A Map for the Missing(74)

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From her description, he expected the dean to be some sort of kind older man, and so Yitian was surprised when he stood in front of the dean’s desk for three minutes and the dean did not even look up once. He was scribbling something furiously.

As Yitian stood, his body felt heavier and heavier, a weight that was sinking down to the bottom of a river. He looked around the room to distract himself, eyes drawn to the two large wooden bookcases behind the desk, encased behind clean glass. Except for a single shelf that only held a framed picture of the Chairman, all the rows were filled so tightly with books that they seemed about to burst. The spines were almost breaking off the covers. He squinted—the Twenty-Four Histories! He’d never seen that book in printed form—

The dean cleared his throat. “So, you’d like to change your department.”

Yitian was surprised by the dean’s voice, which was not in the guttural Beijing dialect he’d heard since his arrival in this city, but was rather nasal and defined, somewhere from the south.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sure your banzhuren must have told you about the likely outcome? So, I’m not sure why you’ve still come. Of course we cannot make such an exception for you.” The dean had moved on from his writing. He was flipping quickly through a sheaf of papers on his desk now, leaving thin stamps, rectangular and red, in each corner.

It was not in Yitian’s nature to argue against those in positions of authority, and the dean was probably the most important figure he’d ever stood in front of. But he could not believe he’d gone through everything to get into the dean’s office, only to be delivered two sentences that his banzhuren had already told him.

There was a knock on the door. The dean looked up, seeming genuinely surprised to find that Yitian was still there.

“Look, boy—” The secretary opened the door, but the dean waved her off. He took off his thick, black-framed glasses. Without them, he looked quite like an ordinary middle-aged man. He was looking at Yitian curiously now, as if he were some interesting specimen. Self-conscious, Yitian immediately moved his hand up to cover his face.

The dean finally sighed and said, “You’re from the countryside, am I correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can tell from your accent. And what province?”

“Anhui, sir.”

“We’re neighbors. I’m from Jiangxi myself.”

“Yes, sir.” It was a good sign that the dean was asking so many questions. If the dean cared to know of his past, perhaps the special details of his case were being considered.

“And what major are you in now?” the dean asked.

“Mathematics.”

The dean rubbed his eyes. “It’s curious . . . that a boy from the countryside like you would be brave enough to come to my office.”

“It’s because my brother and my grandfather—” Yitian started, but the dean ignored him and continued speaking. “From one southerner to another, mathematics is a very good major. You shouldn’t be upset. Your score must have been very high in order to get into that major—higher than the scores our students had, even. Many students in your department have made stable lives for themselves. You’re courageous, it’s clear. You can go far in mathematics. It’s much more difficult in our department. Here”—he lowered his voice—“all of our professors are very specific, very careful, very correct. The students must be, too.”

The dean’s sudden garrulousness gave Yitian hope. “I won’t have any problem with that, sir. I’m also a very careful thinker, very deliberate—”

“That’s not what I mean. You haven’t understood me. It wasn’t the same in the countryside during the worst years of the Cultural Revolution. You don’t know what it felt like to see the people singled out to be denounced every day, how hard it was to escape it . . . you had to watch every word you uttered, anything you said about yourself. You’re too young to know.”

The dean sighed and put his glasses back on. “Even if I could help you change your major, I wouldn’t. This is better for you. Just believe me.”

“There’s been a mistake, Professor,” Yitian tried, desperate.

The dean was looking back down at his papers.

“I didn’t mean to apply in math, all I ever wanted was to come to college so I could learn history more systematically, but my brother accidentally—”

“If that’s really true, go to the library and check out some books. There’s nothing in this building you couldn’t just read about in your free time.” He looked up. “It’s time for my lunch now. You should eat, too, if you haven’t yet. Goodbye.”



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The sun outside the building shone so brightly that Yitian had to squint against the glare. Everything was thrown into a harsher and clearer white light. Dirty streaks dripped down the cement surfaces of the buildings, remnants of each accumulated rain. A construction truck sauntered by, wobbling with a heavy load of rocks, throwing dust into his throat.

He felt completely powerless. That conversation couldn’t have been all there was. There had to be more—some other chance, some other way he could convince the dean. Could the rules be so inflexible? The history dean would not take another meeting with him; his banzhuren would only feel satisfied to see the outcome he’d already predicted. The only person who could override the history dean was the president of the entire school himself, and Yitian had no idea how to contact him. He was just one part of a large university, as insignificant as an ant. At least at home, there were people who’d depended on him, whom he could help with his work points.