Tao Chongyuan: The Obscured and the Damaged

On March 26th, 2018, Tao Chongyuan, a graduate student in Automation at Wuhan University of Technology, committed suicide by jumping off a building. It was said that this had to do with the long-term oppression by Wang Pan, his graduate advisor. On March 25th, 2019, a day before the first anniversary of his death, Tao’s family and Wang signed a settlement. This settlement included a compensation of 650,000 yuan from Wang, and Wang’s apology to Tao’s family in person. After a long year, Wang finally admitted his mistake and apologized: “I, Wang Pan, apologize to Tao Chongyuan for my inappropriate words and deeds during his academic training. I am deeply saddened by the loss of Tao Chongyuan, an outstanding student, and regret his tragedy.”

Meanwhile, we can no longer know the cruel truth of Tao Chongyuan’s tragedy. However, it is clear to us that in the days leading to his death in the spring of 2018, some things did happen. The Hard-Core Stories journalist Ge Jianan spent six months looking for Tao’s friends, schoolmates, and girlfriends, reconstructing his past, and examining his world. During his last days, Tao was agitated, scared, isolated, and helpless. We try to get as close to him as possible, so as to commemorate him—as a person deeply hurt, Tao once truly lived among us, but most of us only turned a blind eye.

1.

As winter slowly gave way to spring in 2018, Tao Chongyuan told his good friends that he was getting better, or at least, on the way to getting better. Most of them believed him. There was no reason not to believe.

They all knew that for most of the past six months, Tao had had a hard time. He had set out to become a brilliant researcher upon entering college. However, his advisor of five years had done everything he could to prevent Tao Chongyuan from pursing a PhD at a better school abroad. The advisor forced him to stay. Tao Chongyuan suffered, his life was not going forward, and he complained to his friends. Some people complain, like small animals shivering in the cold wind and rain, and they need to be held in the arms for warmth; others lament the great loss due to a damaging storm, but are ready to clean up the mess—“when he expresses his pain, you think he has figured out how to deal with it.”

Tao Chongyuan had an excellent record, was respectful, disciplined and calm, friendly and kind. From the age of 15, Chongyuan had been the kind of person you would go to for a long talk, when you had a problem. His friends could even understand his advisor Wang Pan. Who would easily let go of a student like Chongyuan? Even a difficult boy would ask to be seated next to him. Science students could not talk big, and only repeated how they had a big test every other day in their last year of high school, until the nerves worn out. The boys in Chongyuan’s class seized the opportunity of a classroom cleanup to sneak out, like refugees, to play basketball, but Chongyuan stayed, and did the work of five people. His name appeared like a firefly in the dorms of high school girls, after the lights went out. His name stood for “great virtues,” “a pure sweetheart.” He loved to smile, and when he smiled, his eyes narrowed into two slits. For the girls, he was somehow shy. For the boys, he was warm. Tao Chongyun was just such a person.

After the Chinese New Year, Tao Chongyuan met his favorite girlfriend Xie Yuyao and her best friend Guo Yue for dinner—they were high school classmates, and Chongyuan was affectionate like any considerate man—and they talked about his decision not to pursue a PhD, but to get a job first. “I think I may work for two years, and then I want to get married,” Chongyuan said, “I want to bring up successful kids, let them avoid the exam-orientated education, and give them more freedom.” “I’m not sure if I’m going to have kids,” said Xie Yuyao. She had a beautiful teenage girl’s face, but her personality was quite different. She quit her enviable job at a state-owned enterprise, because of the harassment and bullying from her boss. She traveled everywhere. Chongyuan gave “likes” to every tweet on her WeChat Moments. For years, the connection between them had been built on his admiration for her, and his inability to identify with her. He once told Yue, who studied psychology, in private, that Yuyao should have a plan for the future. “I’m not sure either if I’m going to have kids,” said Yue. “I’m 100% sure,” said Chongyuan. The two girls teased him, “What if you get married with someone you love, but your wife doesn’t want to have kids?” In all earnest, Chongyuan took a moment to think and said, “Then I’ll adopt a kid.”

It was not until much later that they realized what his hope meant. It was a great virtue to raise a kid well, to give the kid a little more freedom and less control. That was a beautiful hope. At the time, they thought Chongyuan was cute. When the new semester began in March, they still talked a lot over the phone. Chongyuan was also posting more often on his WeChat Moments than before. He gave the most positive adjectives to the weather, landscapes, flowers, street dogs, as if everything in the world suddenly gave him a great sense of joy. Inexplicably, Yuyao was a bit worried, “Is there really so much joy in life?”

On the evening of March 26th, phone calls started to come in. Cao Wei, Chongyuan’s high school and college friend, the boy who had shared a desk with Chongyuan and become his best friend, called everybody, as if he wanted to hear from everybody that it was not true. Yue was in a group discussion and did not pick up the phone. Her phone rang again, and again it was not picked up. As her phone rang a third time, she picked it up. Nobody could understand a word: Tao Chongyuan had an accident. Suicide. Jumping off a building. Earlier this morning, half of Chongyuan’s high school classmates rushed back to Wuhan. The small hotel next to the funeral home seemed pale white like paper. Chongyuan’s mother and his elder sister were sobbing quietly. Chongyuan and his elder sister were the first college and then graduate students from their village. If Chongyuan were admitted to a PhD program, they would be the first doctorate students. Their mother’s WeChat ID was “sweat like honey.” Any kind of consolation seemed frivolous. But what exactly went wrong? Cao Wei grabbed Chongyuan’s computer from his dorm room. At first, they did not find anything. They did not lose heart, and looked through all the files again. They would even check seemingly unimportant folders like “materials for graduation 2018,” which turned out be to what they were looking for. This folder was created in November 2017. The folder was full of screenshots of chat logs with the advisor Wang Pan. The screenshots were so neatly organized, as if they were serious research materials. At the bottom of the folder, there was a paper on sexual harassment in higher education. Chongyuan changed the file name as if he wanted to cover up something.

On December 16th, 2017 at 22:39, a series of text messages – “Waiting for these six words before bed.” “I am still not used to saying that, for me, it feels fake to say it, I would rather see your action and performance.” “You do have a problem of being an inflexible person, which will surely limit your development. You cannot beat XXX after all, but I’ll still indoctrinate you.” On December 16th, 2017 at 22:52, a couple QQ messages – “Tao Chongyuan!” “Here!” “Shoot out these six words!” “Dad, I will always love you!”

This group of people went through the files over and over, as if putting a puzzle together that had been disassembled to such infinite pieces that there were more gaps and despair than the grasp of truth, no matter how hard they tried. Everybody cried. Tao Chongyuan once said that his advisor was strict to the point of being oppressive. At the time, they thought the advisor was academically too demanding. Chongyuan also said that he would expose everything to the public one day. They thought he meant the advisor was not a good researcher—“How come you have never told us this?” Xie Yuyao remembers the day at dinner when he kept saying that he had gotten better, and that he had found a solution. Now she understands when a person tries his best to convince himself of something, he will say the opposite of what he actually means. Chongyuan said that Prof. Wang was competitive, so if you acted like a coward, like someone who was defeated and had been trampled under Wang Pan’s feet, Wang Pan would not care to hang out with you anymore, he would let you go.

It feels like a novel: nobody understands the truth of the tragedy.

 

2.

The first time the boys, who entered Wuhan University of Technology in 2011 and majored in Automation, met Wang Pan, it was in the student dormitory building at the South Lake campus. Someone cried out, “The class teacher is here, he is here,” then a male teacher came in, who wore his long hair up to his neck and had combed it back neatly. He did not seem like a normal teacher. All the boys were gathered together, and the senior schoolmate behind the teacher first gave a brief introduction about how great the teacher and his lab were. Then they were given a form to fill out: their birthdays, places of origin, hobbies, and so on. Seven years later, the reason why some still remember it is because of the odd question at the end of the form: “Do you accept military-style management?” The new students had just finished their military training, and the 18 and 19-year-old faces were as youthful as youth itself. Some thought, at worst, it would be another round of military training. The boys were not afraid of this, as a bit of hardship was nothing to them, so they put down “Yes.”

Like young birds out of the cage, everything was fresh, everything unfolded in broad sunlight. The abundant youth was enchanting in its almost indifferent courage. Prof. Wang was good at picking the right moment.

The new semester started, Wang Pan was becoming more and more different. The first to feel this were several members of the class committee. Zhao Yunan, the class president, received a transfer of money from Wang, saying that it was the allowance from the school for the class teacher, but Wang did not want to take any money, so wanted to contribute to the class. When Lu Qing, the class secretary was asked to compile a list of poor students and those who came from other provinces, Wang wanted to reimburse their train tickets out of his own pocket. Tao Chongyuan was the studies chair of the class committee. He had volunteered to take up this responsibility, and his campaign statement was this: “I want to lead everybody to study together.” When he was asked to do a count of which books the students wanted to read, Wang paid for the books. In contrast to other class teachers who did not care much, as if they did not exist, the three boys talked about Wang in private and all of them had great respect for this professor. Prof. Wang was very generous. He took them to visit the “decision and control” lab that he had created, and asked them what classes they were taking, and how’s everything with their studies and the whole class. Prof. Wang really seemed to care about them and his class.

The second time, Wang Pan asked them to go directly to his place. His apartment was on the East Campus, quite small in size and without floor covering, according to their impressions. As soon as they entered, Prof. Wang stopped them, “Stand still!” He said. It was almost a reflex for students who had only just finished their military training to follow such an order. However, their minds soon went frozen. Prof. Wang told them to stand in a straight line, stand at ease, perform attention, turn left, turn right, and move in sync. While they were doing the movements, Prof. Wang sat on his executive chair and scrutinized them, meanwhile asking them how’s everything going with their studies and the whole class, and what classes they were taking. The tone of a class teacher who cared for his students remained the same.

On the way back to South Lake by bike that day, for some reason that was difficult to pin down, they did not talk about what had just happened. Zhao Yunan thought to himself, “We have filled out the forms and said yes, and come on, are you really giving us this?” The impervious Northeasterner Lu Qing did not think too much about it and found it funny, “This professor is interesting.” As for Tao Chongyuan, nobody knew what he thought. The school counselor had told the class committee members that Prof. Wang was one of the “special” professors in the school, and that they could come to her, if there was anything. Only Yunan had been to the counselor, asking her whether they should accept the money that Prof. Wang gave to the class. He felt it strange to take money from a professor.

Throughout their freshman year, Wang Pan’s uniqueness gained the admiration of many students. He gave only one class to the undergraduates, but spent a lot of time in class talking about poetry and literature, his research awards and passion for sports. They all knew that Prof. Wang was good at badminton, table tennis, and tennis. He even had a soccer team named after his lab. If one played with him on a regular basis, there was a bonus. Prof. Wang’s hair was always shiny and smooth as silk. It was rumored that he did not use a cellphone, did not care about what others thought about him, and was not yet married. He spent all his monthly salary away on his students. How remarkable! How special! Many a time, science students needed a campus legend more than students of the humanities and the arts, just as scientists needed music and poetry at the most difficult stage of their lab experiments. One of the effects of such a legend was to make things hardly understandable reasonable.

It was reasonable to have students home for “training.” It was part of the legend, the part only the best students were qualified to know. Later, it was not always that the three of them did the training together. They were added to a QQ group called “world in a grain of sand.” Wang sent them private messages on QQ to notify them when they should show up. Before they entered, they had to knock three times and “stand at attention,” with hands on the seams, toes apart at an angle of 60 degrees. As Prof. Wang talked to you, he would tweak your arms and shake your shoulders—he said this was meant to check whether you stood perfectly at attention, and that you had strong willpower. Every time, Prof. Wang emphasized that they should pay attention and obey his military style training. He had a point.

Zhao Yunan and Lu Qing were once called up to do the training together. While standing at attention, they were frolic and were punished to do horse stance. The two boys faced each other in a half-squat position, and embarrassment was written clearly in their eyes. Soon after, Zhao Yunan made up his mind, and used the most euphemistic way he could think of to say he did not want to participate in this “training” anymore. Prof. Wang did not say anything, and did not ask him to participate anymore. Lu Qing did not practice well. He was skinny. Once he almost fainted, and had to sit down halfway through the training to take a break. Afterwards, he was called up less to do the training.

They were both screened out. Tao Chongyuan was the best—respectful, disciplined and calm, friendly and kind. He never cursed, never said a word like “crap.” Zhao Yunan and Tao Chongyuan took turns to occupy the first place in the class. Yunan admired Chongyuan, and felt awkward to joke around with him like he did with Lu Qing. In any event, Yunan was not so close to Chongyuan. He only knew that Chongyuan was going to Prof. Wang’s more frequently. At the time, Chongyuan was in love with a girl who was an editor at the campus news station. The way he expressed his love was to write articles for the station, to walk long distances to accompany her on duty, to take her for a McFlurry when she was heartbroken, though he did not buy one for himself. Everybody knew that he came from the countryside. Not long after, one of Chongyuan’s roommates indirectly received instructions from Prof. Wang to lend Chongyuan his computer for two hours every day, since Chongyuan loved literature but could not afford a laptop due to family circumstances. Prof. Wang insisted that he pay for this.

When these high school friends met again, they found that Chongyuan began to frequently mention a teacher, Prof. Wang: strong academics, great writing, good sportsmanship, an idealist, and that Prof. Wang thought highly of him. Once, Xie Yuyao was having dinner with Chongyuan, Prof. Wang called, asking him where he was, and what he was doing, and he answered every question. Yuyao asked Chongyuan, how come his teacher called to ask what he was doing. She did not say that she found it strange. “Isn’t it private?” Chongyuan said that his professor cared deeply about his students.

Later, Cao Wei and others read about this phase on Chongyuan’s computer. Chongyuan wrote: “My professor wants to make a great talent out of me...He said I should have great ambitions, unlike the others, and that I should stand out academically and physically.”

“Not long ago, as my professor noticed that I had a narrow range of knowledge, and that I did not have a laptop and always borrowed someone else’s, he sponsored a computer, which was not fancy but enough for my research. I marvel at how young he is but already so successful, whereas I am small like a tiny lone star. He’s broad-minded and ready to help others, but I am helpless. If one day I become somebody, I will help others too.”

 

3.

Qiao Xin joined the “decision and control” lab, because of his friend Tao Chongyuan. During their sophomore and junior years, the school moved them from South Lake to the East Campus. The dorm situation was in a state of disarray, with four pairs of iron-framed beds in each room, six to sleep on, two for luggage. If there were a comfortable place to spend time, anybody would be grateful. Prof. Wang provided such a lab space, where one could study, surf the Internet, watch movies, and stay all day and night long, without much actual work to do. Chongyuan came to ask Xin whether he wanted to join. Of course, Xin did.

Xin knew that Chongyuan had also asked others, for instance, the class president Zhao Yunan, the first recipient of a national scholarship; Lu Qing, the first class committee secretary; Liu Hao, also top of the class. In contrast, he was not a member of the class committee. His grades were not bad, but not great either. He wondered why he had been chosen. He and Chongyuan formed their friendship by often studying together. Besides, both of them came from the countryside, and neither of them was a loud mouth. He admired Chongyuan for getting the C-language certificate without anybody knowing about it. He thought it would be too difficult for him, so did not sign up for it. Later on, they got acquainted, and played the online computer game League of Legends together in their dorms. However, they played with great restraint. Chongyuan told Xin that Xin had a great personality.

“What does it mean to have ‘a great personality’?” Qiao Xin thought to himself. At the time, both of them were naive.

Xin had seriously thought about what the professor actually liked about Chongyuan. His conclusion was this: after what Chongyuan had done for the professor, “closeness is also a kind of return.”

Since they entered the lab, they had been promoted from the hundred-people strong group of “world in a grain of sand” to the “C&D in progress” group, exclusive to only a dozen people. But they also found out that once Prof. Wang treated them as his people, he became difficult to get along with. It was best to adapt to his rules. For instance, if one was called up by the professor (online or offline), one had to say, “Yes!” One was not allowed to give a different answer, an excuse, or no answer at all. Otherwise, the professor would flip out, and he was good at curses. Nobody knew how good their “language skills” should be in order to reach his level. He was never explicit in his reprimand, but spit out sentences that poked their most painful spots.

The graduate student Shi Li has smaller eyes. Once he sent a group photo to the WeChat group, Prof. Wang said, “I cannot help it, but XXX and Shi Li could not open their eyes, and only found a group photo, in which all the others had their eyes wide open. If they wanted to sleep, couldn’t they wait until the photo was taken?” The soccer team’s website was hacked with bad links. In his year-end report, Prof. Wang said to the student in charge of the website: “I would like to honor you with the most bizarre Webmaster award. Commendation: turning the soccer team website into a suspected gambling site.” It was total horror, when Prof. Wang cursed on the soccer field. If one lost the ball, he would kick that person in the ass, and tell him to “fuck off.” Nobody defended himself. Prof. Wang hated disagreement.

For a long time, several undergraduates thought actually it would not hurt to accept everything as “strange temper” from such an outstanding person. As long as they put up with it, they could continue to have the exclusive benefits of not having to wait in line, the generous subsidies from time to time, and the small but mentionable glory of being selected for the lab as an undergraduate. Except for Liu Hao, who really liked soccer, Qiao Xin, Zhao Yunan and Lu Qing all politely but firmly refused Prof. Wang’s repeated invitations to join the soccer team.

Tao Chongyuan did not refuse. He hardly refused anything from Prof. Wang. He and a senior student, Deng Dong, took turns to deliver lunch and dinner to Prof. Wang. Deng Dong was big, but was miraculously good at table tennis. At the time, he was one of Prof. Wang’s favorites. Later on, it was said that he was “frozen” for a year after winning a few matches in a row against Prof. Wang. He went to work as soon as he finished graduate school. Once, Prof. Wang mentioned Dong in the institute WeChat group, “Objectively, I act as a diet trainer, when I play table tennis with you. Every time you run around, it is incomparably more effective than any diet pills.” Dong answered, “Most people are slow to react, but Prof. Wang is too fast to sweat, so ends up with little effect. I hope I won’t let you down in the future.” Wang Pan responded, “It’s hard, and I am very passive now, since you are already far away.” Dong replied, “Without Prof. Wang’s talent, I’ll have to work hard.” Xin found Dong much more tactful than Chongyuan.

Chongyuan rarely spoke in WeChat groups. He got things done quietly. It’s been a long time since he last went back to the dorm with them at night. When they went to look for him next door, the lights were already turned off in his room. Out of curiosity, Yunan asked him, “Where were you?” Yunan thought, even if it was training, it’s a bit too late. Chongyuan answered, “It was just work at Prof. Wang’s.” He seemed to be a bit embarrassed. After all, it was just doing work for the teacher, not a big deal. Xin once thought so.

Then one day, out of the blue, a message from Prof. Wang to go to his place was sent to Qiao Xin on QQ. Without asking what Xin thought or whether he had other plans, Prof. Wang gave him the time, and Xin had to come. Then Xin was called on every day. It was so frequent that Xin felt irritated. He was given orders to stand at attention, do goose steps and pushups. When he was a bit lax, Prof. Wang would get up from his chair, and straighten his shoulders. Squeezing his hands, Prof. Wang lectured over and over again on things that nobody could possibly remember. Later, whenever Prof. Wang opened his mouth, Xin thought it was “brainwash” time. Day after day, Xin was alone with the professor in such a narrow space. Xin felt like he was suffocating. Meanwhile, the subsidies he had received, the money for the train tickets, and the more frequent dinners also crossed his mind. He now understood Chongyuan. How could they refuse, when they received favors? Later, he learned that the professor had asked many of his peers about him, and Xin finally understood what it meant to have “a great personality.”—“How can I say it? People who come from the countryside tend to be easily grateful.” So Xin tried his best to cover up his resistance. He was tense and respectful at all times, to the extent that he had the illusion of serving the emperor in a feudal society. Two days later, he went to Prof. Wang’s again. Another two days later, again.

More than half a month later, Prof. Wang called on Xin and Chongyuan to go to his place together. Xin was surprised. He thought this kind of thing was always one-on-one. After the training, Prof. Wang did not let them go, but said he needed to “relax,” as he felt a bit tired from exercising. Chongyuan understood immediately what he meant, and gave him a skillful back and leg massage. Xin froze next to Chongyuan, his head buzzing. Nobody had explained this to him before. He only woke from this confusion after he returned to his dorm. The next time he went to Prof. Wang’s, he was alone with him again. After the training, the professor naturally told him that he was tired from playing soccer and table tennis and needed to “relax.” Now Xin understood everything. It was a step-by-step trial.

The rule of thumb of “relaxation” was to run a fist down the back and around the shoulders. The professor sat, and the student stood. But Xin had never done this before, even to his parents. After that, it was arms and hands, which Prof. Wang cared most about, often praising them as the most delicate and flexible, and which Xin should press neither too lightly nor too strongly, in order to keep their elasticity. Xi felt instinctively averse to physical contact with the same sex. His consciousness was a step late in reacting to this humiliating feeling. Then it was the lower abdomen and thighs, which now had to be squeezed gently. The professor reclined, and the student knelt or sat on a small stool, while the professor said important acupuncture points were here and there. Xin felt he had to let it out, to talk to somebody about this, but how should he talk about it? How would the others then see him? He could not say it out loud, and would not allow himself to say what he believed should not have happened. For a while, Professor Wang seemed satisfied, telling him that his goose steps looked great, and that he looked like a soldier, and wanted to buy him a uniform. This was supposed to be a “favor.” But Xin was not a solider, and for which occasion could he wear a uniform, except at Prof. Wang’s? How could he say this to anybody? Finally, it was the calves. By the way, his friend Chongyuan shared the same ill fate. Xin knew that Chongyuan had to come here every day as well. Sometimes Prof. Wang let him go earlier, because Chongyuan was coming. Nobody knew why Wang Pan needed so much “relaxation.”

Out of sympathy and because he didn’t want anyone to know about it, Xin never asked Chongyuan about his visits to Prof. Wang’s. Just once, he couldn’t resist but chose his words very carefully: How did it feel to go to Prof. Wang’s? Xin thought Chongyuan knew what he meant, and that Chongyuan also needed an outlet. However, Chongyuan’s answer was so evasive that Xin now cannot remember anymore what Chongyuan said. They both had high self-esteem. Besides, Chongyuan had more pride than Xin did, the kind of pride only talented people have, and Xin, for a very long time, so admired. Xin knew that they would never talk about this topic again.

This happened when they were in their third year of college.

 

4.

By the time the next class of graduate students came, Chongyuan was already the senior schoolmate who talked about how great Prof. Wang and his lab were. In the summer before school started, Wang Pan ordered Chongyuan to take the newly selected students to do “training.” When Chen Zhuo, Chongyuan’s high school friend, came for a visit, he ran into Chongyuan with three timid boys in front of him. Chen Zhuo was surprised, and found it also pretty funny. How come there were students “afraid” of people like Chongyuan? For Zhuo, who had known him for years, Chongyuan was the best-tempered person he had ever met. Zhuo thought to himself how hopeless these new graduate students were.

Shi Li, one of the three boys, was indeed afraid of Chongyuan at the time. This was the truth. Like a pedestrian who wanted to cross the street and avoid those “red armbands,” his fear was not the shy and cowering kind, but the kind that did not want to cause trouble. In addition to being universally recognized as an excellent senior schoolmate, Chongyuan was also “CEO Tao,” and the manager of Wang Pan’s finance. Everybody was saying that Tao Chongyuan was Wang Pan’s “son.” Chongyuan seldom participated in their activities, saying that he had to stay at school and deliver meals to Prof. Wang. Even Gao Yang, the “vice captain” who drove Prof. Wang to work every day, said he was just a “handyman.” Yang was a postdoctoral fellow at another college, and Wang Pan promised to get him a job at Pan’s school. Even Yang said only Chongyuan could be considered Prof. Wang’s “protégé.” When packages came, Yang would pick them up for Chongyuan, but would not let Chongyuan pick up for him: one could not just use “Prof. Wang’s people.”

During the summer evenings, the playground was full of people. The institute people looked more and more like fools, as they followed commands to stand in a line, run, and do drills. By the end of the day, they had to hand in a report to Prof. Wang, and were not allowed to repeat what they had already written. Every day, it was embarrassing for them. Shi Li wanted to complain all the time, but Chongyuan was “Professor Wang’s man,” so Li didn’t dare to tell him.

In fact, they didn’t dare to tell each other anything. Prof. Wang selected only those students he liked and trusted, obtained information through cross-examination, and contacted them one-on-one, so nobody knew who else was Prof. Wang’s “protégé.” The three boys were asked to come to school before the school year started. Prof. Wang found a small two-bedroom apartment for them, subsidized a few hundred yuan for their rent, and let them share the apartment with four senior schoolmates. During his graduate years, Shi Li had been living there. He never saw Prof. Wang come, but Prof. Wang knew everything. Prof. Wang liked to emphasize the collective, and asked them to be grateful to the collective. Those who received a scholarship were supposed to contribute part of it to the collective. He would announce in their group chat that so-and-so had voluntarily donated this amount, so the rest of them had to contribute. All the donations were wired to Chongyuan’s Alipay. The institute, the apartment, the soccer team, and the collective were their academic future, their entertainment, and their social life. The only thing that was lacking—or not supposed to have—was a true friend.

When Wang Pan sent a picture of his childhood in the group chat, the whole group commented below: “Prof. Wang is handsome from childhood on!” “Prof. Wang looks like an astronaut in this photo!” “Indeed very handsome, but we all feel that Prof. Wang is now even more handsome than when he was a child!” Just as it was difficult to play table tennis with Prof. Wang, summarized the senior schoolmate Deng who had been “frozen” for a year, it was not easy either between the members of the group. Both required some “technical mastery.”

When Chongyuan met up with Yue, he said, seemingly offhandedly, that he thought his advisor was good at psychology, and at manipulating people. Yue was confused, and her professional reflexes led her to think of many weird psycho movies. Chongyuan did not go on. She recalled his description of Prof. Wang as a maverick, unbound by what others thought of him. Then it would be ok to be a bit weird. Yue did not ask further. Only long after did she realize it would have been better if she had asked further. Both Gu Hua and Tao Chongyuan aspired to become good researchers. Hua sought out Chongyuan to complain about his advisor who gave him free rein. Hua was envious of Prof. Wang’s support of Chongyuan. Chongyuan said that a strict control was not necessarily a good thing. Hua thought Chongyuan wanted to comfort him. Chongyuan, his good friend, didn’t like to complain.

During the undergraduate commencement, they all saw Chongyuan’s tweet: he planned to go to the same graduate school with his girlfriend Cao Xinran as a couple for a bright future together. After a few days, the tweet was deleted, which felt quite strange. Now things changed. Cao Wei and others discovered on Tao Chongyuan’s computer the email correspondences between Tao Chongyuan and Wang Pan, in which Chongyuan informed Pan of his decision to leave. Prof. Wang ordered Chongyuan to go to his place on the same day. In Chongyuan’s files, there was also Wang Pan’s written promise: “I will give the student Tao Chongyuan an annual subsidy of 5,000 yuan during his graduate studies. After graduation, he will be given priority to be recommended for a PhD program abroad.”

Xinran saw the written promise. She is an honest girl. At the time, she and Chongyuan were dating seriously. Chongyuan told her in earnest: “In the future, we will become teachers together. I will give you all my salary and do all the dirty house chores.” His romance was different from other boys’. Wang Pan knew that Xinran and Chongyuan were together, so he reserved a seat for her in his lab. She also received monetary benefits. She once truly believed that Prof. Wang was good to Chongyuan, so she supported Chongyuan in doing his graduate studies with Prof. Wang. In retrospect, the others think Prof. Wang used her to “stabilize” Chongyuan. She did not take notice then. It was not until Chongyuan’s terrible news that she heard that Prof. Wang had often told Chongyuan that she was not good enough for him, and that he did not allow Chongyuan to carry her bags, because Chongyuan would lose face, and so would Prof. Wang. Xinran recalls that in his last year of college, Chongyuan told her that he and Prof. Wang were indeed in an “adopted father-son” relationship. She asked him whether he cared that others knew. Chongyuan replied, as long as he did not admit publicly, the rumors in the college would remain rumors. He told her not to tell anyone.

If not for Chongyuan’s suicide, Shi Li would likely follow Chongyuan’s steps—to adapt, get used to it, and float along. As instructed, he joined the soccer team, even though he had never liked soccer. Prof. Wang judged his students’ abilities on their playground performances. If you were a boy, and wanted to do something academically, you had to play a sport with Prof. Wang. Badminton on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays; soccer on Wednesdays and Sundays; table tennis on Tuesdays and Fridays. Every day without exception, this routine became another set of schedule outside the school curriculum. Being in a group collective that surrounded your social circle, it was so easy to jump on the bandwagon after showing obedience to the authority. That’s what everybody did anyway.

Almost everybody on the soccer team had clashed with Wang Pan. Meanwhile, they would tell you that Prof. Wang treated them well. How? After thinking about it for a while, there was nothing other than the monetary benefits. In summer, there was a “hot weather allowance;” in winter, there was a “cold weather allowance;” 10 yuan for a soccer game; 200 yuan “nutrition allowance” during final exams; 100 yuan “holiday allowance” for Christmas...Many a mickle makes a muckle. Subconsciously, they felt they had received an infinite number of favors from the professor. So whatever they said and did, they didn’t dare to be “ungrateful.” At private dinners, they told each other jokes: at a soccer match, those selected to be on Prof. Wang’s team would likely be in trouble, so it would be better to be on the enemy team; they figured out ways to let Prof. Wang “one past nine,” meaning a player passed nine players on the other team, even Lionel Messi did not have such abilities...after a round of shots, they burst into laughter. Over time, it felt as if they tolerated the professor’s perverse competitiveness. After Prof. Wang learned about their private dinners, he offered to reimburse them for the costs.

Then one day, Prof. Wang suddenly asked Shi Li to sign a printout of a “team special assistant” contract. Two days later, Prof. Wang added that the special assistant had a special task: to help him “relax.” The spots that needed to be relaxed became more awkward, but the professor was at ease, meanwhile Li did not know whether he should laugh or weep. The fourth time, Prof. Wang ordered him to put down his eating-bowl and stand at attention. Li said he did not want to obey. The professor lectured him for more than half an hour. Li did not understand a word, and did not want to understand a thing. In the end, Prof. Wang himself was bored, laughed it off, and let him go.

Afterwards, Shi Li immediately told all the students at the institute how Wang Pan recruited him to give Pan massages. This made him very uncomfortable. No moral would allow anybody to accept this as a matter of course. The others listened, and said that they wouldn’t have done that—it was not until Tao Chongyuan’s suicide did Shi Li understand that in this collective, self-esteem sealed every mouth.

Shi Li was also screened out. Afterwards, it seemed that the good things at the institute had nothing to do with him anymore. Prof. Wang did not let him participate in any project. Li thought those researches were outdated, and he did not want to participate in the first place anyway. On the soccer field, Prof. Wang shouted at him more, and often shooed him off the field in front of everybody else. After a year, Li had enough, and left the field, telling Prof. Wang that he quit the team. Chongyuan called, and tried to persuade him to come back. It wasn’t that Shi Li did not understand Chongyuan’s love and helplessness—Li would have real trouble if he did fall out with the professor.

As Chongyuan was in his third year of graduate studies, the conflict between him and Prof. Wang surfaced. It was said that the trigger was that Chongyuan wanted to go abroad to do a PhD, but Wang Pan wanted to hinder this, saying Chongyuan betrayed the institute. The others watched as Prof. Wang spent his days laying out Chongyuan’s faults: today, it was “research abilities barely better than the last 30% of the class;” the next day, “low EQ and unpleasant;” the day after, “moral standards below the bottom line.” Chongyuan turned from Prof. Wang’s favorite student that he praised every day, to someone thrown to the valley of morality overnight. When everything was said, Prof. Wang kicked Chongyuan out of the WeChat group, but two days later, added him back to the group, so that he could keep on talking. Chongyuan never spoke. Except when it came to real businesses, Chongyuan almost never said anything in the group, especially flatteries. Unlike Chongyuan, Gao Yang and Lu Chen were always active. Lu Chen was said to be another “son” of Prof. Wang’s. He got a job at the same school, as a junior lecturer. Wang Pan was said to have “contributed.” Gao Yang drove Prof. Wang to school and back home during the day. In the evening back at the lab, he told all kinds of jokes about Wang Pan, saying that he could make a fortune, if he posted those jokes on Weibo. Chongyuan used to have respect for Prof. Wang. What he valued was precisely the modicum of morality that Prof. Wang preached. Now Prof. Wang wanted to bind him up with this morality. Just as everybody knew that Chongyuan was the most dedicated “iron defender,” and had no chance of stealing the limelight in front of the goal, Prof. Wang still wanted Chongyuan to be on his team, whenever he played soccer again.

During those last six months, Chongyuan began to participate in their activities, and even took the initiative to ask a few younger teammates out for dinner. He talked quite a bit, especially with Shi Li. Li could see that Chongyuan tried to cover up his bitterness and maintain “camaraderie.” He told Li his many years of “lessons” from Wang Pan, as if he was passing on his experiences. As for himself, Li dispelled the first bit of “fear,” and opened up to Chongyuan. It could be said that both of them were in the same boat of misfortune. This trust that was built on misfortune seemed cruel, though Chongyuan was really a good person. Undoubtedly, everybody who knew Chongyuan thought so. Thus, their friendship seemed even crueler.

Shi Li still remembers the evening in early 2018. He and Chongyuan were studying in the lab that evening, when Prof. Wang barged in. He was obviously drunk. He immediately started to lecture them, and slap Li’s face back and forth with his hands. Li could not take this kind of humiliation, and felt a fire exploding in his heart. It was the kind of fire that he had not yet figured out exactly what he wanted to do but could not contain. Chongyuan pulled him back until Wang Pan left. Chongyuan said to him that he should endure as long as he could, and then leave after graduation. However, two months later, it was Chongyuan who could not take this any longer.

 

5.

The conflict between Tao Chongyuan and Wang Pan escalated. Since the former went to everybody he could find to calm down the professor so that the professor would let him graduate as planned, Chongyuan’s protest seemed even appropriate. The latter expressed this when mentioning the conflict: “If Tao Chongyuan gives up his Master’s degree at Wuhan University of Technology, then I have no right to make any recommendations.” “He means nothing to our excellent institute.”—As long as one had been at the institute, it was not difficult not to be informed of this. Deng Dong graduated almost three years ago, and had a job that had nothing to do with his studies in a far away city. Dong watched as his favorite junior schoolmate Chongyuan was kicked out and added back and kicked out of the group. As his former professor, who had the greatest influence on Tao Chongyuan, called Chongyuan “morally corrupt,” Dong did not know how to feel, and finally clicked on a chat window with Prof. Wang.

Deng Dong: With his future on the one hand, and his feelings for the institute on the other, Tao Chongyuan was tangled up in this conflict. He was just not mature enough in face of such a difficult decision. He was not “morally corrupt” as you have imagined. You can take a poll to see what kind of person he really is.

Wang Pan: Everybody is biased. I make multi-objective decisions. With various objectives, complex scenarios, and all kinds of factors, clearly, only I can give the most accurate verdict.

Wang Pan: I did this intentionally in order for him to see the absolute importance of this collective to him.

Dong remembers that’s what he and Wang Pan said. As to what Prof. Wang wanted from Chongyuan, and what he was looking for, it is now suddenly clear to Dong. A few years ago, the professor said the exact same thing to him.

In fact, the rumors from the junior schoolmates were wrong. Dong did not win several rounds in a row against Wang Pan that day. Smart as he is, Dong understood early on that there was more pressure at sports with Prof. Wang than doing research. As he was still on the soccer team, he voluntarily left the team, saying that he had no talent for this, after being shouted at a few times. He turned to table tennis instead, at which he was better. He also figured out the perfect balance between “competition” and “taking a dive.” He gradually upgraded from a student who delivered meals daily to someone Prof. Wang could not be without. He did win several rounds that day, not against Prof. Wang—“if that happened, I would be screwed”—but another professor. Dong did not think much when playing with others. Quickly, Prof. Wang had a long face, grabbed the bat from the other professor, and tried to beat him “to death,” as if it was a kind of punishment. It was even more of a punishment, when he could not lose. Prof. Wang did not socialize, and sports were his way of socializing, his resources. He used all his energy in running various sports groups. At a key moment, he would share a screenshot and say: “This is my badminton group. There are fellows of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, chairmen of international academic organizations (note: not vice chairmen), Changjiang scholars, and so forth. Under my rule, everybody is disciplined.” Both students and other professors were stunned.

Deng Dong only figured this out much later. At that time, he only knew that Prof. Wang had suddenly drifted away from him. He did not have to deliver meals, or to crack his brains to come up with ideas of how to play table tennis with Prof. Wang, or how to write his report. He had a feeling of falling from a high place. So when he found an internship, Prof. Wang said nothing. It was half a year later, when he was halfway through his internship, that Prof. Wang asked him to come back to play table tennis with him, as if nothing had happened. “In this way, you can see for yourself what it means to be on my team,” said Prof. Wang, “once you have tasted the hardships outside the team.” Dong thought to himself that it was actually a good thing after all.

Table tennis on Tuesdays and Fridays resumed. Every time, Dong had to analyze the high level of Prof. Wang's skills in his report, and Prof. Wang oft said to him, “In order to better train you, you need to help me to ‘relax.’ If I am relaxed and healthy, I can train you longer.” What could he think? There was always a logical reason why Prof. Wang made them do things. Dong was alone with Pan in the table tennis room. He had to bend his 5'8" figure, kneel on his knees, and massage the professor’s thighs, thinking it would be good if his table tennis skills continued to improve. Just like when the professor said that the meals should be delivered to the exact minute as to train him to be “punctual,” Dong thought it would be good to become a person with a strong sense of time. What else could he think? If he did not know how to adapt, it would be too much. After a few months, Prof. Wang won him once by a large margin, and said: “You lose so much and I still practice with you regularly, it is already kind of me not to charge you tuition. We should have a master-apprentice ceremony.” Dong knelt down on both knees, and kowtowed to his professor. That was the posture of bowing to a Buddha. He thought that the professor was indeed better, what should he do except continuing to learn from him? Later, when he was about to graduate, the professor told him the legend of Zhang Liang picking up shoes for the old master. Prof. Wang threw his shoes away, and ordered Dong to pick them up like what Zhang Liang did for the old master Jiang Taigong. Dong said to himself: “It won’t take long anyway, just hang in there, and it will pass.”

Prof. Wang had a perfect “system of theories.” Deng Dong thought that there was probably nobody who was as good at this as Prof. Wang, who was the head of the group “decision and control” and wanted to control everything. Even if Prof. Wang’s “theories” were no longer recognized by the society, they were the top guidelines in his circle. Prof. Wang liked to “test” a person over a period of a few years or even a dozen years. A Master’s student has three years at most, meanwhile a doctorate student has four to five years. Prof. Wang used every method to keep you. He would promise to help you land a job at the same school. If you stayed after graduation, it would be a lifelong relationship.

Deng Dong mentioned to Wang Pan that he had sent Tao Chongyuan messages. Dong did not know how to reveal the truth, so he tried to calm down Chongyuan that Chongyuan should gain the professor’s support before pursuing a PhD abroad, even if he had to make compromises. Dong was in graduate school, as Chongyuan began his second year of college. The two of them entered the institute at the same time and were assigned to the same office. In the same period, they became the students, upon whom Wang Pan relied the most. Tao Chongyuan had a special place in Deng Dong’s heart: “This kid is somebody with a perfect character.” He once told Chongyuan, “These are no big deals. You are good at everything. You will survive.”

During that period, Chongyuan almost immersed himself in this kind of consolation. However, without realizing it, fall gave way to winter, and Chongyuan’s friends found the smile on his face drop like the temperature in Wuhan. In the group chat with Cao Wei and Gu Hua, Chongyuan said a lot of things. At first, he said that Wang Pan was not a top researcher, and that he should not “pass” his doctorate years like this anymore. Later, he began to talk about how to apply for a government-sponsored scholarship for overseas studies without having to go through his advisor. When the temperature hit the lowest in Wuhan, Chongyuan, who liked to smile, turned into someone full of anxiety and on the edge of giving up. He no longer mentioned his PhD dream, and instead, asked around about their experiences in finding a job. In any event, it seemed that he was trying to figure things out, just like any other time—“when he expresses pain, you know he has a way of dealing with it.” Occasionally, they heard him say, “I have worked four years for Wang Pan.” “They all say that my son will be Wang’s ‘grandson.’” But nobody took what he said seriously. “Hang in there and you will be graduating,” his friends said, and advised him not to confront Wang Pan. At the time, they really didn’t know what was going on with Chongyuan.

Gao Yang’s attempt to stay by landing a job through Prof. Wang fell through. This was another thing that everybody at the institute knew at the time. Since Wang Pan was so persuasive in his promises and forbade Yang to find alternatives, Yang missed many other opportunities. Yang was so upset that he felt similar hardships made him and Chongyuan buddies. Later, everybody discovered their conversations on Chongyuan’s laptop. Gao Yang said: “CEO Tao, I feel a big loss, I feel I’m screwed. Fuck!” “I am now working for him plus making money, but he’s still like that. I’m really speechless. Whatever he gives we should give ourselves. Whatever others want to give, we should not take.” “Soon I will write up a document listing all my encounters and dealings with him, if he does dare to do anything, I’ll kill him immediately.” Chongyuan listened, and tried to calm him down. He was always the safest hole in the tree, the most reliable friend. Chongyuan accepted, comforted, and solved others’ pain, and with his own pain, he chewed, swallowed, and locked it up deep in his heart. Once, an undergraduate roommate, who came back to school to drink with his buddies to drown his sorrows, because of conflicts with his advisor, did not get drunk, but Chongyuan did. He threw up all the way to school in the car, stumbled his way back to the dorm, and kicked the mirror on the closet to pieces. The coolness on a late night in the fall, like tidal waves, came up and up again. Chongyuan screamed over and over again to his roommate: “Do you despise me?”

They had never seen him like this—the most gentle and profanity-free Tao Chongyuan. That was the only time people remember him losing control. It wasn’t until much later that someone realized that perhaps there were times when he was close to spitting it out. Perhaps he was waiting for somebody to ask him: “What’s wrong with you? Do you want to talk about it?” When Cao Wei lost his loved ones in 2017, he was in pain, and only wanted to talk to Tao Chongyuan. Chongyuan stayed by his side, and comforted him for a long time, and then said, “My pain is as great as yours.” Cao Wei was overwhelmed with his loss, and did not ask further. On February 9th, 2018, the last day before winter break, Chongyuan and teammate Dr. Du Bin wanted to go for a late-night snack together after a workout. On their way, Chongyuan showed Du Bin his cellphone: “Dr. Du, Prof. Wang wants me to go to his place again. Should I go?” Du Bin said, “You should. Make it quick. We’ll wait for you.” “I don’t want to go. I know what he wants me to do,” Chongyuan hesitated, “there are some other things that I cannot tell you.” Du Bin knew all the way through that Chongyuan helped Prof. Wang to “relax,” and that Chongyuan was not happy with the situation—he himself had learned from experience, and his time with Wang Pan was “limited to the soccer field.” He knew nothing more, and did not ask.

Three years ago, only a week or two before graduation, Deng Dong was once again asked to go to the professor’s place. He thought it was just a meal delivery, knocked three times per usual, and stood at attention. Prof. Wang said straight out: “After a long investigation, I am willing to promote you to another level, to be my godson. You have two days to consider and three options: to agree, to disagree, or to hold off.” The professor’s words and tone seemed to say: “I am granting you the highest honor.”

Deng Dong found himself not surprised. He thought about what Prof. Wang had said and done over the years, and about the times when he had “very much admired” him, about his mystery and incompatibility, about his boasted “supreme moral level”—the impeccable “system of theories.” He selected the students worthy of his trust, and then promoted them to be his disciples, and now to be his “sons”—what else was there? How far could one go? He did not dare to think about it. But he was sure about this: once a “son,” Prof. Wang would surely exercise the so-called “father” control. Deng Dong was not surprised. He felt terrified. 

 

6.

On March 26th, Qiu Hong had already fallen asleep when her cellphone rang. She got up in a daze. It was 2 a.m., and the caller was her son. “Mom, I’m not feeling well. I cannot sleep,” said the son. “Is it because you’ve been writing a paper lately?” “Anyways, I cannot sleep. I keep thinking about all sorts of things.” Her son’s anxious voice woke her up completely. “I’m coming over now,” she said. She sat up and got dressed. Then Chongyuan called again, “Mom, you don’t have to come over. I’m fine. I’m fine.” “Are you sure? I am dressed now.” “It’s fine. If you worry, just come over tomorrow morning.”

Qiu Hong hung up the phone but couldn’t sleep anymore. Her son had always been strong and healthy. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Her son wanted to apply for a PhD abroad, but his advisor was totally against it. Qiu Hong was more or less aware of this. In her opinion, although the professor was a bit selfish, he seemed to think highly of her son. She advised her son to put up with it, and not to get into trouble with the professor, as graduation was approaching.

After her son had gone to college, she found a job at a canteen at the school next door. Four days ago at noon, it was pouring rain, and Chongyuan came to her twice in a row to get lunch. She found it strange, and asked: “Haven’t you just eaten? Why are you coming here again?” He said: “It was for the professor the first time. I had a fight with him. He blamed me for not knocking on his door as required, and forced me to bow to him and apologize.” Chongyuan’s eyes were red. She asked: “Why did he ask you to bow? How come you had to apologize by bowing to him?” Chongyuan said: “He is like that, a control freak. Others want to be far away from him.” Her heart sank.

At six o’clock in the morning, Qiu Hong went to Chongyuan’s dorm. Her son was downstairs. She greeted him, and saw his face covered with a layer of haggard gray.

“What’s wrong with you, Yuanyuan? Are you hiding anything from us? You’re scaring me to death.” Her son really looked like he hadn’t slept all night.

“I don’t know why, but I’m thinking about Wang Pan whenever I open or close my eyes. I’m thinking about my dealings with him.”

“What about Wang Pan?” Qiu Hong panicked.

“He asked me to sign a commitment contract, of serving him after I start working, of doing things for him and giving him money, of letting him know first when I am accepted by a PhD program.”

“Why did he ask you to sign this commitment contract?” She thought to herself that it was, after all, her son, and how on earth the professor allowed himself to order her son around doing this and that, “Why do you have to sign?”

“I need his signature to graduate. It is my delay tactic,” Chongyuan said, “but now he wants to share this commitment contract with the whole institute. If I don’t keep this promise in the future, what will people think of me? I hate those who don’t keep their word!”

Qiu Hong was even more flustered. The only thing she could think of was to take him to have something to eat. The breakfast stand in front of the school had just opened, and the steaming vapor of water gave a sense of hope. She got her son a bowl of Wuhan hot-dry noodles with sesame paste, and a cup of soymilk for herself. She had no appetite, neither did her son. He kept looking at his cellphone. Neither of them spoke. He suddenly got up, and walked away, which startled Qiu Hong.

“What’s wrong with you, Yuanyuan? What on earth is wrong with you, Yuanyuan?” She quickly followed him. “I cannot stand it. I really can’t. I don’t know how to get rid of Prof. Wang.” Chongyuan repeated this, while walking straight towards his dorm. Upon hearing this, Qiu Hong’s eyes immediately teared up. “Why is this so serious? Is there something you’re not telling me?” She pulled her son back, while praying that her daughter would soon arrive. When she left the house in the early morning, she gave her daughter Xiaoqing a call. “Your sister will be here soon. Let’s figure out what’s going on. If there’s anything wrong, tell us.” “OK,” Chongyuan dragged her mother towards the school entrance, “wait for me here then. I’ll go get some books.” “Wait, let us go together when your sister’s here.” She used all her strength to pull him back. “Now I’m going to get the books. You can just wait for me here.” Chongyuan broke free from his mother.

First, he continued walking, then picked up his pace, and finally he simply ran.

He ran past the alley by the square at the entrance. Cao Wei passed here countless times, when he came to look for Chongyuan. At the beginning of the new semester, Chongyuan told Wei that he had bought several thousand yuan worth of new clothes, explaining in detail why he bought each one of them. This one made him look tall; that one made him look really in shape. He said he had seen it all, and wanted to redesign his personal image and start his life over. He also said he wanted to change his name. He didn’t like the “Yuan” in his name that meant “garden,” and preferred the other “Yuan” as “spring” in Peach Blossom Spring.

He ran past the corridor that connected the dorm area. Among the tangled branches, flowers bloomed here and there that he couldn’t name. Tao Chongyuan loved flowers. At the beginning of March, Xie Yuyao, who had travelled to Dali, often received Chongyuan’s messages, saying that the school was deadly boring, and asking whether she could take pictures of some beautiful landscapes. Earlier on, they had a deep talk once every month. During those two weeks, dozens of messages from Chongyuan poured into her phone every day. They were all compliments on her courage, spontaneity, sense of freedom, or the likes of “You are so great!” “I really like you!” “Thank you!” ... But when they saw each other during Chinese New Year, he was asking her whether it was impetuous of her to quit her job because of her boss’s harassment. Yuyao didn’t know how to respond to these over-the-top compliments. She was even a bit afraid, worrying that she had become Chongyuan’s projection of some kind of good life. On March 25th around 11 p.m., she received Chongyuan’s messages again. She responded: “I am not all that great. Everybody has a not-so-pretty side. I just don’t want to show it.” The next morning, she saw Chongyuan’s reply: “It’s too vague, too abstract. I am lost again.” That was 2 a.m. She did not respond to this.

He ran past the corner of the dorm building. There were thirteen big red letters on the white mural: students first. Qiu Hong couldn’t catch up with her son. She was left behind, and couldn’t see him before her anymore. The surveillance camera has recorded what happened next: Tao Chongyuan ran into the dorm building, and kept running upstairs, straight to the top of the six-story building. When Qiu Hong turned the corner, her son had already fallen down on the patio of the building. His gray sneakers lay quietly on the ground. Qiu Hong screamed out “Help!” and ran over the railings. She felt she was about to faint. However, what was left of her consciousness was a cruel reminder: the call in the wee hours of the morning was her son’s wish to see his mother one last time.

 

7.

After Tao Xiaoqing read through Tao Chongyuan’s computer files and diaries, she was no longer her old self. In the past, she thought she knew her brother as well as she knew her own palms. Her best and dearest brother was oppressed, ordered about, and treated like a slave by her side in an institution of higher education, where they had placed their hopes. Chongyuan’s mother always cried at night. When she entered the Wuhan University of Technology again, she kept looking back: “Where did I fail to stop my son?” After Chongyuan left, his father had insomnia, his eyes kept open all night long. Xiaoqing flipped through his diaries again and again until they became brittle: “Trusting others is a mistake of your own!” “Hypocrites, you have to pay back what you have been given!” “Four years of slavery, tears and sorrows, a lesson in blood and tears!” Those exclamation marks seemed to go directly into her flesh and blood. Chongyuan’s cellphone was still missing. After she printed out the records of Chongyuan’s messages, she found out Wang Pan and his brother had a dozen or dozens of messages back and forth every night, usually after 10 p.m. Wang Pan claimed to be a maverick, didn’t he use a cellphone? Some journalists introduced lawyers to her that she and her parents went to meet. It was mid-April; the temperature in Wuhan was already approaching 30 degrees Celsius. There was a layer of fine sweat on every forehead. The lawyers said the evidence was not relevant enough for the case. By relevance, it was meant what Wang Pan had actually done to Tao Chongyuan, which directly led to his suicide. This early ripe spring was going to burn people through.

She used her brother’s QQ to leave a message to everyone on the list of “institute” and “team.” Dozens were contacted. A dozen replied. Those who agreed to help were in the single digits.

Lu Chen said, “I don’t know anything. Tao Chongyuan and Prof. Wang were on good terms.” And then he hung up the phone.

Gao Yang had promised to send in all the materials after he put them together. A few days later, he asked his wife to call and say that he was sorry but could not help. He was a man of means, and found a way to land a job at the school, and stayed. The author of this article met him at school. Throughout, he refused to call Wang Pan by his name, and instead, called him “so-and-so.” He said he had nothing to offer. If there were any real evidence, he would help CEO Tao to seek justice, even at the cost of his job. He knew that these little things were trivial, miscellaneous. He gave up this “little justice.”

Zhao Yunan remembers that Wang Pan had at least twice ordered Tao Chongyuan to take off his shirt in front of everybody in the lab, to present the result of his training. Tao Chongyuan took it off immediately, seemingly without any resistance, and “kept carrying out the orders Wang gave.” But the question is—“how did he know Tao Chongyuan had a toned body? He must have seen it home. He must have asked Tao Chongyuan to take off his shirt at his home. That’s the question: why did he want Tao Chongyuan to take off his shirt at his home?”

Deng Dong told Tao Xiaoqing that he vaguely remembered hearing Tao Chongyuan talk about the upgrades of Wang Pan’s training. From the physical training that they all knew about, it was slowly upgraded to a kind of “special training” that no ordinary person could imagine. At the time, Tao Chongyuan gave two examples: eating while looking at poops, sleeping on the cemetery mount. Dong did not know whether Tao Chongyuan had done these or not. For a while, Dong was creeped out walking around campus, and would suddenly stop and look back nervously. Was Wang Pan following him? Wang walked without a sound. “I hope you will find out about the truth,” Dong is sad and calls Xiaoqing sister, “I think we have to do some (psychological) counseling after hearing these things ourselves, otherwise we may not be able to stand it.”

It was only when he was reminiscing with everybody else about Tao Chongyuan that Qiao Xin realized that he and Chongyuan were not the only ones who had helped Wang Pan to “relax.” He thought it was his face that could not hide his emotions that saved him. When Wang Pan suddenly stopped looking for him after two months, he still remembers that feeling of relief. And Shi Li knew from the beginning that he was not alone in this. He had, more than once, seen a sophomore walk into Wang Pan’s office, and not come out for a long time, “anybody would have guessed.” The sophomore was similar to Tao Chongyuan in character, always among the top three academically, and was made class president through a democratic vote. Wang Pan was his head teacher. On the afternoon of Chongyuan’s suicide, Xin made a call to the institute. It happened to be Wang Pan who picked up the phone. Wang Pan asked him in a nonchalant tone: “Do you think it was my fault?”

Cao Wei had lost his best friend. Half a year later, Chongyuan finally came into his dream: they are shopping, playing soccer, and eating together like on another happy day. Cao Wei exhausts all his words to persuade Chongyuan to stay. Chongyuan says, how beautiful life is, how beautiful the future is, how beautiful it is to be alive. Chongyuan smiles his most familiar smile. Then he takes the chance when Cao Wei falls asleep in the dream, and leaps from the top of the building again. When Cao Wei woke up, it was another morning. For a second time, he experienced a morning of losing his best friend. Cao Wei feels that there is nobody else left in the world with whom he can have a heart-to-heart conversation.

Xie Yuyan has been diagnosed with depression after Tao Chongyuan’s death. During the most painful moments, she would begin to imagine the movement of running uphill, keeping running uphill, running until the highest point, and leaping down. “It is a really special moment. My whole person is relaxed. It is by imagining this, this action, that then I feel I can understand him.” “What are the true, the good and the beautiful? What does it mean to understand? The very last night I said things that let you down. Did I destroy the ‘Peach Blossom Spring’ that you had built with great difficulty, and that would heal you? Where is the line between self-healing and self-deception? You didn’t tell anyone, is it because you could not accept yourself like that? If I made you comfortable enough to tell me, I think, I would encourage you to fight it head-on, like I did then. Would you still choose to take your life, if that were the case?”

Guo Yue will always remember the summer holiday in 2016, when she, Chen Zhuo and Tao Chongyuan spent the whole day together. They swam in the afternoon, and went to a private cinema in the evening to watch ghost films. Tao Chongyuan always looked at the Douban ratings before choosing a film. He said they should watch good ghost films, and not waste their time. Chen Zhuo had seen most of the films. When the ghost was about to come out in the film, he stood up suddenly and stretched himself in order to scare the rest of them. These were the brilliant threads in their lives. Their party ended at midnight. The sporadic taillights of sleepless cars on the streets swayed and turned. Right in the middle of the overpass, Yue shouted: “I’m the king of the world!” Chongyuan stood next to her, laughing out loud. It was an extravagant time. The whole world belonged to them. Yue knows she will graduate, have a special or ordinary job, date somebody, marry somebody, and perhaps have kids. She knows full well that her life will continue to move forward. At dusk when she wakes up from a nap, or at a most ordinary moment on the road, she will suddenly think of Tao Chongyuan, and somehow her tears fall.

The world is no longer theirs. Everybody in the story has been stopped or interrupted by Tao Chongyuan’s death and has crashed into the other side of the world. She understands—they all understand—nobody will forget him.

(At the request of the interviewees, their names are all pseudonyms.)