Ha Jin - The Crazed

“No, Master! I won’t cross your doorstep again. Please spare me. Oh help, help!”

The cleaver drew a circle in the air and came down onto the peasant’s head, but as it was falling it twisted so that its side struck his crown with a crack. “Ouch!” He collapsed to the floor and instantly began crawling toward the door. The thug kicked him in the buttocks again and again until the squealing man rolled out into the street.

Now the brute came at me. He placed the cleaver on my shoulder, pulling and pushing it as if sawing my neck. The blade sent a chill down my body, but it wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood. My right leg was shaking.

“See how stiff the shaft of your neck is?” He cracked a smile, half closing his lozenge eyes. His lips protruded, spit flying about as he spoke.

I couldn’t say a word. As though my chest were jammed with sand, I could hardly breathe.

“You think you’re mighty smart, huh?” he hissed. “Now feel this. I didn’t expect you were that wild a moment ago. How do you like this now, boy? Cold, eh? Why are you so tame?” His grin distorted his pimply face. Out of his nostrils came hot, alcoholic fumes, which kept brushing my forehead, but I wasn’t sure if he was drunk.

I swallowed to catch my breath and remained unbudging, though the cleaver still rested on my shoulder. He said, “If I like, I can hack your noggin off and it’ll drop to the floor like a rotten pumpkin.”

How I wished I had taken off! Cold sweat was running down my back, my armpits were clammy, and my heart was lurching.

The thug snarled, “You think you’re mighty gutsy to help that worm. Fact is, you’re just a jackass. Where’s he now? He doesn’t care a hoot about how you’ll end here, does he? He just crawled out the door to save his own ass. He’s a dumb animal, a yellow-faced ape, and shouldn’t be treated like a man.” His words sent a sharp pang to my heart. “Knees!” he cried, pressing my shoulder with the side of the cleaver.

Heedless of his order, I said, “I’m going to have you arrested.”

“What?” He tipped his head back and went off into loud laughter. Unwittingly withdrawing the cleaver, he kept on, “You, such a little book bag, have me nabbed? Boy, you never fail to amaze me.”

“I’ll do it soon.”

“All right, I’m going to let your noggin stay on your neck for a while so I’ll see how you can nab me. Now, get out of here. Your grandpa’s tired of handling you today — I don’t want to soil my hands to beat the shit out of you. Do you hear me? Get out of my face!” He still held the knife before his chest. There was dried pig’s blood on the blade.

I braced myself to say to both him and the fat owner of this place, “I’m going to work in the Policy Office at the Provincial Administration. The first thing I shall do is have your business closed.”

He turned to look at the woman, who was visibly stunned by my words. Flaring his nostrils, he let down the cleaver, which hung along his thigh lifelessly. Beads of sweat emerged on his nose and cheeks. I left without another word.

Scarcely had I stepped out the door when the woman caught up with me and pleaded, almost in tears, “Please don’t have my business shut down. Have mercy, comrade! My brother’s just an asshole. He didn’t know who he was dealing with. He has eyes but they’re only rotten meatballs in their sockets, so he can’t see a high official in front of him. I’ll ask him to apologize to you. This place’s all we have. Please don’t wreck us. You can eat here for free. .”

I walked away without giving her a look, though she followed at my elbow for about fifty yards. I was shivering with fear and excitement; an itchy laugh was mounting to my throat, but I suppressed it. A long truck passed by carrying four concrete electrical poles, moaning fitfully and throwing up a cloud of dust. I was headed for the campus, amazed by the effect I had produced just by mentioning my future job. On the other hand, I was embittered, as the thug’s remark about the peasant rankled me more now. How right he was about him! I had intended to rescue that man, but he wouldn’t have had second thoughts about letting me be butchered alone. I felt betrayed, realizing he was one of those people I meant to help.

The memorial service for Mr. Yang was held the following day at New Wind Crematorium, which was at the foot of One Thousand Buddhas Mountain, two miles south of the city. Meimei had come back the night before and attended the service. Most of the faculty of our department were present; so were several school officials. Mrs. Yang, Meimei, and I wore black armbands and white roses made of gauze on our chests. People came to us and gave their condolences. Meimei wiped her eyes with a foulard handkerchief the whole time and kept saying if only she had been with her father when he was dying. I stood beside her as though I already belonged to her family. And most people shook my hand too.

Mr. Yang lay in a massive coffin, which most of the dead shipped here would occupy for a few hours or a day before being pushed into the furnace at the back of the house. On either side of the coffin stood a thick white candle, shedding bronze light on the long strips of paper attached to the wreaths that stretched away toward the side walls. The strips carried elegiac words, such as In life you were a man of distinction; in death, an immortal spirit! Boundless glory to you! Your noble soul will never perish! You will live in our memory forever! Mr. Yang looked awful, his face shiny with a thick layer of rouge and his bloodless lips slightly apart. A fat fly crept into his mouth and a moment later came out, zigzagging on his chin. All his wrinkles had disappeared, but his features didn’t seem to have relaxed; he looked as though still thinking hard about something. His hair seemed wet, combed back neatly and parted in the middle, and it exuded an odor like ammonia water.

Professor Song, as the departmental chair, delivered the memorial speech. He praised Mr. Yang as a diligent, erudite scholar and a model teacher, who had loved the people and the Party with “a pure heart like a newborn baby’s,” and whose death was a great loss to the university and to our country. He wanted all the mourners to transform our grief into energy and strength so as to carry on my teacher’s cause, which was to build a first-rate literature department that would eventually offer a Ph.D. program. He concluded with a small sob, “Comrade Shenmin Yang, may you sleep in peace. Your heroic spirit will always remain with us.”

Then the pair of black loudspeakers hung up in the corners of the hall bellowed out the mourning music as loudly as though some monsters had broken loose and were haunting this place. People lined up to pay their last respects to Mr. Yang. Among them were Weiya and Kailing. When it was Kailing’s turn, she burst into tears at the foot end of the coffin, crying, “Professor Yang, we still have many books to translate together. Why did you leave so soon?” She wailed with abandon, hands holding her sides. No one seemed surprised, probably because she had a reputation for being visceral. I stole a glance at Mrs. Yang, whose face remained unchanged, sad but dignified.

A few women teachers of the Literature Department shed tears, too; even some men had wet eyes. Weiya stood by a half-moon window, motionless as if lost in thought. She didn’t show much emotion, though she seemed ill, colorless, her cheeks more prominent. I couldn’t help but look askance at her. She was unaware of my observation and absently held something in her hand, perhaps a key or a tiny pen. However, as she went to the coffin and bowed deeply to Mr. Yang, I noticed a solitary tear hanging on her right lower lid. The tear didn’t move, as though congealed. She turned and hurried away, her face rather haggard, bonier than before. Approaching the door, she covered her mouth with her palm, and her shoulders trembled. With lurching steps she left alone before the others.