Chairman Mao Would Not Be Amused - Fiction From Today`s China [редактор Говард Голдблатт]

Kong Jiesheng – The Sleeping Lion

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.

This round of academic contention brings out other emotions in me. Our nation is indeed amazing. Any ancestral grave one treads upon can be traced back hundreds of generations. Take the thatched hut we live in, for example; six or seven thousand years ago, the people of Banpo village built their huts in the very same style-a civilization ancient enough to make one sigh in wonder.

The scaffolding shakes, and we are quiet. But the person who shows up turns out to be Yellow Hair. One of our own. He drops the weighted plumb line over the corner of the wall, then squints down and swears, using all his might to pry off one stone that protrudes prominently from the others.

If Yellow Hair has it in for Old Wu, it is because the latter is a loafer. And really, given half a chance to loaf, who wouldn't take it? When it's almost time for the bell to ring, there seems little point in being so diligent. It is not as if this structure will someday house people; it is going to be a meeting hall. We will continue to live in thatched huts. And while no one can dispute the fact that meetings are more important than sleep, on the other hand, there seems little danger that a column will come crashing down in the midst of a struggle session on account of a misplaced stone. This job is appropriate compensation for Old Wu, I kid him, because he has for years written political essays, beautiful works that he recites with great verve. A bit of Marx, Engels, Stalin, and Mao; of landlords, wealthy peasants, reactionaries, bad elements, and rightists-there is something in his speeches for everyone, and so naturally his audience resounds with animated shouts of support. After each meeting, he routinely crumples the perfectly crafted manuscript into a ball, which he tosses atop his mosquito netting to await appropriate use the next time he visits the pit that serves as the gentlemen's lavatory.

Old Wu has grown indignant, and in order to avoid a quarrel, I try to tell Yellow Hair that we weren't in the mood for work a moment ago, which is why the stone was not in place. Yellow Hair' eyes widen. Before I can finish my sentence, he takes hold of the rope on which the pipes are hung and slithers to the ground.

Yellow Hair is, of course, also a nickname. His hair is a yellow ish brown. We have yet to learn if this is a genetic trait that has been passed down over the years or evidence that he offended his ancestors. In fact, he is of pure Chinese extraction, last in the line of several generations of master masons. Even after traveling to the South Seas, he was not able to cast off his legacy, for he became the master mason of our construction group.

The bell rings. Still no sight of Yellow Hair on the opposite slope. Strange. Then, in a moment, he arrives with a face as black as india ink and, out of the blue, begins swearing: "Are you playing games with me? Just watch me plaster your mouth shut with a bucketful of mortar!"

What has happened? We sense immediately that something is wrong. The ghost grave hasn't got a damn thing in it. Even the bones have rotted into thin air.

We look at one another for a moment, but Old Wu is quickest: "It's them!"

Them. A complete mystery.

They are from the mainland, the Leizhou Peninsula. I was there once visiting relatives: barren soil as far as the eye could see, bringing to mind the saying red earth for a thousand miles. Here the soil is rich and black, yielding bricks as light and porous as steamed yeast cakes. Fortunately, there are rock formations in the mountains with such a good grain that in cutting them out, one has only to drive in a wedge to pull out neat square blocks. On the surface, it looks easy enough, but there's a trick to it, and no one at our farm can manage it.

They are strangers here and, as strangers, have yet to communicate with anyone outside their group, although the sounds of pounding echo in our respective camps. I have never been able to get a head count, but there must be six or seven of them. To me, they all look alike: jet-black faces with no more than a few ounces of flesh, their arms nevertheless thick from wielding a sledgehammer. They have their own language. The difficulty of the Leizhou linguistic family has stymied even the linguistically gifted Wu. A clan unto themselves. Though our brigade has empty huts to spare, they insist on pitching their own camp; our brigade has an eating hall, but they prefer to choke on the smoke of their cooking fires, stubbornly preserving their self-contained society. They know only work, with one exception. When the occasional young peasant woman makes her way to the rice fields, they come to life, first staring, then talking softly, perhaps in an exchange of opinions. Though the odds of viewing educated young women, who leave like clockwork at dawn and return at dusk, are greater, the stonecutters dare not take liberties-their eyelids never budge. While phoenixes may not be as valuable as chickens here in the wilderness, surely the cutters should allow themselves to take a glance or two.

The outside laborers keep their trade secrets to themselves. Their blasts produce scarcely any reverberations, the sound waves seemingly swallowed up into deep crevices. Every year when we expand our frontiers by opening up the mountains, we try to appropriate a small quantity of dynamite to throw at fish in the river, in the hope of varying our otherwise vegetarian diet. Damnably, control is tight, one stick to a ditch, and without this stuff there is no hope of snaring even a bit offish scale.

They do not use sticks of dynamite; heaven knows what alchemy they perform. Do you think you can glean their secrets? They pretend not to understand what you say and refuse to let an outsider observe them at work. Even stranger is the imported marvel called directional blasting, of which we have heard vague mention. Who would have guessed that the Leizhou natives mastered this technique long ago, for they are able to set off silent blasts that are devoid of flying chips, and they do so in seeming disregard of their own mortality. Worthy indeed to be the descendants of the men who invented gunpowder. Although this technique is primitive, the clan has passed down its secret for years, perfecting it with each successive generation.

The riddle of their existence is particularly elusive.

Even the concept of outside laborer is tarnished and suspiciously independent of the established social order. In our civilized nation, the relatively advanced notions of isms and social classes dictatorships and party lines permeate the hearts and minds of even women and children.

What could have befallen the homeland of these nomads? Was there a restoration? A coup? Is their fee divided up according to work points, or do they split it evenly? Such a casual approach to compensation flies in the face of political economics.

Our brains are routinely washed, our tails routinely lopped off. But as we listen to nightly lessons on political struggle, we can hear in the distance the pounding of rocks, and we feel sorrowful and alone. When we aspire to conquer the mountains and rivers and then remember that we are stuck in this anthill of a meeting room, we have new regard for our comrades in the wilderness who continue the revolutionary struggle apace.

But then comes our epiphany: in a land so vast, with a population so great, some things just shouldn't be too conscientious. The people from Leizhou are capable of overturning anything and yet seek only to keep their families from starving. Their stomachs are not thinking organs. They do not concern themselves with philosophy.

And so it is as if we were living in different worlds: our philosophies conflict, our political lines differ, yet we coexist in peace.

Sleeping brass lion!

Well water and river water wage war before the ancestral graves.

"Who's in charge here?" We rush into their self-contained hut. Old Wu towers above the group, his voice ringing out, his query threatening.

No response. The scorching white rays of noon creep in to reflect detached wooden faces.

We take a look around, but of course the brass lion is nowhere in sight. We have never seen anything like this: woks on stone, bedding on stone, with no cushioning pads. The bed planks shine where sweat has polished them. The hammer handle of hard bamboo, which they replace daily, has been split into kindling and flickers and sputters as the cassava roasts.

I once thought that we were wanderers, unencumbered with material possessions, going nakedly about our life's business. But these fellows are the true nomads, a fact that somehow serves to deepen my awareness of their ability to endure hardship. When I realize that people can survive under such extreme conditions, our own incessant complaints seem rather petty. But no matter how pathetic the stonecutters look, I'll not relent, even if they begin to chew on cassava bark. So I shout out, "Hey, we're talking to you!"

"Don't pretend you can't hear us!" Old Wu chimes in forcefully.

It is like advancing upon a steadfast and impenetrable stone wall, which causes the invading enemy to crumble in despair. Pity that their knack of self-preservation does not fool us: we understand each other only too well.

Yellow Hair is furious: "Up your mother's… Don't play dumb with me. Hand over the brass lion right now!"

They respond by smoking a long bamboo water pipe, which gurgles loudly as it is passed from one sinewy hand to the next. A secret signal, perhaps? After one round, the black faces still do not appear contented; on the contrary, they now seem savage.

I decide a change of tactics is in order. "Do you know what that mound of dirt is? A national treasure! Aren't you Chinese?" Wasted breath, playing a zither for a cow. They're Chinese, but they're pretending not to understand Chinese. Damn them!

The cassava is done, but it could cook until it was burned to a crisp, and we'd still be at a standoff. How could these obedient citizens have become so greedy and contemptible so suddenly? Is it that they're too poor and they want to make some money? They had to have heard Yellow Hair's insults and challenges, yet their gaunt faces remain unmoved. Their bulging biceps twitch dangerously, signaling nervousness and anger, as if to say that no matter what country or region they are from, they are still human beings, not beasts of burden to be abused.

Old Wu, who normally thrives on conflict, is silent.

Who is the flying dragon of strength here? We are. Who is the snake accustomed to this turf? Again, we are. It is not they who can hurt us but the other way around. Except that it would appear we can't do much. What-beat them to death and boil them for dinner? Very well, the countryfolk's stubbornness and tenacity have not gone unnoticed. Now we must come to grips with this type of warfare.

"Surely, at least one of you must have had some schooling? You must know what a historical relic is. You can't eat it, and you can't do anything with it, so what's the point of keeping it? Are you hoping to make a couple of yuan? I'll give it to you straight: this piece of brass is a priceless treasure; it has no price, understand? When something is so valuable that its value cannot be reckoned, you won't be able to dispose of it. If you try, the Public Security Bureau will get wind of it and will clap handcuffs on you in no time flat."

This seems to have had an effect. One of the younger members of the group looks uncomfortable, glances at his fellow workers. But as long as they continue to act dumb like this, it's still rats pulling a turtle-there's no place to get a handhold.

My remarks arouse Yellow Hair, who lets forth a barrage of patriotic invective and then announces that we have already reported the situation to Farm Headquarters and that the security section is sending someone out to guard the grave. "Know how the security section makes its living? Don't wait to see the coffin before you start crying."

Good old Yellow Hair, every word worth its weight in gold.

With this exchange, the cassava gets really burned, and the stonecutters finally open their mouths. Leizhou-style Mandarin is pretty awful, every syllable harsh and palatal, and the grammar is a mess. But their message is clear: they were the ones to blast open the unclaimed tomb, and finders are keepers.

What an infuriating band of rogues. We'll see who first discovered this national treasure. Why, if Old Wu and I hadn't come onto the scene, they would have been scared out of their wits and probably would have set off firecrackers and burned paper money to drive away the evil spirits.

"Watch what you say. Whose turf is this, anyway?" My face grows stern.

Fearless leader Yellow Hair is undaunted. "This is a case of piling earth on top of the emperor's head. What nerve! Leizhou men, go back home, and dig up your own ancestral graves!"

The situation is rapidly deteriorating. Should Yellow Hair turn and strike the bell, the army would come charging in and torch the hut.

Old Wu has been muttering to himself; he must have something up his sleeve. "All right, you don't know how to read, you're uneducated; it's not really your fault. But common folk have to obey the law, too. The law states that the land belongs to the nation, including the skeletons in the ground. Even if your great-grandfather had gold bricks and silver ingots buried with him, don't think you could touch it. This is no bluff. Nowadays the government is picking up people like caterpillars; the man with the chop that's round and not square-the man with the government chop-is the man who gets to point the finger. And if, when they look at your family history, they find one tiny bit of dirt, they'll push you into a bad social class, then walk you right past the hall of justice to where the firing squad is waiting."

Old Wu is a real hero, who approaches all matters from a position of strength. He threatens and coddles, mixing truth with fiction, his cause just and his message stern. I watch the stonecutters pale as they exchange glances. Silenced.

A psychological attack is best, and we won't stop until their number has been called. Old Wu shouts a command: "Return the brass lion to the ancient tomb, and handle it carefully!"

Total victory. Their troops withdraw.

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?

Only an amateur would say that the brass lion was from the Han; I have always had my doubts. Who knows what dynasty and what era it really belongs to? Chinese history is so long that the thought of dating the piece is daunting.

I still cannot forget it.

And then one day, I get a chance to visit the ancient capital of Xi'an, to see firsthand the stone engravings of the Han, objects simple and vigorous in their very antiquity. On observing the six-steeds engraving of the Tang dynasty, I note that horses, like women, had to be fat to be beautiful-a sign of a prosperous dynasty. This triggers something in my memory, and I think back to the brass lion, the king of beasts, which was not terribly fierce and which, because it was sleeping, neither bared its teeth nor stretched its claws. Weak eras have sickly aesthetic visions; perhaps the lion belonged to Southern Song? It couldn't be Yuan, who knew only of bows and of shooting vultures and were happy in their yurts and thus never placed much stock in decorating imperial palaces or princely manors. It's possible that the date was even later.

On my trip to the ancient capital, I seek out one of my good friends, a famous scholar from Central Shaanxi province. His writing is serene and elegant; he lives alone; he is slightly younger than I but much more celebrated. He hosts a feast at his home and entertains me graciously. During our conversation, apart from the art of writing, of course, I rave about the objects of the ancient capital, expressing regret over the toils of time. He tells me that there is now a national law prohibiting people from plowing deeper than three feet anywhere within a radius of seven miles of the city. I am a bit nervous. Who knows whether several feet beneath my chair lie the ashes and bones of the burner of books and burier of scholars Qin Shihuang? Or the place where Empress Wu Zetian asked her favorite lord, Zhou Xing, to enter an urn and subsequently roasted him? My friend goes on to say that tiles from Qin and Han can be found throughout the area; when he went down to the countryside to (sample the life there, his landlady even gave him some Han pottery. In the future, when he has a chance, he will let me have some antiques. I am overjoyed; I think of those machine-assembled decorations on our shelves at home, made of aluminum, paragons of shallow taste.

I hurry out onto the balcony to view the two crude pots, un-glazed, the designs full of carefree abandon. Alas, I am truly a descendant of the southern barbarians: for the life of me, I cannot see what is so wonderful about them. Their shape is a bit like the so-called horse-bucket chamber pots of Shanghai and the lidded manure-tower chamber pots of Guangdong -could it be that the ancients sat solemnly upon these when they moved their bowels? Not that this would detract from their greatness. After admiring the pieces, I ask why they have been placed on the terrace, exposed to the harsh caprices of nature. My friend answers casually that they are simply too large to fit inside and have no aesthetic value. The expansiveness of his manner suddenly makes me envious and serves as a reminder of the difference in our levels of appreciation. Back several years, when a sleeping lion with considerably less historical tenure was snatched away, blood was nearly shed on a wasteland hill. Still, it must be said that this gifted friend of mine has not cast away these worthless pots; they are, in spite of everything, relics of our ancestors and cannot be abandoned. Apparently, people's sensibilities are the same, whether the people are illiterate Leizhou peasants or literati from the north and south. I suddenly develop an uncanny sense of empathy.

More years pass as if in an instant. The nature of the world changes daily, the pace is rapid. People's hearts gradually leave the ancient world behind.

Whereas in the past, underground laborers had to carry out their business in secret, in the changed world such practices are no longer noteworthy. These days, there are many novelties.

One day, the long unseen Yellow Hair knocks at my door. After cigarettes and tea, I learn that his factory has run up against competition from computerized cutting tools, and his problems have been compounded by the depressed economy. There was for him no choice but to stop salaries and let people go on extended vacation. Without paychecks, however, vacations are not very interesting. He wants to change his profession.

I comment that the construction business is booming and that he is still a master mason. He says that his poor ancestors played with dirt for generations, and why should he hold on to this rotten rice bowl? Furthermore, he is in his late thirties and has had his fill of following orders. This time, he wants to strike out on his own and open a store.

What line?

"Dogmeat, snails, and cobras; salted olives, preserved ginger, dried litchis. If it's edible, I'll sell it."

I ask if this business will hold up, and he says he first will hire a clerk, and when he has found a wife, he will let the clerk go. I say, "Great, forget the rest, let's celebrate the opening by going out for snake soup"-which I haven't tasted since Hainan.

Yellow Hair, this easygoing fellow, unexpectedly stiffens and mutters that he is short on the capital he needs to open the store, to the tune of at least eighteen hundred.

I would like to reach into my pocket to help him, and although I receive modest compensation for my manuscripts, unfortunately I belong to the slow-scribbler's school and have not been able to save much. When I examine what I have at hand, the most I can come up with is four hundred yuan.

Yellow Hair waves his hand and shakes his head; it's not my money he wants, just the painting from long ago, which, if sold, could bring a tidy sum. He is afraid I don't believe him and tells me quite a few true-life stories, which to my ears seem more like folk legends, but all contain exact names, dates, and places.

And then I consider that there is another type of antique collecting-that is, speculation. Not very cultivated and overly profit oriented, but not without benefit to the national economy and the people's livelihood. "It's over at Old Wu's," I tell him.

Embarrassed, Yellow Hair says he knows where it is but that each of us has a stake in the painting.

Yellow Hair is not particularly friendly with Old Wu, this I know. When I think of that tattered old shroud, I suspect it can't be worth much at all, so that if we did sell it, we wouldn't be robbing the nation of very much. "Well, all right, I'll go talk it over with Old Wu, and if we sell it, no matter what the price, you can have my share, too."

The next day, I arrive on Old Wu's doorstep. After the many generations of poverty in his family, he is finally established, having been recently assigned to a certain graduate school to specialize in some sort of Western ism. I think of the verse he used to recite back in the days when he was down and out in Hainan: "If we raise our heads and laugh when we go out the door, how can we be lowly commoners?"

What is most admirable about Old Wu is that he is unswerving in his affectations and will never stoop to self-deprecatory or polite remarks simply because I happen to be momentarily enjoying a bit of notoriety. I have always genuinely sought out his teaching, and although his knowledge of archaeology is close to my own, when we get on to abstract topics, he brims with ideas; he has indeed been blessed with the benefits of higher education. After we settle down, he speaks with exuberance on the origin and development of philosophy, its implications for the future of humanity, how interesting a tool it is for dissecting our Chinese national consciousness, and so on. He admonishes me to renew my knowledge, especially the new findings in the social sciences. I promise to devote myself to this endeavor in the future. He continues by making pointed criticisms of my most recent fiction, saying that I am using uh, ah, hmm, and well too much. A piece of writing should be pristine and vigorous. I need to model my works after the ancient writers and to emulate the early Qin essays. Under no circumstances should I emulate Ming and Qing novels, for with the exception of a few works they all belong to decadent fin de siècle literary styles. Modern works are even worse. He gives me Liu Xie's volume on criticism, The Carving of Dragons and Literary Minds. I accept it and promise to read it for the fourth time.

He pauses, conceivably to consider if he has said something erroneous. This gives me an opportunity to explain the purpose of my visit.

"Hmm-Yellow Hair-well, it's been a real long time since I've seen him-uh, how come he didn't come? Uh, I miss talking to him-is he married? Hmm, no matter-talented fellow like that doesn't need to worry…"

I observe that he has used more than a few ahs, uhs, and hmms.

He subsequently comments that the weather is quite humid, oppressive really, but it just won't seem to rain, clearly the result of low pressure in the subtropics.

I agree with his meteorologic observations. "But where do you keep the painting?" I ask him.

He frowns, tracing his memory, and then finally says that the painting isn't here at his house; it's with a friend who is a graduate student at the Institute of Fine Arts. However, if he can locate that friend, he can get it back at any time.

That being the case, there's nothing more for me to say. As an afterthought, I ask Old Wu if he now knows the subject of the painting.

His mood shifts, and he says with pleasure and pride that he paid to have a frame made, that the painting has a white matting and looks much more impressive than it did. "Guess. I'll bet you won't be able to guess," he says in a mysterious tone. "It's a painting of a sleeping lion."

I want to comment but hold back. Such a long time has gone by since we've seen each other that it's better to let the talk flow naturally back to the conversation of old friends. I laugh and change the topic: "I hear your wife comes from a big family in society and is very pretty."

Old Wu is more than willing to acknowledge this fact, and of course the topic of the painting never comes up again. He says that someday soon he'll bring his wife to see me. Then he offers to give me a tour of his new house and to show me a color photo of his wife. In light of the fact that he is going to pay me a return visit, I could conceivably wait till later to regard his wife's beautiful countenance, but it would not be right to reject offhand this generous gesture. Who would have thought that no sooner is the bedroom door pushed open than he has a change of heart and slams the door shut again. "Forget it; it's a mess in there, and her foreign likeness isn't worth troubling ourselves over."

At this, my temper is sorely tested.

As I am about to leave, I say in all seriousness, "Old Wu, no matter who has that painting, let's get this story straight. The subjects of Han never once saw a piece of lion's fur, let alone a silk painting of a whole lion. But even if that thing were a rag used to clean people's feet, nobody should try to hog it for himself. If you want to keep it as a collector's item, you'd better come up with a price."

Old Wu blinks and says nothing.

And that is how the cursed sleeping lion returned from the underworld to the world of light, obsessing us for ten years and driving a wedge into our friendships.

Several days later, Yellow Hair comes by to check up on the situation. When I tell him what has transpired, he does not seem at all surprised, and although he cannot help saying a few things against Old Wu, his curses are less than enthusiastic; nor does he seem inclined to rush over to Old Wu's and settle the score.

"Forget it, I've got another way." Apparently, Yellow Hair's family owns a set of rosewood furniture, despite the fact that they are not gentry. "A little worn, but where can you get real rosewood nowadays? When there aren't any new ones, it doesn't matter if something is old." Rarer still, among the pieces of furniture was a rectangular ancestral altar.

I have seen that type of altar: it comes up to one's chest and is about four feet long. An incense burner and the family genealogy are placed on the top, where one can also honor the wealth god, the earth god, or Guanyin and Emperor Guanyu, gods enough for everyone; there's no doubt about there having been religious freedom back then. Yellow Hair says it was used as a cupboard for a while but even then wasn't entirely appropriate, being both too exalted and too lowly for such a purpose. It was only because the wood was so hard that it wasn't long ago chopped into kindling. Who would have thought that fortunes would shift to what they are today? That villagers would grow wealthy and want to worship their ancestors again? They might very well already own seven or eight of the ten required "big appliances," but if they are missing an ancestral altar, they cannot display their family's status and roots. Yellow Hair was able to sell the piece for a great deal of money.

I am relieved and share with him this thought: "Now you should burn a stick of incense to thank your ancestors for their secret act of benevolence."

He laughs loudly and leaves.

A crude and heroic man, Yellow Hair is also very practical, able to put the present in front of the past, able to use the old to serve the new.

But I have been too hard on Old Wu. He shows up, after all, although not in the company of his wife. As soon as he steps inside the door, he tosses the yellowed and spotty scroll onto the table, announcing with largesse that he is going to throw in the matting for free.

I unroll it, and sure enough, it is a picture of the object of many years ago. Carefully evaluating it, I realize I am a cultured man after all, for I can think only that there is nothing praiseworthy about the technique, that the brushstrokes are uninspired, and that the sleeping figure looks more like a dog than anything else. But old as it is, the silk painting is full of mystery and thus cannot be defamed.

Old Wu's seat is not even warm when he rises to leave. In an awkward moment, I urge him to stay. A couple of drinks?

"Got anything good?" he asks.

Napoléon brandy from an overseas relative.

He gives me a knowing look and sits down. In a matter of moments, he proceeds to instruct me. Foreign liquor can't be ingested with Chinese cuisine because the oil will destroy the flavor.

Happily, I obey him; I was not overly enthusiastic about cooking something to begin with. Instead, I locate a box of chocolates, open a can of pineapple, and slice a few preserved eggs, a sort of East-West combination plate. We begin to drink.

I savor the pure flavor of the brandy; as promised, it is marvel-ously different from anything I have ever had before. I drink more than usual. Foreign liquor kicks in more slowly than Chinese, but inevitably our faces flush bright red. Old Wu's words are endless, from Napoleon to the French Revolution; he says that the European lords could have been united and the heroic Napoleon could have strangled the July Revolution, and then history would have been pushed back many years. Here I add, "But then we wouldn't be able to enjoy this fine liquor, a loss that cannot be overlooked."

He isn't in the mood for jokes, so completely absorbed is he in his historical musings, saying further that it was Napoleon who once said that China was a sleeping lion. "Sleeping lion,…" he murmurs groggily as if he is very sorrowful, then suddenly bursts into laughter.

"What's so funny?"

He reeks of brandy, his finger poking in my face. "I'm laughing at you! And me! At everybody in the world."

I see he is drunk and hurry to brew some oolong, not knowing if it will have any effect on foreign liquor, since the tea leaves and teapot are Chinese products.

Still queasy, he murmurs, "Past events and dream shadows… fog before my eyes."

I think he must still be nostalgic about the French emperor and hand him a cup of strong tea, which he knocks over with a contemptuous snort. "These are the names of two books; take a look at them if you don't want to be a fool…"

Morning and night, all I have been thinking about is my "schol-arization," so how can I accept being a fool? I go to fetch the volumes and find that there is indeed a Record of Fog Before My Eyes, written during the Yuan or Song, and a Record of Past Events and Dream Shadows, written during the Guangxu period of the Qing, both histories of old paintings. I pull them off the shelf and immerse myself for two entire nights, after which I unroll the silk painting and compare it. Then I understand. Paintings like this, in which the ink doesn't bleed through the vitriol paste onto the silk and which make use of starch and crude-patterned silk sprinkled with gold dust, are characteristic of Late Qing and Early Republican paintings. When you add this to the fact that the illegible characters in the square seal are of an oil-based paint and are blue and not red in color, the conclusive evidence is that this filial mourner's carelessly scrawled painting of a lion could not have been made earlier than the reign of the ill-fated Emperor Guangxu.

Never have I felt so strongly that this painting of a sleeping lion is an inferior work. The more I look at it, the uglier it seems. Waking up from an absurd ten-year dream, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Who would have thought that this thing was totally worthless? Although antique collecting is found among all peoples and is a very noble pastime indeed, certainly foreigners are the only ones who hang plows and wagon wheels upon their walls in an attempt to be sophisticated. Here in China, what are a mere hundred years? Back at my maternal grandmother's house, the broken dish she feeds the cat out of was made during Guangxu, and my father's father in the countryside has a flowerpot in his courtyard that is a Qing monochromatic Shiwan piece from 1851.

The poor brass lion lies tucked away somewhere in Leizhou, lost in dream.

My emotion spent, I still cannot internalize what has transpired. And what if the lion really had belonged to the Tang or the Song, or even to the Qin or the Han, what then? Everything might be different.

In my stupor, I peer at the silk again. Is that me in the picture?

I decide to hang it on the wall.

Translated By Susan Mcfadden