Ha Jin - In the Pond

Bin was so stunned that he stood there speechless, grinding his teeth, while the leaders chortled. He wanted to spit in Liu’s face, but restrained himself. Without a word he turned to the door.

“An ass eats in every trough,” said Liu.

Bin turned back. “You mustn’t insult me. You must respect my human dignity and—”

“Stop that!” Liu stood up, pointing at Bin’s nose. “I know that a petty intellectual like you always wants to get laid, but even though you pull down your pants and raise your butt, I won’t be aroused. No, we can’t use you, not interested, period!”

Ma blew his nose on a piece of letter paper, chuckling some more. Bin couldn’t stand this any longer. “I’ll make asses of you two!” he yelled, flourishing his right arm as though wielding a brush.

* * *

For days, whenever possible, Bin would pass the office building to see who had been hired for the propaganda work; but he found nobody at the board, whose naked wood remained smooth and white, waiting for the touch of an artistic hand. Not until a week later did he find a short man there putting primer on the board. The man was squatting on his haunches, his knees wide open, and from time to time his broad buttocks almost touched the ground. He was wielding a large brush; a pail of black paint stood nearby. Though Bin couldn’t see his face, the pudgy body looked familiar to him, especially the thick neck and round shoulders. After watching for a few minutes from a distance, Bin went over to see who he was.

His footsteps drew the attention of the man, who turned around, revealing his broad eyes and dark brows. Bin was surprised to find it was Yen Fu, an acquaintance of his. Yen was an art cadre in Gold County.

“How are you, Master Shao?” Yen said, and stood up with a puzzled look on his face. He stretched out his hand.

“I’m all right, still alive.”

They shook hands. Yen’s big mouth opened a little but didn’t succeed in making a smile; he seemed embarrassed.

After a few words with Yen, wishing him a good time here, Bin left, feeling further humiliated, because Yen wasn’t a good painter. Three years ago they had met in Shenyang City, when Bin had won third prize for a landscape painting exhibited in the Provincial Gallery. Yen sought him out, and together they shared a Mongolian firepot at a restaurant; while eating, Yen expressed his admiration for Bin’s work. That was why just now Yen had called him Master Shao.

Despite working as the art editor for a small newspaper called Environment , Yen was indeed artistically inferior to Bin in most ways. He had never expected to encounter the “master” here, assuming Bin had left the plant long ago. How could a small pond like this contain such a big fish? He had vaguely heard that Bin was teaching the fine arts somewhere.

After meeting Bin, Yen felt he had been taken in by the plant’s leaders and had done a stupid thing, displaying his skills before a superior hand. To make up for this blunder, the next evening he bought a bottle of sorghum liquor and two yuan’s worth of pig-blood sausages and paid a visit to Bin. He was pleased that Bin received him as a friend and even insisted they have a drink together.

Since the Shaos had already had dinner, Meilan scrambled four duck eggs, made a salad of jellyfish and cabbage, and sliced the sausages Yen had brought along. After that, she wiped the chopping board clean, washed her hands, and resumed crocheting a pillowcase. She sat cross-legged on the bed while Shanshan played in her lap.

The dining table, oval and one foot tall, was set on the earth floor. Bin placed on it the dishes, two cups, and a porcelain liquor pot.

Meanwhile Yen was sitting at the writing desk, sipping tea. He noticed Bin’s crablike ink slab and asked, “What stone is this?”

“Bring it here,” Bin said. “I’ll explain it while we’re eating.”

Yen sat down and put the stone on the dining table. “Don’t treat me like a guest, Master Shao.”

“Call me Bin or Old Shao, all right?”

“All right, Bin,” Yen said out loud.

They both laughed, so did Meilan. “For our friendship,” they said almost with one voice, raising the cups.

While chewing a chunk of sausage, Bin began to talk about the ink slab. “This is a Gold Star stone, quarried from Fei County, Shandong Province, the only place that produces this kind of stone.” He moved the slab closer to Yen. “See these speckles? They are the stars. The ancients said, ‘It’s hard to wear away an iron ink slab.’ They referred to this kind of dark slab. In fact, Gold Star stones aren’t that hard. It’s an exaggeration. These starlets are bits of mica. At night, when you gaze at these speckles at the bottom of the inkwell, you feel like you are watching the Dippers. Under the stars the night is damp and deep, and villages, towns, cities all are asleep, while you’re busy working alone. If you gaze long and intently enough, you’ll forget it’s an ink slab, and you’ll have the sight of a vast landscape. In a word, it’s a very poetic stone, very poetic.”

Yen was impressed by Bin’s knowledge about ink slabs. He mentioned that there was an antique store in Gold County, which they should visit together someday.

Suddenly the baby gave a forceful wail. “What happened?” Bin asked his wife.

“She wet my skirt,” Meilan said, and turned to Shanshan. “How many times have I told you to tell me before you pee? Huh, brat?”

The baby cried some more and dropped her rubber doll on the floor. Meilan stood up, the front of her beige skirt carrying a wet patch as large as a Ping-Pong paddle.

“Come on,” Bin said to his wife, “take care of her, will you? Brother Yen is here.”

Meilan walked over to the wardrobe and took out a pair of pants for the child and a dress for herself. Then she picked up Shanshan; with the baby on her right hip-bone, she walked out.

Yen thought the Shaos must have had another room in the house where she could change, so he asked Bin, “You have another room?”

“No, she went to the salesgirls’ bedroom, across the hall.”

They went on to talk about the painters and calligraphers they knew. It happened that every one of them was doing better than Bin; even Yen had gained two promotions in rank in the past three years, whereas Bin hadn’t even got a raise in the meantime. This aroused his anger again.

He said, “The fertilizer plant is a loony bin. I envy you, Brother Yen.”

“You should’ve been an art cadre long ago, Bin. This isn’t a place for you.”

What can I do?”

“It’s a waste of talent. Logically speaking, I should do your work, and we should switch places. A crazy world, isn’t it?”

Meilan returned in a saffron dress. Yen found her almost a different woman now, delicate and rather pretty, especially when seen from behind. The dress had shrunk her and brought out her trim waist, but the baby remained the same, in the same kind of open-butted pants.

Yen was curious to learn why the plant’s leaders didn’t let Bin do the propaganda work. Bin sighed and told him the whole story, from the first cartoon to his recent confrontation with them. After his account of the events, he said gloomily, “Ever since the ancient times, too big a piece of wood can’t be used to make furniture. It’s my fate.”

“He’s too stubborn,” Meilan said to the guest. “I begged him to give in a bit just for once, but he wouldn’t.”

Yen said, “It’s no use fighting with them all the time. I understand how you feel, Bin, but a wise man doesn’t fight when the odds are against him.”

“I don’t want to fight. They would never leave me alone. They engage me themselves; so damned blood-thirsty.”

“How about this: tomorrow I’ll talk with them, put in a good word for you, and ask them to stop mistreating you. I don’t know whether it will help. It seems worth trying. What do you think?”