A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [85]
“No,” he said. Not like this.
“I loved once,” she said, so far away, so fragile he wanted to gather her into his arms, but dared not molest her privacy.
“A gentle boy, not tall and strong and handsome, but short and plain. One leg was shorter than the other and he limped. His face was so round you thought it was the moon, and he could not see well, so he wore heavy glasses that always slid off his nose and broke. There was no place he could hide: People would point and say, ‘Oh, how ugly.’ But when they saw what he wrote, no one laughed anymore. His poems were beautiful, like the morning sun creeping along an open field. His poems were as simple as the birds in these trees and as pure as those children across the river.
“He was a happy boy who did not mind being ugly. He laughed at his bad luck and lived for the hours when he could write his poetry. During the days he worked as an electrician in a big factory. At night he would compose in a workers’ dormitory. At first he showed his poems only to his friends. That was when he was happiest. He gave poems to his friends as gifts and then showed them to other friends until finally other writers saw them, writers who work without Party control. He gave poems in secret to his friends at the factory and finally the top cadres of the factories saw them, too. The writers went to him and said, ‘Write of life. Be freer.’ The cadres of his unit went to him and said, ‘You have great talent. You must write of the workers’ heroic struggle.’
“My friend was a happy man who wanted everyone to share his joy. So he wrote for the writers about larks and joy, and he wrote for the cadres about the beauties of blast furnaces and socialist progress. At first both were very pleased. ‘More,’ they said. ‘Write more.’ So my friend wrote more, and more, until he could hardly remember whether the next poem was supposed to be about the glorious fulfillment of factory quotas, or every man’s right to find his own truth.
“Then one day my friend said, ‘No more.’ He went to the writers and to the cadres and told them, ‘I must write for me, not for you. What I write for you is not me, and it is not good.’ They both became very angry, the writers and the cadres. They felt my friend had betrayed them. They yelled and screamed at him. The factory gave him the most dirty and dangerous jobs. The writers no longer invited him to tea or to walk in the park. My friend became very unhappy. Soon he could not write at all—not even for himself. He would limp around the city looking for inspiration, his great moon face empty, like a man whose father has died. He wrote nothing. All this happened the year that I loved him.”
Kangmei smiled through tears. “That is my sad story, Thom-as.”
“I’m sorry, Kangmei. Is your friend still in Peking?”
“He is beyond Peking.”
“What happened?”
“One day at the factory he picked up two heavy cables in his hands and rubbed them together. They were full of electricity. Perhaps it was an accident. …”
“I’m sorry.” A temporizing banality.
“I love you, Thom-as.”
“I was trying to say the same thing. Come with me, please. We’ll find a way to Hong Kong. America is a strange country, I know, but you will like it. If you don’t, we can come back to Asia. Anywhere you want…”
“No, Thom-as, no. This is my country. China is where I belong.”
“But you will be hunted here. You have sacrificed everything for me. Your school, your family …”
“I have done what is right.”
“That will not protect you.”
“My relatives here will protect me now. Later, I will find my protection in the millions of young people who believe as I do. I have talked to you about them and I have seen how you looked at me—like an uncle looks at a young girl who says she can walk to the moon. I am right. You will see.”
Damned if she wasn’t mad, twin points of color blazing from her cheeks.
Stratton tried not to sound patronizing.
“Kangmei, let’s not argue. I believe in your vision, but I want to be with you. If a man and a woman