Fatal Weakness—Yang Hengjun (3.2)

致命弱点 Fatal Weakness
扬恒均 Yang Hengjun

第二章 毒品惊魂 Chapter 2 Drug Scare

Part 3.2

The psychologist's conclusion slowly spewed out from his mouth, like he was deliberating on every word; as I listened I began to shake and sweat, worried at how long this conclusion was going to take, eating into my living money for the month. He must have misread this, thinking he'd just hit the bullseye, and seemed all the more confident in his conclusion, talking all the more non-stop. He admired how uneasy I seemed, sitting on the edge of the chair, with pins and needles, gripped in a cold sweat, at the same time making slices through my soul, deep and with ease. "This just shows how far down your extreme fear of death is buried. That this fear only bursts to the surface when you're on an airplane goes to show how straight-laced a person you are. You don't just calculate your own life, but an appropriate time for your own death as well. This is why any chance of an accidental death is unthinkable for you, and going down on an airplane is one of the most unpredictable kinds of death there is. There's another reason, and that's your rather strong sense of individual responsibility. For your age, you still don't have the spare cash to just go hop on a plane and fly around; when you do fly, it's always for some company trip or task or something, so there's the subconscious feeling of doing something mischievous. Before your task's even complete you've already resigned yourself to plummeting to your death..."

The psychologist kept rambling on, but I didn't say much. I just remembered he was right on one thing, my deeply buried fear of death. Then his talk took a different turn, with him encouraging me to be brave and face down death, to reflect on death. He said that only the greatest of thinkers ponder death, and only the confused masses see humans as in control of everything in life, or death as just an instantaneous ending, when in fact it's much more. Death is not only just the end to all life, it's also the beginning of all life, and from birth to death it's death which rules over everything. The psychologist patiently looked at me and said, "think about it. The only thing that keeps this kind of life reproducing is the human fear of extinction, of complete perdition. The little lives we give birth to are so frail and delicate, and from the time they're born to the day they die, their lives will be spent in escaping death, an endless struggle against starvation, disease and adversity. Is human society's establishment of nations and laws anything more than the result of fear of death? If you imagine for a moment that there were no threat of death, be it modern medicine, science or technology, none of these would have been seen the light of day, and, especially, would never have reached the level they have today. In the absence of the oppressive shadow of death, humans would surely have remained idle and ignorant, no different from pigs. There would be progressive daily degeneration. Even literature and philosophy are born of consideration of the human fear of death. One only need look to the great philosophers to see how thinking about death began to reveal to us the mysteries of things like life."

I guess he saw from the look on my face that I wasn't totally keeping up with his train of thought, and the doctor stopped and sighed, "I'll tell you what, let's not drag this out any longer. Let's take you as an example."

He took a sip of coffee and asked, "tell me, when you're up in the air, so nervous that you start dripping in sweat, what is it that you think about?"

I thought seriously about this. I think many things at times like that, but mostly just ask myself how it is that I might die then and there. There are so many books I've yet to read, so many things I'd be leaving half done or not started at all, so many friends I want to get in touch with but have no time to do so and...and...I didn't let my parents know where I was going when I left. Does that sound like enough thinking to you? I can't die now!

"Right, it's precisely this unreadiness to confront death, this idea that you're not prepared to die that leaves you fearing death, but at the same time makes you think. I'd even go so far as to bet that this is the only time that you do think about death. I'd now like you to tell me, when you find yourself in life-and-death situations, when the state of terror of being up in the air has passed, when once again the plane unexpectedly arrives safely at the airport, when you see that you're still alive, what is it that you think about then?"

Again I think, and tell the doctor, "every time the plane lands, it gives me a sense of renewal, almost like I've become a new person. In the days that follow, I hurry to come up with a life plan, to actively set out on a future life. Of course, this drive doesn't take me very far; a month or two later and I'm just back to my old self."

"That I can understand," the psychologist says, his face covered with a smile. "You probably know what I'm trying to get at now, right? It's precisely the appearance of your dread of death when you board airplanes that leads you to begin considering the value of life, which in turn makes you think of the life you've wasted, and all the things you should have done with it but didn't. And it's this that leaves you feeling like a new person. Just think, if it didn't take you getting on an airplane in order to start thinking more about your own death, imagine how much richer a life you'd live, and how much sooner you could have realized the goals you have which until now remain mere fantasies. Wouldn't you agree?"

That was my one and only time visiting a psychologist, and thinking back to it now, I'm still just as unable to deal with these things as I was then. My fear of death is just buried too far down in my soul, and this has become the cause of my fear of flying disease. The doctor's interpretations might not have helped reduce my fears, but I have to admit, there was some gain from listening to the doctor's philosophical speech on life and death.

I'm relieved that the plane steadies as it flies out over the black expanse of the Pacific, and I ask the passenger sitting next to me to let me up to go to the washroom as an excuse to strike up a conversation, and waste no time announcing to him new discoveries from modern medicine, particularly modern Western medical science's discovery that fear of plane travel is a disease, and not a manifestation of fear of death. He watches me in amazement, putting on a look of sudden understanding, and one of feeling very sorry for me, but this does nothing to ease my mood. As we talk, I learn that though just in his early forties, he's already opened two processing plants, one in Dongguang and one in Shenzhen. Several years ago he sent his wife and two kids to live in Los Angeles, and has flown to the States almost every month since. This trip, he says, he wants to find a bigger house. "The kids are almost ten, they need their own space; not just their own bedrooms, they want their own game room, study and activity room too." He shakes his head as he speaks, "turns out six rooms isn't enough, so this time I've decided to buy something bigger, which in L.A. means you're looking at like two million dollars." Having said this, he scowls, but then it looks like he's just thought of something. "At least business is going well, but I'm gonna have to push back plans for opening the third plant."

I half-attempt a smile as I listen to his story, but I've got plenty on my mind. I make some quick calculations of how much this business trip is going to cost me in hopes of saving some of the allowance Director Zhou gave me, then start wondering what kind of house two million American dollars can buy. Looking around at the passengers on all sides of me, though we are in Economy, they're almost all rather unisghtly. As it strikes me how similar so many of them are to this factory-owning mini-boss beside me, financially successful, with homes and families, puzzling over things like life and death suddenly seems a bit silly.

And so my thoughts meander, and then the airplane is gently descending upon Los Angeles International Airport. I know well that forty percent of airplane accidents take place during descent, but this time I haven't just kept from breaking into a cold sweat, but after an entirely sleepless night, I'm full of energy as I step off the plane.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Not so bad, breathing in the smell of America. Just like everyone's body has its own unique smell, every country does too. If people's smells are concentrated in their armpits, then you could say a country's smells are concentrated in its international airports. That's not to say the smells there are especially strong, it's that you've just arrived, you're stepping into this land for the first time and can vividly sense the smells of a different place.

I purposely take my time walking, letting the indescribable American smells work their way deep into my mind. On the twelve-hour flight over, except for chat all I did was mull esoteric philosophy over in my mind, keeping it from going idle up in the sky eight thousand feet above the Pacific. That's why, at this moment, as my body touches down on American soil, my mind is still back in China.

I need these few minutes as we move from the plane to Customs to let my mind make the switch, at least let it get used to the smells here. In any case, I know that both Customs and Immigration tend to go easy when checking the travellers in the midst of the pack. At Immigration, a black Immigration officer pats me down thoroughly from my head to my feet, and seems unsatisfied with my reason of "coming back to see my old Alma Mater," and the diploma already conveniently in my hand; I hear the sound of keys on a keyboard being struck, and then I pass through. I pull my small suitcase down off the luggage conveyor and head towards Customs. Possibly from spending a little too much time with the Immigration official, I'm feeling a bit tense.

"Please open your suitcase." This time it's a white officer.

I open my suitcase, and the white officer carefully searches through it with his hands, which are enclosed in white gloves. As he sticks his hands inside, I suddenly notice a strange look on his face, and as he raises his hands, he pretends to look calmly at me. I notice one hand of his has already pressed the red button below the counter. Sure enough, the two armed Customs officials standing on both sides of the corridor immediately rush over. Presumably because both my hands are where their eyes can see, they only handcuff me, but do they look grim. The travellers around me appear more nervous than I am. As I'm taken into the small Customs room, I see the guy who owns two plants that I'd just been sitting beside staring at me with his mouth open, and another exaggerated look of sudden understanding on his face.

In the small Customs room, the other Customs officers one by one start to leave. The two armed officers, right behind me to my left and right, stand in position as the officer who first opened my suitcase, along with another officer of seemingly higher rank and more experience, begins picking things out of my luggage, item by item. It's a good thing, I'm thinking, that I buy two to three new pairs of underwear each time I go away on business; having foreigners check through my underwear and find stains would be more embarrasing than having them find drugs in there. As they carefully pick through everything I spent an hour packing, one plainclothes dressed in a business suit quietly walks in. I guess he must be the FBI agent stationed in the airport, and I breath a sigh of relief.

And now I suddently feel the two burly men to my left and right twitch as the younger Customs officer slowly pulls a transparent plastic bag filled with a white powder out from the bottom of my suitcase. I see the FBI agent's expression tense up, and the two armed officers on each side automatically take a step closer.

"What is this?" The Customs officer looks at me with sharp blue eyes, picking up the small knife at his side and making a light tear in the bag, using the tip to scoop some out, lifting it, sticking out his thick tongue and taking a lick.

"Drugs! And very high purity." He lets his hand drop, acting relaxed, "Sir, I think..."

"Officer, I think before you say anything you should hear me out first," I cut him off without the least bit of courtesy. "That's laundry detergent, it smells almost identical to high-grade mixed heroin!"

The Customs officer is briefly taken aback, and he looks to the suit for help. The suit walks over and takes a taste, but it seems he can't tell either. The suit and the two Customs officers step into the neighboring small room, and the two armed officers at my side motion for me to sit down. I don't know which of the two it is whose body smells, but it's so bad that I can't sit still.

A few minutes later, the three come out, and one of them explains that they need to carry out some further tests. Then the FBI agent and another officer go out with my laundry detergent, leaving just the officer old enough to be a school headmaster, who takes a chair and sits down across from me, asking me some simple questions. What he's most interested in is why I would want to bring laundry detergent with me. I say it's the same reason I brought several packs of instant noodles, for convenience and to save money. He presses on with his questions, asking why I put the laundry detergent into a different bag. I tell him that laundry detergent bags in China aren't that strong and that they're not made for taking on business trips, that's why I packed it in a secure plastic bag. In any case, I didn't need the whole bag. Eventually he stops asking questions, and goes next door to take care of other work, though the two guards on each side dutifully remain to stand guard over me.

Following forty full tormenting minutes, they finally speak up, apologize for having taken up my time, and let me leave. As I exit Customs, I see my old classmate Wang Xiaohai waiting with anticipation. He seems oblivious to the fact that he's standing on the yellow line around the restricted area, and seeing him like this moves me. I don't keep that many friends, so when I go to other countries, if I have any old university classmates in the area, I always get in touch with them first. It's been almost twenty years since we graduated, so we're always looking for chances to get together. This kind of wish to keep in touch with old school friends is usually strongest around ten years after graduation, the reason not being hard to understand. As the years fly by, you and the things around you can't help but change, and every time you look into the mirror, the harder it gets to remember what you looked like back then. Then, one day, you suddenly feel the need to see some old school friend or another. Meeting them, though, typically happens under two kinds of circumstances. Either they've kept themselves in good shape, all the angles and edges look the same, and you say, "you're still so young, you haven't changed at all!" Or else you meet and that old friend you used to be so close with looks nothing like they used to and, shocked, you think to yourself, "damn, he's gotten so mature!" Though, no matter how these meetings turn out, the only thing you'll be wondering is how your friends think you've changed, or not.