Waiting

"Good, those are excellent books." His eyes brightened as a thrill surged in his voice. "I can see you have good taste. I wish more people read those great Russian novels nowadays. How I used to devour them when I was a young man."

She was pleased by his praise, but too shy to say more.

"Let me show you what I've been reading." He turned and drew a yellowish book from his leather briefcase. "Have you heard of Leaves of Grass?" He raised the book to display the front cover, on which a lean foreign man in a tilted hat stood with one arm akimbo, the hand almost invisible, while his other hand was in his trouser pocket, as though he were trying to conceal his hands.

"No, I've never heard of it. Who wrote it?"

"Walt Whitman, an American poet. This is a remarkable book of poetry, and the poems are so robust and brave they include everything. In a way they form a universe. I've read this book four times."

With amazement she looked at his animated face.

He realized he had gotten carried away by his enthusiasm and added, "Of course it was written last century when American capitalism was still developing. In fact the optimism in the poetry reflects the confidence and progress of the time. Nowadays no American poet can write like this. They have all degenerated in the rotten capitalist society, without the rising spirit anymore."

She was impressed by his knowledge and eloquence, although she didn't understand his view completely. "I'll go to the City Library and see if I can find a copy," she said.

"No, they may not have it. I got this copy twenty years ago, from the translator himself. He was my teacher at Nankai University when I was a student."

"You studied English?"

"No, I majored in philosophy and minored in Chinese literature. My teacher knew English well because he had been educated in a missionary school. He was a well-read man, a true scholar, but he died of pneumonia in i957. Perhaps it was good for him to die young. With his problematic family background, he could hardly have escaped becoming a target for political movements." The commissar's face turned grave and he kept his head low, as though recollecting something.

"So this is a rare book? " Ma

"Not exactly. " His face turned vivacious again. "In some university libraries you probably can find a copy, but it has been out of print since the early fifties."

"I see."

"How about this? I'll lend you the book for a month. After you read it, you tell me what you think of it. Would you like to do that?"

"Sure, I'll be glad to read it."

She took the book from him. Though she agreed, a shade of doubt came over her mind because she was uncertain whether she could understand the poems, not to mention report to him her appreciation of them. She might make a fool of herself.

As she was putting the book into her satchel, the orderly stepped in and a

"Would you like to go to the movies with us, Comrade Ma

Hesitating for a moment, she said, "Yes, I'll be happy to if I haven't seen it."

"Have you seen The Flower Girl?"

"No."

"Neither have I. It was made by North Korea. Come along with us, I've heard it's very good."

Together they went out. At the front entrance to the hotel, a young officer was waiting for them beside a cream-colored Volga sedan. Commissar Wei introduced him to Ma

"Very glad to meet you. I'm Ma

As they were shaking hands, she almost cried out – the officer's hand was so powerful that it felt like a vise gripping her fingers, though he apparently didn't notice her wince. He was a stern-faced man, not very tall but of heavy build. He held his body straight, a dark-reddish belt cinching up his jacket. At his flank he wore a i959 pistol, which was much smaller than those earlier Russian models. Seven squat bullets were sheathed on the flap of his holster.

They all got into the car, including the orderly. The movie was to be shown in the Workers' Cultural Palace, which was just a mile away.

The theater was almost full. As they were walking to their seats, Ma

Before they reached their seats, a fat official in a blue Mao suit appeared and stretched out both hands to the commissar, saying in a booming voice, "How are you, Old Wei? How I miss you!"

Commissar Wei looked startled, then smiled. "I'm well. How about you, Old Zhao?" he said delightedly.

"Fine, fine," the man said.

"Please join us."

The two men were still holding each other's hands while walking toward Row 14, talking about the condition of the municipal Party secretary, who had just broken his leg on a fishing trip. Ma

They all took their seats. On her right sat the commissar and the vice-mayor; on her left were seated Geng Yang and the orderly. A few minutes later the lights went off and the movie started. Commissar Wei dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the terrazzo floor and stamped it out.

The movie told a sad story about a poor Korean family. Strange to say, it had almost no plot. A little girl was eager to have a fresh chestnut, so she went under a large tree, on which two boys, whose father was the richest landowner in the village, were plucking nuts and throwing them down at the children in rags. One of the brothers aimed at the poor girl and hit her with a thorny nut, which injured her eyeball. Then her elder sister had to sell flowers on the streets to support the blind girl and the family. The sisters went on weeping from the begi

Ma