The Noodle Maker(5)

The writer’s jaw drops. ‘You – a living Lei Feng! All right then, I’ll write about you. The blood-donating saviour of the people. The new Lei Feng. But the trouble is – you make money out of it …’

‘So what?’ the blood donor says, unwilling to let slip this chance to achieve fame. ‘I’m more Lei Feng than Lei Feng! If you write about me, you won’t have to bother to “Go Down among the Masses” or to “Learn about Life through Personal Experience”. I gave blood twice in one day to help out a man who had been ordered to give blood by the Party. Not even Lei Feng would have done that. And as for all the other good deeds I’ve done in my past, well you know about them already.’ He snatches the bottle of medicinal wine from the centre of the table, pours out a few drops for the writer, and empties the rest into his own glass. Then he gets up from the table and goes to fetch a box of matches. ‘You always promised you would write about me,’ he says, lighting a cigarette. ‘I would have given up this job ages ago otherwise.’

‘Do you know anything about the brain?’ the writer asks blankly. ‘My thoughts seem to arrive in unconnected paragraphs. They never connect. They set up home in my mind and pour their hearts out. They couldn’t care less about me, but I depend on them for my livelihood. You, though, have always been rooted to the real world, and over the years, you’ve influenced me and brought me down to earth. Who knows? Tomorrow I might just start giving blood myself. But I …’ The writer takes a drag from his cigarette, and glances at the blood donor sitting opposite him. ‘ … I’ve influenced you too. You’ve taken every word of criticism I’ve used against you in the past, and now you’re using them against me. Maybe you’re the one who’s going to end up in the history books. You and your lot.’

‘I don’t eat much these days,’ the blood donor says. ‘It takes me twice as long to climb the stairs now. My movements are clumsy.’

‘You’re in better shape than I am. In the re-education camp, you were the pasty one. Always playing sick, lying in bed while the rest of us were out working.’ A sour tone has crept into the writer’s voice, as it always does when the first bottle of wine is finished. My mind is filled with stories, he thinks to himself. But I have no idea how to piece them together. I need to be with people. I need to go out and speak to people before I can reach any deeper understanding.

‘You swallow jugfuls of water before giving blood,’ the writer adds, after a long pause. ‘You could harm someone that way.’

‘I’ve only done that once. What others get up to is their own business. Most of the recruits tie metal rods to their legs these days.’

‘You’ve never really grown up.’

The blood donor stares at the writer’s face, trying to assess the seriousness of the remark. But the writer’s eyes are hidden behind his glasses, and there is no emotion in his voice.

‘You are utterly self-centred,’ the writer continues. ‘You never pay attention to the world around you.’ Reaching for a second bottle of wine, he thinks to himself: As far as he and I are concerned, Lei Feng is a dead man, like any other. Everyone is equal in death. What’s the difference between General Cao Cao, Marshal Liu Bei, and Comrade Lei Feng? They’re just a bunch of dead men, that’s all …

The blood donor looks at the writer’s mouth, then at his ears. He knows that it’s his mouth that draws him to this room. In the re-education camp, he and the other urban youths would sit around the writer and stare at his mouth, waiting to hear what would come out of it.

‘Could you ever be entirely selfless and devote yourself to the people?’ the writer asks with a sneer. His question seems to be directed at both himself and the blood donor.

‘I refuse to be anyone’s slave. The constitution states that all men are equal, so why should I put myself down and sacrifice myself to others?’ The blood donor has dropped his obsequious tone. He has clearly given up trying to persuade his friend to write about him.

The writer remains silent. He knows that his life is almost entirely devoted to the Party. But he has no idea who the Party is. He knows that the Party was around before he was born, and has controlled him his entire life. Every part of him belongs to the Party. The Party told him to write novels. It could tell him to die too if it wanted – he’d have no choice in the matter. Vlazerim exchanges his blood for food, he exchanges his mind instead. He remembers how the blood donor looked as he gobbled the roast goose: his entire body consumed in the act of eating, his mind focused on the need to eat, the need to survive. When he bit into the chunk of goose breast, a blob of grease dripped down his shirt and fell onto the table.