The Bridegroom Read Free

hadn’t come to his rescue. So no matter what, Mr. Chiu had to do something. But what could he do?
    It was going to be a scorcher. He could see purple steam shimmering and rising from the ground among the pines. Poor devil, he thought, as he raised a bowl of corn glue to his mouth, sipped, and took a bite of a piece of salted celery.
    When a guard came to collect the bowl and the chopsticks, Mr. Chiu asked him what had happened to the man in the backyard. “He called our boss ‘bandit,’ ” the guard said. “He claimed he was a lawyer or something. An arrogant son of a rabbit.”
    Now it was obvious to Mr. Chiu that he had to do something to help his rescuer. Before he could figure out a way, a scream broke out in the backyard. He rushed to the window and saw a tall policeman standing before Fenjin, an iron bucket on the ground. It was the same young fellow who had arrested Mr. Chiu in the square two days before. The man pinched Fenjin’s nose, then raised his hand, which stayed in the air for a few seconds, then slapped the lawyer across the face. As Fenjin was groaning, the man lifted up the bucket and poured water on his head.
    “This will keep you from getting sunstroke, boy. I’ll give you some more every hour,” the man said loudly.
    Fenjin kept his eyes shut, yet his wry face showed that he was struggling to hold back from cursing the policeman, or, more likely, that he was sobbing in silence. He sneezed, then raised his face and shouted, “Let me go take a piss.”
    “Oh yeah?” the man bawled. “Pee in your pants.”
    Still Mr. Chiu didn’t make any noise, gripping the steel bars with both hands, his fingers white. The policeman turned and glanced at the cell’s window; his pistol, partly holstered, glittered in the sun. With a snort he spat his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped it into the dust.
    Then the door opened and the guards motioned Mr. Chiu to come out. Again they took him upstairs to the Interrogation Bureau.
    The same men were in the office, though this time the scribe was sitting there empty-handed. At the sight of Mr. Chiu the chief said, “Ah, here you are. Please be seated.”
    After Mr. Chiu sat down, the chief waved a white silk fan and said to him, “You may have seen your lawyer. He’s a young man without manners, so our director had him taught a crash course in the backyard.”
    “It’s illegal to do that. Aren’t you afraid to appear in a newspaper?”
    “No, we are not, not even on TV. What else can you do? We are not afraid of any story you make up. We call it fiction. What we do care about is that you cooperate with us. That is to say, you must admit your crime.”
    “What if I refuse to cooperate?”
    “Then your lawyer will continue his education in the sunshine.”
    A swoon swayed Mr. Chiu, and he held the arms of the chair to steady himself. A numb pain stung him in the upper stomach and nauseated him, and his head was throbbing. He was sure that the hepatitis was finally attacking him. Anger was flaming up in his chest; his throat was tight and clogged.
    The chief resumed, “As a matter of fact, you don’t even have to write out your self-criticism. We have your crime described clearly here. All we need is your signature.”
    Holding back his rage, Mr. Chiu said, “Let me look at that.”
    With a smirk the donkey-faced man handed him a sheet, which carried these words:
    I hereby admit that on July 13 I disrupted public order at Muji Train Station, and that I refused to listen to reason when the railroad police issued their warning. Thus I myself am responsible for my arrest. After two days’ detention, I have realized the reactionary nature of my crime. From now on, I shall continue to educate myself with all my effort and shall never commit this kind of crime again.
    A voice started screaming in Mr. Chiu’s ears, “Lie, lie!” But he shook his head and forced the voice away. He asked the chief, “If I sign this, will you release both my lawyer and