Selected Works of Ba Jin - 60 Literary Masters of the Century

Author: Ba Jin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: I had been wandering outside for sixteen years and only recently returned to my hometown, which had turned into a "rear base" during the war. Although it was where I grew up, everything there seemed to reject me. On the streets, I couldn’t see a single familiar face. In fact, even the narrow, smooth stone paths were gone, replaced by wide, dusty roads. The quiet alleys were now bustling. The black-painted iron-covered thresholds of the mansions had all been sawed off, allowing brand-new private cars to enter and exit arrogantly. The luxurious facades of the shops almost blinded me. Once, I boldly stepped into a grand department store, pointed at something lying in the glass display case, and asked the price. I was startled back by the shop assistant’s sharp reply. I felt like a stranger, staying in a small hotel, paying a high room fee for a tiny room that smelled of coal when the window was open and had no sunlight when it was closed. Except for when I slept, I spent almost the entire day outside. I loved wandering the streets, walking alone in silence—whether in the midst of crowds or in solitude didn’t matter to me. Sometimes I would bury my head in thought, other times I’d stand on the street for an hour listening to a blind storyteller or chat with a fortune-teller. One day, as I was lost in my wandering, my left arm was suddenly grabbed. Startled, I looked up and thought I had accidentally stepped on someone’s foot. "What, you’re here? Where do you live? You came back and didn’t even visit me! You deserve to be scolded!" The person standing before me was my primary, secondary, and university classmate, Yao Guodong. Though we were all classmates, he had graduated from university, studied abroad, and had been a professor for three years and held a government position for two before returning home to live off the several hundred acres of land left by his father. Five years ago, he bought a grand mansion from a declining Yang family in this city. I knew all this. He got married, had children, lost his wife, and then remarried—all of it was common knowledge to me. He never wrote to me, and I never inquired about his address. When he resigned from his position and passed through Shanghai, he found my residence and took me out for a meal at a local restaurant. After drinking, he rambled on about his ambitions, his triumphs, and his failures. I rarely interrupted him, only answering when he asked about my writing life, the sales of my books, or my earnings. At that time, I had published only two short story collections and occasionally written short articles for magazines, but somehow he had read them all and studied them carefully. "Well written! You’re quite the writer, just lacking in grandeur!" He flushed, nodding, as he said this. I couldn’t reply and flushed too. "Why do you keep writing about small, petty things? I’m going to write novels too, but I’ll write grand, earth-shattering dramas about heroes and martyrs!" He widened his eyes, his head thrown back with an air of confidence, his gaze fixed on me. "Alright, alright," I mumbled, feeling quite pathetic in his presence. After a moment of silence, he burst into laughter. The next day, he boarded a ship. But his novel never saw the light of day, as if he had never even started writing it. The man standing before me now was this very friend—tall, broad-shouldered, with thick brows, a wide forehead, a-shaped nose, and thick upper and lower lips. His face was large and long, and he had changed little—only slightly fatter and paler. He gripped my thin hand in his large, sweaty one. "I know you bought the Yang family mansion, but I didn’t know if you were living in the city. I thought you’d be hiding in the countryside to avoid air raids, and I was afraid your doorman wouldn’t let me in—look at my outfit!" I replied with a hint of embarrassment. "Enough, enough, don’t tease me. After the last big bombing, I stayed in the countryside for two or three months and then moved back. Where do you live? Let me see, so I can visit you later." He smiled sincerely. "The International Hotel." "When did you arrive?" "About ten days ago." "So you’ve been staying at the International Hotel the whole time? You’ve been back in your hometown for over ten days and are still staying in a hotel? You’re really strange! You still have rich relatives, don’t you? Your rich uncle has gotten even wealthier these past few years, buying land every year. Why don’t you go see him?" He released my hand and said loudly, as if wanting the whole street to hear. "Lower your voice, lower your voice," I urged anxiously. "You know they don’t associate with me anymore." "But things are different now. You’re famous now, you’ve written several books," he interrupted before I could finish. "Even I envy you!" "Don’t tease me either. My annual income isn’t enough to buy a decent suit, and they couldn’t care less about me. They’re either afraid I’ll ask for money or think it’ll shame them to have me as a poor relative. Oh, have you finished your great novel?" He paused, then burst into laughter. "You have a good memory. I’ve been home for two years and have ruined thousands of sheets of paper, but I haven’t even written two thousand organized words. I don’t have that talent. Later, I tried to translate some French works too, but that didn’t work either. I translated Hugo’s novels, others’ beautiful prose, but the translations didn’t even make sense—they weren’t even proper sentences. I couldn’t even follow my own translations when reading them. I gave up on a book called The Year 93 after translating only two chapters. My liberal arts education was wasted. From now on, I’ll admit defeat and stop bragging. Now, let’s go—take me to your place."