Cries in the Drizzle (32 page)

I was on my own, clearly, but I took the plunge anyway. Loudly I declared that I would not write a self-criticism, no matter what. My classmates looked at me in wonder. My voice shook, and I felt that I, a ten-year-old, had truth on my side. Yes, I was right. The teacher had said so himself, that it's impossible not to have weaknesses. “The teacher sometimes can be wrong ”—that was what I told them.

I spent the whole day full of myself; here I was, just a child, but already I could recognize the defects of grown-ups! I imagined the following scene: the teacher and I would engage in a debate in class, and because I had justice on my side I would speak with great eloquence and brilliant witticisms would slip effortlessly from my tongue. Even though the teacher was an able debater, he could not call on truth to support him, so of course he would lose the argument. He would make a touching admission to this effect and praise me with fine words. The girls would all look at me with admiration—the boys too, of course—and they would praise me as well (by that age I already knew it was a pleasure to
be liked by girls). At this point my imagination had to take a rest because tears filled my eyes. I wanted to savor this blissful scene.

While my emotions ran high, our teacher was cool and collected and paid me no mind. This made me nervous and I couldn't help but challenge my own judgment: could it be that the teacher was right? I
had
been involved in the game, after all, and if I hadn't thrown the ball to Liu Xiaoqing, who threw it to that other boy, how could he have broken the window? I ended up worrying myself sick, and the idea of debating the teacher in class seemed preposterous.

But then my confidence revived, courtesy of Li Xiuying. When cleaning the window, I could not stop myself from asking her if it was all right for me to throw a ball on the playground. Li Xiuying said that of course I could. Then I asked her whether I was at fault if one of my classmates broke a window. Her answer was even firmer: “If somebody else broke it, what has that got to do with you?”

Vindicated at last, I was no longer afraid of my own shadow. Nobody could alter my conviction that I was right.

In the face of the teacher's continued indifference, it was not long before this newfound self-possession began to wane, and dejection set in. At first I had been so looking forward to conducting a debate with the teacher. At night I would prepare feverishly, and in the morning give myself a pep talk. But at the sound of the class bell my heart would thump. My greatest worry was that I would have stage fright and be unable to say a word when the moment came. The teacher's lack of interest only fueled my insecurity. Eventually, however, my equilibrium was restored, as I put the incident behind me and began to forget about it. The teacher might well have forgotten about it ages ago, I told myself. The
Imperial Army was in town again and he would be wreathed with smiles at the end of the day.

It was as though I had simply been arguing with myself in my own mind, playing both the teacher and myself at the same time, and now at last I abandoned the game out of sheer exhaustion. I threw myself instead into playground activities, reclaiming my childhood, running and shouting without a care in the world. But then Guoqing came over to tell me that the teacher wanted to see me.

At once I was seized by anxiety, and despite the bright sunshine I gave a shiver as I headed off toward the teacher's office. The carefree shouts of Guoqing and the others sounded behind me, and I knew that the moment I had been anticipating and now dreaded had finally arrived. Although I tried desperately to retrieve the brilliant arguments that I had been rehearsing for so long, not a single one now came to mind. I could feel my lips trembling and was on the verge of bursting into tears, but I urged myself not to cry, to be brave. No doubt the teacher would scold me most harshly, and maybe he would come up with some outlandish way of punishing me, but I must not cry, because I had done nothing wrong. That's right, I had done nothing wrong—it was the teacher who was wrong. That's what I should say to him. I needed to speak slowly and not be browbeaten by a burst of rage or alarmed by a cheery grin. With these thoughts swirling in my head I entered the teacher's office, relieved that I had recovered my courage once again.

The teacher nodded to me amicably. He was talking to another teacher, a smile on his face. As I stood there, I noticed that he was fiddling with a sheaf of papers in his hand, the first of which was Liu Xiaoqing's self-criticism. While he chatted with his
colleague, he slowly turned over the pages, exposing all the confessions one after another. At the bottom of the pile I saw Guo-qing's self-criticism, written in very large characters. At this point the teacher turned around and asked me genially, “What about
your
self-criticism?”

That was when I fell to pieces. His display of my classmates’ confessions had sapped my courage, and I said with a stutter, “I haven't… quite finished it yet.”

“When will you have it done?” His inquiry was couched in a mild tone.

I replied eagerly, “I'll have it finished very soon.”

In my last year in Littlemarsh I entered fourth grade. One Saturday afternoon I was downstairs lighting the coal briquette stove when Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing ran up and delivered a sensational piece of news: somebody had written a slogan in chalk on the wall of our classroom, calling for the ouster of our teacher. “Down with Zhang Qinghai!” it read.

They seemed unusually excited, complimenting me, saying what guts I had, how that damned Zhang Qinghai should have been overthrown long ago, what fiendish punishments we had all suffered at his hands. I found their excitement infectious. By heaping such honor on me for having written the slogan, they made me really wish I had. But I knew I should be honest, and I told them with a trace of embarrassment, “I didn't do it.”

The disappointment that I saw on their faces left me feeling bad. They seemed crushed to learn that I wasn't the fearless author, that there was no truth to Liu Xiaoqing's assertion of just a moment earlier, “You're the only one who would have the guts to do that.”

To my mind Guoqing was more daring than I was, and I said
so, not at all out of modesty. Guoqing clearly accepted my tribute, because he nodded and said, “If you'd asked me to do it, I would have written it too.”

Liu Xiaoqing quickly chimed in with an identical comment, forcing me to say the same thing. I hated to disappoint them a second time.

I had walked into a trap, never thinking for one moment that Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing had come at the teacher's behest to probe into my involvement. When Monday morning came around, fool that I was, I went off to school as happy as a lark. But before I knew it I had been led into a small room, where Zhang Qinghai and a woman teacher named Lin began to question me.

Teacher Lin first of all asked me if I knew about the slogan. There in that little room, with the door shut tight, the two grownups stared at me aggressively. I nodded and said I knew.

But when she asked me how I knew, I hesitated. Could I tell them how delighted Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing had been? If they too were called in, what would they think of me? Surely they would denounce me as a traitor.

I looked at them tensely, still unaware that they suspected me. The woman teacher inquired in a sugary voice if I had come to school on Saturday afternoon or Sunday. I shook my head. I saw her give Zhang Qinghai a smile. Then, quick as a flash, she swiveled around and asked me, “So how do you know about the slogan?”

Her sudden question startled me. Zhang Qinghai, who had said nothing up to this point, asked me softly, “Why did you write the slogan?”

I was quick to defend myself. “I didn't write it.”

“Don't lie!” Teacher Lin thumped the table and went on.
“You know about the slogan, and if you haven't come to school, how else could you know?”

I had no option but to reveal the role played by Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing, otherwise I had no hope of clearing myself. But they showed not the slightest interest in my explanation of how I heard the news, and Zhang Qinghai told me point-blank, “I have compared the handwriting, and there's no question that it's yours.”

He said it with such confidence. Tears spilled from my eyes. I shook my head in desperation, pleading with them to believe me. By this time they were both sitting, and now they simply exchanged glances, paying no attention to my defense. My weeping was a magnet for my classmates, who clustered at the window to watch me cry—though the disgrace was the least of my problems. The woman teacher got up to drive them away and closed the window. First they had closed the door and now the window was closed too. Zhang Qinghai asked me, “Did you or did you not say that if you'd been asked, you would have written it?”

I looked at him, appalled. I had no idea how he knew this. Could he have eavesdropped on our Saturday-afternoon conversation?

The bell rang for the start of class, giving me a temporary respite. They told me to stand there and not move an inch while they went to teach their classes. After they left I stood alone in the small room; although there were chairs right next to me, I dared not sit down. There was a bottle of red ink on a desk, and I really wanted to pick it up and have a closer look at it, but they had said I was not to budge. All I could do was to look out the window at the playground. Children from higher grades lined up and then broke up into groups, to play ball or jump rope. Physical education was my favorite class. From the classroom opposite I could hear the
faint sound of children reading aloud. I wished so much that I could be in among them, but I could only stand here in dishonor. Two older boys tapped on the window and I heard them calling, “Hey, why were you crying just now?”

More tears came, and I sobbed miserably. On the other side of the window they had a big laugh.

After the bell for the end of class I saw Zhang Qinghai leading Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing over. I wondered how they had come into the picture and thought it must have been because I had implicated them. They saw me through the window, and their eyes rested on me for just a second before turning away in scorn.

I was devastated by what happened next. Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing informed against me, testifying that on Saturday afternoon I had said, “If you'd asked me, I would have written it.” Teacher Lin pointed a finger in my direction as she turned to Zhang Qinghai and said, “If this is the way he thinks, then he's certainly up to writing that slogan.”

“But they said the same thing!” I protested.

Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing quickly put this in context for the teachers: “We said that only to draw him out.”

I looked at them in despair while they glared at me. The teachers told them to leave.

What a harrowing morning that was. The two grown-ups took turns attacking me, but I stuck to my story as the tears streamed down my face. They managed to cow me by yelling all of a sudden or banging the table impatiently, and there were several moments when I was so frightened that I trembled all over and could not say a word. Teacher Lin used every threat in the book, short of vowing to shoot me. In the end, she turned gentle and told me patiently that the Public Security Bureau had an apparatus used to analyse
handwriting, and just a short test could establish that the writing in the slogan was identical to that in my homework notebook. This was the only ray of hope that came my way the whole morning, but at the same time I was worried that the device might make a mistake, so I asked her, “Could it get things wrong?”

“Impossible.” She shook her head emphatically.

This was an enormous relief, and I said to them happily, “Then hurry up and do the test.”

But they remained fixed in their chairs, looking at each other for quite some time. Finally Zhang Qinghai said, “You may go home for now.”

The bell for the end of the session had already rung by then, and finally I could leave the little room. Though I had temporarily regained my freedom, I was still confused about everything that had happened. Somehow, in my dazed state, I managed to make my way to the school gate, and there I spotted Guoqing and Liu Xiaoqing. Tears spilled from my eyes at the thought of their betrayal, and I went up to them and said, “How could you do that?”

Guoqing looked ill at ease. His face reddening, he said, “You did something wrong, so we have to draw a clear line between us and you.”

For his part, Liu Xiaoqing said smugly, “I'll tell you what happened: the teacher sent us to monitor what you said.”

It had taken no time at all for adult authority to reduce to ruins what had been a beautiful young friendship. For many weeks following I did not say another word to them. Only when I was about to go back to Southgate and turned to Guoqing for help did he and I recover our closeness, but that was also the moment when we said good-bye. I never saw him again after that.

At the end of lunch break I was so silly as to sit down in the classroom in preparation for the afternoon's lessons. As soon as Zhang Qinghai came in, notes in hand, he saw me and asked me with a look of astonishment, “What are you doing here?”

What was I doing there? I was there to attend class, of course, but now that he had posed the question in this way I was no longer so sure. “Stand up,” he said.

I stood up, flustered. He told me to leave, so I went out, all the way to the middle of the playground, where I looked around, uncertain where he wanted me to go. After some hesitation I plucked up the courage to go back to the classroom, where I nervously asked Zhang Qinghai, “Sir, where do you want me to go?”

He turned and asked me in his gentle voice, “Where were you this morning?”

I looked back at the little room on the other side of the playground, and now I understood. “I need to go to that little room?” I asked.

He nodded approvingly.

So that afternoon I continued to be shut up in the little room, and my stubborn refusal to confess made them angry. The result was a visit to the school by Wang Liqiang. Dressed in his uniform, he listened attentively to their accusations, glancing at me several times with a reproachful look on his face. I was hoping that he would listen just as seriously to my side of the story, but after hearing the teachers out he showed not the slightest interest in learning what I had to say. He reminded them in an apologetic tone that I was adopted, and already six when I came under his charge. He said to them, “As you know, once a child reaches that age, it's hard to change his character.”