But I never gave up, especially not in front of Ding Sitian. After a moment of thought, I had an idea. I gave Fatty a look, and he immediately understood. He held both hands down in a calming gesture and said to everyone, "Everyone quiet down for a moment. Let's ask Comrade Lenin to say a few words."
The Educated Youth immediately knew what trick we were planning. In that era of cultural drought, the only things available were the eight model operas, played over and over. Ordinary people had no extra cultural entertainment, but young people always found their own way, no matter the circumstances. One of the most popular forms of entertainment then was imitating the speeches of Great Men from films, artistically reprocessing existing classics. The difficulty of the imitation alone was quite high; not everyone could master it. Once someone managed to capture a semblance of resemblance, projecting a charismatic aura that ordinary people couldn't match, and adding their own unique touch, that imitator would become an idol in everyone's eyes.
Back then, I had secretly watched many internal reference films at the military district. I thought about which one to imitate. The films from Vietnam and North Korea, which portrayed comradeship and brotherhood, were unsuitable; they were too solemn and tragic, lacking sufficient dramatic tension and classic dialogue, making it hard to deliver a spiritual impact through performance. Domestic films wouldn't work either; everyone was too familiar with them, reducing the challenge of performance. After a brief consideration, Fatty and I had a plan. We improvised, picking up some wool on the Grassland to stick on our upper lips as fake mustaches. We spat some Saliva into our palms and smoothed it onto our Hair, slicking both our heads back, trying to make our Foreheads appear as prominent as possible.
The two of us stood face-to-face before the bright firelight. The Educated Youth watching from the side exclaimed, "They look so alike! Isn't that Lenin and Stalin?" They understood what performance Fatty and I were about to put on and then watched our every move with smiles.
Seeing that wouldn't do and the atmosphere was wrong, I quickly turned to the Educated Youth and said, "Everyone needs to be serious! No grinning around. This performance is meant to show the solemn atmosphere just before the great revolutionary Storm is about to arrive. Everyone needs to cooperate, or if we mess it up, we two won't be able to get off the stage."
Then Fatty and I froze, motionless, like statues on the square in October, capturing a historical moment of the Great Man. The key at this point was not to laugh myself, or I wouldn't fool the audience. Ding Sitian took out her harmonica, and slow, heavy music began to play. With her active accompaniment, the surroundings finally quieted down. The Educated Youth were silent, transitioning from the earlier frivolous atmosphere of song and dance into the gravity of a historical chapter. Time seemed to revert to the eve of the storming of the Winter Palace.
I knew it was time. I slowly swept my gaze across everyone, then fixed my eyes on Fatty, and asked with a melancholy expression, "Comrade Joseph, are you prepared to launch the assault on the Winter Palace?" As soon as these classic lines left my mouth, I felt like I had become Comrade Lenin from the film myself, and the audience below seemed to have become the workers looking up to Lenin in the movie.
Fatty puffed out his belly and adopted the air of a dual Leader—amiable yet authoritative, humble yet dictatorial—and said to me, "Revered Vladimir Ilyich, the Great Door of the Tsar will be opened by the fearless Working Class tomorrow morning. For this, we will not hesitate to pay the price in Blood."
I clenched my fist and spoke with righteous indignation, "Exploitation, oppression, Rule, enslavement, assassination, violence, Hunger, and poverty have conspired to devour us... For thousands of years, the Blood of the Working Class has flowed into a sea. Haven't our sacrifices been enough?"
This section required fast speech and precise articulation, launching every word out like a cannonball to mobilize the audience's shared indignation. Young people in the context of a great era share common Worldview and Values. The Educated Youth connected this to their own Fate, and indeed, they were moved; everyone was affected. It was time to build the atmosphere to a climax: "If this final victory still requires bloodshed, then let the Blood of the Tsar flood the Winter Palace..." I took the opportunity to raise my right hand and make a stopping gesture. After a brief pause, I brought my fist down forcefully and said, "Because Death does not belong to the Working Class!"
Fatty, standing next to me, was waiting for me to deliver that final line. He immediately raised his fist and shouted, leading the chant, "Yes, Death does not belong to the Working Class!" The surrounding Educated Youth shouted along with Fatty, "Death does not belong to the Working Class!" Then everyone applauded enthusiastically and unanimously demanded that Comrade Lenin not leave, insisting on one more performance.
It was a flawless performance; the handling of timing and nuance was impeccable, coupled with extremely cooperative audience participation. I had imitated Lenin's speech more than once, and perhaps I would have the chance to play this game again in the future, but I knew clearly in my heart that I would never again reach this level of atmosphere or emotion. The evening banquet on the Kholin Left Banner Grassland under the night sky was unforgettable for a lifetime.
When I pulled off my fake mustache and returned to my seat, Ding Sitian said to me in surprise, "Bayi, you were amazing! I never knew you had such Skill. I truly thought you were Comrade Lenin just now; your performance was too realistic." Hearing her say that, I was naturally overjoyed, but I still had to maintain my usual modest nature. Modesty was popular in that era, so I waved my hand and said somewhat shyly, "It's nothing, what is this? There are strange peaks in the river, hidden in the mist; I rarely see them, only occasionally revealing their magnificence."
Fatty was envious of the praise I received from the Educated Youth. He quickly said to Ding Sitian, "I was just supporting Old Hu's scene and didn't get a chance to show off my own flair. Why don't I perform a solo piece as Li Yuhe, so you can all witness my magnificence..." Encouraged by Fatty, the Educated Youth began a second round of performances.
Half of the night passed this way. In such a setting, even those with low tolerance would drink a few bowls. The wine intoxicated without needing to be drunk; eventually, I became muddled and didn't know when the gathering dispersed or who carried me into the yurt.
A long night's wind blew past in a single gust. I slept soundly until I woke up with a splitting headache and a runny nose; it seemed my cold hadn't fully cleared. Rubbing my eyes sleepily, I looked around and realized that Fatty, myself, and that "Leader" Old Ni had all been arranged in the same yurt. I hadn't even had time to take off my clothes or shoes. I saw Fatty snoring with one leg pressed onto Old Ni's stomach, while Old Ni kept muttering nonsense. Neither of them had woken up. There was no one else in the yurt; I guessed the other Herdsmen and Educated Youth had probably returned overnight.
I had lost all sense of Time and didn't know what time it was. My head was throbbing, and I wanted to lie down for another nap, but before I could close my eyes, I noticed the sounds outside the yurt were wrong—a rumbling like muffled thunder across the ground. This muffled thunder sound rushed toward our sleeping yurt like a Tide from the east. Just as I was wondering what had happened outside, Ding Sitian rushed in from outside and Shouted anxiously at me, "Run outside quickly! The Herding Cattle have stampeded!"