Chairman Mao Would Not Be Amused – Fiction From Today (37 page)

Did she know why the old man had walked away from the dinner table?

Did she know that the old man had already retired?

Did she know that the old man had decided to move out of the small red building?

Did she know that because of all this, the old man's children had attacked him?

Did she know that his wife was prepared to fight to the death to retain the small red building?

Did she know of the looks of resentment in the eyes of the two domestics who served him his meals?

Did she know that the quiet, soft-spoken driver of many years had begun saying things to distance himself?

And even more awful things-did she know of them? That would be…

"I was afraid you might not have had dinner. Take the edge off your hunger with these snacks," she said. She looked at the old man, smiled, and took a sip of tea. She knew it all.

The old man felt transparent: he was a mass of agitation and anger. Was it necessary to tell every little detail?

Her knees were together, her feet side by side. Narrow shoulders, a slender waist, delicate fingers, a warm expression of quiet humility-as she sat with an air of quaint antiquity, her warm, peaceful humility flowed endlessly toward the old man.

The old man's frustration and anger gradually subsided.

Separated only by the stove, they gazed at each other in silence, using their beating hearts to read the history of each new wrinkle on each other's face.

The old man's face was crisscrossed with ravines.

The skin on her face had folds in length and breadth.

An abstruse heavenly tome that only the two of them could understand.

Suddenly, it dawned upon the old man that her hair had turned white. Puzzled, he wondered when it was that the last strand of black hair had disappeared.

Silently, she shook her head, releasing waves of silvery light.

Why should he be puzzled? The first strand of hair turns white, and so does the last one. What's so special about one's hair turning white? It would be strange if hair that had grown for so many years did not turn white; a person isn't truly old until the hair turns white. Her white hair was like snow, her face was like snow, kindly and yet noble. The dimple on her left cheek appeared as a hollow spot on the surface of that snow created by a hot teardrop. Therein lay the essence of old-fashioned feminine beauty. So why be sad over white hair?

The old man understood.

The tea mellowed on the second brewing. They sat facing each other without a word or a sound.

Oh, her waist was still hourglass thin. Even at her age.

Yes, she's old now. Time flies like an arrow; everyone grows old. What's so special about growing old? How boring life would be without change.

What is there to be sorry about? What else do you have? In the end, what does anyone have? Doesn't everyone come into the world naked and leave the same way? How pleasant that the stove is so warm tonight, the tea steeped so well, and that you and I can still drink a cup together.

She took a sip of tea.

The old man took a sip of tea.

The gloomy look on the old man's face vanished, replaced by a spreading glow. He was at peace, refreshed.

They sat, and they sat, and they sat, a hint of happiness and joy occasionally flickering across their stony faces.

The dark-blue flames were no longer dancing. The coals in the stove were completely red, burning silently. The rolling steam atop the kettle turned to white smoke and curled upward.

Was that a cat or a person outside? Tiptoeing back and forth, then stopping just outside the door for a long time before walking on.

The tea weakened considerably on the third brewing. The old man stood up and paced the floor. Each piece of furniture was where it had always been; only the colors had darkened-spotlessly clean, but already the color of death. The sandalwood incense had burned out; the ashes had fallen to the floor. The smell of mildew emerged from the four corners of the room. It was the old, rotten sort of mildew that the sun could not burn off or shine through.

The old man was reminded of something. He asked, "Did this flare up again?" He pointed to his heart.

Without turning her head to look, she answered clearly, "Twice, both times in the winter, and both times I was hospitalized."

The old man said, "I had two attacks, too, also in the winter, and I was hospitalized. We're the same." The old man laughed like a child. She smiled.

"Well, I should be going," said the old man.

She rose slowly and picked up his hat. The old man leaned forward and lowered his head; she stood on tiptoes to place the hat properly on the old man's head.

Oh, her waist was still hourglass thin.

The old man put his hands on the slender waist. "I'm no longer an official. I can finally relax."

"You should be going," she said.

The old man's grasp loosened. He was secretly ashamed. Had she not stopped him so quickly he might have broken his word.

In the dark shadows, she put on her once costly woolen coat and tied a scarf over her head. Looking like a baby in swaddling clothes, she raised her wrinkled forehead and said, "Come again if you haVe time."

The old man turned back and looked at the stove, at the old-fashioned armchairs, and at the two nearly empty teacups. Then he looked into her calm, quiet, humble eyes and said, "All right."

She escorted the old man to the front door, curling up inside the doorway.

The old man stopped, turned, and waved her back inside. She stayed for a moment, then retreated; the shiny black door creaked.

In the instant before the two doors met, the old man thought he saw a single teardrop ooze through the crack.

The old man hurried back to where he had been and touched the spot where the tear had emerged; it was wet. He touched his finger to the tip of his tongue and tasted it. Salty and sweet at the same time. When he touched it again, the whole door was wet. The plum rains were still falling, softly and sadly.

The fog turned the alley vast and hazy; the fog turned the street vast and hazy; the fog turned the boulevard vast and hazy. The outlines of tall buildings were blurred; dark shadows were everywhere; lights in homes were dim as starlight. The sky and the earth fused at the horizon, misty and blurred, a ball of chaos. Even if you were a good son, how could you clear away the clouds and fog and stop the wind and rain to seek a sky you yourself loved? No, let nature take its course; nature is fair, so why must we seek things by force?

Take a step back; the sea and sky are boundless.

The old man said to the driver in an unusually calm tone, "I've made you wait too long."

Translated by Scott W. Galer

It is hot today. In this place, it is hot every day. There are no distinct seasons, so no one can ever remember what month it is. To be sure, the weeks and months bring incidents of note, but after a while even those merge and blur. In this remote corner of the world, we have forgotten even the year.

We are, in any event, dripping sweat, even a little blood. Not that a man would die here; it is only that staying alive somehow doesn't seem to be one of our major concerns.

Old Wu-Number Five-is scraping his metal pipe.

I position our homemade level.

Beads of sweat fall on the scalding trowel, hissing into steam, and the mountains quiver in the summer heat. At this latitude, the sun is eternally fierce, the day eternally long. The body's biological clock all but stops. If it weren't for the stone wall rising layer by layer, you would think today is a carbon copy of yesterday or perhaps of one day sometime last month. There are moments in this green basin when we desperately wish something would happen to dot the white expanse of time-like the night when someone who went outside to take a leak looked up to see a white spot streaking upward, receding into the heavens' canopy, finally melting into hazy silver. Presented with this rare display, we carried on for several days, pondering how these spirits augured for the future. Then when the newspaper was delivered, already many days late, we learned that our own satellite had traveled into space! Old Wu, for whom there are no mysteries, announced that the launching site was on this island of ours and that this region, being close to the equator, allowed the launch to be both swift and convenient, and on and on. We were quite proud, and our meal of dried turnips and rice seemed crunchier and tastier than ever before. All of us felt that our nation and our people had suddenly become much stronger.

The trowel taps monotonously. Under the scaffold sits a pile of sheer-white plaster. Bright, silvery clouds float overhead, effortlessly reflecting the red sun, sweeping away human shadows without a twinge of conscience. Who knows how many of these masses of steam have been wrung from our bodies?

Even men can be scorched to a crisp. I think of cursing but save my breath. With a parched throat, there is little point in swearing. Blame it all on the legendary Yi, who shot down only nine of the ten suns.

Suddenly, an explosion.

"Thunder?" I hear myself ask.

Hey, thunder god, is that you? Deafening, blinding noise.

Only then do I see the brown smoke curling slowly over the opposite ridge. What is it? "Over there," we call to one another and scramble down the wobbly scaffold.

At last, a special event to make up for the tedium. The outside laborers, having blasted open an underground tomb, are running in all directions. As if transfixed by evil magic, the men gaze from afar at the rumbling black vault with its eerie glow.

Few people take themselves less seriously than the membership of our little group. Valor wells up in me, for I have nothing to lose, and in spite of the presence of a strange, vile smell, I leap inside. There I see the sleeping lion.

It has been blown onto its side and lies among fragments of coffin planks, but I am awestruck. Heavy and icy, the brass green manifests an ageless deep sleep. The long day we once cursed has now become so short and abrupt that we lose all sense of time.

Vessels and pots are also strewn about. Neither Old Wu nor I turn them over, so completely are we seized by the simplicity and majesty of this sleeping lion.

We have stumbled into the Bronze Age!

It is all I can do to keep from shouting. The resident expert has yet to speak. He covers his nose with his hand, frowning, thinking, as history rests quietly, waiting for his verdict.

Western Xia, Yin, Shang? Spring and Autumn period, Warring States? Each fabulously distant and remarkable.

"A Han grave," Old Wu announces solemnly.

I breathe a heartfelt sigh and bend respectfully toward the sleeping brass lion, only to hear Old Wu rebuke me: "Don't touch it!"

I withdraw my hand, sobered by the singular wonder of this event.

"What does it mean?" he asks.

From deep in my pant pocket, I pull out a watch with a cracked crystal.

"Ten oh-three. Note this time." Old Wu is quite solemn.

But reality drags us back to the present.

Master mason Yellow Hair is shouting at us from the opposite slope. The Farm Headquarters boss may be on patrol, and though it puts a damper on things, we had best not linger. In any case, it is nearly quitting time. We slip back to camp.

Old Wu isn't old, nor does the five indicate that he is the fifth child. His name is Wu, and he is my age. Next to him, everyone appears a head shorter-of course, I am referring to physical stature. In terms of intelligence, I'd venture to say he surpasses us by more than a head. He is very bright-in astronomy, geography; in matters foreign or domestic. Everyone can benefit from his instruction. And those who refuse to believe him-someone like me, for instance-can never get him to change his side. In any event, here in the wilderness, where there are neither sages nor scholars, there is little harm in listening.

"How can you be so sure it's Han?" I have to ask.

"Aiiii-some ancestor of the Yellow Emperor you turn out to be! The Bronze Age did not achieve aesthetic perfection until the Han. Everything declines when it reaches its peak-" He is about to elaborate.

"Shhhh. Do you want to lose your head? There can be absolutely no casual talk about peaks."
^[4]

"Yes, yes." Ever vigilant, he agrees that his choice of words was imprudent; then, glancing about, he begins again. "After the Bronze Age, stone was the vogue, up until Wei and Jin, when stone carvings reached their, uh-you know what. The Tang had three-color glazes, as did the Song."

I earnestly accept the wisdom imparted from his lips. Still, I don't think I'm stupid, and I read a fair amount in my spare time. I cannot help being skeptical. The Han was a remarkable dynasty, but back in those days Hainan lay beyond Chinese cultural influence. Of the earlier generations who traveled to the edges of the Celestial Kingdom, I knew only of Li Deyu of the Tang, Su Dongpo of the Song, and Huang Daopo of the Yuan. And the Hainan native Hai Rui did not appear until the Ming.

"Not true," he says. "There was also the illustrious Madame Xi, the female warrior of the Northern and Southern dynasties."

Maybe so, but the distance between the Northern and Southern dynasties and the Han is the thickness of
Tales of the Three Kingdoms
-all 120 chapters' worth!

He persists in his rebuttals. "Although Emperor Han Wudi lacked for literary talent, when it came to military prowess, he lacked for naught. Under heaven, no spot was unclaimed by this emperor; from shore to shore, no prince failed to pay fealty." Observing that I refuse to alter my foolish notions, he points out with some irony the absurdity of my logic: why must I always think of history in terms of famous people? Those old bones, whether of a local tyrant or evil gentry-had to be a dull fellow. Don't hope to find his chronicle in the annals of officialdom, published or otherwise. Number Five certainly deserves his reputation. I ponder a while longer, then relax.