Under the Red Flag (21 page)

“Yes.”

“Shame on you!” Wang thumped the table. “Your woman was big with your child and went to town selling chickens for you, while you were screwing her sister at home. What kind of a man do you think you are?”

“I’m sorry.” Lu hung his head low.

“Sorry, too late,” Wang shouted. Then he moved his head closer to Lu and asked in a soft voice, “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. Couldn’t contain myself.”

“No, it’s not a problem of self-control,” Secretary Zhao broke in. “You have too many bourgeois thoughts in your brain. Though you’re a descendant of a poor peasant, those thoughts have corrupted your mind and driven you to commit the crime.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Lu admitted.

“Tell us why you had sex with both your wife and her sister,” Wang resumed. “What’s the difference between them? Aren’t they dishes from the same pot?” Wang’s baggy eyes searched Lu’s face.

“Don’t know. I can’t tell the difference.” Lu was bewildered by the question, but he told the truth. He had never thought of differences between the two women.

“All right, let’s come back to the first time. Where did it happen?” Wang asked.

“In the sorghum field by the reservoir.”

“Talk more about it. Describe how you two met there, who started it, what you said to each other, how you did everything there. From the beginning to the end.”

“I’ve forgotten the details.”

“Lu Han …” Secretary Zhao spoke in a serious voice. “You’ve been trying to evade the questions. I hope you understand that this attitude will put you in an awkward situation, which will require us to take necessary measures.”

“Yes, I do, I do.”

“Tell us everything then,” Wang went on. “Who can believe you forgot the first time.”

Lu began weeping. “I don’t remember clearly.”

“All right, tell me who opened pants first?”

“Mmm—, she o-opened mine.”

“See, you remember it well. Then what did she do?”

“She, she—”

“Don’t mince your words.”

“She took me into her mouth.”

The secretary, the director, and the scribe all chuckled but immediately became solemn again. Lu kept his head low and dared not look at them.

“What did she say?” Wang asked.

“I can’t recall.”

“We’re sure you remember. You refuse to tell us, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Tell us then.”

“She said, said—”

“Said what?”

“She said, ‘I love this—this chunk of flesh best.’”

They burst out laughing. Lu shuddered, his face covered with sweat. A cold tingle ran down his spine. He knew he had said too much. The villagers would soon know what he said, and
other villages would hear of those words as well; his in-laws, too humiliated, would chop him to pieces.

“Tell us, did your wife ever do that to you?” Wang asked.

“No.” Lu shook his head.

“See, that’s the difference. Just now I asked you why you ate two dishes from the same pot. You said you don’t know. You’re dishonest, lying to us. How can you receive any clemency?”

Lu wiped the tears and sweat off his face. He hated himself for having incurred such a misfortune—his family was broken and he could easily become a reactionary element. Everything had happened because he hadn’t been able to control his penis and had never thought of the consequence. Why couldn’t he wait for his wife until she gave birth to the child? His woman was much prettier than her sister. It served him right. However hungry, he shouldn’t have taken food indiscriminately.

Secretary Zhao whispered in Wang’s ear. They apparently had to go somewhere for a meeting or a party. Wang nodded, then turned to Lu. “We stop here for today. This is just a beginning, and you haven’t shown us a sincere attitude yet. Go home and write out your confession. Describe every meeting with her to the smallest detail. Don’t leave out anything on purpose. We can tell where you play a shoddy trick. Is that clear?”

Lu looked at Wang and then at Zhao. His face contracted nervously and produced a false smile.

“We know you can write,” Secretary Zhao said. “You’re one of the few middle-school graduates in our Ox Village. If you can’t write, nobody can.”

“Yes, that’s why you always carry that thing,” Wang said, pointing at the Gold Dragon fountain pen stuck in Lu’s breast
pocket. Then he turned to the scribe and ordered, “Young Hsiao, give him stationery.”

Hsiao came over and put before Lu five pads of letter paper, two bottles of blue ink, three brand-new penholders, and a small box of nibs. “All are yours,” Hsiao said.

Lu took the stationery, stood up, and made a bow. He put on his cap and turned to the door.

For two days Lu worked on the first page of his confession. Indeed, he had written well in middle school and even won a prize for an essay on the advantages of planting trees, but he had never tried this sort of writing. In addition, he was uncertain what he should put into the confession. Whatever he wrote on paper would be kept in his file and could be used against him in the future. Moreover, those leaders would surely pass the writing around, and the whole village would read it. Some people had already known what he said two days before. This morning, while he was cutting grass for the geese near the village entrance, Chu drove the horse cart by, cracking his long whip and chanting, “I like this chunk of flesh best! I like this chunk of flesh best!” How he hated Chu. How he wanted to grab that whip, flog him to the ground, and thrash all the breath out of him. He regretted giving Chu a packet of cigarettes worth twenty-three fen.

No, he must not say anything like that again. It was a matter of life and death. He envisaged his four brothers-in-law, led by their father, brandishing scythes and spades in search of him. Even the two screaming sisters-in-law wanted to scratch and bite him. From now on, every word he said had to be carefully thought out.

On the other hand, if he didn’t satisfy the leaders, they could handle his case in whatever way they liked. They could punish him as a criminal, to warn those who dared to disobey them. Or, at least, they could assign him an extra amount of work every day in the name of reforming him through labor. However well he wrote, he could never please both his in-laws and the leaders.

Full of remorse, he again cursed himself and regretted having the affair with Fuli. Life was so miserable. He had done himself in without second thoughts. If only he could have stopped lusting for women. How wise were Buddha’s words: Desire and lust were the source of disaster. He looked down at his crotch and cursed his penis again. The little devil always went its own way.

He was supposed to turn in the confession the next evening, but he was still on the first page. He had quoted a long passage from Chairman Mao, criticized himself with severe words, and talked about the liberal nature of his offense. Yet these items formed only a beginning to the confession. He had to fill out several pages at least. He was beating his brains about how to continue.

Having mused for hours, he decided to write about the day when they went to bed together. He began with how he had seen his wife off with the chickens in front of the tofu plant, and how he had carried back two buckets of water from the eastern well. When he returned, Fuli was naked on the large brick bed waiting for him. She asked him to bolt the front door, which he did. At first he felt uneasy; then he let himself go and did it with her.

He managed to draft three pages and copied them out in clean handwriting. After reading the manuscript aloud twice, he felt pretty good about it.

The next evening he took the confession to the brigade’s office in hope of persuading the leaders of his sincerity. The same men waited for him. Unlike the last time, a mug of hot tea was on the desk before Lu.

After glancing through the confession, Secretary Zhao handed it to the scribe and asked him to read it out, since Director Wang was illiterate. Zhao lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward Lu, his narrow eyes fixed on Lu’s sallow face. Lu trembled and looked away.

No sooner had Hsiao finished reading than Wang stood up and pointed at Lu’s nose. “What goddamn confession is this? Screw your ancestors. Three pages full of farts! You took away five pads of good paper but returned only three pages of rubbish. Do you want to confess or not?”

“Yes, I do. S-sorry, I’m still learning how—how to write.”

“Your confession does include one truthful sentence, though,” Secretary Zhao put in. “Do you know what one?”

“No, I don’t. Please enlighten me.”

Zhao picked up a page and read it out. “When I was back with the water, I saw her lying on the bed stark naked, like a huge fresh ginseng-root.” He threw the page on the desk and asked, “Do you know why I say it’s a good sentence?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Because it tells what you saw and how you felt at that very moment.”

“Yes,” Wang said, “Secretary Zhao’s right. Write like he said. Don’t cut corners.”

“We give you a week for a complete confession,” Zhao said deliberately.

“Go home,” Wang ordered, “and recall all the twenty times.
Write down all the facts and details. Make no less than a hundred pages.”

Lu managed to get up, but forgot to bow before moving to the door. With his head heavy and something like mosquitoes buzzing in his ears, he staggered out of the office.

He slept only three or four hours every night, working hard on the confession. Still, he wrote no more than five pages and was uncertain if they were acceptable. Of course he dared not tell them anything in detail. That would destroy his sister-in-law’s life. The leaders would surely send a letter to the local Party branch in charge of the area where Fuli was now. Who would want to marry her if everybody knew of what they had done in the cornfields, in haystacks, in bushes, in pigpens, in the pump house? A detailed confession would also ruin his own family—his wife would never come back with his son. He was very lucky that his first-born was a boy, because the rule allowed nobody to have a second child. His luck was what made others jealous, particularly Director Wang, who had only a granddaughter. Because he was a leader and a Party member, Wang couldn’t allow his son’s wife to have another child, thus breaking the rule that everyone was eager to tamper with. Those bastards—they could never bear to see others’ happiness.

Lu’s eyes grew bleary from writing under an oil lamp. Though full of self-disgust, he constantly imagined different ways to get out of the trouble. He knew he could never meet the standard set by the leaders. More than a hundred pages? That was a book, and they might make many copies of it. The whole village would read it, and probably all the commune cadres too. He was no writer and had no time to learn to be one. Even if he were, he
wouldn’t dare to write such a book. But in two days he would have to hand it in; by no means could he get it ready. How, oh how could he find a way out of the crisis?

He thought of giving gifts to the leaders, but he wouldn’t have any real money until the end of the year, when the brigade’s annual account was settled. Those leaders wouldn’t accept promises. Four months remained—and no distant water could quench the fire here and now. However, one thing continually came to his mind and tickled his brain: General Chou’s Shrine at Sea-Watch Cliff was said to be about to open after being in ruins for eight years. The temple had been built in memory of a national hero, Chou Wu, who a hundred years ago led the Chinese troops and civilians in burning the ships of the Japanese invaders and driving them back into the sea. In order to inspire patriotism among the Chinese, the present government decided to restore it. Lu heard that the temple was under repair and that monks were being recruited.

The ocean of misery has no bound, he thought; repent and the shore is at hand. Why don’t you give it a try? Good, quit the whole thing. I’ll leave this mess behind and go into the mountain. For sure, they won’t bust the temple and drag me out. That would violate the Party’s religious policy and they would get themselves into trouble. Being a monk, I’ll have time to study, have food and clothes always, and no worry about earthly affairs. I’m fed up with the farm work here. You work your ass off but get no pay if the harvest is poor. Fulan has her place to go; I too have somewhere to stay. I won’t come back, even if she begs me on her knees. Let her learn a lesson from being a widow with a husband alive.

What if you don’t like the temple? Why worry so much? If
it’s no good in there, you can always come back. Who’ll force you to be a monk? No time to waste; you must leave as soon as possible. Hide away for a while. In a few weeks I’m sure they’ll lose interest in the case. At least I’ll have enough time there to figure out a new way to deal with them.

A few lines of Chairman Mao’s poetry echoed in his mind: “Many things must be done in a hurry / Heaven and earth spin—time presses / Ten thousand years are too long / We must seize every hour.” Yes, go. The longer the night lasts, the more nightmares will come up.

He got up, grabbed his pen, and wrote on a blank sheet of paper,

Respectable Leaders:

Having understood the gross nature of my crime, I have decided to become a monk. I love our country and am grateful to the Party, but I feel too ashamed to face anybody in the village, so I am leaving now for a temple where I can continue self-examination and self-education. I will study hard there and live a new, peaceful life. Farewell, my dear comrades.

Yours guilty,

Lu Han

P.S. Please inform my wife of my leaving so that she can come back and take care of the house and the pigs. I really appreciate this.

He wrapped into a blanket his summer clothes and his only two packets of Great Gate cigarettes, and tied them up with a rope. With all his secret personal savings—eleven yuan—in his
pocket, and the clothes bundle on his back, he went into the kitchen and drank two scoops of cold water. He returned to blow out the lamp, then walked into the dark.

The night was cool and moonlit, filled with insects’ chirring and frogs’ croaking. He was not afraid of wolves. What he really feared was man, to him the most vicious animal and the most dangerous thing, because only man knew how to trap you. He ran as fast as he could and forced himself not to listen to any distinct sound. Fortunately, the temple was not far away, only four and a half kilometers from Ox Village. In twenty minutes it emerged in the distance. The glazed tiles shimmered in the moonshine, and the curved eaves stretched along the ridge of a hill and were shaded by the huge crowns of trees. On the roof perched the statuary lions and tigers that seemed alive and ready to stand up and patrol like guarding gods. What a view, Lu thought; it must be a place where immortals visit. He hastened his steps and felt he had made a wise decision. Anyone who lived in that majestic temple would enjoy longevity and happiness. Yes, he said to himself, go there, and forget the hubbub and turmoil at home.