The Crazed by Ha Jin Page B

weeds! A debt of lives must be paid with lives!” His shrill voice was getting louder and louder.
    I was totally baffled, not knowing whether he was faking or truly believed he was onstage. Holding my breath, I watched him wriggling as if he were bound by invisible chains. He looked in pain and probably imagined exchanging words and blows with an enemy.
    He chanted ferociously, “I shall eliminate all the vermin of your kind, and shan’t withdraw my troops until the red clouds have covered the entire earth . . .”
    Dumbfounded, I listened. He enacted this militant role for about half an hour. I couldn’t tell why Vice Principal Huang’s visit had disturbed him so much. By no means did it seem that the official had come to press him for the $1,800. Then why did Mr. Yang go berserk like this?

9
    Two days later Kailing Wang, the woman lecturer in the Foreign Languages Department, came to see Mr. Yang. She brought along a bouquet of red silk roses and a copy of
The Good Woman of Szechwan,
which had just come out from Tomorrow Press in Shanghai. She said the book was well received and there would be a review in the journal
Foreign
Drama
praising the brisk, sturdy translation. Having no idea what to do with the artificial flowers, I just held them for her as she tried to talk to my teacher.
    She was of medium height and wore a puce dress, which made her appear less plump and set off her full bust. Although her appearance reminded me of Mr. Yang’s words about the peachy breasts, I bridled my wayward thoughts. Actually I very much respected Kailing. Ten years ago her husband, a regimental staff officer, had been killed in a border battle between Chinese and Vietnamese armies. Since then, she had raised their son alone. Today apparently she hadn’t expected to see my teacher in such a wretched condition. She said to me, her voice torn, “He wasn’t like this last week. Why did they tell me on the phone that he was getting better? This is awful!” She kept wringing her hands while her eyes misted up.
    Indeed this afternoon Mr. Yang was too delirious to talk with anybody. Now and again his lips twisted into a puerile grin as if he were a victim of Down syndrome. The book that bore his name as a cotranslator made no special impression on him, and Kailing seemed to him a total stranger. To whatever she said he wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t tell whether he recognized her or not. He grunted and groaned vaguely as if having a migraine, and his upper body shuddered frequently.
    Taking Mr. Yang’s lifeless hand and folding his fingers, Kailing burst into tears. She went on wiping her cheeks with a white handkerchief. Her face at once looked aged, slightly sallow, as if its muscles had lost their elasticity. Her nose was clogged and a little rounded. As she sobbed, her full chin couldn’t stop shaking. Observing her, I wished I could have said something to console her. Then she bent forward to peer into his eyes, which were still blank and rheumy and without any trace of recognition. On his swollen face his eyes appeared thready and his lips parted. I was fighting down the impulse to grab his shoulders and shake him out of this wooden state.
    Kailing remained standing in front of him for more than twenty minutes. Now and again she looked into his eyes, eager to find out whether he still knew her, but he seemed like a senseless retardate. I told her that this was just a bad day and that usually he was much more lively and clearheaded. She nodded without a word.
    At last she let go of his hand. Placing the book near his knee, she said, “Professor Yang, you must get well. I need you. You promised to work with me on Brecht’s poetry.” He made no answer.
    “I’ve done a draft of some of his poems and like them very much,” she added.
    Still he was wordless. She looked at me, her eyes filled with disappointment, while her right thumb was massaging her temple.
    On leaving, she told me to let her know if Mr. Yang needed