been appointed, he stood surveying the construction site, studying the lie of the land and inviting opinions from a few of his immediate subordinates. `In the words of Chairman Mao,' he finally pronounced, `work is like a carrying-pole lying on the ground before us, testing us as to whether or not we dare take it onto our shoulders. Sometimes the load is heavy, and sometimes it is light. Some eagerly grasp the light load but fear the heavy, pushing it onto the shoulders of others. This is an example of incorrect thinking. Some comrades, by contrast, delight in taking up the heavy loads for themselves and leaving the light work to others, in putting themselves last and others first. This is the good Communist spirit which we all need to emulate.'
His recitation complete, the Division Commander went back to his house to drink the after-dinner tea his new wife Liu Lian had prepared for him. From that moment on, the building work ground to a vig orous halt and the site was overrun by scrubby weeds. The sentries only patrolled on the other side of the red-brick wall that skirted the site--well away from the house itself. The inhabitants of Compound Number One would need to be screaming blue murder to be overheard by the patrols. Only to the west was the house overlooked-by Compound Number Two, the Political Commissar's house. As luck would have it, though, with the Commissar off on camp and field training, his wife had gone on social manoeuvres to the provincial capital, taking her orderly with her on a tour of her relatives.
All was as if Heaven itself had willed it. And, true to this Heaven-sent opportunity, for the first two and a half days they remained inside the house, enslaving themselves to their most basic desires. In the end, though, their weary bodies let them down, refusing them more of the same delirious happiness. Even though they tried the exact position that had worked so ecstatically well-her lying on her back on the bed, him standing at its foot-success eluded them. They considered endless permutations and variations of arrangement and mood; none had the desired effect.
Failure trailed them, like a shadow.
`What's wrong?' she asked, as they lay exhausted on the bed.
I'm just tired,' he replied.
`It's not that. You're bored with me.'
`I want to put some clothes on and go and do some work in the garden. I'll get undressed again when I come back inside, all right?'
`Please yourself.'
He climbed down off the bed and went over to her wardrobe. However, as he opened the door, an accident of incalculable counter-revolutionary enormity occurred-one that threatened the very fabric of society and state; something far more serious than stamping on one of Chairman Mao's quotations. Taking his uniform out of the wardrobe, he brought with it a plaster statue of Mao Zedong. It plummeted to the ground and shattered pitilessly all over the floor, filling the room with powdery shards. Chairman Mao's severed head rolled, just as a ping-pong ball would, over to the side of the table, discarding en route its snow-white nose, which came to rest, like a dust-covered soya bean, in the middle of the room.
Wu Dawang stood white-faced, rooted to the spot, as the smell of plaster of Paris billowed up around him.
With a squeal of alarm, Liu Lian bolted from the bed and to the telephone. `Hello, switchboard?' she gabbled into the receiver. `Is the Head of Security still in barracks?'
In an instant, Wu Dawang understood the gravity of the situation. The word `bitch' springing disbelievingly to his lips, he dropped his uniform and charged over to grab the telephone from Liu Lian.
`What the hell are you doing?' he barked, slamming it back down.
She concentrated on struggling free and getting the receiver back. To stop her, he stood guard in front of the table, repelling all her desperate, violent lunges, swatting her arms away, muttering angrily beneath his breath. He was amazed by her strength and stamina: every time he saw her
His recitation complete, the Division Commander went back to his house to drink the after-dinner tea his new wife Liu Lian had prepared for him. From that moment on, the building work ground to a vig orous halt and the site was overrun by scrubby weeds. The sentries only patrolled on the other side of the red-brick wall that skirted the site--well away from the house itself. The inhabitants of Compound Number One would need to be screaming blue murder to be overheard by the patrols. Only to the west was the house overlooked-by Compound Number Two, the Political Commissar's house. As luck would have it, though, with the Commissar off on camp and field training, his wife had gone on social manoeuvres to the provincial capital, taking her orderly with her on a tour of her relatives.
All was as if Heaven itself had willed it. And, true to this Heaven-sent opportunity, for the first two and a half days they remained inside the house, enslaving themselves to their most basic desires. In the end, though, their weary bodies let them down, refusing them more of the same delirious happiness. Even though they tried the exact position that had worked so ecstatically well-her lying on her back on the bed, him standing at its foot-success eluded them. They considered endless permutations and variations of arrangement and mood; none had the desired effect.
Failure trailed them, like a shadow.
`What's wrong?' she asked, as they lay exhausted on the bed.
I'm just tired,' he replied.
`It's not that. You're bored with me.'
`I want to put some clothes on and go and do some work in the garden. I'll get undressed again when I come back inside, all right?'
`Please yourself.'
He climbed down off the bed and went over to her wardrobe. However, as he opened the door, an accident of incalculable counter-revolutionary enormity occurred-one that threatened the very fabric of society and state; something far more serious than stamping on one of Chairman Mao's quotations. Taking his uniform out of the wardrobe, he brought with it a plaster statue of Mao Zedong. It plummeted to the ground and shattered pitilessly all over the floor, filling the room with powdery shards. Chairman Mao's severed head rolled, just as a ping-pong ball would, over to the side of the table, discarding en route its snow-white nose, which came to rest, like a dust-covered soya bean, in the middle of the room.
Wu Dawang stood white-faced, rooted to the spot, as the smell of plaster of Paris billowed up around him.
With a squeal of alarm, Liu Lian bolted from the bed and to the telephone. `Hello, switchboard?' she gabbled into the receiver. `Is the Head of Security still in barracks?'
In an instant, Wu Dawang understood the gravity of the situation. The word `bitch' springing disbelievingly to his lips, he dropped his uniform and charged over to grab the telephone from Liu Lian.
`What the hell are you doing?' he barked, slamming it back down.
She concentrated on struggling free and getting the receiver back. To stop her, he stood guard in front of the table, repelling all her desperate, violent lunges, swatting her arms away, muttering angrily beneath his breath. He was amazed by her strength and stamina: every time he saw her
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