Inside out.

Yan, Mo

My dear young friend," my grade-school classmate said over the phone; his voice faltered from anxiety. Wang Jiaju was party secretary of my hometown. "My dear young friend," he repeated, "your old classmate has a serious problem...."

I had little trouble guessing what sort of problem my classmates in official circles encountered, so I said casually, with as much ambiguity as I could manage, "That's nothing to worry about, old friend. You know how women ..."

"What are you thinking, my young friend?" he said anxiously. "If that's all it was, I wouldn't need to come to you."

"Then what is it?" I was beginning to sense the seriousness of whatever problem he had--I could hear it in his voice. "If there's anything I can do to help ... just tell me...."

My friend then proceeded to spell out his problem over the phone.

This friend's wife was also a classmate, Song Liying. They were perfectly matched. Wang's father was vice-secretary of the Commune Party, while Song's father was general party branch secretary at the supply and marketing co-op. Commodity grains filled both families' larders. Both classmates went to work right out of high school. Couples at that level were denied the right to have more than one child, but my classmates had two. The policy at the time was that any couple privileged to dine on commodity grains was permitted a second child if the first was physically disabled or mentally challenged. My friends' first child was a girl. Three years later a second child was born, this one a boy. We all knew that their daughter was a bright and beautiful little girl, but they claimed publicly that she was retarded. Several years earlier, on one of my visits home, my father had nothing but praise for these two classmates of mine. Back then, Wang Jiajun was our town's mayor, his wife, Song Liying, the vice-director of the local supply and marketing co-op. "Would you take a look at Mayor Wang," he'd say. "He got himself a pudgy little son." My father was not happy about my unflinching support for the national one-child policy. "Aren't they worried they'll be reported?" I asked. "Who would have the heart to do such an injustice?" he said.

"My young friend," Wang Jiajun said anxiously. Even though we were talking on the telephone, I could almost see the worried look on his face. "You know that my son, Little Dragon, who's five this year, is a pudgy, lovable little boy. He memorized more than fifty poems at the age of four and could sing a dozen songs, like 'My Home Is on a Mountainside.' You know how high-pitched that one is, too high for most people. But not for Little Dragon. He sang it the way it's supposed to be sung, like a little pro. But he started doing something bizarre lately. He likes to turn things, all kinds of things, inside out. At first it was a balloon. Nothing wrong with that. Lots of kids turn balloons inside out. Then it was a pair of socks, and that makes perfectly good sense, what you could even call a good habit. After that came a pillow, which left his bed covered with grain husks, with little black insects inside them. I figured maybe he'd heard the insects gnawing on the grain husks and, out of curiosity, had turned the pillow inside out. That not only didn't strike me as bad, it seemed like a good thing. If not for him, the family would be sleeping on pillows with insects inside. If some of them climbed into our ears, well, you can imagine what that would be like, right? But then a few days ago, after a rain, there were worms all over the ground, and he even turned them inside out, like goose intestines, until his hands were sticky and smelled terrible. We sent him to his grandmother's house to spend the summer, and he wasted no time in turning the few hens she owned inside out. And he didn't stop with taking out their innards. No, he even turned the innards inside out. It was like he was looking for something hidden inside them. That scared the hell out of his grandmother, who told us to come get him. And while she was on the phone talking to us, he turned a neighbor's puppy inside out. When I showed up, my mother-in-law said, 'Get him out of here, he's a sick boy,' before I could open my mouth. When I saw all those pathetic hens and that poor, disemboweled puppy, I reached for my wallet to settle with my mother-in-law and her neighbor. I even made a show of giving my son a resounding slap across the face. But not only did he not cry, he acted as if he hadn't felt a thing. He couldn't keep his eyes off a mule tethered to a nearby post, possibly trying to figure out how to go about turning it inside out. Well, I took my son home and gave him a stem talking to, even threatening to cut off his fingers if he didn't stop turning things inside out. His mouth scrunched up as he fidgeted with a toy panda and burst into tears. That night in bed, I felt something scratchy on my belly, and when I opened my eyes, what did I see but my son, measuring my belly with his fingers, which could only mean he was making plans to turn me inside out. I sent him tumbling to the floor with the back of my hand. Tearful wails ensued, as he began turning a slipper inside out. ... My young friend, what am I going to do?"

Translated by Howard Goldblatt