The Noodle Maker(70)

But there is one matter that still puzzles me, and that I suspect might have contributed to the dog’s death. After I left for the conference, the dog somehow managed to climb to the top shelf and bring down those unhealthy books that only a select group of cadres are allowed to ‘Read and Criticise’. They contain the reactionary thoughts of Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Freud, and the much-discredited Hegel. The poor dog was completely unprepared for these ideas – he had never attended any political meetings, and he even held the reactionary opinion that Marxist-Leninism was out of date! Those books corrupted the minds of many poets and university students (including my girlfriend), driving them to a life of decadence, causing them to lose their normal sense of judgement. The dog must have squatted in the corner and read through every wretched book. If this did indeed happen, then I would certainly hold myself responsible for his death.

Now that he’s gone, I have no use for the leftover bones in the cafeteria. But at mealtimes I still glance under the table looking for them, and when no one is watching, I kick them towards me, then wrap them up in a newspaper and take them home with me. This isn’t a normal way to behave. Of course I know in my heart that the survivor is just a stuffed specimen now, but my feelings for him can’t change overnight. In the evening, I wait for darkness to fall, then I walk to the edge of the terrace and toss the bones onto the streets below.

The terrace feels empty without him. His absence weighs heavily on my heart. My life has become disorderly, and my room is no longer as clean as it was when he was around. Mice scuttle across the metal joists on my ceiling now, and when they get tired they drop straight onto my bed. When the dog was alive, the mice only dared take their walks late at night when we were both asleep, and they never ventured far from the skirting board. Now large spiders climb between the rusty joists, sometimes winching themselves down to steal a piece of cake. The pollution outside seems to be getting worse by the day. A thick layer of dust hovers above the terrace, and the air smells of burnt plastic. At night, I close the door and stay inside. If I were to look through my telescope, I would be able to see all the stories taking place in the crowds below, but without the dog by my side, they would seem dull and meaningless. Besides, ever since the Campaign to Learn from Lei Feng was launched, the streets have become so well ordered, there’s nothing much left to see.

Last week, I resolved to confess to my leaders all the unhealthy thoughts that have run through my mind over the past years, and promise that in the future I will align myself fully with the Party and the higher organs. In the enlarged session of the museum’s Party cell meeting, Secretary Wang asked me and the other three colleagues whose Party membership was also under consideration to present self-criticisms about our thinking this year, and admit the mistakes we have committed against the Party. The young graduate confessed that she had read the pornographic novel The Thoughts of a Young Girl, and begged the higher organs to take disciplinary action against her. The old carpenter admitted that he’d constructed the top drawer of his wooden chest from a piece of state-owned hardboard, and he asked the leaders to accept his sincere apologies. Song Juhua from the finance department was still apologising for conceiving a child out of wedlock three years ago. When my turn came, I confessed to every reactionary opinion that either I or the dog had uttered. My mind was extraordinarily clear. I told them about every mistake we had committed, without omitting a single detail. I felt an immense wave of relief. The leaders remained silent throughout my speech, and when it came to an end they just said they would have to go away and look into the matter.

Since my confession, the sad look has vanished from the survivor’s glass eyes. Although he is dead, his coat lives on, and will live on for ever. Never again will he have to hide himself from public view. He is a survivor who has seen through the red dust of the world. When he took part in the Beijing exhibition, he brought glory to our town. Everyone here started talking about my three-legged dog. People travelling here on business would hear about him as soon as they stepped off their train. Tourists would make special trips to visit him in the museum. His photo appeared in many magazines. I cut each one out and stuck them on my wall. Now at last he is able to show his face to the world. The crowds he so despised when he was alive are now his greatest admirers. Secretary Wang was so impressed by the carpenter’s ability to create such a lifelike exhibit, he singled him out for praise on several occasions, and later awarded the survivor the title of ‘Grade One Stuffed Animal’.