Yan Lianke - The Four Books

“Did you really have that many blossoms?”

The person in question was a middle-aged associate professor, who had written some astonishing treatises. His expression was as serious as his treatises, and he exclaimed that the number of blossoms he had previously reported was actually incorrect. “I had posted them all on the tent pole, and no one knew I had that many blossoms.”

After he left, another professor arrived and stood next to the Child’s chair, examining the numbers in the new report.

The Child asked, “Did you really have that many blossoms?”

The professor looked as though he were about to burst into tears. “I had a hundred and eighteen, but no one knew! I can still recall precisely when I received each of them. If you give me a pencil and paper, I’ll show you exactly how I had a hundred and eighteen.” The professor wanted to take the Child’s pencil and paper and begin calculating. He used to be a mathematician at a famous university in the capital, and had spent his entire life demonstrating why one plus one must equal two. After using a lot of fancy formulas and equations, he finally proved that one plus one is not merely equal to two, it is really equal to two. After reporting on his results, the higher-up wrote a single line on his thesis, which said, “Why don’t we send this person for Re-Ed?”

The Child, however, didn’t let him do his calculations, and instead simply took him at his word and told him to leave. Two more people came in, then two more. Finally, the Scholar entered. The Scholar walked with a heavy step and a hardened expression. The scabs on his forehead where the skin had been burned, blistered, and then frozen were somewhat hard. The frostbite on his cheeks was turning black, as was his entire face. He entered the room and looked around at the new décor, and at the fresh sand on the ground. Then his gaze came to rest on the Child’s old but dignified army jacket. The Scholar gazed at him contemptuously. He no longer had the guilty and abject expression that he had had a month earlier, when he was forced to wear the dunce hat and write out all of his crimes while kneeling on the embankment next to the steel furnace. Instead, he stared intently at the Child, and before the Child could speak he said in a cold and even tone,

“You mustn’t ask me if I really had a hundred and twenty-one blossoms. You are welcome not to let me and the Musician return home, but you must not doubt the fact that I had a hundred and twenty-one blossoms.”

The atmosphere in the room suddenly became very tense. The Scholar was tall, and he was standing up. The Child, meanwhile, was short and thin, and furthermore was sitting down. The Scholar’s face was as hard and black as a stone. The authority of the Child’s military uniform was diminished somewhat. He nevertheless stood erect, with a calm but earnest expression. His jaunty attitude, which had been propped up as if by a coat hanger, suddenly collapsed. The Child looked at the Scholar, and after several seconds he stammered,

“Then, who lied about how many blossoms they had?”

The Scholar didn’t respond.

The Child said, “If you can tell me the name of one person who reported an inflated figure, I’ll give you a blossom. If you give me two names, I’ll give you two blossoms.”

The Child said, “Answer me! Answer me! If you know, then answer me!”

The Scholar still didn’t respond.

The Scholar stood in the middle of the new tent. Since he was tall, if he stood near the sides his head would reach the canvas top. Standing in the middle, however, he held his head high and his chest out. The Scholar kept his mouth closed, refusing to say a word. His gaze was stern. When the Scholar still wouldn’t speak, the Child acted even more dignified, with the same hard yet slightly tender expression as before. He stood straighter and adjusted his jacket.

“Answer me!” the Child commanded. “If you give me four names, then I’ll not only give you credit for all hundred and twenty-one of your blossoms, I’ll even award you four more. That way the two of you will have one hundred and twenty-five, or the equivalent of five pentagonal stars, and one of you will be free to return home.”

At this point, the Scholar finally responded.

First, he smiled — just a faint hint of a smile. Then, in a voice that was neither loud nor soft, he said,

“I know who falsely reported that they had more than a hundred blossoms. I could name at least twenty of them, but I won’t.”

“Don’t you want the Musician to be able to return home?”

“Would my hundred and twenty-one blossoms that burned up still count? You know I had a hundred and twenty-one, so now that they are gone you should compensate me for them.”

“If you tell me who falsely reported having more than a hundred blossoms, I will count those blossoms you lost.”

“But if I don’t tell you, they won’t count?” The Scholar took half a step forward and, like a jagged mountain, stood in front of the Child. With a combination of a sneer and a laugh, he asked, “Are you not concerned that, if this time people with few blossoms burned down your tent, next time those who originally had many blossoms might well wait until you are asleep and burn down your tent with you in it?” The way the Scholar looked at the Child, it was unclear whether he was threatening him or simply offering advice. “If you don’t count all of the blossoms that people earned, aren’t you concerned that, beginning tomorrow, everyone might start refusing to smelt any more steel?”

“What about you?” the Child asked. “Would you burn down this tent with me in it?”

“I wouldn’t,” the Scholar said, grinding his teeth. “But if my blossoms don’t count, I might as well die tomorrow, since even if I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life as a criminal, I’ll never again smelt steel.”

“You really won’t smelt anymore?”

The Scholar vigorously shook his head.

The Child was quiet for a moment, and gazed silently at the Scholar’s face. The Theologian, meanwhile, was still sitting to the side, with that list of names and the corresponding recalculated blossom totals. The Author was now also sitting to the side. Because the Child didn’t say anything, and didn’t tell them to leave, they just kept sitting there. When people entered and saw the Author and the Theologian, some would look enviously while others would glance at them coldly. The Scholar, meanwhile, looked at them with an expression of pity, as though they were a couple of dogs tagging along after their master. The Child remained calm and quiet, yet knowing what to do. He looked at the Scholar and asked again, “Tomorrow you really won’t collect black sand and smelt steel?” The Scholar silently shook his head, indicating that he had completely made up his mind.

The Child turned around, then calmly grabbed his yellow travel bag and unzipped it. He rummaged inside the bag and eventually pulled something out. Astonishingly, what he pulled out was a black, gleaming gun. This was the gun that the provincial governor had given him — the pistol the governor had used while fighting in the revolution. No one knew why the governor had chosen to give the Child a gun. Actually, the Child had just wanted one of the clay shotguns they had in the department store, but the governor had generously given him his old pistol. When the Child suddenly pulled out the gun, it was like a scene from an opera. He placed the gleaming black gun on the empty stool beside him, then started rummaging in his bag again. There was the sound of a bag being ripped open, and he pulled out a bullet. It was gold-colored, but had been rubbed down to the color of lead. The Child placed the bullet next to the gun. The atmosphere in the room became very tense, as though countless ropes covering the tent had suddenly been drawn tight. The wood in the furnace was burned up, and the unburned wood outside the furnace fell to the ground, as flames leapt into the air. No one had expected there would be a gun, but now they understood why the Child appeared wearing a military jacket. The Child was incredibly calm, and seemed to have planned everything in advance. After placing the bag to one side, the Child turned back to the Scholar. The Scholar was quite pale, but also appeared calm, forcing himself to maintain a look of disdain.