Ha Jin - In the Pond

“Let’s go have a look,” Ma said.

They went to the front entrance, where about seventy workers gathered, cursing and chatting. It was snowing, the gray ground becoming white. At the sight of the leaders, the crowd quieted down. Both Liu and Ma could feel the pressure of the silence, which seemed to demand that they confess everything on the spot. Liu went up the brick steps at the front of Guard’s Office, and he turned around to face the workers. For some reason he felt like laughing, but he restrained himself. A snowflake landed on his nose; though tickled by it, he didn’t wipe it off. Ma limped over and joined him, standing one step lower.

“Comrades,” Liu shouted, then stopped to clear his throat. “Comrades, don’t take this drawing seriously. Shao Bin is a lunatic and always imagines things. Director Ma can’t stand the smell of garlic. You all know that. How could he take a braid of garlic as a gift?”

“Have you ever seen me eat garlic?” Ma asked.

Seeing a few people shake their heads, Liu said again, “Shao Bin painted that we each received a bag of pineapples. That’s a lie. To be honest, I’ve never seen a fresh pineapple. I don’t know how big it is. I’ve only eaten canned pineapple once and have no idea how people eat a fresh one. Do you peel it, or cut it, or boil it, or pickle it? Tell me how. Come on, some of you are from the South and must know how to handle a fresh pineapple.”

“Cut it!” a male voice shouted from the back. Some people laughed.

“I’ve never eaten a pineapple either,” Ma said. “Never seen one except in the movies.”

“Tell me again,” Liu went on, “who among you ever saw a bottle of Maotai?”

The crowd remained silent, though some eyes were still glaring at the leaders. Liu continued, “To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen a bottle. I don’t know what it looks like, to say nothing of what it tastes like. Shao Bin’s drawing is pure slander. If any of you have a bottle, show me. I’ll invite you to my home and treat you to ten courses. I won’t ask for more, just give me a small glass. That’ll make me feel I haven’t lived so long for nothing.”

A woman giggled. A puff of snow was swirling around Liu’s felt hat. He seized the moment and announced, “Comrades, I swear by my great-grandfather’s tomb-stone that if I have ever seen a bottle of Maotai, if I have ever tasted a drop of Maotai, I am a cuckold!”

“Me too!” Ma shouted. Then it occurred to him that he had drunk the liquor. Good heavens, how could he take back those words in front of this mob!

Liu was shocked by Ma’s declaration, and he couldn’t help squinting at him.

Seeing the secretary’s fat lips purplish with rage and the director’s face carmine, the workers were convinced that the leaders had told the truth. They could tell that the leaders would have skinned Bin alive if they had grabbed hold of him. Lucky for him, he wasn’t here. A few people at the back turned and were leaving.

Though the workers were calmed down, the cartoon spoiled the leaders’ Spring Festival. Unlike other years, when they would have twice the amount of rice, meat, fish, sugar, and soybean oil a worker had, this year they took home only the same portion as everyone in the plant. It was better not to cause any discontent at the moment; but wait, they would get everything back from Shao Bin and make him serve them like a grandson.

AFTER THE SPRING FESTIVAL the plant was busy gaining a head start on the production year. To keep Bin from making trouble again, the leaders assigned all of Maintenance to overhaul two boilers and replace a distiller for the Fourth Workshop, which mainly produced explosives for the People’s Army. Hsiao Peng, the director of Maintenance, who used to support Bin’s drawing the cartoons, now changed his mind about him, since he understood why his section was given so much work all at once. In private he told some workers about the reason; the hostility toward Bin was mounting in the workshop.

Though working two extra hours a day, Bin wouldn’t complain. He got paid for overtime; besides, others in Maintenance worked the same way. At night, exhausted and heavy-eyed, he wouldn’t slack in practicing brush-work. These days he was studying an ancient monograph called The Art of Painting; he wanted to increase the fluidity and spontaneity of his brushstrokes, particularly to master the technique of splash-ink. So far he hadn’t been able to bring out the solidity and augustness of jagged rocks on paper as the book described, though he had followed the instructions closely. He thought this was probably because he worked too hard at the plant and didn’t have much vital breath left in him at the end of the day. From now on, he decided, he had better dawdle more at work. So he did.

When the apricots were blooming, the plant erected a propaganda board, thirty feet by twelve, in front of the office building. In response to the current political campaign — Against the Capitalist Road — the leaders decided to increase the workers’ consciousness of class struggle by strengthening their ideological education, which should start with propaganda work. Therefore a colorful board was needed. Besides, such a construction would demonstrate the progressive outlook of the cadres and workers of the plant and impress visitors and their superiors. Though the woodwork was finished, a person capable of doing the propaganda work hadn’t been found yet. In the plant nobody except Bin was skilled in brushwork. The leaders, however, were determined to keep him out of this.

Bin was indeed anxious to offer his service. He hated wielding a hammer and turning a spanner in the workshop, where he couldn’t avoid getting covered with dirt and grease every day. It was a job for a coolie, not for a man of his caliber. By contrast, the propaganda work would suit him better and also might turn into a long-standing job. This meant it could eventually become an official position, which might enable him to leave Maintenance for good and be promoted to cadre’s rank. Understandably, he was eager to demonstrate his artistic accomplishment.

But already he had made deadly enemies of the leaders, who would by any means prevent him from displaying his expertise. How he regretted having given them so much trouble these past months. Without knowing it, he had spoiled his own opportunity, as if he had lifted a stone at an enemy but smashed his own toes.

Though unsure of his chances, Bin decided to test the water. He went to Director Ma’s office, since it seemed to him that Ma wasn’t as malicious as Liu. At least Ma’s tongue was less glib. Bin was ready to brace himself for harsh words; as long as they gave him the job, he would endure anything. You mustn’t miss a watermelon by fighting over a few sesame seeds, he kept reminding himself.

To Bin’s astonishment, when he arrived, Liu was also in Ma’s office. There was no way to back out, and it was impossible to test the water in Liu’s presence, so Bin went ahead and recommended himself for the job.

“You think you can do the propaganda work well?” Ma asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Yes, I feel I’m the most qualified man in our plant.”

“That’s true, you’re able to do the work,” Liu put in. “And we indeed don’t have a person here to take charge of it. You have the talent, don’t you, Young Shao?”

“Yes, Secretary Liu.” Bin’s eyes brightened.

Liu said, “We know you’re talented, but we don’t want to utilize your talent. You have something to sell, but remember, we don’t have to buy it from you. To tell you the truth, we have decided to hire someone from outside and let your talent rot in you. Go back and learn to do your own work well. Stop dreaming that heaven will drop a roasted quail into your mouth.”