“I went to Beihai Park just now. I thought we deserved to have something good.” Lin Guiru started to blush. She turned to face the stove and busily set the pot on it.
At his wife’s back, Shi Wangcai frowned. Beihai Park was closed that day for important foreign guests. That was why Sun Lanfen had called everyone to clear the street. He was unwilling to expose Lin Guiru’s lie because it was too hurtful to both of them. Why then had he asked such a question that would trap her? “If you don’t trust me, that’s your problem.” Lin Guiru’s words rang in his ears.
Shi Ding came back home just then, with a plate wrapped in a kitchen towel. “Dad, look what I’ve got,” he said, rushing into the kitchen. “Oh, Mum, you’re home too. Look.” He unwrapped the plate to reveal three sweet smelling shallot pancakes. “Ermei’s father gave them to us. I’ve had some already – delicious.”
“You went to bother Ermei again? And begging for food too?” Lin Guiru did not like Dong Ermei. The girl was precocious and would draw Shi Ding into her web.
“No, Mr Dong called me in. Don’t jump to conclusions. Chairman Mao says: ‘No investigation, no right to speak’.” He turned to his father. “Dad, what you did is amazing. Mr Dong worships you now. He asked Ermei to learn from me because I’m your son. Ha, ha, wait till Wang Lixin hears this.” He tore off a piece of pancake, stuffed it into his mouth and began to help putting dishes on the dining table.
During lunch, Shi Ding explained to his mother what his father had done for Mr Dong. Then he asked, “Dad, why did you need exactly thirty-six bricks?”
“Well, you know, Mr Dong is such a worrywart, I had to be careful.” His son had lifted Shi Wangcai’s mood, so he explained in high spirits, “Traditionally, six is a lucky number ensuring things will be smooth and easy. Six sixes are thirty-six, which we call ‘the number of plain-sailing’.”
“Neat! And this is 1966! You didn’t tell him, did you, Dad?” Shi Ding was excited. “I’ll tell them after lunch.”
“You will not!” Lin Guiru opened her mouth. “Listen to yourself, all this superstitious rubbish. What planet are you living on?”
“Look, Mr Dong was horrified,” said Shi Wangcai. “You didn’t see his face. Our yard leader Sun Lanfen asked me to sort things out.” He defended himself, emphasising Sun’s title. “Besides, superstition or not, if you believe in it, it exists, just like those ghosts you say you’ve seen.”
“Definitely!” Shi Ding echoed his father. “Mum, tell me how to explain this.” He described his dream, how it matched the reality and how his words in the dream were the same as Aunt Sun’s call to the yard.
Lin Guiru smirked. “Ha, easy! We watched The White-Haired Girl last night on Professor Ruan’s TV, so naturally a white-haired woman appeared in your dream; Aunt Sun was calling people to clear the snow all morning long so that’s what you heard in your shallow sleep.”
“Mum, you can’t be so dismissive. What you just said …”
“Can we just enjoy the food?” Shi Wangcai snapped. “I haven’t been to sleep yet.” He rarely raised his voice so the other two shut up immediately. A silence fell. Shi Wangcai finished first. He stood up, looked at his watch and said to Shi Ding, “Wake me up at six, will you?”
“You can sleep longer, if you like. I’ll cook dinner.” Lin Guiru offered. She felt the need to please her husband.
“It’s only twelve now. Six hours sleep should be enough. I need to put the finishing touches to Professor Ruan’s bookcases.”
“Does it have to be tonight? You’ve done your good deed for today.” Lin Guiru was poised to continue, but caught herself. She had done enough and should not take a further risk. “Anyway, if you say so. Those bookcases are magnificent. Don’t you think, Shi Ding? I was so proud.”
“Yeah, Dad, Professor Ruan kept on plying us with candies and cakes. That’s the first time I’ve tasted chocolate.” Shi Ding suddenly remembered. “Oh, Dad, she was out clearing snow this morning and asked after you. But I didn’t tell her you were doing a job for Mr Dong.” He turned to his mother. “I know what to say and what not to say. Okay?”
III
Ruan Qiling had been restless for two days and two nights. This morning, not seeing Shi Wangcai among the snow cleaners had troubled her further. All she could focus on was what he would do with what he now knew.
She had been a widow for almost twenty years. Many of her marital memories, of love or hatred, resentment or regret, had become blurred over time. But in recent months, her husband’s image had reappeared and her marriage had come back to haunt her. It all peaked two days ago, with Shi Wangcai.
From the start of the September semester of 1965, the peace that had enveloped Beifang University campus had dissipated. Big questions like “Is our society free of hidden enemies who want to subvert the new China?” and “What role has literature played in politics?” were suddenly on the agenda. The sensitive students were on the alert. Ruan Qiling kept her usual low profile, hoping to avoid attention. However, one afternoon the party secretary of the Literature Department invited her into his office.
Ruan Qiling taught world literature. Her special area, late nineteenth to early twentieth century American literature, seemed safe, because it could neither be linked to aristocratic decadence, nor be charged with current American imperialism. But her heart still sank when she was summoned.
Secretary Zhang, a slightly built southerner, thirty or so, invited her in with a humble smile. “Sit down please, Professor Ruan.” He was one of the university’s own graduates so Ruan Qiling had known him for more than a decade. Before being promoted to his present position, he had been a union leader and had once tried to do some matchmaking for Ruan Qiling. Although he did not succeed, the episode had made them acquainted.
“I’ve heard that you’re popular with the students. Congratulations.” He observed her with alert eyes.
Ruan Qiling knew that she had not been invited to be congratulated, so she sat up straight, listening with respectful attention.
“You’ve been teaching Henry James recently. Am I right?”
“Yes, to our fourth year students, as an elective course.” She paused, but when he said nothing she continued: “James has been rising in critical esteem as a master of late nineteenth to early twentieth century literary realism, so I’ve chosen a few works to demonstrate his reputation.”
“Fine.” The secretary nodded. “Now, tell me, how do you see his work?”
Ruan Qiling was on her guard. “I first inform my students that James was a politically conservative writer. Although he’s a representative figure in realism, his depiction of society is far from realistic. He condemned revolution, had contempt for the working class and idealised the elite class …”
“Yes, yes, that’s good, but how do you illustrate his literary achievement?” Secretary Zhang looked at her intently.
“My teaching focuses on his portrayal of characters and personal relationships.” She stopped, noticing a very subtle nod from Zhang. Did it mean “good point” or “got you”?
“Of course, all this has to be put into the right social context,” she added carefully.
“Indeed, indeed, go on.” Secretary Zhang stretched both arms behind his head and began to rock his chair backwards and forwards. His back was to a west-facing window, so the afternoon sun cast his face in and out of shadow, making it hard to see his expression. Meanwhile, Ruan Qiling sat before him bathed in light.
“James’s remarkable achievement is that his characters are rounded. As they move through different relationships the reader’s point of view keeps shifting, making it hard to come to definitive judgments.” Ruan Qiling had given up guessing and