He'd creep stealthily up on me, prepare himself for a good long time, finally arrange his features into a smile and say: "Enjoy your sweet-potato flour last night, did you, hmm?" then shrink coyly back into himself, waiting for me to plead innocence or make excuses. Seeing I'd failed to react even slightly, he'd beat a deeply cautious but still smiling retreat from such personal matters. I didn't know how he'd found out about that sweet-potato flour last night, neither did I know why he considered this matter so important that he'd kept it in mind and made pointed reference to it. Even less did I know which part of him inside rejoiced at this ability of his, at his record of achievement in ferreting out the tiniest details.

Sometimes, he'd rouse himself into irregular passions: he'd be digging away at the ground, then suddenly heave a resonant sigh, or howl terrifyingly at some faraway dog, look to see if we'd reacted at all, then finally, his face a picture of misery, burst out with: "Yayaya, terrible." What's terrible? people would ask in surprise. Oh, nothing much, he'd say, shaking his head repeatedly, nothing much, a thread of self-satisfaction hanging from the corners of his mouth, smiling coldly at other people's indifference and disappointment.

Then, after a while, he'd go all miserable again, ah terrible, again. When other people asked him what was wrong, his tongue would loosen slightly, there was low stuff going on, he'd say, someone's got big, big problems, don't you know… Once he'd gotten bystanders interested, he'd promptly slam on the brakes and reply with a complacent question: "Guess who it is? Guess who it is? Can you guess, eh?" He'd clam up, then repeat the performance five or six times, till no one asked anymore, till everyone was totally indifferent to, was exasperated by, his alternating melancholy and complacency; only then would he chuckle jubilantly and return to concentrating on his digging, as if he didn't have a care in the world.,

: Zhongqi was always a great supporter of the government, and a red Mao button, big as an egg, would usually be pinned conspicuously on his chest and a quotation bag always slung over his shoulder at meetings, long after they stopped being fashionable. Generally speaking, he was pretty handy at using political jargon, watched what he said, didn't let his tongue run unwisely away with him.

And there was always a fountain pen stuck in his breast pocket. He hadn't bought it, of course-one look at the slightly mangled shaft told you it'd been cobbled together from scrap remnants, it'd been through a tough refining process. As I recall, he'd never been a cadre or even held any kind of position in the Peasants' Association. But he loved using this pen, and he'd endorse anything that moved with "Agreed-Ma Zhongqi." Almost every team invoice, receipt, work-point book, account book, newspaper, and so on, carried this three-word mantra of his. Once, Fucha picked out a receipt for the purchase of some baby fish and was about to write it into the accounts when he spotted that, following a momentary lapse of watchfulness, the receipt had fallen into Zhongqi's hands; before he'd had time to shout stop, it'd already been inscribed with "Agreed," the nib being sucked in preparation for the final, solemn blow.

"Writing your funeral speech, are you?" Fucha snapped. "What's your agreeing got to do with it? What right d'you have to agree? Are you team leader, are you Party Secretary?"

Zhongqi laughed, "What skin's it off your nose? These fish were bought honest and above board, what's the problem if people agree? You tell me-did you steal these fish?"

"I don't want you to write on it! I just don't want you to write on it!"

"Did I write it wrong? How about if I tore that bit off?" Zhongqi was in a humorous mood.

"Damned pain he is," Fucha said to the people standing around.

"D'you want me to write 'Not agreed' then?"

"I don't want you to write anything at all, you shouldn't write anything on it! You want to write something, wait a couple of lives to see if you've turned into something human."

"Fine, then, I won't write anything. Mean little devil."

Feeling he'd got the upper hand, Zhongqi sedately stuck the fountain pen back in his pocket.

Somewhere between amusement and exasperation, Fucha fished another receipt out of his pocket and fluttered it about in front of everyone: "Hey, everyone, look, I haven't settled accounts with him. That catty of meat for the kiln yesterday, I can't charge it to the expense account, he's signed for it too."

Zhongqi reddened and glanced at the rustling receipt, "Don't charge it then."

"What were you doing writing 'agreed' on it? Got cold feet now?"

"I didn't see…"

"You sign something, you take responsibility."

"Well, I'll change it, okay?" He walked back over, hurriedly taking his pen out again.

"Can you change your crappy words? When Chairman Mao writes something, it's set in stone, the whole country follows every thousand-ton word. When you write, it's like a dog peeing, lifting its leg wherever it goes-what's it going to achieve?"

Zhongqi had reddened all the way down his neck, a small patch of light reflecting off the tip of his nose. "You're the dog round here, young Fucha. I reckon the higher-ups'U still pay-you work, you get to eat meat."

"If you've got the money, then get it out and pay! You're going to pay this back if it's the last thing you do today!

What with everyone being there, Zhongqi couldn't easily wriggle out of it. He stamped his foot: "Well, just charge it to me then, see if I care!" He swung off, his shoes clacking away. Shortly afterwards, he returned, rather out of breath, to slam a silver bracelet on the table. "Who's afraid of what a catty of meat costs? Young Fucha, I gave my agreement! Give it here, I'll pay for it!"

Fucha blinked silently; no one else knew what to do either, at that moment. A second ago, we'd been roaring with laughter, just winding Zhongqi up-none of us'd thought he'd be held to what he'd written, that he'd be forced into producing a silver bracelet.

But Zhongqi wasn't so easily put down, and he subsequently started to stamp his approval around even more recklessly. If Benyi or a commune cadre happened to take out a page of anything, he'd rush over and scribble "agreed," straight off. Agreeing had become a habit with him and no sheet of paper could escape his fountain pen, could escape his unfettered powers of ratification and approval. Fucha, who liked things to be neat and tidy, who preached orderliness, could only try desperately to avoid him: as soon as he heard the clacking of his shoes, as soon as he saw his face, he'd gather up all material of a papery nature, so as to avoid giving him the slightest opportunity to interfere. He had to pretend not to have seen, and would angrily turn and wander off somewhere else, looking for something else he could agree to, grabbing letters to us Educated Youth from out of the postman's hands, for example. As a result, every letter of mine carried his stamp of agreement to the recipient's name and address, sometimes they even carried his bright red fingerprint.

I found him as intensely irritating as Fucha did and resolved to find an opportunity to deal with him. One day at noon, as he napped, we stole his fountain pen and threw it into the pond.

Two days later, a ballpoint pen appeared in his pocket, its metal clip glittering away-it looked like there was nothing anyone could do.