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教授之死
The professor was just over 60， and on his sagely skull only a bit of wispy hair was left， like smoke curling from his head. A very plain pair of spectacles rested on his frail nose. The eyes behind their lenses were calm and meticulous. He was short， and wore a white， full-length lab coat year round. To anyone who looked at him， one word came reflexively to mind—scholar.
The professor was an authority in animal husbandry and had published papers in both China and abroad， which gained a lot of attention. Several foreign universities had offered him professorships， with high salaries， all of which he politely declined. Fame and wealth never entered his consideration. In his study， a large plaque hung with the short sentence “To serve the people，” the calligraphy by Chairman Mao. These words were his lifelong belief； even though he’d also suffered as a “scholar-tyrant” during the Cultural Revolution， even as many people threw out this slogan and the revolution with the dredges of history， he believed it still more firmly. He believed in living an honorable life， conducting oneself in ways worthy of one’s conscience and the judgment of history—save for one incident， where things could have gone two ways.
It was a summer 10 years ago， when the professor learned that in Liudaowan village， on the outskirts of the city， there was a cow suspected of having foot-and-mouth disease. He’d hurried to investigate， and the results showed， sadly， that all six of the farmer’s cows were infected. He knew that if it were to spread， the disease could threaten the livestock of the entire province， so he organized a team to inspect the village； thankfully， it was just the one household.
That honest farmer stood trembling next to the professor， a carton of cigarettes in his hand， not knowing what to do. His plaintive gaze flitted between the professor and the investigators.
“Slaughter， and bury deep.” The professor spoke resolutely.
The farmer was paralyzed with shock， as if the death sentence had been handed out for him rather than the six milk cows which were all his family’s assets. He knelt beside the pen， crying bitterly. The professor felt terrible， and could only look away， saying nothing even as his team entered the pen with sledgehammers in hand.
The cows ceased moving a short while after they fell to the ground. The corpses were taken to the Gobi Desert and thrown into a two-meter deep pit， covered with fuel， and incinerated. The smell of burning flesh and hide was acrid. Back at the university， the professor wrote a paper on the dangers， symptoms， and prevention methods of diseases like these. The paper got significant attention from government officials， and a series of policies established， with infected animals to be put down at the first sign of symptoms. The professor was given the title of “Excellent Worker in Science and Technology” that year.
A year later， passing by Liudaowan village， the professor thought to visit the farmer to give him some assistance. He opened the door but saw a strange man， who told him： The farmer hadn’t gotten his compensation for the slaughtered cattle—1，000 RMB per cow—and hanged himself in the lime-covered cow pen three months ago. His wife sold the house and took their two little children back to her hometown. Hearing this， the professor had trouble breathing， and felt a pain in his chest.
From that time on， the professor would frequently have such episodes with his chest， and was diagnosed with heart disease. Even though he was an atheist， he thought that it was heaven’s punishment， for he’d ruined and killed that family.
Afterwards， the professor was more watchful with his words and actions， and maintained caution when dealing with the government.
At noon one day， as the professor watched Society Overview on television at home， the phone rang： The university wanted him to look into the situation of the livestock industry in southern Xinjiang. After some hesitation， he agreed. These “investigations” were generally like vacations， which couldn’t hurt anyone. Moreover， when he was younger he’d been sent to southern Xinjiang for “re-education” for a few years， and wanted to go back and take a look， maybe contribute some advice for economic development there. The professor set up some work at the lab for his favorite student， who would also be his last-ever graduate student， and then headed out.
T
he new SUV bounced as it drove over the dirt road， kicking up a trail of dust behind. The vast Gobi Desert outside the window seemed boundless. They arrived at the first county in the mid-afternoon； two local leaders were waiting， and welcomed them with dinner according to custom. By next morning， the day’s itinerary was already planned： First， they’d go to the county’s best goat-breeding base， then to the main bazaar to enjoy local culture and delicacies. They’d get back for a nap at noon， and tour a Tang dynasty ruin in the afternoon.
Two days later， they went to another village， where they did much of the same “work.” The professor， accustomed to being busy， felt happy， relaxed， and bored at the same time. Half a month slipped by， until they arrived at the last county. By the last evening， the professor was again the only one left on his feet—on account of his age and renown， those binge-drinkers were too embarrassed to tip their glass at him. Thinking the trip was almost over， he was both happy and sad. Looking at his watch， he estimated there were a few hours of daylight left， so he took a walk to the river outside the village.
The river flowed languidly， and the light of the setting sun sparkled on the soft ripples of the surface. The professor cupped his hands to the water and rinsed his mouth. It left an earthen taste， but was nicer than the taste of meat and liquor. Ephedra sinica grew upon the banks of the river. This was a perennial herbaceous shrub， its leaves long ago evolved to grow into thin stalks with three leaves to persist in dry environments. These characteristics made it able to withstand alkaline soil and grow in desert areas.
An old Uighur man in a white hat drove a flock of goats down the riverbank； his silvery beard shone under his chin. The professor greeted him in Uighur， and the two started to converse. The old man told him that almost every family in the village raised goats， but the odd thing was， the mother goats would frequently miscarry. The professor asked him what they fed the goats in winter. The old man said that they grazed outside in the day， and at night were ate corn and cottonseed husks.
The professor realized that he’d found something after all on the tour.
Back at the university， the professor turned his conversation with the Uighur man into a paper， titled “On Miscarriages in Goats”. In it， he wrote： “E. sinica contains ephedrine， which can result in sweating， diuresis， alleviation of asthma， and contractions of the leiomyosarcoma in the womb. Pregnant livestock that consume large amounts of the plant can experience miscarriage…”
The professor gave a fair copy of the paper to his graduate student， who pointed out two unclear areas and added content. Although the student had politely declined， the professor still added his name to the paper. Helping along talented students was， he felt， an obligation.
In 30 years of teaching， he’d never seen a student who could compare with this one. The boy was supremely talented， with superior ability to take in information as well as innovate. The professor thought this child could one day surpass his own achievements， which was the reason he’d agreed to take on one final advisee the previous year. T
his afternoon， the weather was especially good. The snow upon the windowsill reflected the bright sunlight and the room was warm. His wife went out to buy vegetables. The professor watered the plants， feeling refreshed and energetic. He turned on the TV and quickly found Society Overview， which his wife had forbidden him to watch.
Last month， a graduate student at a top university in the city was arrested for using ephedrine to manufacture drugs and sentenced to death. The criminal has appealed the sentence， and we continue to track developments…
The professor’s heart tightened， and he involuntarily stood up from the couch.
According to information provided by the criminal， many drug dealers and abusers have now been arrested. This morning， the city’s anti-drug brigade apprehended a new batch of dealers. Most of them are young， one special person among them—not an unemployed youth nor a drug dealer， but a university student.
The scene changed， and the host continued speaking： He’s 21 this year， a student at an institute in the city. What could have motivated such a person at the height of his youth to lose his way？
The professor saw clearly—although the top half of the face had been blurred out， the mole on the chin couldn’t have been more familiar to him. He groaned painfully， and fell back to the couch， hand upon his chest. After a short， intense spasm， his body ceased moving.
- TRANSLATED BY MOY HAU （梅皓）
XIREN
夕人
Born in 1979， Xiren says that he has switched jobs so many times that civil servant and male escort are the only two professions he hasn’t tried. Xiren’s urge to write derives from “life’s pain，” and he writes for self-consolation. On Douban Read， China’s leading digital publishing platform， he has published one novel in installments and seven other works of fiction， in genres ranging from fables to suspense to fantasy to recent history.
Author’s Note： This story was first written in 2002， but I only finished and began to revise it recently. I was inspired by one of my professors’ real-life experiences， which is the beginning of the story. I then used my imagination for the rest， to show that bad incidents are usually followed by worse ones.
The professor was just over 60， and on his sagely skull only a bit of wispy hair was left， like smoke curling from his head. A very plain pair of spectacles rested on his frail nose. The eyes behind their lenses were calm and meticulous. He was short， and wore a white， full-length lab coat year round. To anyone who looked at him， one word came reflexively to mind—scholar.
The professor was an authority in animal husbandry and had published papers in both China and abroad， which gained a lot of attention. Several foreign universities had offered him professorships， with high salaries， all of which he politely declined. Fame and wealth never entered his consideration. In his study， a large plaque hung with the short sentence “To serve the people，” the calligraphy by Chairman Mao. These words were his lifelong belief； even though he’d also suffered as a “scholar-tyrant” during the Cultural Revolution， even as many people threw out this slogan and the revolution with the dredges of history， he believed it still more firmly. He believed in living an honorable life， conducting oneself in ways worthy of one’s conscience and the judgment of history—save for one incident， where things could have gone two ways.
It was a summer 10 years ago， when the professor learned that in Liudaowan village， on the outskirts of the city， there was a cow suspected of having foot-and-mouth disease. He’d hurried to investigate， and the results showed， sadly， that all six of the farmer’s cows were infected. He knew that if it were to spread， the disease could threaten the livestock of the entire province， so he organized a team to inspect the village； thankfully， it was just the one household.
That honest farmer stood trembling next to the professor， a carton of cigarettes in his hand， not knowing what to do. His plaintive gaze flitted between the professor and the investigators.
“Slaughter， and bury deep.” The professor spoke resolutely.
The farmer was paralyzed with shock， as if the death sentence had been handed out for him rather than the six milk cows which were all his family’s assets. He knelt beside the pen， crying bitterly. The professor felt terrible， and could only look away， saying nothing even as his team entered the pen with sledgehammers in hand.
The cows ceased moving a short while after they fell to the ground. The corpses were taken to the Gobi Desert and thrown into a two-meter deep pit， covered with fuel， and incinerated. The smell of burning flesh and hide was acrid. Back at the university， the professor wrote a paper on the dangers， symptoms， and prevention methods of diseases like these. The paper got significant attention from government officials， and a series of policies established， with infected animals to be put down at the first sign of symptoms. The professor was given the title of “Excellent Worker in Science and Technology” that year.
A year later， passing by Liudaowan village， the professor thought to visit the farmer to give him some assistance. He opened the door but saw a strange man， who told him： The farmer hadn’t gotten his compensation for the slaughtered cattle—1，000 RMB per cow—and hanged himself in the lime-covered cow pen three months ago. His wife sold the house and took their two little children back to her hometown. Hearing this， the professor had trouble breathing， and felt a pain in his chest.
From that time on， the professor would frequently have such episodes with his chest， and was diagnosed with heart disease. Even though he was an atheist， he thought that it was heaven’s punishment， for he’d ruined and killed that family.
Afterwards， the professor was more watchful with his words and actions， and maintained caution when dealing with the government.
At noon one day， as the professor watched Society Overview on television at home， the phone rang： The university wanted him to look into the situation of the livestock industry in southern Xinjiang. After some hesitation， he agreed. These “investigations” were generally like vacations， which couldn’t hurt anyone. Moreover， when he was younger he’d been sent to southern Xinjiang for “re-education” for a few years， and wanted to go back and take a look， maybe contribute some advice for economic development there. The professor set up some work at the lab for his favorite student， who would also be his last-ever graduate student， and then headed out.
T
he new SUV bounced as it drove over the dirt road， kicking up a trail of dust behind. The vast Gobi Desert outside the window seemed boundless. They arrived at the first county in the mid-afternoon； two local leaders were waiting， and welcomed them with dinner according to custom. By next morning， the day’s itinerary was already planned： First， they’d go to the county’s best goat-breeding base， then to the main bazaar to enjoy local culture and delicacies. They’d get back for a nap at noon， and tour a Tang dynasty ruin in the afternoon.
Two days later， they went to another village， where they did much of the same “work.” The professor， accustomed to being busy， felt happy， relaxed， and bored at the same time. Half a month slipped by， until they arrived at the last county. By the last evening， the professor was again the only one left on his feet—on account of his age and renown， those binge-drinkers were too embarrassed to tip their glass at him. Thinking the trip was almost over， he was both happy and sad. Looking at his watch， he estimated there were a few hours of daylight left， so he took a walk to the river outside the village.
The river flowed languidly， and the light of the setting sun sparkled on the soft ripples of the surface. The professor cupped his hands to the water and rinsed his mouth. It left an earthen taste， but was nicer than the taste of meat and liquor. Ephedra sinica grew upon the banks of the river. This was a perennial herbaceous shrub， its leaves long ago evolved to grow into thin stalks with three leaves to persist in dry environments. These characteristics made it able to withstand alkaline soil and grow in desert areas.
An old Uighur man in a white hat drove a flock of goats down the riverbank； his silvery beard shone under his chin. The professor greeted him in Uighur， and the two started to converse. The old man told him that almost every family in the village raised goats， but the odd thing was， the mother goats would frequently miscarry. The professor asked him what they fed the goats in winter. The old man said that they grazed outside in the day， and at night were ate corn and cottonseed husks.
The professor realized that he’d found something after all on the tour.
Back at the university， the professor turned his conversation with the Uighur man into a paper， titled “On Miscarriages in Goats”. In it， he wrote： “E. sinica contains ephedrine， which can result in sweating， diuresis， alleviation of asthma， and contractions of the leiomyosarcoma in the womb. Pregnant livestock that consume large amounts of the plant can experience miscarriage…”
The professor gave a fair copy of the paper to his graduate student， who pointed out two unclear areas and added content. Although the student had politely declined， the professor still added his name to the paper. Helping along talented students was， he felt， an obligation.
In 30 years of teaching， he’d never seen a student who could compare with this one. The boy was supremely talented， with superior ability to take in information as well as innovate. The professor thought this child could one day surpass his own achievements， which was the reason he’d agreed to take on one final advisee the previous year. T
his afternoon， the weather was especially good. The snow upon the windowsill reflected the bright sunlight and the room was warm. His wife went out to buy vegetables. The professor watered the plants， feeling refreshed and energetic. He turned on the TV and quickly found Society Overview， which his wife had forbidden him to watch.
Last month， a graduate student at a top university in the city was arrested for using ephedrine to manufacture drugs and sentenced to death. The criminal has appealed the sentence， and we continue to track developments…
The professor’s heart tightened， and he involuntarily stood up from the couch.
According to information provided by the criminal， many drug dealers and abusers have now been arrested. This morning， the city’s anti-drug brigade apprehended a new batch of dealers. Most of them are young， one special person among them—not an unemployed youth nor a drug dealer， but a university student.
The scene changed， and the host continued speaking： He’s 21 this year， a student at an institute in the city. What could have motivated such a person at the height of his youth to lose his way？
The professor saw clearly—although the top half of the face had been blurred out， the mole on the chin couldn’t have been more familiar to him. He groaned painfully， and fell back to the couch， hand upon his chest. After a short， intense spasm， his body ceased moving.
- TRANSLATED BY MOY HAU （梅皓）
XIREN
夕人
Born in 1979， Xiren says that he has switched jobs so many times that civil servant and male escort are the only two professions he hasn’t tried. Xiren’s urge to write derives from “life’s pain，” and he writes for self-consolation. On Douban Read， China’s leading digital publishing platform， he has published one novel in installments and seven other works of fiction， in genres ranging from fables to suspense to fantasy to recent history.
Author’s Note： This story was first written in 2002， but I only finished and began to revise it recently. I was inspired by one of my professors’ real-life experiences， which is the beginning of the story. I then used my imagination for the rest， to show that bad incidents are usually followed by worse ones.