Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

“It happened a while ago and still hasn’t healed completely. The mayor himself personally called a professor at the hospital affiliated with the medical school to prescribe something, but it hasn’t helped.”

“Folk remedies can sometimes put famous doctors to shame,” Huang said. “He might have already recovered if I’d known earlier. I know someone whose family has many secret remedies for contusions and sprains. One plaster will take care of the injury.”

“That’s exactly what he needs. Let’s ask him to check Zhuang out, and then you’ll know if I’m the real the thing or not.”

They left to call on the man at his house, from where the three of them took a taxi to Shuangren fu Avenue.

. . .

After removing the gauze on Zhuang’s foot, the folk practitioner pressed down on a spot near the ankle, leaving an indentation that took a while to disappear.

“What so-called professor did that?” Huang said angrily. “More like a beast feasting on socialism. Just wait. Dr. Song here will put a plaster on your foot, and tomorrow you’ll be able to run and jump on the city wall.”

“Please don’t call me that,” the man said. “I’m not a doctor.”

“You’re one of those people who’d rather die than ask for help, like carrying a gold bowl to go begging. Why don’t you quit that lousy middle-school job with its terrible pay and open a private clinic? That way you could enjoy life. Take good care of Mr. Zhuang, and when his foot is healed, a celebrity like him could easily get you a license to practice.”

Zhuang asked why he was unable to practice. Huang said the man did not have a license and had to settle for a middle-school kitchen-supervision job, while writing prescriptions privately.

“You should be able to put your special skills to use,” Zhuang said emotionally. “Of course, you’d need a license from the Board of Health, and I don’t know anyone in that office. But I do know Mr. Wang, the neighborhood office director, whose cousin is a bureau chief at the Board of Health.”

“Did you hear that, Dr. Song?” Huang said. “What is a celebrity? A celebrity is not an ordinary person. We must strike while the iron is hot, as they say, and ask Mr. Zhuang to take us to see Director Wang, so he can contact the bureau chief. Your Buddhist master can lead you through the door, but the personal cultivation is up to you. After today, you can go see the man yourself; no need to bother Mr. Zhuang again.”

The good news was clearly more than Song had hoped for, but he hesitated. “Could it possibly work? And how can we ask Mr. Zhuang to make the trip today?”

Zhuang was not happy with the way Huang had appropriated his mention of a connection, but he was endeared to the honest-looking Song when he saw the embarrassed look on the man’s face. These days, in his view, doctors of Western medicine applied tests to see what was wrong with a patient, while practitioners of Chinese medicine boasted that they could cure anything. Earlier, when Song had looked at his foot, he had not said that he could guarantee a recovery, which told Zhuang that he had confidence in his healing abilities, and that he had not been able to get a license because he was poor at social networking. So Zhuang agreed to go with them. Song got up to use the bathroom, and Zhuang offered the toilet at his house, saying it was the sit-down type, much more comfortable than public toilets.

“Well, that’s precisely my problem,” Song said. “I’m not used to sit-down toilets.” So Liu Yue walked him out to the gate and pointed to the public toilet. Song was gone a long time, so Huang talked to Zhuang about the production at his plant, with effusive thanks for his article. Hong naturally brought up the gallery board of directors, but Zhuang told him to talk to Zhao Jingwu. Huang was about to say more when Hong cut in, “You’re sweating, Mr. Huang. Why don’t you go wash your face?”

With an embarrassed look, Huang wiped his face with his lapel. “Fat people can’t take the heat,” he said as he walked off to wash up at the sink, followed by Hong, who whispered, “Please don’t mention the board around Zhuang Laoshi. You heard me say that he gave me full authority to take charge. His injury has put him in a foul mood, and he would criticize my ability to get things done if you brought it up with him.”

“Why don’t you give me a copy of the bylaws? I’m short on cash this month, but I’ll come see you next month with the money.”

Hong handed him a copy, along with his business card. Song finally returned with a plastic bag filled with two cartons of Hongtashan cigarettes, two bottles of Hongxifeng liquor, and packages of sweet puffy rice snacks and sesame crackers.

“I thought you were going to the toilet,” a surprised Zhuang said, “not to buy gifts. I can’t accept them from someone who came to take care of my foot.”

“This is our first meeting, and it was impolite of me not to bring something,” Song said, red-faced. “Besides, you’ve agreed to take me to see Mr. Wang. My meager gifts can’t possibly repay you for your kindness.”

“Take them,” Huang said, “just take them. Dr. Song will be rich once he opens his clinic.”

“All right,” Zhuang said. “We’ll take these to Mr. Wang.” But Song objected, and they went back and forth until Zhuang agreed to keep one carton of the cigarettes. Song went out to hail a taxi while Huang and Hong helped Zhuang out into the lane, where they all piled into a taxi heading to Shangxian Road. When they got there, Mr. Wang was busy with someone at the neighborhood office and invited them to take a seat; he offered them water.

Wang’s visitor was a woman wearing a pair of white-framed glasses. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, tightly gripping a small purse on her knees. “Mr. Wang,” she was saying, “I’m extremely grateful for your concern and trust. I was so moved by your willingness to give me the task that I was still awake at three this morning. My sister thought I was involved with a man at that hour.”

“Doing what?”

“How should I put it? You see, my sister is worried about my marriage prospects, and she thought I might have a boyfriend.”

“The head of your factory said you didn’t have a boyfriend. Do you have one now?”

“On the day I graduated, I vowed not to marry until I’d made a name for myself. Mr. Wang, that is why I cherish this opportunity. At three this morning I came up with several possible plans. Should we adopt the Tang or the Ming-Qing style of architecture? I’m wondering if I could incorporate some elements of modern Western architecture, so it would look like an urban sculpture and a practical space for public use.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry to decide that. I’m confident you’ll do a fine job. I brought up your name when we were discussing candidates and stood my ground when the others objected. Now I can see I was right to pick you. But let me give you some advice: you must also think about your personal life. It’s hard to believe that a pretty girl like you is still single. You must have set the bar too high.”

“As I just said, I won’t consider marriage until I’ve accomplished something.” That elicited a frown from the director, who reached back to punch a sandbag hanging on the wall behind him. There was even a pair of boxing gloves next to the bag. Looking somewhat startled, she adjusted her glasses.

“Is the director a boxing fan?” she said.

“It helps me let off steam,” he replied. “I understand when you say you won’t get married until you’ve accomplished something. There are so many things to make a person unhappy these days. I assumed the directorship five years ago, and I still have the same job. How could I not be unhappy? But what can I do when I’m upset — beat someone up, kill someone? And who would that someone be? So I stay home with my old lady, who nags me if I even raise my voice to speak. That’s why I bought these boxing gloves, so I can punch the bag to vent my frustration.”