‘Last year the newspapers reported that the senior cadres were too conservative, and that the Party wanted them to loosen their reins and let the younger cadres take control of the reform process.’
‘Well this year it’s changed, hasn’t it? Now it’s the older you are, the more reformist you are. “The waves of the Yangtze River are pushed forward from behind”, as the saying goes.’
‘What age should I make my Lei Feng?’ the writer asked, pulling out his notebook.
The secretary paused for a while. ‘You’ll have to decide that yourself But don’t take too long. As we speak, every writers’ association in the country is preparing for this campaign. They’re putting their best writers on the job. Make sure you don’t miss the boat.’ Then he stopped and looked him straight in the eye. ‘If you come up with a good story about a new Lei Feng, the Party organs will send you an application form for inclusion in The Great Dictionary of Chinese Writers.’
‘My very own place in history!’ the writer exclaims to his friend. ‘Just one short novel, and I can enter The Great Dictionary of Chinese Writers.’
The donor nods his head. ‘You will become immortal.’
‘I must find a living Lei Feng, but I can’t think of anyone suitable.’ The writer remembers taking out his diary on his first day in the re-education camp, and writing on the front page: ‘Just like Lei Feng, I will be a screw that never rusts. Wherever the Party chooses to place me, I will shine.’ He remembers learning how Lei Feng wore the same pair of socks for five years, darning them again and again, preferring to give his money away to the poor rather than buy himself a new pair. The writer racks his brain, trying to think of someone he knows who shows the same selfless, heroic qualities, but all that comes to mind are the characters of his unwritten novel: a young entrepreneur who runs a private crematorium; an illegal migrant who writes letters for the illiterate; a father who spends his life trying to get rid of his retarded daughter …
These are people he knows, has read about or sees every day on the streets. They are the people he understands, the people he’d write about, if he had the courage. Their lives are as miserable and constricted as his own. But he is fully aware that if he wrote about these sad and feeble characters, his leaders would consider him unfit for the post of professional writer. He would lose his state salary, his apartment, his membership of the Writers’ Association, and any chance of being included in the literary encyclopaedias.
The chunks of goose meat are enjoying a gentle massage by their stomachs’ digestive juices. The friends seem more at ease now.
‘The eggs are ready,’ the blood donor says. ‘You will enter The Great Dictionary. You’re a writer, the conscience of our generation. But look at me! I’ve saved hundreds of lives by giving blood, but what have I got to show for it? I could die tomorrow and no one would know. Unless you decide to write about me, of course.’
‘Your profession is despicable. It’s degenerate. It proves that human nature is essentially evil.’
‘Roast goose doesn’t grow on trees, you know.’ The blood donor points to the pieces of spat-out bone stuck to the manuscript paper. ‘If it weren’t for me, the national blood banks would be empty. I’ve bled myself dry for this country.’
‘They still haven’t put any ginger in their fish-head soup,’ the writer grumbles.
‘If it weren’t for me, this country would be finished!’
‘Foreigners give blood for free,’ the writer retorts. ‘You’re a fraud, a fake philanthropist.’
‘I’m more real than you are,’ the blood donor snaps, touching a nerve. Over the years, he has slowly learned to speak the writer’s language, and knows where to insert his knife.
‘The king is in trouble now!’ the writer chuckles to himself, leaning back in his chair. ‘The sailors are clambering to shore …’
‘The factory leaders depend on us to fulfil their blood donation quotas. If their own employees gave blood, they’d have to fork out thousands of yuan a year on sick pay and convalescent breaks. We only take cash, and we’ve never asked for a convalescent break. Many factories have been granted the status of “advanced enterprises” because of the blood we’ve given on their behalf. Well, I’m an “advanced blood donor”, a selfless Lei Feng devoted to the cause of the people. You say foreigners give blood for free. Well, if the government could be bothered to give me a proper job, I would give blood for free too.’