Chairman Mao Would Not Be Amused – Fiction From Today (39 page)

The wicked still fear the law.

But is there really any law? I am not so sure. And if it did exist at one time, where is it now? In point of fact, it's there if you want it to be but disappears when you don't. At times of crisis, we offer it up as a sacrifice, but when the crisis has passed, we no longer think in such terms. To what higher court can one appeal? The Farm Headquarters political department? The Yanghuo County Revolutionary Committee? There are countless serious matters to seize hold of and promote; moreover, the people who have not been deprived of schooling are not necessarily more intelligent than the stonecutters. Foolish people can be taught. We are taught wherever we go, but no one will talk reason. Most frightening of all are the teachers who extract political elements out of the nonpolitical, revolutionizing the very life out of our bodies.

Back at the dormitory, the brass lion eats away at our gray matter, and we find it difficult to sleep at noontime. Old Wu pontificates about Shang wine cups, Zhou tripods, Qin and Han tiles. Yellow Hair does not aspire to such refined topics. I worry that we will be forced to let the truth be known and say that during the current "movement," we made a mess of this unidentified tomb, stirring up all sorts of spirits and unleashing the primal forces of nature.

Only now does Old Wu, our wise sage, wake up. "Since the world is the way it is, it's best not to publicize this incident. No one is able to communicate with heaven, and no one can frighten the authoritative scholars of history into action. Those who might are under house arrest or have been banished. Who has any authority these days? When academia itself founders, it's tough to be a scholar."

Should we bury the lion here for a few years, or should we make a switch and pretend it is still inside the tomb? Old Wu announces that he is up for family leave next month and that he would prefer to take the relic back to his hometown, where he can hide it in his house. Leave it to him to come up with this plan. Over the last couple of years, his home has been searched twice, and there is no guarantee that it won't be searched again. Besides, with him off in another part of the world and the road home long and arduous, what would his family do if that happened?

Who would have thought this matter would become so irksome? Without warning, a sleeping lion enters our stagnant-water lives, and suddenly towering waves crash upon us, and we are surrounded by whirlpools. The world is fraught with peril.

Yellow Hair has no plan of his own, but he is quick to agree with other ideas. "Don't scratch your ears and rub your temples like an old pedant," he says. "Do you think we have to stuff it back into the coffin and bury it for it to be at rest? Aren't you afraid of the stench? Any way you spread it, that precious relic can't leave this precious place; that would have disastrous consequences for the local geomancy."

We are agreed in principle but continue to debate until I have a brilliant idea. Aren't we about to put up the roof truss? We can add a few extra diagonal stays between the roof beam and the purlins, making an attic the size of a chicken coop that no one will ever notice, allowing the lion to continue its peaceful slumber.

Shouts of approval on all sides. Master Yellow Hair says he'll take care of the details. To think of the violent criticism and revolutionary struggles that will take place in the meeting hall while the brass lion, the emblem of royalty and imperial power, sits solemnly overhead, reigning over all-an interesting picture, indeed.

What lies in store now for the sleeping lion, already steeped in the vicissitudes of history? Will our own fate be linked to it? Maybe the sleeping lion will be our charm in days to come, and we'll be famous throughout the nation on account of this great achievement.

After a moment's reflection, I say, "That would be wonderful, of course, but in keeping the relic for individual fame and fortune, let's not forget what is ethically proper. For educated youths like us, the nation and the people come first; so as soon as an opportunity arises, we should turn the piece over to a museum." Old Wu quickly adds that when he visits his family next, he will make inquiries in the provincial capital.

The blood courses even more passionately through our veins. Although confined to a wasteland, we have not forgotten our duty to the motherland, and this, the thought of our spiritual loyalty, moves us greatly.

Who would have guessed that before long, our dream would be shattered? When we go out to work that afternoon, there is no sight of the outside laborers, and when we poke around in the chamber we find not only that the brass lion has not been returned but that many of the broken vessels have been carted away as well. What a band of wily foxes! We run straightaway to their lair, only to find that the place is deserted.

We stomp our feet, fuming, unable to contain our venom. Yellow Hair, especially, having never had a chance to see for himself if the object is brass or iron, is so angry that his yellow hairs are all standing on end. He vows to bring the stonecutters back, even if we have to traverse the four corners of the earth. Then it occurs to me: this place cannot be compared with the mainland, for on Hainan even if you sprouted wings, you would find it difficult to escape. The only way out is to hop on a boat at Haikou. Why not travel to the county seat and seal off the bus station-someplace where the law exists, where
they
won't be allowed to act as they please. If the stonecutters try to pull something funny, we can insist on seeing these officials, who will hardly be able to pardon them.

More shouts of approval. It is resolved that we will skip half a day's work and cut over to the highway to thumb a ride. The trucks that pass are mostly from the farm. Some stop, some don't. We press our way along the dusty road to the county bus station, which we carefully comb three times, then wait in ambush until the last bus finally prepares to leave, and we have nothing to show for our efforts.

Disconsolate, we make the rounds of the town. Anger fills every pore in our bodies, but we still need to eat, which in turn necessitates that several bottles of whiskey be opened. These we drink in silence. Soon, though, we begin to curse the band of thieves and then one another, for not having acted more decisively in the first place and for expecting the roving bunch of dirty thieves to have a change of conscience. The liquor and food are gone, and I hide a couple of plates to keep the tab down. Yellow Hair reaches under the table to snatch a machete from the seat of an intoxicated Li aborigine. A gentleman, Old Wu takes only half the toothpicks in the jar. We derive little pleasure from these pranks, however, for our setback has been too great.

On the road home, there are no trucks traveling in our direction, so before the evening sun drops below the horizon, we negotiate the mountain paths back to the work brigade in abject misery. The path is narrow and the grass tall; with our heavy hearts, we are more than a little weary. But then we think of that gang of stonecutters laden down with heavy equipment and precious cargo that may not be jostled or bumped-now won't they be huffing and puffing at a snail's pace? Apart from the highway, the only road that goes to the county seat is this steep trail.

Upon hearing this, Yellow Hair slaps his head and shouts, "You little thieves, when the road narrows, enemies shall meet!"

Old Wu ponders for a moment. "Not necessarily," he says but offers no explanation.

No matter, we become very cautious. The sound of chattering insects and birds fills the air, and the layered mountain peaks are already beginning to be wrapped in fog. A few inauspicious shadows move about the expanse of grassland that surrounds us.

I break out in a sweat. In the lead, Old Wu disappears into a clump of tall grass, perhaps to relieve himself, and then all of a sudden he is following us.

Dark evening mist is now everywhere. In my uneasiness, I reflect upon the fact that having fled in panic, the gang of outside laborers does not have one penny of what is due them as salary for crushing stone, more than a month's worth of backbreaking work. There's no turning back now. I am convinced we will run into them. I can almost smell the blood; this is a lawless place. Maybe no one will get killed, but blood will be spilled, and whoever falls in this thick grass will have to wait for days for someone to come along.

And while it is true that bloodshed increases the value of antiques, it is better when it does not flow. Big, strong Old Wu remains at the end of our little squad. I have dedicated myself to the service of my country but cannot match Yellow Hair's bravery, for he leads the way, standing tall, grasping the broad Li machete and shouting threats: "Think I'm afraid you'll fly across the ocean? If you don't fork over the brass lion this time, I'll chop off your thief claws!"

But who's going to chop whom? The more Yellow Hair shouts the more nervous I become. What has been the loud voice of righteousness now sounds a little feeble.

Yellow Hair also seems to have seen through all of this and makes a few snide remarks to Old Wu, saying that
we
are only risking our own lives but that if
they
die, they will leave entire families without providers. This inspires us to action.

Brass lion!

People want to be buried in martyrdom in behalf of an object that was once buried alive for thousands of years. That moment has arrived! Yellow Hair fixes his eye on something, crouches like a cat, screams wildly, then leaps forward. My body is ice-cold, but since I am one who values friendship over life itself, who joins his fellow soldiers as they advance or retreat, I rush over as well. The dim light of evening reflects strange rock formations and several battered straw hats. Atop the rocks, we spot a few lumps of wet tobacco pulp.

Relentlessly, Yellow Hair searches the site, whereupon he discovers that this gang of wily men has not traveled over primitive bridges and steep trails but has blazed a path across the open grassland.

With his sharp eyes, the determined Wu spots a bundle that has dropped into the crevice of a rock. As he unfolds the crackling paper, we assume at first that the object within is a tattered remnant of the coffin lining, but it turns out to be a silk painting of some value.

Yellow Hair is not about to give up now; he is determined to track down the stonecutters. But after this most recent assault, I am no longer battle hungry. It is nearly dark. The tall grass, the height of two people, is sending off a deathlike aura. Although my life is not particularly enjoyable, it is worth more than a piece of tarnished metal from an unidentified grave. All along, I have had a vague notion that the lion wasn't really from the Han, and this feeling is even stronger now that the object is owned by other people.

Old Wu, of course, concurs with me on this matter and analyzes the situation: "If we keep going, we'll cross over into the next county anyway; those Leizhou wanderers have allies everywhere, who will certainly be lying in ambush for us. Better to wait for the danger to pass before making any plans." His commentary is thorough; his logical deduction beyond reproach.

Yellow Hair swears loudly but has no recourse but to give up the chase.

By this time, the sky is completely black.

The brass lion has escaped alive: in retrospect, how can that tattered rag ever make up for the loss of the lion? When we shake it open, it is dirty and black, and what is left is sprinkled with holes and mildew, perhaps stained by bodily fluids and muddied to such an extent that we cannot even determine what the subject of the painting is. Mountains, water, or simply a rock? If it weren't for the faint trace of a square chop, one would think it nothing but a shroud.

Our great plan to offer up a national treasure has become a pipe dream. All that remains is a topic that gets revisited again and again, bringing a strain of sadness to the tedium of the life of educated youth.

I still can't understand why those men would abandon their hard-earned salary for a brass object, cutting themselves off from the possibility of ever working in this region again. Is it worth it? They won't ever be able to cash it in to feed their families.

Although time is magnanimous to brass, fate can change people's lives in an instant. Our dreamlike era comes to a dreamlike end, and we take leave of this far corner of the world, each of us forging his own path.

Yellow Hair throws his energies into a machine-tool factory, producing blades that slice through iron as easily as if it were mud. If people slice their fingers, however, they will not bleed-a quality that suits Yellow Hair's temperament.

Old Wu's great intelligence sweeps from the imperial examination system to the philosophy department at the university, where he continues to research isms and ideologies.

As for me, I become intoxicated with literature, paint a few pictures, and taking advantage of the literary wasteland, make a name for myself, to my great surprise. And so I have continued to write. At times, I reminisce and ask if I should excavate the story of the lion but always fail to put it in writing. I have a little talent, it is true, but I am a purist, and were I to romanticize the rise and fall of the sleeping lion, I could legitimately be accused of cheap vulgarity.

But how to forget such an event? The sleeping lion was lost for a thousand years before seeing the light of a single day; then it was lost again, this time never to return.

Only gradually do I learn how difficult the discipline of art can be, and how very cruel its means of sorting talent. A person like me who has read little must rely on diligence of effort, must browse through the classics of every school of thought if he is to dream of "scholarization." One day as I skim through the pages of a book, I find something that stops me cold: people in the great Western Han dynasty were unaware that lions even existed; moreover, only during the last years of the Eastern Han did our Chinese ancestors see one of these strange creatures for themselves. It was, of course, presented to officials in the remote area that is now Xinjiang, meaning that the palace residents never knew anything about it. How could a lion have migrated to Hainan so quickly to take a long nap?