steps.
The deputy party secretary’s office was located at the end of a long corridor, and I looked at the floor as I shuffled down the hall. I didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone. When I came to his office, I paused as I looked at the door. Was I really going to do this? Was I going to offer a bribe?
Ever since I was a little boy, I talked to myself when I was anxious, and I did so now, without forethought. “Oh, you aren’t worth anything,” I said. “Why would you think you could get ahead this way? You’re just a peasant, so why fight destiny?”
“Is someone out there?” a voice said from beyond the door. I assumed it was an assistant who must’ve heard my mumbling. As I opened the door, I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d planned on seeing the party secretary and handing him my moon cake with a wink or some sort of sign. I wanted him to know that my moon cake was more than just a moon cake.
However, since the deputy party secretary was nowhere to be seen, I had a wrinkle in my plans. I couldn’t very well introduce myself to the assistant, explain that this was a special moon cake bribe, and leave. Absent any sort of plan, I simply said, “Hello. Here’s a moon cake.”
Only after I handed him the cake did I realize he was not an assistant after all. Apparently, the deputy party secretary shared an office with a deputy dean who believed the moon cake was for him. And so, to my everlasting humiliation, he took the cake, thanked me, and I left.
I had just bribed the wrong person.
Even though that didn’t turn out well, I still hoped the administration would look favorably upon me when the time came. I didn’t want to be a teacher, no matter how much the government seemed to be forcing me down that path. If they selected me when I was a senior, I could be a government official and make enough money to help my family, justify my sister’s educational sacrifice, and get my mother good medical care.
One day, however, a school official with a very sober face came into my dorm with a cable.
“Xiqiu,” he said. “May I come in?”
I slowly opened the door. I could tell by his softer voice that this was not about school business. “Your mother has been admitted to the hospital and has lost consciousness. She’s in critical condition,” he said.
I didn’t move. Did I hear him correctly? Was the death of my mother, the event I had feared all of my life, actually imminent? Fear and grief seized me, but I managed to stand up, grab my backpack, and run out the door. First I took a bus, then a train, and then I walked. I had to travel fourteen hours to get home and every minute I was desperately hoping I could see my mother before she died.
“You made it,” my father told me when I got there. Immediately, I felt relief. I could tell by my father’s slumped shoulders and heavy countenance that I didn’t have long. “We told her you were coming, and I think she was just holding on to see you.”
When I walked into her hospital room, she was unconscious.
“Mom!” I called out. “I’m here. Mom!” Her eyes didn’t open, but then her hand squeezed mine ever so slightly.
“Mom?” I said, taking her hands in mine. “It’s me, Xiqiu. I’m back. I’m here.”
I could tell she was listening. “I’ve been studying well,” I said. “And I can’t wait to take you to Tiananmen Square.”
She didn’t respond.
“Mom?”
It was too late for any real conversation, and I felt helpless. Her life was slipping away too quickly for any last sentiments.
Then, to my surprise, she opened her mouth, just barely, and mustered up the last remaining energy she’d expend on earth to spell out a word.
“P-i-a-n-y-i.”
My childhood nickname. No one had called me that in so long. My mother used to call me in for dinner from the persimmon trees by shouting “Pianyi!” She used it when talking to me soothingly before we all went to bed. She used it when reprimanding me for mischief. She
The deputy party secretary’s office was located at the end of a long corridor, and I looked at the floor as I shuffled down the hall. I didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone. When I came to his office, I paused as I looked at the door. Was I really going to do this? Was I going to offer a bribe?
Ever since I was a little boy, I talked to myself when I was anxious, and I did so now, without forethought. “Oh, you aren’t worth anything,” I said. “Why would you think you could get ahead this way? You’re just a peasant, so why fight destiny?”
“Is someone out there?” a voice said from beyond the door. I assumed it was an assistant who must’ve heard my mumbling. As I opened the door, I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d planned on seeing the party secretary and handing him my moon cake with a wink or some sort of sign. I wanted him to know that my moon cake was more than just a moon cake.
However, since the deputy party secretary was nowhere to be seen, I had a wrinkle in my plans. I couldn’t very well introduce myself to the assistant, explain that this was a special moon cake bribe, and leave. Absent any sort of plan, I simply said, “Hello. Here’s a moon cake.”
Only after I handed him the cake did I realize he was not an assistant after all. Apparently, the deputy party secretary shared an office with a deputy dean who believed the moon cake was for him. And so, to my everlasting humiliation, he took the cake, thanked me, and I left.
I had just bribed the wrong person.
Even though that didn’t turn out well, I still hoped the administration would look favorably upon me when the time came. I didn’t want to be a teacher, no matter how much the government seemed to be forcing me down that path. If they selected me when I was a senior, I could be a government official and make enough money to help my family, justify my sister’s educational sacrifice, and get my mother good medical care.
One day, however, a school official with a very sober face came into my dorm with a cable.
“Xiqiu,” he said. “May I come in?”
I slowly opened the door. I could tell by his softer voice that this was not about school business. “Your mother has been admitted to the hospital and has lost consciousness. She’s in critical condition,” he said.
I didn’t move. Did I hear him correctly? Was the death of my mother, the event I had feared all of my life, actually imminent? Fear and grief seized me, but I managed to stand up, grab my backpack, and run out the door. First I took a bus, then a train, and then I walked. I had to travel fourteen hours to get home and every minute I was desperately hoping I could see my mother before she died.
“You made it,” my father told me when I got there. Immediately, I felt relief. I could tell by my father’s slumped shoulders and heavy countenance that I didn’t have long. “We told her you were coming, and I think she was just holding on to see you.”
When I walked into her hospital room, she was unconscious.
“Mom!” I called out. “I’m here. Mom!” Her eyes didn’t open, but then her hand squeezed mine ever so slightly.
“Mom?” I said, taking her hands in mine. “It’s me, Xiqiu. I’m back. I’m here.”
I could tell she was listening. “I’ve been studying well,” I said. “And I can’t wait to take you to Tiananmen Square.”
She didn’t respond.
“Mom?”
It was too late for any real conversation, and I felt helpless. Her life was slipping away too quickly for any last sentiments.
Then, to my surprise, she opened her mouth, just barely, and mustered up the last remaining energy she’d expend on earth to spell out a word.
“P-i-a-n-y-i.”
My childhood nickname. No one had called me that in so long. My mother used to call me in for dinner from the persimmon trees by shouting “Pianyi!” She used it when talking to me soothingly before we all went to bed. She used it when reprimanding me for mischief. She
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