Soon we began to lengthen our days by two more hours, adding an hour before sunrise and an hour in the evening. We lived on four hours of sleep. Our appetites diminished. Dad was concerned, and gave us a brief lecture. We shrugged it off. The exam was only a couple of weeks away. What more harm could such a short time do?
When Jin was tired, he stared into the empty space before him, deep in thought. His cheeks were sunken, his face was wan, and he’d grown an unruly beard. Each time I took my eyes off my book and stole a glance at him, my heart went out to him. He was a man consumed by his quest for the only way out of this hellhole. He wanted only to give it one try. If he failed, he was going to burn those books and be a farmer forever. Each minute of his time was precious. I prayed silently for us every night before going to sleep, even on my most exhausting days.
I wished that I could just sleep in forever. But when I woke up and splashed my face with cold water from the river, I bounced back to another day of cramming. When I grew tired, I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, trying to imagine that I was on the train to Beijing, surrounded by the fresh faces of young college kids. Outside was the most beautiful scenery. There goes Fuzhou, Hanzhou, Shanghai, the Yangtze and Yellow rivers, and finally, the capital of China, Beijing. Then I would rush to the platform and see the flag of my college flying high in the wind as I ran into the arms of my new teachers.
After that self-administered shot of adrenaline, I pushed on. I thought of cows, those great cows, which plowed and plowed forever, never complaining. The books were the endless fields. The thought made me feel a little better. I felt recharged, and plunged back into my studies. Before I knew it, it was time to sleep again. No days had been longer or shorter than during that time. We stopped worrying about everything else. We were in our own world, and it was completely filled with our desire to excel.
We smiled and encouraged each other. I never felt closer to Jin, nor he to me. We were a couple of marathon runners, each taking inspiration from the other. We kept saying to one another that, yes, we were nearing the finish line: hurry, hurry, or it would be forever too late.
Immediately after the Cultural Revolution, going to college suddenly became the rage. Poet, scientist, Commie-sucker Guo Muo Ruo called the period “the Spring of Science.” Nerdy scientists such as Chen Jin Nuen became national heroes. Chen Jin Nuen had worked for twenty years on one mathematical formula, finally proving it. He was a single man in his late forties, a little crazy, and suffering from bad health, who had lived in a miserable tiny studio, cluttered with papers. He would forget to eat, to sleep, and was often so deep in thought he would bump into a tree and sincerely apologize to it, not realizing that it was just a tree.
Thousands of suitors sent marriage proposals to him—beautiful actresses, doctors, teachers, and nurses. The president of the Communist Women’s Federation at the institute where Mr. Chen worked took it upon herself to go through all those letters. She chose twenty finalists, and, along with a committee, picked a kind, caring nurse to be his wife. He began having three meals prepared for him daily, and put on a dozen pounds. He eventually moved into a spacious, four-bedroom apartment facing a park. He spent his days smelling the flowers and walking arm in arm with his new bride, whom he didn’t really know what to do with, his mind being occupied with another math problem.
He went on the lecture circuit, and his story moved his audiences to tears. Millions of young people wanted to be exactly like him. He was a Chinese Einstein. There were students who imitated Chen’s lifestyle, staying up all night and going to school the next morning red-eyed, hoarse, and pale. They walked around absentmindedly, bumping into chairs and tables and apologizing in a whisper.
The radio talked about young heroes who had overcome severe difficulties and had made it to prestigious colleges. There was heroism, glamour, money, and cushy jobs awaiting those who crossed the threshold. A college education was money in the bank—and getting there was as rare as hitting all six numbers in the lottery.
In China, from the moment you were admitted into a college, no matter how low-level it was, your life would be totally taken care of by the government. There was no tuition to pay. They gave you the train ticket, a food stipend of thirty-six pounds of rice a month, a bed, all the books you needed, and a guaranteed job, prestigious, a white-collar job. It was the best college deal in the whole world.
But for Jin and me, it was more than that. We were out there to make a point. The Chen family had been dragged through mud for the last forty years, and Mom and Dad had been through hell to raise us. Now it was time to pay them back, and to make them proud.
I drew a flag in red ink on the calendar for each of the three examination days in July. Each day, as I looked at the flags, I felt a lump in my throat. My blood would begin to boil, my heart would race, and the exhaustion would vanish as my energy returned. I would rush back to my books and read for a few more hours.
Finally, the big exam was only ten days away. Jin began to have difficulty sleeping. No matter how early he got up and how hard he studied, he still couldn’t find peace. He would stare at the top of the mosquito net and listen to the mosquitoes hum their war songs. Dad had to find some sleeping pills to help calm him down. There were times when he would simply sit quietly, staring at his book, his eyes unmoving, thinking and thinking. I knew the pressure he was feeling.
He began to claim he couldn’t remember anything. I made him some tea and told him that we were not going to waste all the work we’d done. We hadn’t slept enough, had seen no friends, and had hardly been outside the house in weeks. Finally, I tested him on a few tough questions and he answered them beautifully. I slapped him on the back and he returned to his studies. At this point, we were bound together like a couple of soldiers in battle. My words meant more to him than anyone else’s. In the back of my own mind, however, there was always the fear of opening the exam paper and not knowing any of the answers. I had nightmares about my mind going blank. I woke up sweating and shaking.
We plowed on, whipping each other with words of encouragement and sometimes letting ourselves think of the sweetness of having a dream come true. It was about the family. It was about a lot of things. It was vindication for Jin personally, a junior high school dropout, trying to make it to college. I assured him that there was a school eagerly awaiting his arrival. I cheered for him and he cheered for me. He said that I could make it to the top, the very top. I thanked him, strengthened by his confidence. It wouldn’t be long before this whole thing would be over. We would look back and laugh.
YELLOW STONE LITERALLY got a shot of excitement five days before the national examination: electricity. From that day on, hydropowered electricity would be provided twenty-four hours a day. Not that Yellow Stone had never seen the magic of electric power: for the last ten years, a limited supply of electricity, four hours a night, had been generated from a small station near the commune. Noisy, inefficient, and expensive, only one fifth of the town could afford it, but everyone could hear the old generator as it cranked along. It added a thrill to the quiet nightlife there, as it spat out steamy hot water into a pool right outside the power station. On a cold day, we could climb into that pool naked, and have our hot baths. Even though the water smelled like oil and sometimes had traces of grease floating on the surface, there was always a long line of people in various stages of undress waiting for their turn to dip into the pool. At times, when the manager of the station was drunk, he would use his powerful flashlight to illuminate the unruly bathers and scare them away. Startled, they would run for it naked, clutching their clothes.
The old generator became such an important part of people’s lives at Yellow Stone that you often heard a mother say to her children, “Where have you been? The generator has already started.” It came on at seven each night, and people scheduled their lives around it. And when it was turned off at eleven, kids had no business being up anymore anyhow: it was curfew, when the small town of Yellow Stone returned to its preh
istoric silence and darkness. At that time, only the moon was supposed to shine.
Now everything would change. Even though there were only five days left before the exam, Dad decided it would be good for us to have one electric outlet. Jin and I were to share a fifteen-watt bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The first night, we stared at the bulb for a good minute after it was turned on. Then we shook our heads in disbelief and smiled at each other. There would be no more need for Grandfather’s smoke-belching oil lamp. I could wave my fan to chase the deadly mosquitoes without having to worry about dousing the light.
As the sacred days slowly approached, the atmosphere in our household changed. Mom prayed a little harder, and got up earlier in order to say longer prayers. Meals were more lavish. There was always meat on the table, just for Jin and me. We no longer argued with Mom about the unjust inequality among family members, we simply shoved the food down and returned to our studies. Our sisters lowered their voices when they talked and walked past our rooms quietly. But the biggest change was in Dad. He actually bought some Flying Horses and slipped them into my room late at night. No words were needed. He badly wanted me to succeed.
It reminded me of a story about a father who was carrying his son on his shoulders one day. A wise guy asked the son, “Why are you riding your dad like a horse?”
The son smiled and said, “Dad does it in the hope that someday I will become a dragon and glorify him.”
Two days before the exam, the whole town of Yellow Stone gathered to gossip and watch the candidates. Every third family had someone taking the exam. Few public events mattered as much to the townspeople. A militiaman from the commune paraded through the street with a loudspeaker, shouting about the virtues of the exam and yelling encouragement. “Don’t panic, be brave, have a strong heart, and be prepared for both failure and success.”
The slogans roared through the speakers, which had been mounted on the front of a muddy tractor. People listened quietly as the tractor drove noisily by. It was wartime, and the young people were going out to do battle.
Food vendors loaded up their supplies and rented spaces near the test sites. Yellow Stone’s high school and elementary school, where some of the tests would be held, were swept, mopped, and dusted by hundreds of temporary workers. The desks were all numbered, and schoolteachers were called back from their breaks to be monitors. The commune had several thousand exam applicants, all of whom were going to crowd into the town of Yellow Stone, the seat of higher learning, and take the tests that would determine their futures. Word was out that Peking Man was going to give his final predictions on the history questions. Since entrance to the school was sealed, he would hold court in the commune’s auditorium. His moment of glory had finally arrived. The site of much political significance was turned into his shrine.
I strolled along the street for the first time in months and headed for the commune. Jin felt ashamed to be among the younger crowd. He stayed at home and took a nap. Only the graduates of Yellow Stone High were allowed in. Hundreds more stood outside the hall. Peking Man had set the rules; he was a tribal type, loyal to his own kind, and nasty to all others.
In the hall, Dia quickly spotted me. He looked sick and still had the Einstein hairstyle. His eyes were red, with dried yellow crud in the corners—which I don’t think Einstein had.
We hugged and laughed.
“You’re still alive. So which college are you shooting for?” I asked him.
“The way I’ve been doing, I think I’m heading for the agricultural specialty in my own backyard. I’ll end up learning tobacco-growing. Da, I’m thinking of taking the science tests.”
“Are you crazy? With just two days left? You know nothing about science.”
“I know nothing about liberal arts either.”
“There’s no time for that sort of wavering, Dia. Weren’t you studying at home like me?”
“I was, but it got to me. At first, I was so good. I read for eighteen hours and burned the oil all night. Naturally, I began to sleep in the daytime and get up at night. Then I got hungry, so I ended up cooking. After I ate, I got sleepy, so I went back to take a nap. But instead of a nap, I slept for twelve hours on end, and then it was fucking nighttime again. I was totally screwed up. I couldn’t tell night from day.”
“Now you’re studying for the science tests?”
“I don’t know what I am doing, I’m finished.”
I slapped his unruly head and he shook it like a lion. “All right. I’ll do liberal arts.”
“Good. Let’s find a good seat for ourselves.”
We sat on the crowded floor with the rest of our sweaty classmates. The surface of the street could have grilled a fish and the temperature within the auditorium would have made a baker want his job back. Hundreds of eager faces were waiting for Peking Man to perform his annual ritual. Everyone was solemn, pressured by peers, family, and society to succeed. What was usually a rowdy crowd now sat quietly, as if awaiting sentencing.
Peking Man strolled in, sporting a T-shirt two sizes too small that revealed a couple of inches of his hairy potbelly and a pair of loose shorts that were cut too long. His legs were more bent than they appeared under long pants. That explained his unique side-to-side, rolling walk.
The crowd took a deep breath. It would be our first brush with the examinations; it brought a raw awakening within us.
Peking Man was silent and serious. He gazed at us with the look of a savior, a doctor. I know your pain and I am here to take it away.
His eyes sparkled with those wild lights so rare among modern men. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but no words came out. A stutterer was a stutterer. On the third try, he made it. A loud sound filled the hall with echoes; it sounded like a cry from some ancient creature, but our hearts responded to it. It was a war cry.
“My students!” he called. “This is a battle and I am here to give you the weapons!”
Any other day, the house would have rocked with laughter at so silly a declaration, but not today. Today we believed him. It was wartime, us against the world, and it felt good to have Peking Man on our side. I felt like standing and saluting our hairy commander, the Monkey King.
“I have made my decisions after a long and hard search.” He rolled his sad eyes, then refocused them on us.
“Here are my top selections for the year.” He threw open a portable blackboard. Written on it were four long essay questions. The crowd scribbled furiously. There was only the sound of pen fighting paper, and the noisy breathing of Peking Man, who seemed to have a loose valve somewhere, another of his unevolved organs.
He then went on to explain the tricky points hidden in the questions, piloting us through them like a seasoned sailor in troubled waters. He dodged, turned, and twisted. His logic was clear and his delivery forceful. His face gradually wrinkled into a smile. Normally when he smiled, we ducked our heads, for no one wanted to witness the display of his big yellow teeth. But this time it was comforting, in a devious way. To us, those teeth were weapons.
“Each of these questions could be worth 25 percent of the score. Nail the answers in your brain. If any of you comes out of the test missing these questions, any part of them, you will not call me your teacher anymore. Now go.” He leaned on his elbows and nodded his huge head, indicating his farewell to all our miserable souls. We rushed out of the hall for some fresh air. Another five minutes and some of us would have been carried out on stretchers.
Hundreds of others waiting outside surrounded us for tips on what had gone on inside. I dodged a few money-waving questioners, and went to say good-bye and good luck to Dia, my tortured friend. He patted my shoulder and gave me a firm handshake. We understood each other, and parted silently. As I was turning the corner, I saw Dia giving his notes to a guy waiting to buy information. The man gave him a one-yuan bill for the notes. Dia pocketed it, then turned to another eager soul. Dia would sell the questions until no one wanted them anymore. And he did, ten times.
 
; The day before the tests, the street of Yellow Stone was alive with thousands of applicants coming to town to see the test site so that they wouldn’t get lost in the next day’s frenzy and confusion. Stone-faced militiamen walked the sealed sections of the school. The test-takers nervously looked beyond the yellow ribbon. For the well-prepared, today was the day to rest. The three long days of test-taking would be exhausting, to say the least. I saw the Head, the snob, dribbling a basketball absentmindedly, like a girl. Silently, I wished him luck: may he open his paper and not know a thing.
Others were just sitting around chatting, killing time. Han, my elementary school enemy, wasn’t one of them. He had been studying, but the stuff was coming out from his granite head, his mom said. Today, he was sitting before a tall pile of books, not knowing which one to read. His mom said he wouldn’t eat, talk, or sleep. I also wished him luck, and hoped that he’d faint on the floor of the test site and never wake up.
Since early morning, Dad’s friends and neighbors had come by to wish us good luck. Ar Duang, whose son was Dad’s patient, carried a large basket of fruit and insisted that we eat it all so that we would have fresh minds. Jin mingled with our guests in the living room, taking it easy. I knew he would do well. He was smiling and looked relaxed. I had gotten up at five and had washed my face extra carefully. Mom and I had prayed and kowtowed before every single god in her shrine. She had just unearthed a new one called the God of Wisdom and wanted me to beg hard before him. I had slammed about ten big ones to him, and I was sure every one of them would be worth something.
I’d long been expecting this day, yet was a bit fearful now that it had finally arrived. I had been studying an average of fifteen hours a day for the last ten months. Now it was coming to an end. The lump in my throat grew bigger. When Mom asked me how I felt, I pumped up my confidence and said that if I kowtowed a little harder, some of my knowledge might spill out.