Ha Jin - The Crazed

She leaned closer to me and said under her breath, “I’m leaving academia.”

“What? You’re going to work somewhere else?”

“No, I’ll stay in town and do my own thing.”

“What thing are you talking about?” I couldn’t imagine she would abandon her regular job, which she had been so afraid to lose just a few weeks before.

“I’ll sell my paintings to support myself. In fact, I sold two pieces last week. Mr. Yang’s death made me think a lot about life. I’m already thirty-one. Heaven knows whether I can live another thirty years. Why should I continue to live under others’ thumbs?”

“You’re really brave.” I realized that with Mr. Yang gone, there was indeed no reason for her to remain at this university. Besides, giving up her teaching position would be an effective way to get out of Ying Peng’s clutches. Despite understanding the logic of her decision, I was still stunned; never had I thought she could be so strong-minded and so bold. “It’s a stupendous move, I’m impressed,” I said to her. “What does Yuman Tan say about this?”

“He supports me.”

“That’s good.”

“By the way, I’ve painted a portrait of Mr. Yang. Would you like to stop by and see it?”

“Sure, where is it?”

“At Yuman’s place.”

“I’ll stop by this weekend.”

Somebody clapped loudly. “May I have your attention please,” Vice Principal Huang said into the microphone. People quieted down, some taking seats. There weren’t enough benches, and many of us remained on our feet. Yuman Tan appeared from behind Weiya and stood next to her; he was so happy today that his mouth seemed unable to close, smiling at everybody while his eyes darted in all directions. He looked rather silly with his hands thrust behind him like a smug official. I walked away to join Banping, still thinking about Weiya’s decision. I was amazed that within such a short period of time she had been able to utilize Yuman Tan’s apartment and make a breakthrough in her art. Heaven knew what she couldn’t accomplish if given more opportunities.

The vice principal started delivering the farewell speech, his silvery hair shimmering as he read from a sheaf of paper with affected gusto. It was annoying to hear him click his tongue every two or three sentences. Bored by the tedious speech, Banping told his wife, who was waving a magazine as a fan, that he was going to have a smoke outside. He tugged my sleeve, so I left the hall with him. We hadn’t met since Mr. Yang’s funeral, and I wanted to talk with him too. His eyes were lackluster with whitish gum in their corners, perhaps because he had been working hard on his detective novel lately. As soon as we got into the foyer, he asked me why I hadn’t taken the exams.

“Just didn’t want to,” I said sourly.

“Was it due to Mr. Yang’s death?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re too sensitive. You gave up too easily. If you don’t go to Beijing, what’s going to happen to your engagement to Meimei?”

“I’ve no idea.” I bristled. Two weeks ago he himself had advised me to leave academia, assuring me that I didn’t have to be a Party member to enter the Policy Office. Apparently he had heard that I, a non-Party man, was disqualified for the job. I wondered whether he knew how the new requirement for that position had come into existence.

Before I could ask him, Secretary Peng stepped out of the hall and said loudly, “Where have you been these days, Jian? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She was pretending; she had seen me with Weiya just now.

“What for?” I asked.

“We need to know what courses you’d like to teach next semester.”

“Anything.”

She was taken aback and said, “I’m serious.”

“I know how serious you have been.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You understand.”

“No, I don’t.”

As I was about to say something more, Meimei and a tall young man appeared atop the stairs, holding hands. The man wore a brand-new tuxedo with a bow tie like a giant butterfly. I had seen tuxedoed men in some Western movies before, but had never met anyone in the flesh wearing such a jacket. Meimei had on a white dress with red polka dots on it, its middle cinched by a cream-colored leatherette belt, which outlined her strong but shapely waist. Her gauzy dress billowed out a little, through which her streamlined thighs and underthings were partly visible against the harsh light at the landing. This was the first time I had seen her made up — her face was delicately powdered, her lips rouged crimson, and her eyebrows, penciled in the arching Russian style, stretched from the root of her nose to her temples. This way she looked a few years older, but still glamorous like an actress. On the other hand, her two little braids, which barely reached the base of her neck, kept her less exotic. With all the makeup, her face was rather rigid, smiling at no one in particular. As she and the man were coming down toward the door of the hall, she let go of his hand. My breath tightened, but I tried to steel myself to face her. Secretary Peng and Banping waved at them. Apparently they knew the young man, who returned their greetings, baring his broad teeth in a grin. He asked, “Are we late, Aunt Peng?”

“No, just on time. The dance hasn’t started yet,” replied the secretary, smiling ingratiatingly.

I felt it strange that the man had addressed Ying Peng in such a familiar manner. Meimei walked nonchalantly, her chest out and her chin up, the heels of her stilettos clattering on the terrazzo floor crisply. I intended to greet her and even opened my mouth twice, but no word came out because she wouldn’t deign to pay me a scrap of attention. It was as though I were a total stranger and she had spent many wild nights the previous summer not with me but with another man. I felt stupid and maimed.

The young man, lanky and dandified, had a horsy face and a sparse mustache. His hair, to which he must have applied a cup of pomade, was wet and shiny. They passed by, and Meimei left behind a minty scent. Though the fellow’s black jacket looked very expensive, his dark blue pants were baggy and too long, the cuffs scraping the floor.

As Banping watched the couple pass, his mouth fell ajar. He shook his heavy chin at me. “Is all this because you won’t go to Beijing?” he asked.

“Who is he?” I said almost in a shout.

“He’s Vice Principal Huang’s son, his only son. He teaches at Beijing Foreign Language Institute. He speaks French fluently. I heard he’s going to do research at the Sorbonne this fall, but I didn’t know he and Meimei were so close.”

My temples were hammering as things began to swim before my eyes. Unconsciously I stretched out my hand to hold Banping for support.

“Easy, take it easy,” said Ying Peng.

I regained my composure within seconds, though my heart was still shuddering. Shaky-footed, I hurried away to look for a place where I could be alone and untangle my thoughts.

I went out of the building and hid behind some lilac bushes. I sat against the wall beneath a window with my head in my hands. My neck hurt, stiff with a crick from the previous night. About fifty yards away, on a curved ramp, two girls were playing badminton with Ping-Pong paddles, which hit the birdie with rhythmic thuds. Somewhere people were laughing, and their laughter rose and fell in the gathering dusk.

Gradually my mind began working. So this was why Meimei had jilted me. The young man was in Beijing and must have been carrying on with her for a long time. At last I understood why Vice Principal Huang had visited Mr. Yang in the hospital — it was not about Weiya but about Meimei. He intended to help his son secure a relationship with my fiancée. This was the true meaning of his request “Let her decide what to do herself.” He was asking my teacher not to interfere with his daughter’s private life. I used to think that Mr. Yang’s death-bed instruction, “Save her,” referred to Weiya; now clearly he must have had his daughter in mind. But Meimei wasn’t in any danger, was she? She had dumped me of her own free will. Probably she joined that man with an eye to making sure that she could remain in Beijing if the pediatric program didn’t accept her. She knew how to take care of herself.