Ha Jin - The Crazed

“You have a temperature,” she said, and her knees, rather warm, kept rubbing my thigh.

“I’ll be all right,” I muttered, still shaking.

“Uncle, please help me,” broke from a voice.

Both of us froze, listening.

“Uncle, have pity,” the same childlike voice said again.

I opened my eyes, only to find a scrawny girl, about four or five years old, standing in the hospital corridor between my leather shoes, her chafed hand patting my knee.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Money.” She opened her pale palm, whose edge was coated with dirt. Her dark eyes were large and fierce, sharpened by hunger or fear.

I fished some coins out of my pants pocket and gave them to her. Without a word she ran away on her bent legs, her feet in tattered sneakers. Reaching the end of the corridor, she waved her fist and gave the money to a woman, obviously her mother, who shot glances at me. I glared at the sunken-mouthed woman, cursing under my breath, “Bitch.” I felt cheated, as I had thought the child was on her own.

Not knowing how long I had dozed, I rose to my feet, my right leg still sleeping. I was a little anxious and wondered if the visitor had left, so I hobbled to the door of the sickroom and put my ear to the keyhole. Vice Principal Huang was still in there. He was saying earnestly to my teacher, “Let her decide what to do herself, all right?”

“No,” Mr. Yang answered.

Silence followed.

About half a minute later, Huang said again, “Okay, Old Yang, take it easy. We’ll talk about this when you’re well.”

My teacher made no response.

Hearing footsteps coming toward the door, I leaped aside. The vice principal came out. He nodded at me, meaning I could go in now. “Take good care of Professor Yang, will you?” he said to me.

“Sure I will.”

“Good-bye.” Without giving me another look, he walked away. He seemed unhappy and preoccupied.

I tiptoed into the room. Mr. Yang sat on the bed with both heels tucked under him, his head hanging low and his eyes shut. I sat down and observed him closely. He looked like a sleeping Buddha, as inert as a vegetable, but with both hands cupped over his kneecaps instead of rested palm upward. A moment later he opened his eyes a crack. The look on his face showed he was alert, but why had he pretended to be drowsing just now?

“He’s gone,” I told him.

“Who?”

“Vice Principal Huang.”

“Who’s he? I don’t know him.”

Perplexed, I had no idea how to deal with his denial. And anger surged in my chest. Of course he knew Huang. Who else had he been talking with a short while ago? But I kept silent, thinking of the dream I’d just had. Why couldn’t I eat the fish soup, my favorite food? My mouth wasn’t small at all, at least as big as most people’s. As if I could have smelled the delicious soup, I went on sniffing.

Meimei in fact was not a good cook. She couldn’t even make steamed bread, not knowing how to use yeast and baking soda, let alone a crucian carp soup. But this didn’t bother me. I had promised her that I’d cook most of the time after we married. She said she would wash dishes.

“Revenge!” Mr. Yang bawled, as though he were playing the part of an official executioner or a rowdy in an old opera. “I shall raise this nine-section whip and thrash your fat hips, pack, pack, pack — I want to taste your blood and flesh. Ah, with full resolve I shall root out your whole clan like weeds! A debt of lives must be paid with lives!” His shrill voice was getting louder and louder.

I was totally baffled, not knowing whether he was faking or truly believed he was onstage. Holding my breath, I watched him wriggling as if he were bound by invisible chains. He looked in pain and probably imagined exchanging words and blows with an enemy.

He chanted ferociously, “I shall eliminate all the vermin of your kind, and shan’t withdraw my troops until the red clouds have covered the entire earth. .”

Dumbfounded, I listened. He enacted this militant role for about half an hour. I couldn’t tell why Vice Principal Huang’s visit had disturbed him so much. By no means did it seem that the official had come to press him for the $1,800. Then why did Mr. Yang go berserk like this?

Two days later Kailing Wang, the woman lecturer in the Foreign Languages Department, came to see Mr. Yang. She brought along a bouquet of red silk roses and a copy of The Good Woman of Szechwan, which had just come out from Tomorrow Press in Shanghai. She said the book was well received and there would be a review in the journal Foreign Drama praising the brisk, sturdy translation. Having no idea what to do with the artificial flowers, I just held them for her as she tried to talk to my teacher.

She was of medium height and wore a puce dress, which made her appear less plump and set off her full bust. Although her appearance reminded me of Mr. Yang’s words about the peachy breasts, I bridled my wayward thoughts. Actually I very much respected Kailing. Ten years ago her husband, a regimental staff officer, had been killed in a border battle between Chinese and Vietnamese armies. Since then, she had raised their son alone. Today apparently she hadn’t expected to see my teacher in such a wretched condition. She said to me, her voice torn, “He wasn’t like this last week. Why did they tell me on the phone that he was getting better? This is awful!” She kept wringing her hands while her eyes misted up.

Indeed this afternoon Mr. Yang was too delirious to talk with anybody. Now and again his lips twisted into a puerile grin as if he were a victim of Down syndrome. The book that bore his name as a cotranslator made no special impression on him, and Kailing seemed to him a total stranger. To whatever she said he wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t tell whether he recognized her or not. He grunted and groaned vaguely as if having a migraine, and his upper body shuddered frequently.

Taking Mr. Yang’s lifeless hand and folding his fingers, Kailing burst into tears. She went on wiping her cheeks with a white handkerchief. Her face at once looked aged, slightly sallow, as if its muscles had lost their elasticity. Her nose was clogged and a little rounded. As she sobbed, her full chin couldn’t stop shaking. Observing her, I wished I could have said something to console her. Then she bent forward to peer into his eyes, which were still blank and rheumy and without any trace of recognition. On his swollen face his eyes appeared thready and his lips parted. I was fighting down the impulse to grab his shoulders and shake him out of this wooden state.

Kailing remained standing in front of him for more than twenty minutes. Now and again she looked into his eyes, eager to find out whether he still knew her, but he seemed like a senseless retardate. I told her that this was just a bad day and that usually he was much more lively and clearheaded. She nodded without a word.

At last she let go of his hand. Placing the book near his knee, she said, “Professor Yang, you must get well. I need you. You promised to work with me on Brecht’s poetry.” He made no answer.

“I’ve done a draft of some of his poems and like them very much,” she added.

Still he was wordless. She looked at me, her eyes filled with disappointment, while her right thumb was massaging her temple.

On leaving, she told me to let her know if Mr. Yang needed anything. She said quietly, “When he’s himself again, show him the book. He’ll be pleased.”

“I’ll do that,” I promised, putting the roses on the bed so as to see her off.

“I’m sorry to give way to my emotions like this. I’m so upset.” She managed a smile.

“I understand.”

“I wish I could’ve brought some fresh flowers. I went to several stores but couldn’t find any.”