River Town_ Two Years On The Yangtze Part 21

I looked at my father; he was smiling and walking easily through the fields. For the first time I realized that he wasn't nearly as tired as me. All of Fuling had blazed past him in a bright blur, two years in ten days, and now he was going home. I envied him that-but at the same time I was thankful that he was right; I could go back to the peasant home anytime I wished.

SHORTLY AFTER MY FATHER LEFT, Adam's parents arrived, and he learned from some of my mistakes while repeating others. They stayed in Chongqing's Holiday Inn, but they caught the same kind of slow boat and had the same taxi adventures. And at the beginning his parents had the same frazzled look that I had seen in my father.

After a few days, Adam planned an evening lecture for the students. His parents, who used to live in the countryside of Wisconsin, would show some slides and talk about American farming. Adam went to the waiban waiban office and told Mr. w.a.n.g, who was the foreign affairs officer. This was something I hadn't done when my father lectured-my personal policy was to clear nothing with the office and told Mr. w.a.n.g, who was the foreign affairs officer. This was something I hadn't done when my father lectured-my personal policy was to clear nothing with the waiban waiban, because that only left you open to unpredictable complications. But Adam thought Mr. w.a.n.g might want to hear the lecture, and so he told him. Mr. w.a.n.g said that unfortunately the students would be busy on Wednesday night.

"They have cla.s.s?" Adam asked.

"They already have something planned. I'm sorry."

"That's no problem," Adam said. "We can do it on Thursday."

Mr. w.a.n.g laughed lightly. He always laughed lightly at everything. It was the sort of laugh that made you distrust Mr. w.a.n.g until you got to know him better, and then you trusted him even less.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," he said. "The students will be busy on Thursday, too."

"In the evening?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll talk with them and find a time that works, and I'll tell you. I thought you might want to hear the lecture, too."

"Actually," said Mr. w.a.n.g brightly, "it won't be possible for your parents to talk with the students."

"Why not?"

"People in the college have decided that it is not appropriate." He laughed again.

"How can it not be appropriate? They're studying English, aren't they? This is a good opportunity for them to practice, and it's only about farming-there's nothing political. They're just going to talk about the countryside where we used to live."

"Yes, but you must teach your own courses."

"My parents have taught for many years at an American college. They are better teachers than me, but if that's the problem, we can have an extra cla.s.s. I just think it's a good chance for the students to listen to different English speakers."

"Believe me, I I understand," said Mr. w.a.n.g, "I would very much like to hear their lecture, but Mr. Tan is opposed. I'm sorry about that." understand," said Mr. w.a.n.g, "I would very much like to hear their lecture, but Mr. Tan is opposed. I'm sorry about that."

This was one of Mr. w.a.n.g's favorite routines-Good Cadre/Bad Cadre. Mr. Tan was an upper-level administrator who was in charge of the waiban waiban, and usually he was Mr. w.a.n.g's Bad Cadre. In fact, we thought that Mr. Tan was the most likable administrator in the college, a friendly man who was far more honest with us. Things would have been simpler if we had been allowed to deal with him directly, but it was more useful to keep Mr. Tan at a safe distance, where he could be the Bad Cadre.

"How about this?" Adam said. "I'll teach the cla.s.s, and then afterward the students can ask my parents questions. Is that okay?"

"I'm afraid not."

"So my parents can't talk with the, students?"

"Oh, certainly they can talk with the students!"

"But if I have cla.s.s they can't say anything?"

"That's correct."

The next day Adam called role and canceled cla.s.s. The students were free to leave, he said, but if they wanted to stay and listen to Mr. and Mrs. Meier, they were welcome to do so. n.o.body left. His parents showed slides and lectured on American agriculture. The students asked questions. The questions were answered. No cadres were there, but undoubtedly they heard about it later.

By that semester we were growing less tolerant of the mindless political restrictions. Generally I avoided the cadres, which fortunately wasn't hard to do. I never went to the waiban waiban unless it was absolutely necessary, and I tried not to talk with any of the administrators. In my apartment I had two telephones: one for outside calls and a campus line. It worked nicely because only the cadres used the campus line, which I never answered. unless it was absolutely necessary, and I tried not to talk with any of the administrators. In my apartment I had two telephones: one for outside calls and a campus line. It worked nicely because only the cadres used the campus line, which I never answered.

Mr. w.a.n.g was the only one whom I really disliked-time and time again he had proven to be particularly oily and dishonest. I didn't feel the same way about any of the others, but something about them depressed me. Dean Fu was perhaps the saddest case, because I knew that he genuinely liked us and cared about our welfare, and yet he seemed to be under immense pressure from above, and a few times this had prevented him from being open with us. Invariably it was like that-there was always some pressure coming from above, the Bad Cadres pus.h.i.+ng the Good Cadres. There were lots of Good Cadres and you never met the Bad ones, but somehow they seemed to decide how everything worked.

Back in December, Sunni, Adam, and I had written a short version of A Christmas Carol A Christmas Carol, so our speaking cla.s.ses could perform the d.i.c.kens play. During our preparations, I was called into Dean Fu's office, where he told me nervously that under no circ.u.mstances could we teach Christmas carols to the students.

"You know that the Communist Party is very sensitive about spreading religion," he said. "I'm sorry, but the students are not allowed to sing Christmas songs in cla.s.s."

"Can we talk about Christmas at all? They're studying American culture."

"Yes. That is fine. But they can't sing songs."

"What about songs that aren't religious? There's a part in the play where they're supposed to be singing Christmas songs, and I could have them sing one that isn't about religion at all. You know, in America for many people Christmas isn't a religious holiday. For example, there's a song that goes, 'We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!'"

"No," said Dean Fu, still smiling tightly. "I'm afraid that we can have no songs about Christmas. I'm sorry, but you know it is not my decision."

I could have pointed out that even in spring the campus propaganda speakers, as part of their noon entertainment program, often played a Muzak version of "What Child Is This?" But I knew the argument was hopeless; there was no logic to any of it. And in the same spirit I instructed my cla.s.ses to replace the Christmas carols with patriotic Communist songs, which if anything improved d.i.c.kens. My favorite scene was when a furious Scrooge swung his cane at a band of merry carolers who were belting out "The East Is Red," singing the praises of Mao Zedong while the old man shouted, "Humbug!"

Most of our problems with the administration were more absurd than anything else, and rarely were they significant: I couldn't care less about teaching Christmas carols. But it seemed that after a year and a half some of this awkwardness should have pa.s.sed; we should have become good enough friends to speak comfortably about something so insignificant.

But other restrictions weren't so minor. Sunni and Noreen's Chinese tutors were two young women who worked in the English department, and over the course of the year they became good friends. During a holiday that spring, one of the teachers invited Sunni and Noreen to her home, and then, at the last moment, revoked the invitation, explaining that there was a problem with the road. It seemed strange-the spring rains hadn't yet arrived and there was no reason for a road to be washed out. And later we learned that department officials had instructed the young teacher not to invite the two waiguoren waiguoren to her home. Ostensibly the reason was that they were afraid something would happen to Sunni and Noreen, and the teacher would be responsible. But more likely the command stemmed from the same shapeless paranoia that had shadowed us from the start-the sense that to her home. Ostensibly the reason was that they were afraid something would happen to Sunni and Noreen, and the teacher would be responsible. But more likely the command stemmed from the same shapeless paranoia that had shadowed us from the start-the sense that waiguoren waiguoren were politically risky and should be kept at a distance. were politically risky and should be kept at a distance.

These commands always took place behind our backs, which was the worst part. It served to transfer the paranoia, until we overa.n.a.lyzed every minor conversation and every small change of plans, looking for signs of manipulation. When Sunni and Noreen told me about the canceled invitation, the first thing I did was go to the local bus station, where the drivers said exactly what I expected-the road wasn't washed out, which meant that somebody in the college had lied to Sunni and Noreen. It was a cla.s.sic pattern in any Communist system, where fear and paranoia pa.s.s from one level to the next, creating a network of perfect distrust.

But increasingly we realized that this distrust was well earned; our paranoia wasn't unfounded. We had friends who told us the way things worked, and it was startling to see the degree to which we were managed. When the movie t.i.tanic t.i.tanic came out that spring, one of our colleagues invited us to his home to watch the film on videodisc, but again the invitation was revoked at the last moment. Later, he explained candidly that the cadres had been afraid that the came out that spring, one of our colleagues invited us to his home to watch the film on videodisc, but again the invitation was revoked at the last moment. Later, he explained candidly that the cadres had been afraid that the waiguoren waiguoren would realize that the movie was pirated-a laughable cover-up considering that it was impossible to go anywhere in Fuling without having a vendor shove a bootleg copy of would realize that the movie was pirated-a laughable cover-up considering that it was impossible to go anywhere in Fuling without having a vendor shove a bootleg copy of t.i.tanic t.i.tanic in your face. The movie was so popular that they hung an enormous promotional sign above the local theater, a curious marriage of propaganda and advertising: in your face. The movie was so popular that they hung an enormous promotional sign above the local theater, a curious marriage of propaganda and advertising:

The Futong Jewelry Store is the Sole Sponsor of t.i.tanic t.i.tanic, Which Has Been Recommended by President and Party Secretary Jiang Zemin.

By now the department commands were often doubly self-defeating: not only did we realize that the movie was pirated, but we saw clearly the degree to which the college hoped to manipulate the world around us. At the same time, we recognized how inconsistent this control was, because in many other ways the college gave us impressive leeway. This was particularly true with regard to our teaching, which logically should have been where we were restricted the most. Apart from the occasional petty incident like Adam's lecture or the d.i.c.kens play, our teaching freedom was arguably greater than it would have been in America. n.o.body checked our syllabi or ha.s.sled us about course content, and we structured our cla.s.ses exactly as we wished. I was especially impressed that they even let us teach cla.s.ses like literature and culture, which often had strong political overtones.

For the most part they treated us well, and, considering Fuling's remoteness and lack of foreigners, they trusted us quite a bit. But that final small step hadn't yet been taken, and it was all the more frustrating because so many of the more important barriers were already gone. By the spring I realized that these last obstacles would not be removed during my time in Fuling, and I tried not to worry about it. Other aspects of life had gone much better.

In particular, our relations with the students had improved a great deal during the second year. Much of this was because of Adam, who had always been a more dedicated teacher, spending extra time with the students and helping them set up a library in our office. He was the first waiguoren waiguoren teacher to really win their trust, and, since in their minds the two of us were virtually indistinguishable, it was natural that they extended this trust to me. teacher to really win their trust, and, since in their minds the two of us were virtually indistinguishable, it was natural that they extended this trust to me.

But also time made a difference-they had known us for two years. This wasn't simply a matter of their coming to accept the waiguoren; waiguoren; we had changed a great deal, and now we had a much better understanding of how to approach them. They could still count on our informality, which from the beginning had distinguished us from other teachers on campus. But they also knew that we could be serious, and in those moments we weren't propagandists; in particular, we tended to be blunt when it came to discussing America. That semester I taught "Desiree's Baby" and Langston Hughes, while Adam's American Culture cla.s.s focused on the civil rights movement. He pulled no punches with that unit, which included videos of James Meredith lying beside a Mississippi highway, shot by a racist sniper. The students knew that n.o.body had forced Adam to show those films-he could have given positive lectures about American success in technology, or economics, or education-and it made the students more willing to be honest about things that they felt were important. we had changed a great deal, and now we had a much better understanding of how to approach them. They could still count on our informality, which from the beginning had distinguished us from other teachers on campus. But they also knew that we could be serious, and in those moments we weren't propagandists; in particular, we tended to be blunt when it came to discussing America. That semester I taught "Desiree's Baby" and Langston Hughes, while Adam's American Culture cla.s.s focused on the civil rights movement. He pulled no punches with that unit, which included videos of James Meredith lying beside a Mississippi highway, shot by a racist sniper. The students knew that n.o.body had forced Adam to show those films-he could have given positive lectures about American success in technology, or economics, or education-and it made the students more willing to be honest about things that they felt were important.

Another critical difference was that now we spoke Chinese. In the fall I had first started talking with some of the students in Chinese when I met them outside of cla.s.s, because they liked to hear what I was learning. But as time pa.s.sed, I realized that this wasn't simply a novelty; like me, they were completely different people when they spoke the language. They were much more at ease, and this wasn't just a linguistic issue; it was political as well.

One evening after Adam's parents left, I was eating in the Students' Home when Jimmy, Mo, and George stopped by. They were three of my favorite third-year students and we chatted lightly in English. They asked if Adam's parents had enjoyed Fuling, and I said that they had, except that they weren't particularly impressed by the cadres.

The three of them leaned close around the table. "Weishenme?" "Weishenme?" Jimmy asked softly. I answered in English: "Because they thought the Jimmy asked softly. I answered in English: "Because they thought the waiban waiban was rude to them, and they didn't understand why." was rude to them, and they didn't understand why."

"Women waiban gan shenme?"

Now I responded in Chinese, telling them the story. In China it was seriously disrespectful to make somebody's parents feel unwelcome, and there was disappointment in the students' eyes. I told them frankly about the way I saw the department, and how small incidents like this added up over time. Mo and George were both Party Members; a year ago I would never have spoken honestly to them in this way. But using Chinese made everybody more comfortable, including me.

As I began to meet the students more frequently outside of cla.s.s, I noticed how strong this pattern was: whenever something sensitive came up, we handled it in Chinese. It amazed me, because English should have been our secret language-virtually n.o.body else could understand it off campus, and it was the safest way to discuss such topics without anybody hearing. But even in a crowded restaurant like the Students' Home we switched to Chinese at key points, when we talked about politics, or s.e.x, or our guanxi guanxi with the college. Even the best students often made that s.h.i.+ft, despite their English being better than my Chinese. with the college. Even the best students often made that s.h.i.+ft, despite their English being better than my Chinese.

At last I realized that the fear wasn't of somebody else hearing. It was a question of comfort, because uncertain topics were more easily handled in their native language. But also I sensed that the true fear was of themselves: virtually all of the limits had been established in their own minds. English had been learned at school, and thus it was indistinguishable from the educational system and its political regulations. When they spoke the language, warning bells automatically went off in their heads-it was a school language, as well as a waiguoren waiguoren language, and in both of those contexts they had been trained to think and speak carefully. Once I realized that these limits were internal, I began to wonder if it was the same way with the Bad Cadres. Perhaps they existed only in a small corner of the Good Cadres' minds, a nagging fear that got the best of everybody's good intentions. language, and in both of those contexts they had been trained to think and speak carefully. Once I realized that these limits were internal, I began to wonder if it was the same way with the Bad Cadres. Perhaps they existed only in a small corner of the Good Cadres' minds, a nagging fear that got the best of everybody's good intentions.

THAT SPRING A NUMBER OF THE BOY STUDENTS decided that they needed English surnames. The foreign teachers had Chinese family names; why should the students be different? decided that they needed English surnames. The foreign teachers had Chinese family names; why should the students be different?

I first noticed this trend when I was grading papers one day and thought: Who the h.e.l.l is George Baker Frost? I had never heard of him before, but there was his a.s.signment with the name written proudly in enormous letters across the top of the page.

I read the paper and realized it had been written by George-the c.o.c.kiest student in the cla.s.s, a handsome boy who was also one of the best athletes. He was a trend-setter, too, and soon I began to get a.s.signments from William Foster, who had formerly been Willie, and who subsequently promoted himself to William Jefferson Foster. It wasn't long before William Jefferson Foster persuaded his girlfriend to become Nancy Drew (that was Adam's recommendation), and then Mo, who was the cla.s.s monitor and couldn't allow his authority to be undermined by any perceived shortcoming, started shopping for surnames. He asked me for suggestions, and soon he was signing his papers Mo Money.

Some of the boys undertook to improve Adam's and my command of the dialect, and the people at the Students' Home were very pleased when we began using the new words and phrases in daily conversation. "Now you are a real Zhongguotong! Zhongguotong!" Huang Neng said proudly. "A China hand!"

It was only a matter of time before the department caught wind of this development, and one day George Baker Frost pulled me aside during a break in cla.s.s. As a Party Member he had some of the clearest connections to the top.

"The English department wants us to stop teaching you those words," he said.

"Those sons of turtles," I said in Chinese. "They are very toothbrush."

George grinned and glanced behind him. To say that somebody was toothbrush was a particularly biting insult in the Chongqing dialect. In other parts of Sichuan it was completely meaningless, but for some unknown reason it carried heavy connotations along the eastern river valleys, where it was used as an adjective. It meant, more or less, that you were useless.

"We must be careful," George said.

I wanted to say: The walls have ears. But I smiled and nodded in agreement.

"Maybe you should not say those words too close to the college," he said. "Otherwise they will give us trouble."

We agreed to a no-fire zone around the teaching building, but inevitably such limits failed. This was risky ground-calling people toothbrush was even more treacherous than singing Christmas carols-and soon our shared dissidence brought us even closer to the students. And by now the flow of language, which went both ways, was out of control. Ever since we had studied Jonathan Swift in the first semester, the students had been infatuated with the word "yahoo." It sounded like a Chinese word; in fact, it even had some similarity with "toothbrush," which was yashua yashua. For whatever reason, the students said "yahoo" constantly, and it was all the more charming because many of them, with their Sichuanese tendency to confuse the f f and and h h sounds, p.r.o.nounced it "yafoo." That was also how Huang Kai said the word, which represented his first English lesson. Often when I came for lunch at the Students Home he looked up at me and shouted, solemnly, "Yafoo!" As a literature teacher I considered that to be perhaps my proudest achievement; I knew that Swift would have been thrilled to see this Chinese two-year-old stumbling around in his split-bottomed pants, calling foreigners yahoos. sounds, p.r.o.nounced it "yafoo." That was also how Huang Kai said the word, which represented his first English lesson. Often when I came for lunch at the Students Home he looked up at me and shouted, solemnly, "Yafoo!" As a literature teacher I considered that to be perhaps my proudest achievement; I knew that Swift would have been thrilled to see this Chinese two-year-old stumbling around in his split-bottomed pants, calling foreigners yahoos.

In the fall Adam had started a Spanish cla.s.s, which further complicated matters. Soon tonto tonto, or "stupid," also became ubiquitous; along with yashua yashua and "yahoo" it seemed to be everywhere, from the top floor of the teaching building down to the Students' Home. I almost felt sorry for the department officials-I could only imagine how confused they were by all of this nonsense, and how the Bad Cadres were working overtime as they tried to a.s.sess the political risks of Jonathan Swift and Spanish stupidity. Probably they were eager for us to leave and take all of these words with us; but there were still several months to go, and three languages and one dialect provided enormous potential for abuse. and "yahoo" it seemed to be everywhere, from the top floor of the teaching building down to the Students' Home. I almost felt sorry for the department officials-I could only imagine how confused they were by all of this nonsense, and how the Bad Cadres were working overtime as they tried to a.s.sess the political risks of Jonathan Swift and Spanish stupidity. Probably they were eager for us to leave and take all of these words with us; but there were still several months to go, and three languages and one dialect provided enormous potential for abuse.

As a teacher I no longer felt the discomfort of my first spring-that sense of a waiguoren waiguoren standing alone in front of the cla.s.s-and this year's students never bowed their heads in shared shame. I was pleased to see that finally it was possible to talk with them outside of cla.s.s, and our relations.h.i.+p had a combination of humor and seriousness that seemed perfect for China. For the first time, college life seemed human, and the students, who had so often struck me as talented but unfortunate p.a.w.ns, became much fuller figures in my eyes. standing alone in front of the cla.s.s-and this year's students never bowed their heads in shared shame. I was pleased to see that finally it was possible to talk with them outside of cla.s.s, and our relations.h.i.+p had a combination of humor and seriousness that seemed perfect for China. For the first time, college life seemed human, and the students, who had so often struck me as talented but unfortunate p.a.w.ns, became much fuller figures in my eyes.

One of my favorites was Linda, who felt no need for a last name. She was possibly the brightest of the third-year students, and the year before she had been nominated for a transfer to the Sichuan Foreign Language Inst.i.tute in Chongqing. That was a big step up from Fuling; every year a handful of elite students were selected to transfer, which meant that they were no longer locked into the track of becoming peasant schoolteachers. But the selection process was both heavily political and p.r.o.ne to favoritism, and Linda had failed the perfunctory physical exam because one of the physical education teachers held a grudge against her from freshman year. Actually, Linda was one of the better athletes among the girl students, and this injustice caused quite a bit of anger in the English department, but there was nothing anybody could do-the PE teacher had the final say. It was a typical example of the mindlessly cruel bullying that was routinely tolerated on campus, especially from the PE department.

Linda handled it as well as one could expect. She was accustomed to that combination of helplessness and strength-her mother had died not long before, and now in the spring her father was struggling with cancer. Both Linda and her sister had been to palm readers that spring, and in both cases the fortune was the same: Your father will die soon. Adam and I saw that as an indication that one should avoid fortune-tellers, and we told Linda as much; but she knew that she was stuck with her fate, and so she bore it quietly. A few times that semester she traveled home for the weekend, but always she kept up a front of normalcy. Even when her father became very ill she remained the best student in cla.s.s.

One evening in the library she showed me her photo alb.u.ms. Looking at a student's alb.u.m was always a strange experience, because the Chinese saw no purpose in pictures that did not feature themselves. For a people known for modesty it always struck me as an odd c.h.i.n.k in their armor, a sudden burst of narcissism-a photo alb.u.m might have more than fifty face shots of the owner. I never knew quite how to react: what do you say after looking at fifty photographs of a young woman's face?

Adam's policy was to pause at every single picture and ask, "Who's this?"

"That's me!" the owner of the book would say.

Adam would turn the page. "Who's this?"

"That's me!"

Adam found that routine endlessly entertaining; sometimes I had to leave the office when he started it, so I wouldn't hit him after hearing him ask the question for the twentieth time. I never had the patience, and so I flipped through Linda's alb.u.ms as quickly as I could without being rude. The photos consisted of all the standard xiaojie xiaojie poses-often in parks, rarely smiling; sometimes with hats, heavy makeup, a soft filter on the lens; holding a flower, chin turned up dreamily, back slightly arched. There were two alb.u.ms and it took five minutes. After I was finished I gave them back and said, "Very beautiful!" poses-often in parks, rarely smiling; sometimes with hats, heavy makeup, a soft filter on the lens; holding a flower, chin turned up dreamily, back slightly arched. There were two alb.u.ms and it took five minutes. After I was finished I gave them back and said, "Very beautiful!"

"No, not very beautiful," she said, and then she smiled. "But beautiful enough."

I realized that she was precisely correct-she was a pretty girl, but not so pretty that it became a distraction or eclipsed her other talents. That was another example of the sort of pragmatism that I often saw in Fuling, where people seemed much more capable of viewing themselves with cold judgment than Americans. And mostly the people in Fuling tended to know exactly the hand they had been dealt. Linda had had more than her share of bad luck, but she also had her gifts, and she would do what she could with those.

On another evening Adam and I ate dinner with her and Mo Money, and we had a couple of beers and began to speak seriously in Chinese. The conversation turned to the pro-democracy demonstrations in Tiananmen Square, which was a rare topic in Fuling. Most people had very little sense of what had happened in 1989; there had been some small protests in Fuling, with students marching down to South Mountain Gate, and people had heard vague rumors of violence in Chengdu and Beijing. But almost n.o.body had any sense of the ma.s.sacre's scale. One of the few exceptions was my photographer friend Ke Xianlong, who listened carefully to the Voice of America and knew that foreign reports estimated the death count to be at least in the hundreds.

He was one of the least patriotic Chinese I knew in Fuling. During my first year he had expressed his disdain for the students' excitement about Hong Kong's return, which he attributed to their ignorance and immaturity. To my surprise, he saw the pro-democracy movement in similar terms.

"All of that was so stupid," he told me once, when we talked about the 1989 student movement. "Many of the problems the students criticized were accurate, of course, but what did they know about it? How could they lead the country? Students are students. They don't know anything about real life, because they're too young. They're not yet mature, and they haven't ever worked like Old Hundred Names, which means that often they complain about things they don't understand."

When I thought about it, I could see his point, at least in the sense that it was never a good sign when a nation turned to twenty-one-year-olds as its moral voice. But it seemed horrible that China's current crop of twenty-one-year-olds had no clear idea of what had happened less than a decade earlier. I said this to Linda and Mo Money during our dinner, partly because I was interested in seeing how they would react.

Mo Money was a Party Member, but the topic didn't make him defensive, and he didn't deny what had happened, which was the government's stance. He knew that my information was probably more accurate than what the official sources said, and there was no point in arguing about the extent of the crackdown.

"But you have to understand," he said, "there isn't much I can do about what happened at that time. It's not because I don't care-I wish there was something that could be done about it. But that's just not possible, so all I can do is try to be a good student and then become a good teacher after graduation. I think that's all I can do."

In many ways he reminded me of Teacher Kong, who was also a Party Member with an idealistic streak. Both men still had faith that the system would work itself out eventually, and they believed that it required a certain amount of forgiveness, patience, and loyalty from people like themselves. Their faith wasn't so much specifically in Party theory as in the notion that people like them could-and should-contribute to society, despite its flaws. It was in some ways a democratic line of thought, or at least a hopeful longing to find democracy buried somewhere within the corruption of the current system. They simply couldn't bear the thought of entirely refusing to partic.i.p.ate.

Linda wasn't a Party Member, although I was certain that somebody so talented could have joined if she had wished. I asked her why she had never applied.

"I have no interest in joining the Party," she said. "I've never wanted to do that, and I don't want to do it now. I think that these are important topics that we are talking about, and perhaps someday there will be something I can do. But right now it is too complicated."

She spoke evenly and I saw that her response was as honest as Mo Money's. Both of them were disengaged from the problem, like virtually everybody I knew in Fuling, although Linda's and Mo Money's reasons were different. Mo Money had decided that by being politically involved at the smallest level he could somehow overcome his powerlessness with regard to bigger issues, while Linda simply had other things to worry about. She had already been dealt enough cards; everything else could wait. Many people in Fuling were like that, and after two years I finally understood why.

IT WAS A DRY, DUSTY MARCH, and on the final weekend I went for a long hike up the Wu River. It was the same weekend as last year's walk, the same route. I had always liked the cycles of the countryside and that was my personal ritual, to camp beside the green springtime river at the end of March.

I crossed the first two side valleys and came to the Fuling Liangtang ore factory. Nothing here had changed in the past year, although now I could read two of the propaganda signs whose characters had been unrecognizable last year:

Diligence-Friendliness-Obedience