Oracle Bones (48 page)

One official had been assigned to accompany me. He was not in uniform; the man’s face was gentle and we began to talk. I asked him why this place was called Not-Old Station.

“It’s because of a local legend,” he said, and then he told the story: Once,
in ancient times, an immortal came down from the heavens. He visited Cloud Summit, the highest mountain in the area. A villager named Wang Zhi climbed the mountain and met the immortal, who gave the man a peach. Wang Zhi believed that it was a normal peach, given by a normal man. But after Wang Zhi ate the peach, he also became immortal.

Finally: an explanation for Chinese cops. I asked the young man what he did for the local government. He said, “I work for the Propaganda Department.”

AFTER MORE THAN
two hours, a policeman arrived from Beijing. I recognized the man; every year, he handled the visa applications for journalists. I also recognized a certain look of pity on his face, but at least he granted me the dignity of a few more questions. The other officers watched.

“Do you know that if you want to report, you have to apply to the government?”

“Yes, I know that. But I wasn’t there to report. I was camping.”

“It seems strange that you would happen to be there when they had an election.”

“Look at me,” I said. “There was a sandstorm last night. I’m carrying all of this stuff. Why would I do this in order to see an election?”

Now the pretense was gone and the cop asked, curiously, “What was the election like?”

“There were five candidates,” I said. “Two were named Peng and two were named Zhou and one was Tang. They had to choose three. That’s pretty much all I know.”

“Have you ever seen an election in a village before?”

“In Sichuan, when I lived there.”

“What’s the difference?”

“There’s no difference.”

“What’s the difference between this election and an election in America?”

It flashed across my mind: at American elections, they don’t send two police cars when they see a reporter. But I swallowed the thought: “Hard to say.”

The cop said, “They made a mistake with the ballot last year in America, didn’t they?”

“Yes, in a few areas.”

“There were other problems, too,” he said. “Why did it take so long? Why didn’t
Ge Er
win? He had the most votes.”

In Chinese, I attempted a clear and concise explanation of the Electoral College. I should have known better; during my teaching years, I had never
been able to explain it in English. I had always believed that an excellent way to motivate American election reform would be to force each and every citizen to introduce the system to a Chinese classroom.

In the police station, my discourse on the Electoral College was particularly unsuccessful. The cops looked bored; finally, all of them left, except for the man who seemed the youngest. The moment that we were alone, he said, “How much money does a policeman make in America?”

THE LONGER WE
were alone, the less friendly the young officer became. I tried to win points by saying that my brother-in-law was a policeman in Missouri, but that didn’t seem to help. The Chinese cop started asking questions slowly, as if the notion of handling an interrogation were new to him, but soon he was shooting them across the room. He didn’t seem to care much about what had happened in the village; most of the questions were about the United States.

“Which place is safer?” he said. “China or the United States?”

“China,” I said. It hadn’t been long since I’d visited Rhode Island Avenue.

“Why are there so many people living on the streets in America?” he said. “Why doesn’t the government give them money?”

“The government gives some money to poor people,” I said. “Not a lot, but some. Often the people on the streets are mentally ill.”

“No, they’re not. They’re just poor.”

I shrugged; the man spoke again: “Why do people in America have guns?”

“It’s a right,” I said. “It’s in the Constitution.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Do you know that it’s against the law to sleep on the Great Wall?”

“No,” I said. “There wasn’t a sign, and the locals said that other people had done it recently.”

“They don’t know the rules,” he said. “You need to read the law. That’s why you’re in trouble. You’ve broken a number of Chinese laws. You aren’t allowed to report without permission, and you didn’t carry your passport. We can fine you fifty yuan for not having your passport.”

“I’ll pay it now,” I said. It was the equivalent of six dollars. The cop shook his head and before he could ask another question I requested a trip to the bathroom.

HE STOOD NEAR
the urinal, waiting. When we returned, his expression became even sterner.

“Why do they provide birth control to middle-school students in America?” he said.

For the first time that day, I was completely speechless. He repeated the question:

“Why do they provide birth control to middle-school students in America?”

“I think you mean high-school students,” I said at last. “They don’t give them to middle-school kids.” I had no idea why I said that; for some reason the specific age group seemed extremely important to me at that moment.

“It
is
middle school,” he said. “I’ve read about it. Why do they do that?”

This time I said nothing.

“That’s a difference between China and America,” he said triumphantly. “Things are much more open in America. Women are more open.”

AT THE END,
there was mostly silence. If he asked a question, I answered as briefly as possible: yes, no, I don’t know. Finally he looked at his watch.

“You’ve broken the law,” he said. “You are required to carry your passport, and you must request permission before you report. You are not allowed to sleep on a cultural relic. All of these things are against the law. You could be fined, but we will waive it today. You must never do this again. Do you understand?”

He escorted me to the police station’s front gate. Four hours had passed since the police had picked me up at Xituogu. I didn’t see the other cops; they must have instructed the young man to hold me a while longer, to teach a lesson. I caught a cab on the street. Driving out of Not-Old Station, I realized that the way I felt—filthy and tired, angry and frustrated—reminded me exactly of bad days as a schoolchild.

ARTIFACT H

The Word

WORDS IN CHINA HAVE ALWAYS SEEMED ALIVE. THE VOCABULARY OF
a calligraphy connoisseur is physiological: the “bone” and “breath” and “muscle” of a written word. The first Chinese character dictionary was compiled around
A
.
D
. 100, during the Eastern Han dynasty, and the author’s afterword described the legendary invention of writing. The creator, Cang Jie, was a demigod with four eyes:

He observed the footprints of birds and beasts, and recognized that meaningful patterns could be distinguished. For the first time he created graphs and tallies…. When Cang Jie first made graphs, he relied on categories and the imaging of shapes. Therefore they were called
[wen, “patterns”]. Later the “form and sound” graphs increased and these were called
[zi, “compound graphs”].
are the roots and images of things.
means to be fruitful, multiply, and gradually increase. When written on bamboo and silk, they were called
[shu, “writing”]. “Writing” means “to resemble.”

Animals leave tracks; tracks are copied into patterns; patterns combine to create new patterns. Words mate—pieces of one character are attached to pieces of another—to create new words. Writing originates from the world of living things and it behaves the same way.

After Cang Jie’s invention, according to legend, the heavens rained millet and ghosts wept all night long.

AT THE UNIVERSITY
of Washington at Seattle, I interview a professor of Chinese, and he mentions that Ken-ichi Takashima has just arrived to teach a summer course. The name sounds familiar, and then I remember David N. Keightley’s story: Professor Takashima once tried to crack an oracle bone with a soldering iron.