden subject-men.
Yan said that according to her mother, who hated her father, most men were evil. Mother said that she wouldn’t ever have produced nine children with my father if she had not wanted to respond to the Party’s call, “More population means more power.” Men take pleasure in seducing and raping women, she concluded.
I remembered how Yan had taken off her belt that night and ordered the male soldiers to beat the bookish man. I understood where her hatred for men had come from. I said her father did not represent every man. Yan insisted he did. She then told me about her five brothers, all in their twenties, all tall and strong. They talked obscenely at midnight while the whole family of eleven slept in the same room. Her elder brother talked about tricking a neighbor girl to come into the room, seducing her on the bed while his four brothers watched through a door slit. I asked how her parents reacted to this. Yan said they refused to believe it. They accused Yan of misreporting. The brothers beat her up and her parents watched and thought they did the right thing. That was the main reason she left her family for the Red Fire Farm.
Yan asked me about how I felt about men. I said, If you want to hear the truth, you might be shocked. She said she was ready and promised to continue to be my friend no matter what I told her. I told her a story. A story I had never told anyone. It happened during a Red Guards’ meeting when I was sixteen. There had been a power failure and as we were waiting in the dark, a hand touched my back. Trembling, it slowly moved around my side to touch my breast. I was shocked but allowed the hand to stay for about a minute and then stood up and moved to another seat. When the lights came back on, I turned. I saw three boys sitting behind me, all about my age. One of them looked nervous and pale. I knew him-a straight-A student, a popular calligrapher who had a girlish face.
I thought that I had lost my purity. I was ashamed of myself.
Why didn’t you yell? Why didn’t you push his hand away? Yan asked. I told her I didn’t know why myself. I told her that actually my body felt good. She was stunned. She sat in silence for a long time. She put her face in her palms.
The reeds swayed like the sound of whispering. Sah-sah-sah, sah-sah-sah. I watched Yan, the way she gathered her courage. She asked whether I knew the difference between the sexual organ of a grown man and a boy. I had seen a picture of it in an acupuncture book. It was drawn as an upside-down teapot. Yan nodded and said that was good enough. She sat for a while longer. Blushing, she told me that she had something to confess. I waited. She said, Never mind. I said, You don’t trust me. It’s not that, she said. I said, What is it? She took a breath and said that she really couldn’t. She couldn’t make herself say it. She rested her forehead on her knees. I said she could take all the time she needed to get ready. She said that she would never be. Like a snail shrinking its head into the shell, she wouldn’t come out. I begged. I said I had closet-thoughts too. She said that’s different. Hers was a monster. I poked apart her knees and lifted her chin with my fingers. I looked at her and said I almost can tell what that might be. She said I wouldn’t be right. I said, If I am right, will you promise to tell me everything? She nodded.
A man, I said, looking straight into her eyes. She lost her calm.
His name was Leopard Lee. He was twenty-four and was the head of Company Thirty-two. He was from the South, from a family of gardeners. He was a delicate man. She had met him at a headquarters meeting two months ago and had secretly thought about him since. She told me that that was it. Her story was done.
I said, Did you two have private talks? She said, What do you mean? How could I do that? Well, how do you know he likes you? I asked. She said, Well, I just feel that he does. She said she of course couldn’t be sure, but anyway this was not what she wanted to tell me. I asked, What’s the problem? She said, I just know I’m not supposed to have those thoughts at all. She said that the awful thing was that she couldn’t get him out of her mind. She was disturbed and she didn’t like that. I joked and said it sounded like a personal-life corruption, that she should bring the problem to the company meeting. She said it’s not nice to make fun of other people’s pain. I asked if it was really pain. She said it is supposed to be pain and it was. It dragged her, burned her. It made her mind pop up dirty thoughts, thoughts about men and teapots.
She looked helpless. I said I had exactly the same symptoms. She asked what had I done about it. I said I read a book. She asked if I had felt better after reading. I said that I did. She asked if she could learn the title of the book. I said, It’s called The Second-Time Handshake. It’s a banned book, I got it from Little Green’s suitcase. It was hand-copied, three hundred pages. She asked what the book was about. I said a story of a man and a woman. She said she supposed the book must have poisoned Little Green’s head. I said that I had to agree. She said she did not want to be misguided by the book. I said of course, but who knows what one’s judgment may truly be. I said that I would not believe a strong-minded person like her would be poisoned by a book. It would be ridiculous. It would be a joke. She said that made sense. She told me to drop the book in her rain boot at night. I then said that I would not be responsible for whatever happened in her head in the future. She said she would take responsibility for herself.
She devoured the book. Yan, the commander, the Party secretary, devoured the handwritten book in three nights with a flashlight in the mosquito net. When she returned the copy, she looked different. She told me, I want to write him. But then her face fell. She said, I can’t. It’s not safe. We went to the brick factory. I asked her to explain to me why it was not safe. She said that the bookish man’s letter to Little Green was opened by Lu-that’s how the company knew where to catch them that night. The Party bosses could look into anyone’s letters and suitcases at any time. There was no rule against this.
I told Yan that I had hated her for exposing Little Green. She said that I should. She lowered her head. She listened to my accusation quietly. I said, You are a murderer. I cried. She said she hated herself but it was what she was made to do. She had known for a long time that Lu had been spying on Little Green. As the Party secretary and commander, she had no choice when the case was reported.
Yan took my hands in hers and rubbed them. Her hands were rough, like those of an old peasant. She said that only now had she understood how unforgivable her act was. She herself now was in Little Green’s position-involved with a man. How unforgivable it was, what she did. She said she was a frog who had lived at the bottom of a well-her knowledge of the universe was only as big as the opening of the well. Her naïveté and ignorance made her a murderer. She was fooled by Party propaganda, by Red Flag magazine and the People’s Daily. She was trained to be a murderer. Who was not? She didn’t understand the world around her, the world where the murderers go on living while the innocent die like weeds.
I remembered her snake-catching in the reeds. I asked her about it. Gazing at the sunset, she said that it was for Little Green, to make her come back to her senses one day. She had collected sixty-nine water snakes in a jar, which she stored under our bed. She had to reach the perfect number of one hundred. She said it was the first time in her life she had put faith in superstitions. Her grandmother once collected snakes to cure her disabled sister. When she had one hundred, her sister stood up and walked. She had been paralyzed for six years.
You know the snakes are poisonous, don’t you? I said. She nodded. Her smile was calm and that touched me deeply. I asked if she would allow me to join her. I said I would not be afraid of the snakes. She nodded, grabbing my shoulders.
We went out to hunt for the snakes separately. I never caught one. I was scared of these creatures. Their shape horrified me. The grease on their tails made me paranoid. I had nightmares, my body wrapped in snakes. I didn’t tell Yan about my dreams. I couldn’t believe that she was not scared of them. When she brought more snakes back, I imagined the horror she had gone through. She was my heroine again.
We talked more about men, in particular Leopard Lee. I suggested that, if she wanted, I could be her personal messenger. She shook her head and said if it was wrong for Little Green, it should be wrong for her too. I’m a Party member. I can’t do things I have forbidden others to do. She looked sad but determined. She was being ridiculous, yet her dignity caught my heart. I was drawn to her as I looked at her. I couldn’t have enough of her that evening. She was my Venus.
It’s only superficial, isn’t it? I said on our way back to the barracks. She said suddenly, I bet you can fight with Lu now, because you’ve developed sharp teeth. She laughed. She made a hat of reeds for me as we discussed how the letter should be written and how to find an official excuse for me to deliver it to Leopard Lee.
I felt joy. The joy of being with Yan. The joy of having her depend on me. Two weeks passed. Still Yan had not given me anything to deliver. When she saw me, she avoided the subject. I could tell that she was happy, yet a little nervous. I saw her hang red-colored underwear to dry. Bright red. She hummed songs, spending more time looking at herself in front of a palm-sized mirror by the door. She stopped swearing. I teased her. I swore the words she used to swear. She knew my intention. She just smiled, called me a brat. I asked her about the letter to Leopard. She kept on equivocating. She said that she had no time to write. I said Leopard might have forgotten her. That night, when I was lying in bed, she opened my curtain and threw in a folded letter.
Comrade Leopard Lee:
How are you? I was wondering how the agricultural initiative is progressing in your company. Here we are making good progress. I have thought of our meeting often. It was meaningful as well as politically fruitful.
In the margin Yan had written, “Will you please help?” I took a piece of paper and replied that I would do whatever the Party required of me.
The next day I rewrote her letter. I did not know what Leopard Lee looked like, so I described Yan’s face instead. I tried to imagine what they would do when they would be together, how they would touch each other; just thinking of it made my heart beat fast. I wanted to describe Yan’s body but I had never seen it. I described my own instead, touching myself and imagining my body was hers and my fingers his.
When Yan returned, I whispered that I had finished. She was excited and said that she could not wait for bedtime to read it. I told her that I wanted to see her reading it. Yan said then we should make an excuse to get in bed together. We made a plan and waited for the dark to fall.
After dinner Yan and I sat by the door. She started to repair her rain shoes while I took out my rifle to clean. We said nothing to each other and pretended that we were concentrating on our hands. I took apart the gun and cleaned it. I was absentminded. I stole a couple of moments to glance at Yan. She sanded the cracked shoe, applied glue and let it sit. She didn’t look at me, but I knew that she knew I was looking at her. Her face flushed. She smiled shyly. Lightly, she gave a few blows to the shoes. I adored her shyness because no one else would think that she could be shy. Her intimacy belonged to me.
Lu was reading Mao’s work aloud. Other roommates had being going in and out of the room hanging their clothes on a string, splashing dirty water outside. The male soldiers in the opposite building were tapping their bowls with chopsticks. They sang, “When the sun rises, Oh-Yo, Oh-Yo, Oh-Yo, Yo, Yo, Yo, Oh, Oh…” Their song had no end. The soldiers splashed water on the muddy ground as well and walked into their rooms barefooted. The doors were closed. The song dashed on.
When darkness fell, I was already in bed. I waited for everybody else to get into their beds. I looked around the room through the net. I looked at Lu from the top down. Her concentration amazed me. She really read the Little Red Book every day. I was sure she had memorized every comma and period. Did she enjoy this? Or was she just putting on a show? Or both? Did she ever feel restless? She was young, her body was full. She liked to watch her own feet, I noticed. She often took a long time washing her feet. They were tanned dark brown, and her toenails were as clean as peanuts. They were not like ours, dyed orangish with fungicide. She used vinegar to rub off the dye on her toenails each night as the rest of us slept. Once the strong smell of her vinegar woke me up at midnight and I saw through the net that she had dozed off while applying it. Her feet rested on a stool, like two big rice cakes. It was a pair of young feet, elegantly shaped. I asked myself the reason Lu spent so much time taking care of her feet. And I understood. Her feet were her intimacy. She needed that intimacy to survive just as I needed Yan’s.
I began to say that I did not have enough blankets and was afraid of catching cold. Yan sneezed and said that she felt cold too. Lu, as usual, was still studying. Annoyed by our noises, she said impatiently, Why can’t you help each other, comrades? Why couldn’t you think of something to solve the problem, such as to share the blankets together? She fell right into our trap. I jumped down with my blankets, rushed into Yan’s mosquito net. We closed the curtain tightly. I couldn’t help giggling. Yan covered my mouth with her hands. I gave her the letter. She pulled the blankets up over our heads and turned on her flashlight.
Her face flushed. She read and reread the letter. She whispered that it was the best thing she had ever read. She said that she did not know I was so talented. She pressed her cheek against mine. She whispered the same words again and again, that I was talented. After she read the letter two more times, she wanted me to imagine how Leopard Lee would react after reading this letter.
I told her that he would fall in love with her. She told me to repeat what I had just said and I did. She whispered, How can you be sure? I whispered back, If I were a man, I would. She asked if I ever tasted pellet fruit. I asked what pellet fruit was. She said it was a type of fruit that grew in the South. When it ripened, it cracked itself open, making pang-pang-pang sounds like firecrackers. She said this was how her heart was beating now. I said I was glad I had talent. She said I should be because I made her spellbound and she was at the mercy of my hands.
Turning off the flashlight, we came out of the blankets for air. I asked if pellet fruit was edible. She said, Yes, it’s sweet, but the fruit has an ugly shell like a porcupine. I said I couldn’t tell that you had such a mellow heart when I first saw you. I told her that her mellowness made me question whether she was a real Party hard-liner or just an armchair revolutionary. She said, Grind and level your teeth now.
Through the mosquito net I saw Lu finishing off vinegaring her feet. She capped the bottle, stood up, turned off the light and climbed into her bed. Yan and I lay awake in the dark, too excited to sleep. Soon we heard Lu’s snoring. The moon’s pale lilac rays scattered through the curtains. I heard the sound of our roommates’ even breathing. The snakes were beating against the sides of the jar under the bed.
The restlessness came back. It stirred me deeply. I felt my mind and body separating themselves. My mind wanted to force sleep while my body wanted to rebel. Somehow I did not want to figure out why my body wanted to rebel. I was enraptured by a sense of danger, a heat, a spell.
Yan turned away from me, sighing. I wanted to flip her over, but was afraid suddenly. A strange foreignness arose. My body stiffened. She murmured. I whispered, Did you say anything? I heard my own echo in the dark. She sighed and said, Too bad… I waited for her to complete the sentence. She went silent as if she were afraid as well. I said, I’m waiting. She said, Too bad you are not a man. She sighed again. It was a deep and frustrated sigh. I felt dejected. My youth rose bravely. What would you do if I were? I asked. She turned back to face me and said she would do exactly what I had described in the letter. Her breath was hot. Her eyelashes touched my cheek. A warm stream gushed from my feet to my head.
We lay in silence. In fever. One of her legs was between mine. Our arms were around each other. Then almost at the same time, we pulled away. To make light of the uneasiness, I said that I would like to recite a paragraph from the Little Red Book. Go ahead, you armchair revolutionary, she said. Chairman Mao teaches us, I began, “Taking a stone, he hit his own toe instead of another’s; that’s the result that all the reactionaries are going to get as they try to resist the revolutionary force.” Right, she followed, only when we are following the Chairman’s teaching can we be invincible. Let’s do a self-criticism, I said. She said, After you. What’s on your mind? Confess. Make a clean breast of your guilt.
My guilt or your guilt, Comrade Party Secretary?
An old saying goes, “When a good thing comes, it comes in a pair.” That autumn was a magic season. When the beets in the fields were sweet enough to eat, we had to draft reports on how local peasants had been stealing our beets. We would deliver the reports to headquarters so the company would not be blamed for a decrease in output. Yan had been following a “one eye open, one eye closed” policy, which meant that she was not too strict on the correctness of the reports. In fact, she knew exactly who the thieves were. It was not the local peasants, not the field rats. It was the soldiers themselves. I was one of them. The salary I received was not enough to cover my food expenses, so in late evening I became a thief. I dug into the mud for beets, radishes and sweet potatoes.
Yan pretended not to see us. In fact, she was busy doing her own thing. She was driven by her belief in acupuncture treatment. She had been taking Little Green to our neighboring farm hospital-Red Star Farm Hospital-to see a group of doctors from the People’s Liberation Army who were there teaching the local doctors the techniques of acupuncture. Yan took Little Green there twice a day, at dawn and late in the evening. She got up at four-thirty in the morning, packed Little Green on the tractor and bounced all the way to the hospital for a session of needles, and then took Little Green back, leaving her with the cafeteria people for breakfast as she herself rushed to the fields without eating anything to catch up with us.
I always brought an extra steamed bread with me. I gave it to Yan when she came to the field. It took her three bites to finish a hand-sized steamed bread. One day she came back soaking wet, mud pasted on her clothes. She said that she had fallen into a canal with her tractor. Yan was screaming happily. She said she was too excited to speak. She said, Magic has happened-Little Green is coming back to her senses. Yan shouted, A long, long life to Chairman Mao. She asked us to shout with her. We did. When the soldiers encircled her for more information, she said that she had left Little Green in the hospital for more observation. She said that Little Green had sung a phrase of “My Motherland” this morning. Yan broke two poles that day in carrying one-hundred-pound hods of manure to the field.
That evening Yan conducted as we sang opera at the study meeting. Yan’s fever affected the company. No one paid attention to Lu, who was standing in the corner shaking her head. Everybody sang “Nothing in the World Can Put Off a Communist”-an aria from The Red Lantern. After that, Yan for the first time offered to perform on her erhu for everybody. She was admired and worshiped.
I sat back enjoying Yan’s happiness. In her happiness I experienced again her heartrending pain for Little Green. I suggested that we sing “My Motherland” to keep Little Green blessed. Yan played a note on her erhu. But she broke a string because she struck it too hard. She apologized to the crowd. Instead of adding a new string on the erhu, she placed it aside and sang. The sound was the same-her voice was exactly like her erhu. We could not help laughing. Yan did not mind. She sang in a high pitch:
Yan’s happiness did not last. Not a week. When Little Green got back, she looked the same, like a vegetable. The acupuncture worked for a moment and then the nerves reverted to idleness. Yan refused to give up. She kept sending Little Green back to the hospital. One day the tractor broke down; she carried Little Green on her back and walked two hours to the hospital. The next day Yan did not wake up on time. She was too tired. I offered to take Little Green to the hospital. Yan insisted on going there herself. We ended up going together. We took turns in carrying Little Green. Little Green slept like a dead pig on our backs. She looked hopeless. Yan said she still had her last bet, the bet on the snakes. I did not say I didn’t believe in that for a second. She had so much hope in her voice. She was insane.
I hitched a ride on a tractor to Company Thirty-two to meet with Leopard Lee. Yan sent me there as our company’s representative to “exchange revolutionary experiences” with his company. I was as excited when called for the mission as if I were going to meet my own lover. The letter, folded carefully, was in my inner pocket. I buttoned the pocket up in case my jumping on the tractor might shake it out. I checked every now and then to see whether it was still there. I had rewritten the letter the night before. Yan drowned in reading it. She was up at dawn. She told me that I had made her another person. True, I thought. She had become much softer. She was nice to everyone, including Lu. The soldiers were flattered, and Lu puzzled.
Yan gave a holiday to the company when it was not raining. She herself went to cut heaps of reeds the whole day. When she saw me, she smiled shyly as if I were Leopard Lee. To my own surprise, I spent more time thinking of her. I could not help it. I watched her eating dinner. She ate absentmindedly, shoveling food into her mouth. She would stare into distant fields or watch a bug chewing the heart of a cotton flower. She told the cafeteria to add more sugar to the dishes. She wore red, bright red underwear at night. She smiled at the mirror when she thought no one was around. She told me to buy her a bottle of vinegar when I went to the shop. She sat with Lu before bedtime to clean the chemical dye off her toenails. She sometimes sang operas with me and Lu. She sang like her erhu, her voice made stringlike sounds. The roommates said they could not tell the difference. She yelled, What’s wrong with that? The roommates went to hide in their mosquito nets, covering their mouths with their hands and laughing hard.
When I saw Leopard Lee, I was surprised by Yan’s choice. He was a male version of Yan: with big and intense eyes, knifelike eyebrows and bristly oily hair. He was not as tall and strong as I had imagined. He reminded me of a monkey, with long arms, quick in actions. I could tell by the way he was admired by his soldiers that he was a successful leader. They all called him Leopard. He responded to them affectionately. He joked with them and told them not to damage the sprouts when hoeing. He looked awkward after I had announced that I was from Company Seven. He looked at me from the corner of his eye.
I said, I have a letter for you. It’s from… He flushed before I spelled out Yan’s name. He smiled unnaturally and looked around. His hands trembled slightly when he took the letter I held out. He put the letter in his pocket, looked around again and then guided me through the fields to his office. His company seemed more established than ours. He had more barracks. The soldiers were older-the males were thinner and the females were fatter. They all wore straw hats. They were having their work break. The flies hovered over the smell of manure. The soldiers were lying by the field path like potatoes; hats covered their faces. The earth was as hot as a stove.
While pouring me a cup of water, Leopard called in his assistant, a short woman. He told the woman to begin as he walked out of the room. The short woman introduced herself as Old Wong. She began to lecture me on how the Cultural Revolution was progressing in this company. She kept pausing to look at me. She reminded me that I wasn’t taking any notes. She rolled her eyes to show her dissatisfaction. I didn’t pay much attention to her. I anxiously waited for Leopard to come back. I tried hard not to look out the window. Finally, Leopard came back. With no particular expression on his face, he asked if we were done. Oh, yes, I said, hoping he would get rid of Old Wong. But he showed no such intention. He asked if there was anything else I would like to know. I didn’t understand why he had to ask this question: he knew exactly what I wanted. I sat there staring at him. Leopard played with a rubber band. He was nervous. The rubber band broke and it bounced off Old Wong’s face. She screamed, hands on her cheeks. He said, Sorry, and took a cigarette from the drawer. He lit it up and began flicking it before there were any ashes. Old Wong asked if she should call up a tractor to send me back. Leopard nodded. I couldn’t believe he was doing this, but I didn’t know what to do.
I got on the tractor. The tractor driver started the engine. I looked at Leopard. I found him to be not good-looking at all. He looked away. He was too afraid of being caught. He was a coward. I began to dislike him, for Yan was facing the same risk and was not afraid, and he, as a man, had no guts.
That night, in the mosquito net, Yan asked me how the visit went. I was afraid that I would wound her if I told her the truth. I said, Oh, he looked very excited. Yan asked whether he would write back. I nodded and answered with a yes in a sure tone. Yan was satisfied. She asked me to write another letter for her.
I delivered four letters to Leopard in two months. He never wrote back. I became hostile when I visited him. I wished that I could whip him the way I would whip a cow in order to make him fall for Yan. A couple of times it seemed that he wanted to talk to me, but he always managed to switch the button off right before the current got connected. I thought about why he acted withdrawn. He knew Yan well enough to know that she cared about nothing but to be with him. She would not be able to hide her feelings. They would be caught like Little Green and her bookish lover. They would lose their positions in the Party. If they declared their love, the farm headquarters would give them a certain day to get married and then assign them a little room in the barracks as their permanent home. The legends would end, and the chance to go back to Shanghai would be forever lost. They would be titled as local peasants the moment they settled down. Would this be what Leopard wanted for his life? I suddenly doubted it.
I felt sorry for Yan, for she was so lovesick. Every night I listened to her murmuring and comforted her by making up stories about the miracles of love. I spent all my sugar coupons on her because she was a sugar addict. She ate up corncobs just because they were sweet. In order to keep sharing the bed with her, I continued to make excuses about the cold weather. I told her not to wash the mosquito net because the dirt made it less transparent. When the light was on, we could see everything in the room but no one was able to see us.
Despite her lovesickness, in front of the ranks Yan was tough as a rock. She took the company to a labor competition with our neighboring Red Star Farm. We were to dig a canal. Yan’s performance was admired by thousands. At night she was softer than fermented bread. I enjoyed seeing her flush when she read my letters. I asked her to imagine herself being a lover, insisting she tell me the details that I would use the next time I wrote. She would grin and say, Do you know how the local peasants buy persimmons? They pick the softest. This is what you are doing to me. I said I had to know the details, or how was I supposed to depict it. She said, Where’s your imagination? I replied that one could not imagine anything one had no sense of. She pressed her forefinger to my lips and told me to be quiet. She whispered that she had the sensations but could not put what she felt into words. She was too embarrassed about it. She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her chest. She asked me to feel her heart.
I wished I was the blood in that chamber. In the hammering of her heartbeat, the rising and falling of her chest, I saw a city of chaos. A mythical force drew me toward her. I felt the blazing of a fire rise inside me. Yan was wearing a thin shirt with a bra under it. The shirt was the color of roots. The bra was plain white. Her bright red underwear added fuel to the fire. As she lazily stretched her body, my heart raged.
Closing her eyes, she moved my hands to her cheeks. Slowly opening her eyes, she stared at me. Lips slightly parted. I could not bear it, the way she looked at me, like water penetrating rocks. Passion overflowed in her eyes.
I made an effort to look away, staring at the ceiling of the net. I heard Lu’s cough. She was sitting three feet away at the table, concentrating on Mao. She turned a page.
Under the blankets, Yan’s arms were around my neck. She held me closer. Her breasts pressed against my shoulder. She turned me toward her. She untied one of her braids, then moved my hands up to untie the other. I smoothed her loosened hair with my fingers.
I heard Lu brushing her teeth. She spit outside, then closed the door and turned off the light. The bed frame shook as she climbed in. I waited for her snoring. Yan began to whisper in my ear, reciting some of the phrases I had used in the letters. She was a rice shoot in a summer of drought.
I continued to drop Leopard letters every two weeks. He said, Thanks for the letters, and nothing more. I went back to Yan empty-handed. One night when I was writing another letter, Yan lay next to me in tears. She said that she knew all I had been telling her about Leopard was lies. She said, Your hands are too small to cover the sky. You made me into a fool. She said it quietly. A pitiful fool, she added. I tore the letter up in guilt. I said I did that because I didn’t know what else to do. I said I was sorry for trying to gloss things over. She said, You don’t have to apologize. I said he might just be afraid, and he might need more time. She shook her head and smiled sadly. She said she wasn’t pretty enough for him, wasn’t intelligent enough, wasn’t feminine enough. She was a cheap fool. She was stupid and that was that. She picked up a mirror and turned it toward herself. After a long time staring into it, she said she saw an old, weather-beaten face. She said she was twenty-five, she had nothing but the useless Party position titles. That was what she deserved because one gains what one plants. She deserved the decoration.
I could not bear her sadness. It haunted me when she said that she had nothing except the Party titles. She had me. I went up to her and took the mirror away from her face. I was unable to say anything. I wanted to say: You are very very beautiful. I adore everything in you. If I were a man, I would die for your love.
By four o’clock I was able to dismiss my platoon. We were repairing a bridge. My policy-when the assignment was completed, they were allowed to take the rest of the day off. The soldiers liked me. In many cases, those who finished the work would stay to help the others, in response to my call “to carry forward the Communist collaborative spirit.” Lu didn’t like my policy; she called it “capitalist contract bullshit.” She asked me to change it and I had no choice but to acquiesce. But when she wasn’t inspecting, I did things my way.
When the work was done, I walked across the bridge. Along the canal side there was a huge slogan painted on canvas and mounted on thick bamboo sticks which said, “Do not fear death or hard work.” We had created the canal ourselves during my first winter at the farm nearly a year ago. I felt proud every time I walked by it.
This particular day, as I passed by the bridge I heard a local boatman calling me from his boat. He told me to come quickly; he had discovered a drowned body. I ran down to the boat. It was a female body. The boatman slowly flipped her over like an egg roll on a skillet. Before me was Little Green. I lost my breath. Her face was puffed. Her whole head had swelled like a pumpkin. There were traces of cuts on her arms and legs. The boatman said, It looks like she had a fit. You see these cuts? She struggled, but got tangled in the weeds. I stood motionless.
Someone brought the news to Yan. She came running down from the bridge like a mad horse, with her hair standing back on its roots. Her face was blue and red as if it had been beaten. She wouldn’t listen when the boatman told her that it was useless to attempt mouth-to-mouth lifesaving. She’s been dead for hours, the boatman said. Yan kept pumping and pumping at Little Green’s chest. Heavy sweat ran down her hair in tiny streams. Her shirt soon was soaked. She didn’t stop until she completely exhausted herself.
The Red Fire Farm headquarters held a special memorial service for Little Green. She was honored as an Outstanding Comrade and was admitted posthumously into the Youth League of the Communist Party. Little Green’s grandmother attended the service. She was beautiful like her granddaughter. She had an opera singer’s elegance. She hugged Little Green. She had no tears in her eyes; her face was paler than the dead. Lu, representing the farm’s Party committee, issued her a check for 500 yuan as a condolence. Little Green’s grandmother took the check and stared at it.
Yan left suddenly. She did not come back for dinner. I went to look for her, searching everywhere before I finally found her sitting under the bridge. The jar which she used to collect the snakes was beside her. A few days ago she told me in great delight that she had just reached the perfect number-one hundred snakes-and was expecting Little Green to come back to her senses magically.
I stepped closer to Yan and saw that she was pulling each snake’s head off its neck. The dark brown blood of the snakes spattered all over her face and uniform. When all the snakes were torn, she took up the jar and smashed it.
I went up to her. She crouched at my knees. I held her as she began to cry.
After Little Green’s death Yan was no longer the Party secretary and commander that I knew. She changed me along with her. We discussed the reasons why we were losing sight of the “brilliant future” the Party had drawn. We asked ourselves why we were getting poorer and poorer when we had been working so hard on the land. Our monthly salary of 24 yuan barely covered food, kerosene and toilet paper. I had never been able to buy any new clothes for myself. Were we going to spend the rest of our lives this way? The irony was bitter: the Red Fire Farm was a model Communist collective, the wave of the future. It was one of ten farms in the East China Sea region. All of these farms-Red Star, Red Spark, May Fourth, May Seventh, Vanguard, East Sea, Long March, Sea Wind, Sea Harvest and our farm-with a total of over 200,000 city youth sent to work and live in the area, didn’t even grow enough food to feed themselves. The farms had been getting food supplements from the government every year. And the government had made it clear to the headquarters that we would not get any help next year. We asked ourselves what it really meant when we shouted, “Sweating hard, growing more crops to support the world’s revolution.”
Yan lost interest in conducting political study meetings. She became vulnerable, weak and sad. We had fights. She said she wanted to quit her position. She said she was no longer the right person for the job. Lu fit it much better. I said I did not like seeing her become decadent. Dispiritedness would not save us. She said quitting was her way. I asked, What would happen after you quit and Lu took power? Would we be sleeping together? She said, I didn’t know you liked my power better than you liked me. I said, It’s not the power you have in hand, it is our lives. You can’t make it better but you can make it worse. She said her life was a waste, it was a jail here. I said, Where could we go? How could we escape? There were nets above and snares below. We run, we die. Mao and the Party had set our fate. We must drag on.
Yan left for seven days’ intensive political training at the farm headquarters. I slept alone. And I became upset. I was afraid of losing her when she and Leopard met again. It was a strange feeling, a feeling of continuous distraction. I dreamt of Yan at night. I looked forward to the sunset when the day announced its end. She became my lover in her absence. At sunset a new feeling was born, for her. Its color crossed out my heart’s darkness.
I wrote to my parents in Shanghai. I told them about the Party secretary, Commander Yan. I said we were very good friends. She was a fair boss. She was like a big tree with crowded branches and lush foliage, and I enjoyed the cool air sitting under her. This was as far as I could go in explaining myself. I told my mother the farm was fine and I was fine. I mentioned that some of my roommates’ parents had made visits although the farm was not worth the trip.
My mother came instead of writing back. I was in the middle of spraying chemicals. Orchid told me that my mother had arrived. I did not believe her. She pointed to a lady coated in dust standing on the path. Now tell me I was lying, she said. I took off the chemical container and walked toward my mother. Mom, I said, who told you to come? Mother smiled and said, A mother can always find her child. I kneeled down to take off her shoes. Her feet were swollen. I poured her a bowl of water. She asked how heavy the fungicide-chemical container was. Sixty pounds, I said. Mother said, Your back is soaked. I said, I know. Mother said, It’s good that you work hard. I told her that I was the platoon leader.
Mother said she was proud. I said I was glad. She said she did not bring anything because Blooming had just graduated from the middle school and was assigned to a professional boarding school. Her Shanghai resident number was also taken away. We have no money to buy her a new blanket; she still uses the one you left. It’s good to be frugal, don’t you think? Mother said. What about Coral? I asked. Will she be assigned to a factory? Mother nodded and said she had been praying for that to happen. But it’s hard to say. Mother shook her head. Coral is afraid of leaving. The school people said that if she showed a physical disability, her chances of staying in Shanghai would be much better. Coral did not go to see a doctor while she was having serious dysentery. She was trying to destroy her intestine to claim disability. That was stupid, but we were not able to stop her. A lot of youths in the neighborhood are doing the same thing; they are scared to be assigned to the farms. Coral is very unhappy. She said she had never asked to be born, she said that to my face. My child said that to my face.
I placed Mother in Yan’s bed that night. I wanted to talk to my mother but instead fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. The next morning Mother said she’d better leave. She said that I should not feel sorry for myself. It shows weakness. And her presence might have increased my weakness and that was not her intention in being here. She should not be here to make my soldiers’ homesickness worse. I could not say that I was not feeling weak. I could not say my behavior would not influence the others. I wanted to cry in my mother’s arms, but I was an adult since the age of five. She must see me be strong. Or she would not survive. She depended on me. I asked if she would like me to give her a tour of the farm. She said she had seen enough. The salty bare land was enough. She said it was time for her to go back.
Mother did not ask about Yan, about whose bed she had slept in the previous night. I wished she had. I wished I could tell her some of my real life. But mother did not ask. I knew Yan’s title of Party secretary was the reason. Mother was afraid of Party secretaries. She was a victim of every one of them. She ran away before I introduced Yan.
Mother refused to allow me to accompany her to the farm’s bus station. She was insistent. She walked away by herself in the dust. Despite Lu’s objection to a few hours’ absence, I went to follow my mother through the cotton field. For three miles she didn’t take a rest. She was walking away from what she had seen-the land, the daughters of Shanghai, the prison. She ran away like a child. I watched her while she waited for the bus. She looked older than her age: my mother was forty-three but looked sixty or older.
When the bus carried Mother away, I ran into the cotton fields. I exhausted myself and lay down flat on my back. I cried and called Yan’s name.
The day she was expected back, I walked miles to greet her. When her tractor appeared at a crossroad, my heart was about to jump out of my mouth. She jumped off and ran toward me. Her scarf blew off. The tractor drove on. Standing before me, she was so handsome in her uniform.
Did you see him? I asked, picking up her scarf and giving it back to her. Leopard? She smiled taking the scarf. And? I said. She asked me not to mention Leopard’s name anymore in our conversation. It’s all over and it never happened. I asked what happened. She said, Nothing. We didn’t know each other. We were strangers as before. Was he there? I was persistent. Yes, he was. Did you talk? Yes, we said hello. What else? What what else? We read our companies’ reports, and that was all.
She did not look hurt. Her lovesickness was gone. She said, Our great leader Chairman Mao teaches us, “A proletarian must liberate himself first to liberate the world.” She scraped my nose. I said, You smell of soap. She said she had a bath at the headquarters. It was their special treat to branch Party secretaries. She had something important to tell me. She said she would be leaving the company soon.
I closed my eyes and relaxed in her arms. We lay quietly for a long time. Now I wish you were a man, I said. She said she knew that. She held me tighter. I listened to the sound of her heart pounding. We pretended that we were not sad. We were brave.
She had told me that she was assigned to a remote company, Company Thirty. They need a Party secretary and commander to lead eight hundred youths. Why you? Why not Lu? It’s an order, she said to me. I don’t belong to myself. I asked whether the new company was very far. She said she was afraid so. I asked about the land condition there. She said it was horrible, the same as here, in fact worse, because it was closer to the sea. I asked if she wanted to go there. She said she had no confidence in conquering that land. She said she did not know how she had become so afraid. She said she did not want to leave me. She smiled sadly and recited a saying: “When the guest leaves, the tea will soon get cold.” I said my cup of tea would never get cold.
Lu turned the light off early. The company had had a long day reaping the rice. The snoring in the room was rising and falling. I was watching the moonlight when Yan’s hands tenderly touched my face. Her hands soothed my neck and shoulders. She said she must bear the pain of leaving me. Tears welled up in my eyes. I thought of Little Green and the bookish man. Their joy and the price they paid. I wept. Yan held me. She said she could not stop herself. Her thirst was dreadful.
She covered us with blankets. We breathed each other’s breath. She pulled my hands to touch her chest. She caressed me, trembling herself. She murmured that she wished she could tell me how happy I made her feel. I asked if to her I was Leopard. She enveloped me in her arms. She said there never was a Leopard. It was I who created Leopard. I said it was an assignment given by her. She said, You did a very good job. I asked if we knew what we were doing. She said she knew nothing but the Little Red Book. I asked how the quotation applied to the situation. She recited, “One learns to fight the war by fighting the war.”
I said I could not see her because my tears kept welling up. She whispered, Forget about my departure for now. I said I could not. She said I want you to obey me. You always did good when you obeyed me. She licked my tears and said this was how she was going to remember us.
I moved my hands slowly through her shirt. She pulled my fingers to unbutton her bra. The buttons were tight, five of them. Finally, the last one came off. The moment I touched her breasts, I felt a sweet shock. My heart beat disorderly. A wild horse broke off its reins. She whispered something I could not hear. She was melting snow. I did not know what role I was playing anymore: her imagined man or myself. I was drawn to her. The horse kept running wild. I went where the sun rose. Her lips were the color of a tomato. There was a gale mixed with thunder inside of me. I was spellbound by desire. I wanted to be touched. Her hands skimmed my breasts. My mind maddened. My senses cheered frantically in a raging fire. I begged her to hold me tight. I heard a little voice rising in the back of my head demanding me to stop. As I hesitated, she caught my lips and kissed me fervently. The little voice disappeared. I lost myself in the caresses.
Yan did not go to Company Thirty. The order was canceled because headquarters was unable to connect the drinking-water pipe there. We shouted “A long, long life to Chairman Mao” when we got the news. Lu was unhappy. She would have taken Yan’s position if Yan had gone. She said it was the rain. It rained too much and it spoiled her luck.
It was May. The crops were shooting. For the past five months headquarters had ordered the company leaders to pay attention to their soldiers’ political awareness. Only when the minds have politically advanced will the quantity and quality of the products be advanced. This is the key to our economic success. Lu read the instruction loudly to the company. She said that every soldier was required to give a speech at the nightly self-criticism meeting. Lu became angry during these meetings when, as usual, two-thirds of the people dozed off. Lu said that there must be a class enemy hiding in the ranks. We must stretch tight the string of the class struggle in our minds to stay invincible, she said.
To push us to work harder, Lu also passed down an order: one would be allowed to pee or shit only two times a day during working hours and could stay in the restroom no longer than five minutes. Anyone who broke this rule would be seriously criticized. Only the lazy donkeys shit more than that, Lu said. And lazy donkeys deserve to be ruthlessly beaten!
When Lu asked Yan to give mobilization talks to the masses, Yan stepped in front of the ranks and said, Please repeat after me: Chairman Mao teaches us, “Trust the people.” She dismissed the meeting in less then one minute. Lu said, We can’t expect the studs to be straight if the beams are not. Yan said, What’s your problem? Tapping her pen on her notebook, Lu said, Comrade Secretary, I think you’ve got spiritual termites in the house of your mind. Yeah? Yan looked at Lu sideways. You know where I got those termites? From you. You’ve got termites fully packed in your head. You have no clean beams or studs in the house of your mind. They were eaten up a long time ago. And now your termites are hungry, they are climbing out from your eyes, earholes, noseholes and asshole to eat up other people’s houses. Yan walked away, leaving Lu purple.
Although my excuses about the cold weather were becoming less convincing, I still slept with Yan, pretending it was out of habit. Lu became uncomfortable. She said it was not healthy for two people to dissociate themselves from everyone else. She pointed out at a Party members’ meeting that Yan had loosened her self-discipline and was developing a dangerous tendency toward revisionism. She criticized her for divorcing herself from the masses and forming a political faction. Yan told me to ignore Lu; she called her a political bug.
One afternoon I found my bed had been checked. Later that night I also noticed that Lu’s snoring had stopped; I wondered if she had been listening to us. The next day Lu came and said that she would like to have a talk with me. She asked me what I did with Yan at the brick factory. I said we practiced erhu. She said, Is that all? Her eyes told me she did not believe a bit of it. You know I’ve been receiving reports from the masses on you two. She always used “the masses” to state what she wanted to say. I said, I’m sorry, I don’t understand you. She said I’m sure you understand me perfectly. She smiled. I’ve noticed you two have been wearing each other’s clothes. It was true Yan and I had been paying attention to look our best. It was true that we wore each other’s clothes and I had worn her three-inch-wide belt. I asked Lu if it was a problem. Lu did not answer me. She walked away with a we-will-see smile. The same night a new slogan appeared on the cafeteria wall. It said, “Be aware of the new patterns of the class struggle.” Lu gave a speech at the night’s meeting calling for attention to “hiding corrupters in the proletarian rank.” She emphasized that the company should not allow a tiny mouse shit to spoil a jar of porridge.
The same night Yan told me that Lu was secretly calling for approval from the upper Party committee for a midnight search in every mosquito net. She suggested that we stop sleeping together. You must obey me, Yan said seriously. I said, All right, but after tonight.
Yan held me in her arms. I felt as if her arms were about to break my ribs.
The next dawn I was awakened by an unfamiliar breath on my face. I cracked open my eyes. I saw a blurred head swaying in front of me. I was horrified: it was Lu. She was in our net watching us.
My heart screamed. I tried to stay in control. I closed my eyes, pretending that I was still sleeping. I began to tremble. If Lu lifted the blankets, Yan and I would be exposed naked. Lu could have us arrested immediately. I felt Lu’s breath harden. My fingers underneath the blankets were taking a firm hold on the sheet. I prayed-to what, I didn’t know. Just prayed. I felt Lu’s head getting closer and closer to my face. Her hand reached my neck and touched the end of the sheet.
Yan turned to the wall in sleep. Lu’s shadow ducked off. I was paralyzed. When I reopened my eyes, Lu was gone.
Lu stopped asking me questions. And I noticed that I was followed either by her or some of her trusted followers wherever I went. I had become Lu’s target to attack Yan.
It was hard not to be able to be close to Yan. The day became senseless. Yan acted tougher than before. She worked hard and showed no emotions. She dragged Lu to be her partner in carrying stones. To exhaust Lu, she took a full hod and walked as fast as she could. Although Lu curled like a shrimp when she was working with Yan, she never complained. As if she knew one day she would win, she bore the pain almost gracefully. A couple of times I saw her wiping off tears at night while taking her study notes.
You know, I really don’t mind having my body hung upside down or my buttocks pricked by a needle, Lu said to me, raising her head from her notebook with a ghastly smile. Faith is all that I need.
Three weeks later, one evening after work when there was no one in the room, I begged Yan to stop torturing Lu. I asked her to think about the consequences. I said, Don’t forget that a dog would jump over a wall if forced into a corner. Yan pulled me against the door and said, Lu wants the power, she wants to push me off of my position. It doesn’t matter whether I’m nice to her or not, she’s decided to be my enemy. She knows very well that by breaking you, she can break me. Yan then told me that two weeks ago when she nominated me to be a member of the Communist Party to the farm’s headquarters, Lu voted an objection. She won’t allow a tiger to grow a pair of wings, Yan said to me. Do you understand? You are my wings!
I said I did not really care to join the Party anyway. But you need the Party membership, said Yan. It’s a weapon for your future. I said, What could you do about Lu’s objection? “If someone takes the initiative to hurt me, I will hurt him back,” Yan recited Mao’s quotation, and continued, I went to headquarters this afternoon. The chief wanted to talk about Lu’s promotion with me. I did the same thing to her that she had done to you. I picked some bones out of her fucking egg. It was successful. The chief dropped the proposal.
I asked what she was going to do with Lu’s hatred. She said she could care less as she herself was a dog pushed into the corner. We walked on a foggy path stepping on the dew. I said I was tired of life and I hated being a bullet lying in a rifle chamber. Yan said she felt the same way. But it’s better to fight than to be torn alive, she said. It must be fate that we were born at this time. If you can’t go back to your mother’s womb, you’d better learn to be a good fighter.
Spring Festival Holiday came. To set ourselves up as good examples for the soldiers, Yan and I volunteered to guard the company’s property over the holidays, so that we could spend time together. After the last soldier was gone, at dawn, Yan and I went to the fields to dig radishes and cauliflowers. We cooked delicious soup that night.
After dinner, late in the evening, Yan and I went for a long walk in the frosted field. I felt that I was completely at peace, both in mind and body. I looked at Yan, her rigid features against the black sky. She was an iron goddess. I once again felt worshipful of her and it made me fall speechless. I walked shoulder-to-shoulder with her. She stared into the far distance, buried in thought. The cold air was brisk. I took deep breaths. Yan was thinking about her future and mine, I was sure. It depressed me to follow her thoughts. What control did we have over our own future? None. The life we were living was our assigned future, just like our parents’: one job for a lifetime-a screw fixed on the revolutionary running machine, not until broken down does it pass.
Yan took my hand and held it tight. We sat in the dark reeds, depressed and pleased at the same time.
When we got back to our room, Lu appeared unexpectedly. She said that she wanted to replace either Yan or me, so that one of us could have a vacation. We were greatly disappointed, but neither of us said a word.
The invisible battle between Lu and us was as tough as the frozen salty brown mud. Lu never stopped watching us. She became addicted to watching us. Yan and I lived around her traps. During the day, we rearranged the grain storage and selected the cotton. Yan and I remained silent most of the time. At night we each slept in our own nets and thought about each other. One afternoon I found Lu’s shadow hiding behind the door, listening to our conversation. After I signaled to Yan where Lu was hiding, Yan picked up a wood stick. Pretending she was chasing a rat, she knocked open the door and exposed Lu. Lu smiled awkwardly; she said she was looking for some mosquitoes to clap. Yan was annoyed. One day when Lu was out in the fields, she took Lu’s skull and threw it into a manure pit. Lu turned purple when she got back and could not find the skull. Yan did not admit to the act. Lu did not say any more about the skull but carved the date on the door. When I looked at the dull but determined carving strokes, I could feel Lu’s choking strength. Strap it tight! Yes, tighter! Tighter! One night I heard Lu crying out in her sleep.
After the Spring Festival, we went every day to hoe the cotton fields. The wind from the East China Sea mixed with sand and felt needle-sharp. It pricked our skin and cracked our lips. Frost damaged the buds. The soldiers were resentful. They swore when the water pipes were frozen in the morning. They picked fights over tiny things like who had more space on clothes strings. It was useless when Lu called for a “united and harmonious family.” Yan was busy looking for Lu’s faults. She wanted to kick Lu out of the company. Lu knew it and was doing the same thing to Yan.
Yan and I had long stopped meeting at the brick factory, because we could not tell where Lu would send her human watchdogs. Yan’s face was long. She started swearing again. There were executions of all types on the farm. Headquarters was frustrated at the soldiers’ faithlessness. Posters of people being sentenced to death were often seen on the walls. It was called “Killing a chicken to shock the monkeys.”
Yan one day came to me and told me that Orchid had become Lu’s watchdog. She had been following us secretly. I disagreed. I said Orchid was a good human being. Yan said no one in this company was human anymore. We were dogs. We fought for other’s meat. Weren’t we willing to do anything to buy comfort? Lu’s been assigning light jobs to Orchid, and that is suspicious. I said to Yan, You see an enemy behind every tree. She said she did perhaps. It’s a madhouse. The Red Fire Farm.
One morning while I was hoeing in the cotton field with my platoon, a white van drove by and stopped on the path. A group of well-dressed people in green army coats got out and walked toward us. As they passed, they looked at us from head to feet with critical eyes. You-a man suddenly pointed his finger at me. I wiped the sweat off my face and said, Me? Yes, you. The man came closer and asked, How old are you? He was about forty years old. He spoke in standard dialect, like a broadcasting announcer’s Mandarin. I told him I was twenty. He asked me if I could give directions to the headquarters. A woman in the group was taking notes of our conversation. As I was giving them instructions, they encircled me, observing my profile, squatting on their heels, narrowing their eyes to measure my body length and features. The man asked me if I had blisters on my hands. I showed them the blisters on each of my hands, my shoulders and my knees. They studied the blisters and took a close look at my nails, which were all dark brown because of working with the fungicide. I heard the man whisper to a woman. The woman wrote something down in her notebook. A few minutes later they went back to their van. They did not take the directions I had given them.
That night, during the study meeting, instead of dozing off, the soldiers were gossiping about who those people were and why they came. Finally, a girl whose aunt was working in the government’s cultural bureau explained the cause: Comrade Jiang Ching, Madam Mao, was reforming the movie industry and had sent a group of her associates to find correct-looking young men and women to train as China’s future film actors. The type of look which could convince the masses that if there were a pair of enemy bayonets set across his neck, he would not renounce his Communist beliefs in exchange for his life. The chosen few would be taught to play the leading roles in movies. As a political requirement, the candidates had to be outstanding workers, peasants or soldiers.
I told the news to Yan and she thought it was fantasy talking. Our faces were in no way close to beauty. We were brown potatoes. The chance of being chosen was like setting out to find a needle in an ocean.
Someone in my room hung a broken mirror next to the door the next day. Everyone began bending sideways to take a look at herself before leaving the room. At noon I saw Lu making faces at herself when I opened the door. After a few embarrassing moments, Lu told me to take the mirror down. I said it was not my mirror. She said, Do as I say. She added that she would hold a meeting tonight on what we need to do to stand clear of bourgeois influence. I took the mirror down and gave it to Lu. Lu hung the mirror in front of the company bulletin board and painted a large slogan behind it as a reminder: “The collapse of a dam begins with an ant hole.” That night Lu lectured for two hours on how important it was to fight the invisible ideological enemies.
Lu’s lecture did not stop people’s movie-star fantasies. They wore their best clothes and made all kinds of excuses to go to headquarters to pass by the windows of these unusual guests. Orchid and I were assigned to go to the headquarters’ shops to buy preserved vegetables. We saw that headquarters was full of people. Everyone was discussing where the film-studio people would be and I heard someone say they would take the Red Heart Drive to come back.
Orchid asked me whether we should get on the Red Heart Drive when she saw others moving that way. I hesitated. You never know, Orchid encouraged. She then told me that, the day before, a girl was picked when she was brushing her teeth in Company Thirteen. They asked her to put on more toothpaste and to continue brushing while they did the interview with her.
Orchid and I went to the Red Heart Drive. We waited, like many other people, pretending that we were just taking a walk. After half an hour we saw the white van appear. Everyone suddenly became animated and began to smile at the van. I smiled as it passed.
Orchid and I were using the restroom when we heard someone practicing a Mao poem loudly while taking a bowel movement in the men’s room. “Four seas stir float cloud water angry,” the man recited, then he stopped. I heard his shit drop. “Five continents shake flutter wind thunder fighting.” Again the sound of shit dropping.
“The Communists are like the seeds.” A girl was singing Mao’s quotation song behind me. “The people are like the earth. We must integrate ourselves with the people wherever we go…” Orchid yelled, Don’t get too excited. You’re going to fall and integrate with the manure. “Bloom and grow roots in the people…” the girl continued.
A week later Yan and Lu were called to headquarters by the farm’s Chief Party Secretary for an important meeting. They came back with an announcement: two women and one man had been selected from the entire Red Fire Farm to go to the film studio for the first regional contest. I was one of them.
I looked at myself again and again with the tiny mirror. Imagining the mirror a huge screen, I practiced all kinds of expressions I thought would look good to the millions in the audience.
Yan told me that I was given the choice of either dancing or reciting one of Mao’s poems during the contest. I decided to recite Mao’s poem “Praising the Winter Plum.” The Winter Plum was Mao’s symbol of the Communist Party and the Red Army. Yan watched me as I prepared the recitation. She sat there like a Buddha statue. When I asked her how I did, she said she saw a golden phoenix soaring out of a chicken coop.
Three days later Yan was assigned by headquarters to take me to Shanghai for the contest. The night before we took off, Yan did not come back until midnight. Without saying a word, she took off her shoes, got into the net and closed the curtain tightly. I knew what was on her mind but could do nothing to help.
Shut the fucking light off, will you, Comrade Lu? Yan yelled from the net. I haven’t done my study yet-Lu sat on her stool firmly. It’s bedtime! Yan shouted. Lu stood up and said, I am studying Marxism! Yan interrupted her: I don’t care if you’re studying capitalism! I just want the light off! Lu sat down, turned her pages and said, Stop acting like Hitler! Yan jumped off the bed, switched off the light and got back into her net. Lu went to switch the light back on. You whore! Yan shouted furiously, opening the net curtain. She picked up her erhu from underneath the bed and threw it at the light. The light bulb broke along with one of the erhu’s strings. I’ll report everything to headquarters tomorrow, Lu said in the dark.
I kept quiet. What could I say? It was the possibility of my departure that upset Yan. Regardless of how much she wanted me to leave this place, my taking off would mean that she would have nothing else to rely on. Since her belief in Communism had begun to collapse, she was no longer emotionally strong. I had no idea where I would be taken if I won the contest.
The next morning Yan appeared calm. She poured all her saved sugar into my porridge. Lu watched us as Yan went to pull out the tractor and hurried me on. The soldiers watched in silence. Yan took me to headquarters to get a stamp to leave the farm. We transferred to the truck to Shanghai.
We sat closely together on the farm’s open truck. It began to rain after we crossed the country border approaching the city. I tried not to think too much about what was going to happen: whether Yan and I would be apart forever. Yan took out a plastic sheet from her bag to cover me from the rain. I tried to pull the sheet to cover her. Don’t bother, she said impatiently. I held her arm and said, Maybe I won’t even pass the regional contest. Don’t you dare to shit on my face, she said.
Its gate was more solemn than I had imagined, the Shanghai Film Studio. In front of me was a big flower bed with two dark reddish buildings standing imposingly on each side. Yan and I walked through the studios where we saw painted ocean backgrounds and wood and ceramic naval vessels. We lost our way and ended up in a place where we saw burnt houses and a collapsed bridge. We explored underground tunnels, artificial trees, plastic human body parts dressed in Communist Army uniforms and Japanese army uniforms, and a burnt Japanese flag.
A security guard came yelling after us. We showed him our official letter. He directed us to the performance hall where I saw many young people gathered. We were guided to our seats. I looked around. A red slogan hung above the stage: “Devote all our energy to the Party’s cultural business!” There were two other slogans hanging vertically: “Follow Comrade Jiang Ching!” and “Long live the victory of Mao’s revolutionary line!” In front of the stage was a long narrow table covered with a white cloth. About fifteen judges were seated behind the table.
A girl who sat next to me was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. She told me that she was from the Red Star Farm neighboring mine. She had a cherrylike mouth. Compared to hers, my mouth was as big as a frog’s. She had hips that curved out from the waist. Mine were a straight column. When her name was called, she went on stage calmly and performed without rushing. Her piece was a combination of dancing and storytelling. As she performed, she laughed and cried like real life. I began to feel short of breath. The sounds around me were like layers of echoes. My rivals sitting beside me became blurry figures and heads. I knew nothing about professional acting; there was no way I could compete with them. I kept thinking that I couldn’t even speak Mandarin properly. When my name was called, I panicked. Instead of standing up and walking to the stage, I bent over the front chair and covered my head with my arms.
Yan shook my arms and shoulders, but I could not make myself move. I was shaking hard. The announcer repeated my name and said that it was the last call. I felt that I was going to faint. I had double vision. My legs were strengthless. Yan yelled ferociously in my ear, Get your ass moving, you pig-shit-head! For our ancestors’ sake it’s your only chance to escape from hell! She cried, You pig-shit-head, you louse-won’t-touch corpse, you have disappointed and dishonored me.
I jumped up. I wiped the sweat off my face. My army coat fell from my shoulders. I strode to the stage.
I stood in front of the judges. I saw no expression on their faces. They looked me up and down. The one with the bald head in the center took his glasses off. I opened my mouth, but I was voiceless. My mind went blank-I forgot the lines. Yan rose up from the audience. Her face was purple.
The words spilled out from my mouth by themselves. Chairman Mao’s poem. I was almost shouting, “Praising the Winter Plum”! The sound was resonant and clear like a bugle call. Yan smiled, her mouth was motioning with me:
Yan looked at me with gentleness. She held my hands throughout the trip back to the Red Fire Farm.
As I waited for the results of the contest, the soldiers in the company began to distance themselves from me. I could sense their envy and bitterness. After two months, when I started to believe that I must have been eliminated, Yan brought back an announcement from headquarters saying that I had been selected for the second regional contest.
My parents in Shanghai were glad to have the chance to reunite with me for the weekend. My father warned me not to believe anything. My father was older than his age. As was my mother. They had no more courage left. Their drive was greatly weakened by their experiences. My father was no longer the ambitious astronomer who named his son Space Conqueror. He was crushed under the unit Party secretary’s feet, trampled upon. He was timid as a mouse in shock.
I was sent back to the farm and was called back for three other regional contests. I forced myself not to think about the event after every contest.
Yan buried herself in hard work. A few times I found her looking at me from a distance with the saddest expression on her face. She rarely spoke, and when she did, her voice sounded tired. I did not know what to say. I tried to keep myself busy in weaving my new future. I did not want to deal with my feelings. I could not. I could not face Yan. It was too hard. I tried to forget before time separated us.
In the early spring of 1976, after the final contest, I was sent to the Shanghai Film Studio for a special class to test my ability to learn. Many of the people I had met and had thought were excellent, such as the girl with the cherrylike mouth from the Red Star Farm, had been eliminated. People who had showed a lack of performing skills were kept on. Later I was told that one of Jiang Ching’s principles was that she would rather have “socialist grass” than “capitalist sprouts.” The judges thought of me as having less talent but politically reliable.
In the class I was instructed to carry a plastic bag, pretending it was a heavy stone. I was described as having a plain background-that is, no one in my family had been an actor-but was quick in responding to instructions.
In another acting exercise I was asked to drink a cup of water. The instructor stopped me and said, No, no, no. You are not drinking the water right. He said I had two problems. He said that a person from the proletarian class would never hold a cup in such a superficial manner-using three fingers on the handle. He instructed me to grab the cup with my hand. He pointed out that a proletarian person would never drink water sip by sip like a Miss Bourgeoise with tons of spare time. He showed me how to drink down the water fast in one gulp and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
The studio checked my family background and my political record and then sent me back to the farm. I was told that I had been accepted.
When I got back and told the exciting news to Orchid, she shocked me with a rumor: Headquarters was conducting an investigation of me and Yan. Lu was the investigation-team head.
I went to Yan to confirm the rumor. Yan looked like a desperado. She told me Lu had made secret reports on us to headquarters. The locust had begun its chewing. It had begun its destruction. Yan was ordered by headquarters to “put her cards on the table” of her own initiative before the masses’ force would be used.
I denied it, Yan whispered to me. I denied everything. I had mastered the Party’s tricks. I told the Chief Party Secretary that I couldn’t have had a more revolutionary relationship with you than with any of my comrades. I gave many examples of your achievement as an outstanding platoon leader under my leadership. I expressed our loyalty to the Party. I was shameless when I did that. In a madhouse I suppose one could say anything, couldn’t one? The Chief discharged the case because Lu was holding no concrete evidence. The bastard Lu went to file a report to the film-studio Party committee. The bastard was fantastically insane. I had to admire her.
The film studio sent a team down to check out the case. They had talks with Lu. They did not speak to me or Yan. The Chief seemed to be changing his mind about me. He set up a two-man investigation team and conducted a chain talk with everyone, one after the other, in the company. Yan worried. She said, They will seek out some spiders’ webs and horses’ tracks because, fortunately and unfortunately, the masses do have “brighter eyes,” I suppose.
I asked Yan what to do. She fell into silence for a long moment, then said, citing a saying, “If the tactics of a devil are a foot high, the tactics of Tao will be ten times higher.” I asked how she interpreted it. She told me to do two things: first, deny everything if interrogated; second, do as she told me. Do not ask any questions. When I asked why she could not discuss her plan with me, she replied that that was part of her plan.
Lu used the full scope of her power, as if Yan was already out of the picture. She stopped her Mao-work-study routine, saying that she had mastered the essence of Mao thoughts. She smiled her way in and out of the room and hummed songs at work. She ordered pork chops at lunch and dinner. She gained weight. A week after I was back, one clear morning, Lu gathered the company in front of the storage bins for a meeting. She ordered everyone to recite Mao’s poem with her and pay attention to its latent meaning. The ranks followed her:
Everyone in the ranks knew what Lu was insinuating.They shot secret glances at Yan. Yan stood among the ranks like Mount Everest towering in a storm. I was surprised that she recited the poem loudly, showing no anger. I’ve warned all of you before, said Lu, and I’m warning you again. She paced back and forth, giving big arm gestures. A fly only parks on a cracked egg. She turned to Yan. Am I not right? Yan nodded humbly.
Lu smiled arrogantly. She took a piece of paper out of her pocket and announced a decision from headquarters: until the investigation team reaches its conclusion, there will be no candidate sent from our company to the film studio.
I looked at Yan. I could not hide my disappointment and shock. Yan was chewing down a corncob. Her features twisted, she looked like a wounded fighting bull. After staring at Yan for a moment, Lu asked whether Yan needed some aspirin for she did not look well.
Slowly turning toward the ranks, Yan questioned, How should a lamb respond when a wolf asks her to pay a New Year’s Eve visit? The soldiers dared not answer. They all turned to stare at Lu. Lu clenched her fist, then ordered the ranks to cite a paragraph of Mao’s teaching. “If the broom doesn’t arrive, dust won’t go away by itself. Same goes for wiping out the reactionaries.”
Yan said to the ranks before closing, Learn from me, comrades, learn from my stupidity. I took a fish eyeball as a pearl. She started to laugh. The soldiers watched her.
Lu smiled insidiously. Folding her arms in front of her chest, she said, The winner will not be the one who laughs the loudest, but the longest.
Helplessness enveloped me. Yan had stopped talking to me for days. I began to feel sick inside. How much would denying everything help? What could be more normal in this country than one would be made a reactionary if the Party decided to call him a reactionary? Although I had never doubted Yan’s fighting style, I was frustrated this time for she was not doing much except having lips-and-teeth combat with Lu. I asked myself again what could possibly be done. I was at the end of my wits.
I worked by a threshing machine the whole day. The noise was threshing my thoughts. My disappointment was so great that I could not stop thinking about my misery. The ears of grain were thin, thinner than mice shit, heaped around my feet, heaped up, burying me. I yelled at Orchid when she came to shovel the grain. She yelled back. It’s late autumn, you cricket. How many days can you keep jumping?
I began to have an intense headache. After midnight it grew worse. As I kept tossing, I suddenly heard a whisper. The voice was from underneath. Are you awake? It was Yan. She pricked my straw mattress with her fingers. I said, What are you doing? Her whisper was loud enough for Lu to hear. Yan said she wanted to meet me at the brick factory. I did not say anything. I kept quiet because I was thinking she might have gone mad like Little Green. I lay on my face. I wanted to cry. She pricked more. I whispered, Go back to sleep, please, people are going to hear you. She said she did not care. She said she wanted me. She said, It’s midnight, it’s safe. She said, It’s been too long.
I noticed Lu’s bed shook a little. Are you going to come? Yan continued. I’m going to take the tractor and I expect you to be there with me. She opened the net curtain and sneaked out of the room.
Darkness jumped on my face as I stepped out of the room. I felt the end of my world as I followed Yan out of the room and got on her tractor. I was sure that Lu had heard everything.
I held the tractor bar. Yan drove like a watersnake moving through the reeds. She arched over the steering wheel like a jockey. Although the driveway was big enough for two tractors, when a heavily loaded tractor from the opposite direction passed by her, she jumped like a kangaroo rat.
The night was stiflingly dark. The tractor’s headlights and engine noises horrified me. Yan kept up a high speed. The tractor kept jumping. I screamed at Yan. I said, I don’t want to go crazy with you. I shouted, You go to hell, you go and die alone. I don’t want to be jailed. I don’t want to be Little Green. Yan shouted back at me. She shouted clichés, clichés like “Winners don’t quit, quitters never win.” I shouted that we would never win. Red Fire Farm was where we would be slaughtered. Lu would be slaughtering us. She said, Yes, Lu would be very happy to slaughter us.
The tractor zipped through reeds. My face was whipped by the leaves. I screamed. She said that I was stupid and I dreamt too much. She shouted, I am teaching you to be a killer. Be a killer to win. Stupid, do you hear me?
She made a sharp turn next to the irrigation channel. I almost fell off the tractor into the river. She encircled my waist with her right arm and controlled the tractor with the left. After she completed the turn, she slowed down. I heard another tractor coming from behind. She told me to jump off as she loosened her grip on my waist. I did not move. I thought I heard her wrong. She repeated. I heard her say, Jump off the tractor, go back and order your platoon to make an emergency search at the brick factory. I said, What do you want to do? She yelled, Was my order clear? Before I answered yes, she pushed me off the tractor.
I fell into the reeds. When I rose, I saw that the other tractor had passed in front of me like a tiger sweeping over the bushes. Without seeing clearly, I knew the driver was Lu.
I was shaking. I could not think. I ran as fast as I could back to the barracks and gathered my platoon on three tractors. I kept saying, Brick factory, brick factory. I did not say anything else. I did not know anything else to say. I took my rifle and loaded it.
In half an hour the platoon reached the brick factory. My squad head came and reported that two tractors were found parked ten yards away from each other in the reeds. As I ordered the search, I started to realize Yan’s plan. I was wrapped in fear. The shadows of the soldiers moved between the brick lanes.
A memory emerged of Yan playing the erhu for me. The touch of the music. I kept walking, and a strange feeling rose slowly in me telling me that I was going mad. I cried out nervously. I said, Stop. The word came out of my mouth and caught me off guard. The soldiers took the word as an order. They all stopped and got down on their knees. Before I gathered up my mind, I heard a noise in the distance. I began to believe that I had really gone mad, because I thought I was hearing Little Green’s murmuring and the sound of bodies thrusting.
The squad head asked me if we should move forward. I heard myself say, Load! in Yan’s voice. We followed the sound. Noises increased. I began to lose my sense of reality. I let the soldiers pass me. I heard the sound of something, like a bag of potatoes being tossed. I heard odd steps mixed with animallike sounds. My fear deepened.
It was at that moment when I heard my squad head shout Freeze! that my heart was paralyzed. The squad head reported to me that he had caught the evildoers. Flashlights and rifles were raised in the air. The spot was brightened as if the moon had dropped. I adjusted my eyes from the dark to the light and the image that faded into my sight split my heart in half.
Yan and Lu were locked together, half naked, like a pair of grotesque mating silkworms. The strong flashlights whitened their bodies. Shadowing her eyes with a hand, Yan got up. She made a move pretending to run. The soldiers tightened their circle, and she was made to give up.
A petrol tractor came; the Chief Party Secretary stepped down. The soldiers made a path for him. I stood in amazement. I was amazed by Yan’s plan. I understood that Yan would always be my ruler.
Yan put her shirt back on slowly. She looked around and picked up Lu’s shirt. She went to cover Lu with it. She performed elegantly. Lu lay motionless, in shock. It has nothing to do with her, Yan said calmly, pointing at Lu. I seduced her and I’ll take the punishment for my crime.
Lu screamed, No! She screamed, It is not what you see. Not at all! I am Yan’s victim. Yan kept silent and then said, I am sorry. She kept saying, I am sorry, as if she had lost control of her nerves. Lu cried and said, It’s not that. It’s a trap. A trap in which two reactionaries had planned to murder a revolutionary. She pointed at me. She said I was the ally.
The soldiers looked confused. Anybody in the company who had a brain would not have believed for a minute that Yan would have a relationship with Lu. The two were as incompatible as fire and water. Yet the Chief would not notice the subtlety. He fell right into Yan’s trap. Yan moved forward. She was taking advantage of everyone’s shock. She fell down on her knees and covered her face with her palms as if deeply embarrassed. She convinced the crowd that what they had caught was an unbelievable truth. The truth that seemed so much like a bad puppet show.
I took Yan’s hint and rode on the confusion. I pointed at Lu’s nose, I said, Lu, you will double your crime by making unfounded and scurrilous attacks on an innocent. I said to the Chief, The real reactionary has begun her attack. The Chief nodded and said, Let her perform. Lu yelled, Chief, I am asking for justice. Yan said, Chief, it’s not Lu, it’s me. Lu said, Chief, you can’t let them get away. We can’t be soft on treating the reactionaries. The Chief locked his hands behind his back and began to walk back to his tractor. A robber cries, Stop the thief! He sneered. Lu crawled to his feet. I swear I’ve never cheated on the Party. You must trust me. The Chief got on the tractor and signaled the driver to start the engine. You two-the Chief pointed at Lu and Yan-my best officers in the entire farm, have shamed me. He stopped as if it hurt him to go on. Lu begged for a chance to explain. The Chief said, How do you explain when I have seen all this with my own eyes? The tractor began to pull away as the Chief pronounced his sentence: To make a clean field, one must pull up weeds by the roots.
As a comrade with a good record, my case was dropped. I was to be sent to the Shanghai Film Studio to be trained as an actress.
The headquarters held a farewell party for me. Everyone made a toast to congratulate me. The Chief awarded me a red flag with golden embroidered characters. I was the Honored Soldier. Our Red Fire Farm is proud of you being chosen, said the Chief. You must live up to the people’s earnest expectations.
Not for a minute could I stop thinking of Yan. She was detained and shut in a dark room in a water tower with Lu. I could not imagine leaving the farm when Yan was not safe. But I knew by giving up my chance I would not help Yan’s situation. It could only reveal more evidence of the truth that Yan and I were the real evildoers. I realized that for Yan’s sake I had to go.
I began packing. I had taken Yan’s life. What would be left for her at the farm? I could just imagine her lying in the cold net alone at night with nothing to look forward to the next day.
I got up in the early dawn when it was still dark. I climbed down into Yan’s empty net and sobbed while embracing her things. I took her Mao button collection with me as I left the net for good.
It was still dark as I waited for the first truck to Shanghai at the crossroad. The wind was strong. The churned-up sand and dust were like thousands of tiny whips hitting my face, drilling through my collar down to the spine. In saying goodbye to the fields, all the experiences I had had with Yan rushed up to me, beginning with the first day I had arrived at the farm and saw her appear at the horizon.
The truck came. I got on. As it pulled away, I felt the world surrounding me begin to spin like a wheel. When the truck passed by the water tower, I saw in my blurred vision a figure standing on top of the water tower with a red flag fluttering behind her.