By Wu Yuanxin 伍元新
Translated by Guo Wu
MCLC Resource Center Publication (Copyright August 2024)
Wu Yuanxin
Introduction
Wu Yuanxin 伍元新 (1935-2012), my father, was a Guizhou-based writer and literary copyeditor, born in a Sichuan village in 1935. He lost his father, a small landholder, in the 1951 land reform when his father committed suicide under political pressure. Wu left the village, joined the workforce constructing the Chengdu-Baoji railway, and attended a machine-building school near Xi’an. He began publishing in 1956 in the Shaanxi Daily (陕西日报), focusing on village life. After graduating and securing a job in Guizhou, he published a play titled “Double Selection” (双选) in Beijing in 1963 that reflects socialist village life. After working in the editorial office of Flower Creek (花溪), a monthly magazine in Guiyang that enjoyed a national reputation, he was reassigned to the Guiyang Municipal Cultural Bureau when the Flower Creek editorial office was disbanded following the first anti-bourgeois liberalization (反对资产阶级自由化) campaign in 1981. The campaign criticized the magazine for publishing a sequence of short stories with liberal tendencies. While his writing was initially influenced by the genre of agricultural realism represented by Liu Qing 柳青(1916–1978) and Wang Wenshi 王汶石(1921–1999), and he interacted in Guizhou with local writers of national influence such as Republican-era writer Jian Xian’ai 蹇先艾 (1906–1994) and sent-down youth writer Ye Xin 叶辛 (1949—), Wu Yuanxin’s short stories in the 1980s gradually shifted from rural themes to focus on young people who moved from the countryside to cities as migrant workers. He also paid attention to work units, or danwei 单位, in a purely urban setting.
“A Jocular Colleague” (活宝) is such a realistic urban story. I selected it from the author’s Selected Short Stories of Wu Yuanxin (伍元新小说选), published by Guizhou People’s Publishing House in 1996. The plot focuses on a cultural affairs unit in the mid-1980s where a group of local artists and intellectuals experienced the conundrum of the rapid transition from the “socialist cultural mechanism” (社会主义文化体制) to marketization, and the tension between the party-state’s control and individual confusion, resistance, and self-expression. The story revolves around the dynamics among three characters: Old Y, a bureaucratic party secretary whose authority is waning in the 1980s; and Little V, the bold, playful, and non-conformist main character who has his own ideas and plans, but who is also charitable and serious at heart; and the frustrated singer Little B as the narrator. Defying the early post-Mao stereotype of rigid and oppressive communist officials, the story portrays Old Y as kind-hearted, honest, and tolerant, though still entrenched in his communist mindset and jargon and in his role of presiding over routine “political study” (政治学习) sessions. The female narrator, Little B, seems to be a passive conformist who tries to understand her old schoolmate and current colleague, Little V, but generally disapproves of his character and bold rebellion. The author uses Old Y’s language in a humorous and out-of-place manner, highlighting the contrast between his old-fashioned ways and the era of marketization and modernization. The story is filled with dialogue that is often joking, sarcastic, and quick-witted, creating a sense of humor and cynicism rarely seen in contemporary Chinese fiction, in addition to providing a glimpse into the internal dynamics of a Chinese work unit.
I translate the narrative in the past tense because it is told by the first-person narrator, Little B, as a reminiscence. I have divided the original short story into three sections, each reflecting a distinct sub-theme. This structure guides the reader through the character development and thematic evolution of the story: the first section covers the meeting of the characters and the initial conflicts between Little Y and the establishment; the second focuses on Little Y running the dance hall; and the third on Little Y’s departure from the work unit.
A Jocular Colleague
1
If you want to know more about Little V’s background, ask Old He. He is the director of our unit’s Human Resources Department, and he manages Little V’s personal files.
It’s true that Little V and I were old schoolmates. But in a school with over a thousand students, we were in different classes, and he was a year ahead of me. We weren’t close. He didn’t stand out, especially not to a girl like me. The only memory I have of him from those days is from when we were sent down to the countryside as part of the youth program. The commune’s propaganda team came to perform a Model Opera, and he played Hu Chuankui, a comical nationalist officer during the Anti-Japanese War. I remember him protruding his belly and delivering his lines: “Thinking of the past, when my army just started, I had only a dozen soldiers and seven or eight guns . . .”
After that, I heard he was recruited by a cultural unit in the provincial capital to perform in Model Operas. We didn’t see each other for the next seven or eight years. But not long ago, after graduating from a conservatory in a nearby province, I was assigned to the same work unit where Little V was employed. On my first day, I reported to HR and asked, “Does your unit have a Little V?”
“Tomorrow is payday. He’ll be here.”
Sure enough, he showed up the next morning. It was early September, and I was wearing a white skirt. He wore a faded black jacket, his hair and beard disheveled. With deep eye bags and a pair of large, brown glasses, he looked like a visiting professor from Belgium.
“What a coincidence!” he recognized me from a distance and rushed over, smiling and shaking my hand. “I knew you were a great singer! I wanted to invite you to play Sister Ah Qing in the opera . . . ha-ha . . .” After his laughter died down, he asked me softly, “How did you end up here?”
“I was trained in the traditional Chinese style, but pop music is all the rage now. Who wants me?”
He nodded with a sigh. “But this unit isn’t bad, especially for girls like you. After a few years, you’ll have a child . . .”
I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t speak for a while. Thankfully, he went to fetch boiling water for tea, giving me the chance to escape. I thought he was out of his mind.
“This is absurd,” I heard him grumble, “You can’t find hot water in such a big unit. But I like a little morning tea every day.” He smiled at me, pulling out a small bag of tea and putting it in a beautiful thermos.
Unfortunately, I was assigned to Little V’s department, which was mainly responsible for tutoring the masses in arts and literature. Fortunately, he was often absent.
Soon, I heard that the Model Opera actors and actresses our unit had hired had become irrelevant, so they were transferred by the higher-ups to manage the for-profit “third industry.” Little V refused to go. When Old Y asked him to manage logistics, he yelled, “What are you talking about? You want me to take care of the broom and dustpan? What a joke! Listen to my voice: ‘Goodbye my mom!’, and another: ‘The moon on the 15th day . . .’ Who do you think you are? The Gang of Four is gone!” Finally, Aunt T in the Department of Arts and Literature gave him the green light, and Old Y reluctantly put Little V in the tutoring department.
Once, Aunt T asked me, “I heard you and Little V were schoolmates. He does have the disposition of an artist.”
“Do I know him? What the hell!” I retorted angrily. “I really hate his insane style!”
But later, I realized he wasn’t entirely crazy. For instance, he never missed the unit’s political study sessions, which kept attendance. He often appeared earlier than anyone else, holding his thermos high, finding a quiet corner, and reading all the newspapers while eating his deep-fried rice cake. When it was time to do roll call, Old Y would notice him. “Little V, put down the newspaper. Now is the time for political study,” he’d say gently.
“Oh? Ok, ok,” Little V would reply crisply.
But while Old Y read the document, Little V continued reading his newspaper.
“Ai, Little V. Why are you still reading the newspaper?”
“Well, the newspaper content is about politics too.”
“But you can’t do two things with one mind.”
“How come? You’re doing the same, reading the document and watching me.”
“You . . . Fine, what did I say a moment ago?”
“Children playing with fire almost burned a gas station near the Third Bridge.”
We all laughed, saying Little V might have supernatural abilities. Old Y swallowed his grievances.
Old Y was the Political Director of a PLA regiment during the 1979 China-Vietnam border clash. When the war ended, he was promoted to Vice Commissar and was generally considered an expert in ideological work. So, our political study sessions weren’t just about reading documents and newspaper editorials; they included discussions arranged by Old Y. He wanted us to connect the message on paper with our thoughts.
Most of the time, Little V didn’t say anything. While others talked, he read newspapers. If the content was good, he’d smile and nod. If it didn’t please him, a sneer would cross his face. When no one spoke, and the atmosphere grew awkward, we’d look at him. It was as if it were his cue to take the stage. I’d see him filling his thermos, standing up, slightly lowering his body with both hands raised, like an orchestra conductor. “Let me say a few words,” he’d smile.
“Please focus on the topic of our political study,” Old Y would remind him.
“No problem,” Little V would press his right hand to the table and lower his voice deliberately. “Isn’t this a political study session? Let me talk about the two Chinese characters 政治 (politics). They say the word 政 didn’t originally have the 文 (literacy) part on its right side, and 正 (right) just meant sitting in the middle and being righteous. Who knows which smart guy added a 文 to 正 and turned it into 政? So, 正 was pushed aside. How can you expect righteousness?”
“Bullshit,” someone whispered.
“Free Speech!” he fought back.
Old Y chuckled, waving one hand.
Little V looked bitter. “Do you, Old Y, think what I said violated the Four Cardinal Principles of the Party? I don’t think so. How can we study politics without knowing what it means?”
“Talk on!” Old Y encouraged him.
“Wonderful. At the request of the leaders and the masses, I’ll contribute my two cents.” Little V stood up again and cleared his throat. He rambled on, from the love between Karl Marx and Jenny to the establishment of scientific socialism; from the reform of Lord Shang in pre-Qin history to Japan’s Meiji Restoration; from the American book The Third Wave to our reform and open-door policy; and from disco to blue jeans. After nearly two hours, he noticed Old Y taking notes. He abruptly cut off his speech. “Excuse me, I have an emergency and need to go to the bathroom!” He left in such a hurry that he forgot his thermos.
We began jokingly calling him “Karl V.” He was pleased.
“A clown!” I sneered at him inwardly, convinced he’d run out of luck sooner or later. To avoid his pestering, I cautiously evaded him, though I had to rely on his help occasionally. He was an avid reader of various books and newspapers, and he knew literature better than some BA degree holders. He could recite and explain many famous Chinese classical poems and was familiar with modern European literary genres. With the comrades in the office of fine arts, he could discuss painting, calligraphy, and stone inscription; with musicians, he talked about classical and popular music from home and abroad. For a while, I felt hopeless due to the impact of pop music. He seemed to read my mind and came to encourage me by citing the story of the Empress Dowager eating steamed cornbread when she fled Beijing in 1900. “Do you understand? This is what they call ‘A beggar can’t be a chooser.’” He looked at me, saying, “The imitation imperial banquet in Beijing today has a ‘Holy Cornbread’ brought back by the Empress Dowager and refined by the imperial kitchen, with present-day improvements. Pop music has a similar fate. In the past, our country only allowed songs based on Quotations from Chairman Mao. What a joke. But people’s tastes change all the time. I heard the Taiwanese pop star Teresa Teng’s cassette tapes are on sale now. Remember, ‘no talent can be wasted.’ What do you think, dear Little B?”
“Dear?” I was shocked. But after considering what he said, I couldn’t argue. Oh, Little V.
He continued to miss work often. Old Y criticized him multiple times at meetings without naming him: “Study the document by acting on it. No one should be a giant of speech and a dwarf in actions.” Little V would shrug and make a face, as if he didn’t understand what Old Y was talking about.
During another political study session, Old Y asked us to share our plans after grasping the spirit of the document. As usual, there was an awkward silence, and we all looked at Little V. Sitting in a dark corner, he drank his tea, read newspapers, and shook his legs, as if nothing had happened.
“Correct. Let Little V start,” Old Y smiled.
“There’s a famous soccer player who recently posted an ad looking for a girlfriend who’s 1.5 meters tall. Isn’t that odd?” Little V pointed to the evening paper in front of him.
Before we could burst into laughter, Old Y cut him off. “Be serious, Little V.”
“Finding a good wife is a respectable plan for the future.”
“Oh, my goodness, you . . .”
Little V stood up and looked at us. “How about we invite Old Y to share his plan? What do you say?”
We all applauded.
Old Y blushed with embarrassment. After a moment, he said, “It’s better for you guys to talk.”
“The Party Secretary should lead us.”
“I’m too old.”
“No way! At most, your age puts you in the ‘Tier Three’ group.”
“I’m not well-educated.”
“Then go to the university for senior citizens!”
“Well . . .”
“What? You have no plan? Don’t lose confidence. You should be determined to solve the housing problem for our unit and nurture some intellectual Party members and young successors.”
Old Y laughed, “Right, right! Just those things! Now it’s your turn.”
“I want to be an official.” Little V forced the words out through his teeth. “If I’d been born a few decades earlier, I would have led my troops to join Chairman Mao’s Red Army when they passed through Zunyi. But even if I’d been born a couple of years later, I might have joined the Anti-Japanese War or the Liberation War, and maybe I’d have been a commander.” After our laughter died down, he continued, “What can I do now? I’ll be thirty-six in a few days. If I want Old Y’s position, I’d need to apply for CCP membership. By then, I’ll be forty, which is past the age for succession.”
“Hey, Little V, why don’t you nominate yourself for the position of bureau chief?”
“The bureau chief was just promoted and isn’t even forty-five. You think I can take his position? Are you kidding? Besides, I’d need a diploma. What year would that be?” Little V spread his hands in resignation.
“Little V, your plan doesn’t have to be about becoming an official,” Old Y tried to encourage him.
“That’s right,” Little V nodded. “My plan isn’t grand. It’s just to earn 10,000 yuan and find a good wife. With a 600-yuan annual yield, I wouldn’t need to kill time here.”
I heard that this remark made it into an internal bulletin, but strangely, Little V wasn’t purged as a “bad element.”
After that, Little V became even bolder. Once, at a meeting, he openly complained, “Talented people hire talented people, and slaves hire slaves.”
“What kind of person are you?” someone teased him.
“Half and half,” Little V replied.
“Not bad. You have a fair self-assessment,” they smiled.
Little V became serious. “Of course. Stalin’s merits and faults were 70-30, and Chairman Mao said he had both tiger and monkey characteristics.”
“Wait a moment. How can you compare yourself to revolutionary leaders?” Old Y stared at Little V, worried he would continue with this nonsense.
“Why can’t I?” Little V got irritated and retorted, “Big people had big merits but also made big mistakes and caused big losses. I’m a small person with no contributions, just an idler. Even if I make mistakes, how much harm can I cause? And I already said I’m 50-50.”
“But what if you kill someone or set a fire?” I challenged him.
“Why would I do those things?”
The whole unit was laughing. To make matters worse, another time, during a discussion about the contractual system for employing cadres, Old Y reminded us, “Some people need to watch out. If you don’t put effort into your work, what will you do if we implement a contractual system in the future?”
Little V jumped in immediately, “This is unfair. You leaders are appointed by your superiors, but lower-level cadres must be selected and sign and renew contracts. Old Y, don’t take this personally, but I don’t think you’d qualify if judged by strict political and professional standards.”
We were all dumbfounded. Who dared to confront a leader like this in our unit’s thirty-some years of history? Old Y turned pale, murmuring after a long silence, “You’re right! You’re right!” But who knows what was on his mind?
We began talking privately, “This idiot won’t have good things coming to him!” We even started worrying about him.
2
That winter, Old Y took me and several other comrades to study reforms in other provinces. Upon our return, we decided to transform our free cultural services into paid ones. The first step was to open a commercial dance hall under the banner of “supporting culture with culture.” At an enlarged meeting of the unit’s party committee, Old Y suggested assigning the management of the dance hall to older, physically frail colleagues or those without outstanding abilities. Unsurprisingly, Little V topped the shortlist. Overnight, “Karl V” became non-staff personnel.
As word spread, some people cried, others protested, and a few even petitioned the municipal government. Some were so distressed they had to be hospitalized. But only Little V remained calm. He looked at Old Y with a smile and asked, “Is this retaliation against me?”
“Don’t say that. Managing the ballroom is part of revolutionary work,” Old Y replied.
“Fine. You have good judgment. I’ve thought it through—I think I’m the only one who can handle this job well,” Little V responded confidently.
Two days later, Old Y announced at a staff meeting that Little V was appointed dance hall manager. He emphasized that the appointment had been approved by the Personnel Division of the Culture Bureau—it wasn’t just a verbal promise.
“How about this? I guess you won’t call yourself a ‘horse manager in heaven’?” Old Y joked, alluding to the literary classic about the Monkey King.
“‘Horse manager in heaven’ isn’t a bad job. He oversaw the heavenly horses for the Jade Emperor!” Little V answered.
“Do you want some people to assist you?” Old Y asked, curious about Little V’s thoughts.
“Just give me the people you don’t like,” Little V said, never one to hold back.
“Oh no, don’t say that. We are all revolutionary comrades,” Old Y replied.
At that time, signing contracts was popular. After several rounds of negotiations, Old Y, on behalf of the unit, signed a contract with Little V, assigning him the task of running the dance hall.
One evening, Little V knocked on my door. He was such a magician—dressed in a Western-style suit, with a fresh haircut and trimmed beard, he looked ten years younger.
“Wow, boss, have you made a fortune?” I asked, surprised.
“What fortune? The old buddies are lambasting me. They say the contract terms are too harsh, and I’m under great pressure,” he said as he took a seat, reflecting. Then, gathering himself, he added, “But it’s not bad to have some pressure. People who went to Tibet got altitude sickness because of the high altitude, thin air, and low air pressure.”
I didn’t want to hear his rambling, so I asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I want to hire you to sing in the dance hall,” he replied earnestly.
“Are you crazy? I can only sing ‘The Moon on the Fifteenth Day.’”
“Just that song! Of course, you can sing others too—like the traditional ‘Love Song from Kangding.’ Just sing whatever you feel like.”
“Let’s talk about it later. I want to hear your opinion about Old Y,” I said.
“The masses don’t expect much from grassroots-level cadres. The only thing we want is not to be purged. Old Y has far exceeded that standard. He’s a nice person, hard to come by! But I don’t like talking behind someone’s back,” Little V admitted.
I was convinced that Little V was a troublemaker, so I said, “Let me think about it.”
The next day, I spoke with Old Y. “I never thought you were such a tolerant person.”
“You mean appointing him as the manager of the nightclub? He was handpicked by the bureau chief,” Old Y explained.
“This Little V . . .”
“Well, don’t judge him too quickly. Sometimes ‘ugly words tell the truth.’ I had a correspondent in the regiment command who was like him, but he died in an operation,” Old Y reminisced.
After leaving Old Y’s office, I spoke to Little V. “Okay, I give you my consent,” I said. “When do I start?”
With his hands on his hips, Little V grinned, “See? Old Y likes me, right? Look, you’re smiling. Can you do me another favor?”
“Do you want me to keep the gate?”
“No. I want you to introduce me to Little A from the Municipal Song and Dance Troupe.”
Little A was my classmate who had just returned from a performance abroad, and we hadn’t seen each other in six months. So, I said, “Stop dreaming. Think about it. Will a famous singer like her perform in our dance hall?”
But Little V wasn’t deterred and asked me to give him Little A’s address. I wrote it down for him.
Three days later, our dance hall had its grand opening, and the poster announced two singers: “AXX and BXX.” I couldn’t believe it, so I went to the office to call Little A. While the phone was ringing, Little A surprised me by covering my eyes with her hands.
There was no doubt that our band was the best in the city.
The dance hall’s name was unique: “Green Gem.”
Even more surprising, Old Y was selling tickets at the gate.
It was packed—full, full, full. The ticket price was 2 yuan, but it went for 5 yuan on the black market.
Little V was dressed up, organizing the staff and greeting guests. With his smiling face and stylish attire, some people who didn’t know him thought he had just returned from abroad.
Once, I teased him, “Business here is good, all thanks to Little A.”
“No. You’re important too, Old Y, and the bureau chief.”
“You’re so capable that you even got Little A on board.”
“Well, in the past, people used to say that ‘heroes cannot resist the temptation of beauties.’ Nowadays, it’s the beauties who can’t resist the temptation of money.”
“What . . . I’m going to tell her!” I said, trying to scare him.
“I was just describing the phenomenon. In fact, Little A was very pleased. When I invited her, she said, ‘Sure. When we performed abroad, who could guarantee the audiences were all good people? Anyone could listen to us as long as they bought tickets. So why can’t I do the same for our own people?’” Little V recounted. “Listen, she’s quite enlightened.”
We watched Old Y selling tickets. Standing outside, as if waiting for someone, Little V asked, “Have you noticed anything?”
“People really love dancing.”
“What else?”
“There are two girls standing under the electric pole . . . They’re called dance partners, waiting for men to buy them tickets.”
“What about that woman with the baby? Is she coming to dance?”
“She’s looking for her husband, and I bet they’ll have a fight.”
“That short old man comes here every day.”
“He’s called ‘Old Daddy.’ He owns three stores and now just enjoys life. I heard he spends 500 yuan a month on dancing.”
“Oh, my goodness!”
“See? He bought three tickets.”
Sure enough, the two girls under the electric pole followed him into the dance hall. But it seemed they didn’t know each other.
“There’s one more thing you didn’t see,” Little V said softly.
“What’s that?” I tiptoed to look.
“Money in these people’s hands!”
Yes. Some people handed over money so carelessly they didn’t even count it. After a while, Old Y gave them change and noticed us standing outside. He smiled.
Little V began to lament, “Why can’t we channel this money to support people like you, me, and Little A, as well as artists, writers, and even orphanages? Why can’t we use it to build schools and stadiums? Some elementary schools use old newspapers to replace their broken windows!” He sighed and continued, “It’s no big deal if there are a few little hooligans among the customers. The security guards can handle them. Even if you prevent them from entering the nightclub, they won’t be going to a creative writing class!”
He looked like he was making a point. After venting all his grievances, he couldn’t help but smile. Then he handed me an envelope, saying it was payment for my singing. After entering a private room and closing the door, I counted the money. Oh, my goodness! It was 210 yuan! And my monthly salary was only fifty-seven yuan. Well, I thought, it’s better for me to have this money than for others to waste it on gambling.
Later, I asked Little V, “Did you pay Little A seven yuan per night? No. She should get ten yuan because of her fame.”
“No. I treat you two equally,” he said, but I didn’t believe it.
“How about Old Y? He sold tickets for you . . .” I probed.
“The Party Secretary also wants money? People would say I’m corrupting cadres!” he said, and added, “Right. He spent his spare time—okay, I’ll pay him one yuan per day.”
Later, I heard that Old Y got ten yuan per day, but I didn’t believe it. He wasn’t that kind of money-oriented person.
It was true that Little V and Old Y nearly fell out over money-related issues. Little V hired carpenters to enclose a corner of the dance hall and rented the space to sell snacks, charging 300 yuan monthly. After a few days, he renovated another corner for rent, selling soda, juice, and milk, charging 400 yuan per month. Then he established a storage office and charged for that too. All in all, whoever wanted to have fun and do business in the dance hall had to pay Little V.
“Hey Little V, our contract didn’t say you could . . .” Old Y confronted Little V.
“You mean those shops? But the contract didn’t say I couldn’t sublet the space,” Little V said with a grin.
“You can rent out the space, but the money . . .” Old Y became anxious.
Little V replied seriously, “Money? So what? I’m just following the contract. Don’t be jealous.”
After the dancing ended and people left, Little V said he wanted to walk me home. I was in love at the time, so I told him my boyfriend might come to meet me. He said, “You’re so old-fashioned. Why not just give him a test?”
I agreed. We walked through Wang Family Lane, Zhonghua Road, and finally reached Jiaxiu Pavilion. As we parted ways, he suddenly suggested, “How about grabbing some food at the night market in Little Cross? You’re my guest.”
We turned from Fushui Road back to Little Cross, where a lamb kabob stand owner shouted, “Affordable price, great taste! Manager X, grab some kabobs!”
Little V waved to decline, saying to me, “My blood is boiling. I’m not going to eat lamb kabobs.”
We sat down at the table of another food stand, where he ordered two stir-fried dishes and one beer, but placed them in front of me. He himself enjoyed his duck wings.
“You should drink some beer,” I said.
“I should get married,” he replied. “I’m only 1.65 meters tall. Beer makes people fat. There’s a Japanese scientist who wrote a book emphasizing the nutritional value of carrots, but I don’t like the smell.”
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was nearly midnight.
“No hurry,” he said. “I’ll send you home. With me, no one dares to throw soda bottles at you.”
“No. I need to go to work tomorrow.”
“Then let’s go.”
He produced a ten-yuan bill to pay and put all the change into my hand.
After we walked for a while, he said, “Here’s the plan. I want to try something new. I plan to hold a ‘concert’ for you, so please prepare several songs. Don’t forget ‘The Moon on the Fifteenth Day.’”
“What time?” I asked.
“When people are dancing . . .” he said, “I want to give it a try. You know what I mean?”
I admitted that I didn’t quite understand what he was trying to do, but I didn’t object. The following weekend, during the dance’s intermission at 9:30 pm, the band did not leave, and Little V suddenly appeared at the front. “Now we invite Miss B to sing several of her favorite songs for us. Is that okay?”
The dancers applauded, and Little V seized the opportunity to say many nice things about me. I mounted the stage and sang, with applause never stopping.
“You know what? I arranged for some people to lead the applause!” he later told me, giving me a twenty-yuan bonus.
He was indeed resourceful. With the income from the dancehall, our unit began to open vocal classes, songwriting classes, and dancing classes. Now he’s working on a chamber orchestra for advanced amateurs. The members liked him so much that they even wanted to nominate him for the District People’s Congress.
Once, Old Y praised Little V, saying, “The Bureau Chief said you did a great job and turned a small dancehall into something so vigorous! He wants to convene a meeting in our unit.”
“Then I’ll have to prepare for it.”
“But we’ve received complaints. Some colleges have sent letters to protest.”
“I shouldn’t invite their professors to teach my classes?”
“That’s not the case. I heard there was a regulation that says a lecturer’s hourly pay should not exceed two-and-a-half yuan and an associate professor’s maximum hourly pay was five yuan. How could you pay them ten yuan per hour?”
“Ha-ha, even movie ticket prices fluctuate! And the money wasn’t paid by the government. The professors can use the extra money to buy some good food.”
“But this might affect the relationship between the two units.”
“I’m not worried about that. When my child goes to college, its leader will be retired.”
“But Little V, you have to consider our own unit.”
“I do. I plan to give a twenty-yuan bonus to each colleague for the Chinese New Year.”
“There’s a document that prohibits it . . .”
“But the money isn’t from the government fund!”
“No one can do it since there is a document.”
Little V pondered for a while and suddenly came up with another idea. “How about this: I’ll use the income to hire two janitors for cleaning and boiling water.”
3
One morning, Old Y asked me, “Little B,” he spoke softly, “Do you know how much money Little V made in the past year?”
“You’d better ask him yourself. Didn’t you sell tickets for him?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I just want things to be transparent. Do you know he’s being audited?” Appearing frustrated and embarrassed, Old Y tried to reassure me, “Don’t worry. I will take all the responsibility.”
During the Friday political study session, Little V deliberately chose to sit in a very visible spot. As usual, Old Y read some documents and then said, “Recently, there’s been a financial checkup campaign, and our unit is their focus. I hope some comrades could . . .” He slowly turned his head toward Little V, who straightened his back and smiled.
Before Old Y could continue, the bureau chief called, saying the investigation team had canceled its inspection. The chief said he would deliver a letter that Old Y wanted to read to us. After a while, the building coordinator brought in the letter, and Old Y, who had been frowning, now seemed relaxed and even excited. “This is not bad! Not bad!” he exclaimed, forgetting to read the letter to us.
We all stood up and asked him what was in the letter. Old Y then explained, “Little V donated to the panda protection zone, and they sent this thank-you letter! It was 10,000 yuan!”
Colleagues looked at Little V with admiration. “Pandas are our national treasure! Feeding pandas is better than wasting money on some humans!”
Little V stood up slowly. “As a matter of fact, I was doing all these things for fun, and to prove that I could accomplish something.” He then handed all the bills back to Old Y and tore the contract apart.
After that, Little V continued to be absent from work frequently. On a rainy evening, he suddenly called me, saying, “I’m going to get married.” He smiled in a silly way.
“Ah? With whom?” I was surprised.
“I thought Little A had told you.” He smiled. “It’s time for you to get married too. I’ve talked to your boyfriend, and he did have some misunderstandings. I apologize.”
Soon after, Little A and Little V both left without final approval from the Culture Bureau. The chief got angry and asked Old Y to get them back. Old Y asked me where they were, but I had no idea. I had suffered from anxiety and depression and had requested sick leave. But I didn’t want to find another job. Like Little V said, this unit is a good place, especially for a girl like me who plans to get married soon.
Translated by Guo Wu
Allegheny College