1968- Eye Hotel

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  “I have been in the countryside,” says the old teacher. In fact, Chen’s persistence must have called the old man back from the country. But it is just as well. Even though the old teacher volunteers to go, he is much too old to be useful, and the mud and damp in the winters are hard on his old bones and bad for his rheumatism. He volunteers to go in order to be closer to his wife, who is sent there to teach. Fortunately she finds a small compound for the two of them, and his duties are light.

  “Where in the countryside? I should have come to visit you.”

  “Not too far from my own village in Hunan.”

  “Then you had an opportunity to write again?” Chen remembers that his teacher was known for his stories about village life in Hunan.

  “I have not written in many years.”

  The old teacher is a well-known and celebrated writer during the days before the liberation. Chen studies his work along with other writers of this generation. They are men and women who are infused with the spirit of the May 4 movement, and urged to write a new Chinese literature that reflects the reality and future aspirations for a new China. Inspired to do their part for the revolution, they congregate with artists and other writers in Yenan, the intellectual center of the Communist revolution. They come inspired by their fellow writer Lu Hsun’s Call to Arms. Chairman Mao calls Lu Hsun a great man of letters, a great thinker, and a great revolutionary. The work of revolutionary writers is a heady time in Yenan in those days.

  Chen knows that his teacher no longer writes, but he still hopes. He goes out daily to the bazaars in Peking, standing in line at the China Books counter where books are sold cheaply and by the thousands. He buys books of every sort, but can never find any of his old teacher’s, nor of any of his colleagues’ of those early days.

  The old teacher looks around the room and notices the piles of the small five-by-seven-inch books stacked everywhere.

  “Why have you have stopped writing?” Chen questions his old mentor. Again, Chen asks an empty question for which he already knows the answer, but he wants to hear his teacher’s words.

  “My writing is out of touch with the people.” He picks up a copy of Hao Ran’s Broad Road in Golden Light from one of Chen’s stacks and peruses the cover.

  Hao Ran himself sits in the same room only a week earlier. Chen interviews the popular writer who, if it really mattered, could claim that several million copies of his new novel were sold in a matter of weeks. People are hungry to read, and these days anyone can afford the thirty-two cents it costs to buy a book. Royalties are irrelevant; Hao Ran tells Chen he is a “worker in the field of literature.” He is of the generation of writers after the old teacher.

  The old teacher sits on the edge of Chen’s bed and removes his cap. “My writing is not what is required these days.” He replaces Hao Ran’s book on another tall stack. It is Hao Ran, a peasant cadre who learns to read during the war of liberation, who now represents the spirit and the realization of the Yenan Forum in 1942, where Chairman Mao declares that there is no such thing as art for art’s sake—that all literature and art are for the masses of the people, for the workers, peasants, and soldiers.

  Chen leans forward from his chair. “I’m reminded of the last time I saw you. I was seated on the edge of your bed in that small room you occupied near the university. In fact, the bed was covered with books. I think you slept on top of them.”

  The old teacher smiles. “Nothing has changed. I still sleep on a bed of books.”

  “I remember you joking. You said: ‘The able join the revolution, the wise become government officials, but only fools want to become writers.’”

  “Did I say that?” He scratches his head.

  “Do you still collect antiques?” Chen recalls his teacher’s extraordinary collection of jade and porcelain, but especially his collection of handmade paper dating back to the tenth-century Sung Dynasty.

  “I don’t have to. I work for the museum.”

  “And your collection?”

  “I gave it to the museum. It was best to share this treasure with the people.”

  “Tell me about your work.”

  “We are the receiving center for archeological finds sent in from all over the country. As buildings and industries go up, more and more excavations are taking place. We collect and classify this material and prepare it for storage.”

  “Storage?”

  “Yes, it’s a shame we don’t have more skilled students in museum work. We can hardly manage the task. Curating the material for display is next to impossible. So much is hidden away.”

  “Your collection included.”

  The old teacher nods. It is only a few years ago that the students band together as Red Guards. The People’s Army protects the museum to prevent the students from looting it. Chairman Mao speaks to the students in Tiananmen Square, ordering them to smash the four olds: old ideas, old culture, old customs, old habits. The old teacher is dragged from his work classifying old objects taken from an old tomb. The objects are saved, but the old teacher takes his lessons from the Red Guards. When he cannot recite passages from Chairman Mao’s writing, he is sent to stand facing the wall. He can remember the titles of hundreds of books and the dates and origins of every piece in a collection of silk, but he cannot remember what Chairman Mao says about the unity of art and politics.

  “While classifying these artifacts, I have been contributing to a meticulous history, for example of Chinese silk. Do you know that we can identify the origin of the silk, the date, the dye, the weaver, and the wearer from a single strand of thread?” The old teacher’s eyes light with excitement. What he describes is the collective work of research based in history, art, and science. Twelve other professors like the old teacher leave the university at the same time to devote their lives to this work.

  Chen still pursues his concern about his teacher’s writing. “You are now writing about silk?”

  “Yes, we published a history and compilation of forty thousand illustrations.” What is important is to create a record of the craft of silk, the skilled craftspeople and artisans who developed their art and techniques to the highest levels. This record also parallels the movement of people and historic change.

  Chen hears the insistent tone in his teacher’s voice, and remembers the same timbre in Hao Ran’s words when describing how a factory worker he didn’t know bicycled a hundred li to tell him what needed to be changed in his novel. “The people have a stake in our literature, and we must learn from them.”

  Although Hao Ran is himself a peasant farmer, he lives and works on communes to draw the most accurate portraits of the life and people. And he does not embark upon his first novel until he undergoes a thorough study of the Marxist theory of literature. “I thought finally I was ready to write, but I was told to study the communiqué issued by the 10th Plenary Central Committee of the Communist Party at the end of the 8th Session. Also the Anti-Rightist Movement and the Chairman’s writing on the struggle in 1957. Then there was the material on the Second General Assembly of the Soviet Russian Communist Party on Greater Democracy, championed by Krushchev.” In this study, he grasps the significance of true class struggle and its worldwide implications. Finally Hao Ran is ready to write his novel.

  Chen reminisces about his days as a student under his teacher’s tutelage. “I remember when your book of short stories was published. There was so much excitement. I had to fight to get a copy. Your style and approach were entirely new.”

  “I remember you had a wall newspaper.”

  “That’s right. I posted it weekly on the college wall. There were a number of students who posted. I was mostly interested in poetry in those days.”

  “And do you still write?”

  “These days my writing is mostly historical and critical, translating Chinese to English, sometimes French.”

  “And your poetry?”

  “What there is of my poetry is in Chinese, and there is not such a market for it in America.”
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  They are both quiet for a long moment, each thinking perhaps about their separate destinies. Chen leaves China as an interpreter for the American Army during the war. He marries and divorces his first wife and then a second wife, and eventually he cannot return.

  Chen asks about the old teacher’s colleagues. What happened to this or that writer?

  “Oh I hear from them from time to time. They are somewhere in Manchuria. They are doing well. You need not worry about them.” Some of these writers are accused of being poisonous weeds, capitalist rightists in support of individualism and leading literature backwards. He changes the subject. “What will you do with all these books?”

  “I will take them with me.”

  “What will you say about them?”

  “That is difficult to say. I hoped to learn from you.”

  “Every generation hopes by its literature to leave its mark. My generation is over, and we played our part. The use of literature to rebel is one thing. We thought there was the gun and the pen and that we would be the pen. Yes, the pen can be a revolutionary force and a weapon, but we did not entirely understand what that means. The pen is also used to ensure conformity and political order, and that is as old as Confucius.”

  “There are many ways to read.”

  “There are many ways to teach one to read. Remember when you lived here, most people in China could not read.”

  “And writing? You taught me to write.”

  “I taught you nothing. You made your own choices. You came to me educated already in three languages. I was myself not so educated. I am almost entirely self-taught. Do you remember this? You were an extraordinary student.”

  “You invited me to spend the summer writing. You admonished me to never lose the desire to write. That desire, you said, is life itself.”

  The old teacher withdraws his glasses and polishes the separate lenses with a fold in his shirt. He tries to kill himself in 1949. There are details about their individual lives that cannot be reconciled in a few hours of a scheduled appointment after twenty-five years.

  Chen walks his old teacher to the bus stop. “I should make a visit to your home. It’s only proper as your student.” He does not want to end their meeting so abruptly. He wants to know what expectations his teacher has for him, the pupil; what future does he anticipate? What potential does his teacher see in him that he could not in those days see? He does not expect to return to admonish his teacher about the very things he has not accomplished. He feels ashamed.

  On the other hand, his teacher has to make a reckoning of his life, to write a full accounting of himself as self-criticism. During this period of self-reflection, perhaps a year, he takes the job of cleaning the museum latrines. He laughs at Chen and even seems to hop on to the bus. “This relationship of the teacher-student is no longer relevant. Don’t worry yourself about such things.”

  “How is it that you are so healthy?” Chen calls to him through the open window of the bus.

  “Silkworms,” he yells out. “Forty pupas a day. Keeps the blood pressure down.” And the bus pulls away.

  It is not until Lee arrives in Shanghai that he really feels he has returned to China. He can hear the sounds of his parents’ voices in the people on the streets. They speak the language that is always encapsulated inside of his house. Even when he lives in Hong Kong, he lives among people who speak Cantonese, and it is the same inside of San Francisco Chinatown. At the same time, nothing in Shanghai is familiar to him. His family leaves in 1960 when he is a small boy; all he can honestly remember is being hungry. Those are the years of the great famine and the failure of the policies of the Great Leap Forward.

  Lee walks around the city with one of his sister-comrades. She is the one who is always taking notes and asking forward questions. She asks Lee, “What does your father do?”

  “He has a laundry business.”

  “Oh really?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I didn’t think you were working class.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re so educated. And so polite.”

  “Good grief.”

  “We all assumed you were upper class.”

  “We?”

  “The sisters, you know. Stupid gossip.”

  “And you?”

  “Me too. My dad’s a janitor. My mother a garment worker.”

  “The others in our group are probably all middle class, don’t you think?”

  “Funny. That’s probably true.”

  “They have a stereotype about the working class, that we’re all gross and unmannered.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Actually, it’s a romantic idea about the proletariat. They want to be proletariat. That’s why they pretend to act gross and unmannered.”

  “Sounds like you’re tired and need to go home.”

  “I thought I was home.”

  “Look, one of those middle-class pretenders lent me her camera. I’m going to take pictures.” She looks around for something scenic. A man is stooped on the sidewalk cranking a metal contraption over a small stove. “Look, that man’s cooking something.”

  “Looks like a small bomb.”

  “Can you hear that? Firecrackers inside.”

  The man pries open the lid of the metal contraption and positions the opening into a small sack. There’s a sudden BANG.

  They jump back, and the aroma fills the air. “Oh shit. It’s puffed rice!”

  “Go get us some. I’ve got to get a picture of this thing.”

  Lee digs into his pockets for some change and approaches the puffed-rice vendor. The sister readies her camera to snap, then puts in down. “What’s the matter?”

  Lee points to the other puffed-rice clients gathering, all holding metal tins and small baskets. “We didn’t bring a container.”

  “Doesn’t he have any bags?” The sister snaps her photo.

  Lee shrugs and turns around to hear a woman yelling: “Why are you taking a picture? Did you ask for permission? Do you think we are monkeys, so you can steal our pictures?”

  The puffed-rice vendor looks up in confusion. Another citizen comes to join in. “Did you see her take your picture?”

  Others on the street stop to hear about the incident.

  “She’s not from here. Maybe she’s never seen a puffed-rice vendor.”

  “What nonsense.”

  “How did she get that camera? Is she a rich capitalist?”

  “Ask her what her work is.”

  Lee waves his hands. “Please. Please.” He tries to defend the bewildered sister. “She meant no harm. She’s just a foolish overseas countrywoman. How could she know the correct way?”

  The sister backs up into Lee. “You said I was a foolish overseas something. I understand at least that much. What’s going on here?”

  “That’s no excuse! She needs to learn some manners!” The original accuser is now very irate and red in the face. Her yelling attracts more and more bystanders until there is a large crowd of some fifty people surrounding Lee and the sister and the puffed-rice vendor. The people in the center continue to argue, and their arguments are passed on to people at the back of the crowd.

  Lee looks at the sister, usually a woman of great self-confidence. Her eyes are wild with fear. “I could give up the camera, but it’s not mine,” she whimpers, clutching the straps around her neck.

  Suddenly the crowd seems to part for a small man in a tattered uniform. Lee realizes that he is a police officer. He says, “Follow me.”

  Lee and the sister follow him, but so does everyone else—the citizen accusers; the puffed-rice vendor–now with his small stove, bellows, and puffed-rice machine attached to either end of a bamboo pole; and everyone on the street. They follow the officer in a growing parade for two blocks to a traffic kiosk in the middle of the street. “Wait here,” he says. “I will check with my superior.”

  By now there are certainly more than one hundred people surrounding them
, and at every moment the crowd seems to grow. Lee notices that they are very comported, arranging themselves by height so that the shorter people are at the front of the crowd to see properly. This means that the children are in front. Even so, they are pressed up closely to the kiosk and seem to move in closer as the crowd from behind presses upon them. There will be no escape. Everyone stands there sullenly with stern faces, waiting for the police officer.

  Lee can hear his own breathing and thinks he can hear the sister’s heart beating furiously. He feels his sweat dripping from his chin. He doesn’t dare move his arms. It is as if they are all standing together in a gigantic elevator. He looks down at a little boy who looks back up at him. The boy’s eyes follow his sweat and seem to be intent on watching each drop fall. Lee smiles at the boy. He is wearing a red and blue striped T-shirt that he has already outgrown because his belly is exposed. Lee speaks to the boy in a soft Shanghaiese. The boy’s belly is maybe two inches from Lee’s hand; he tickles the boy.

  “Do you know how to sing?” Lee asks.

  The boy giggles and says, “Yes, uncle. I can sing.”

  “Show me what you can sing. Can you sing the ‘Internationale’?”

  “That’s easy.” And he begins to sing. His voice is squeaky and sweet. It seems to rise up like a little bell at the center of a storm. Lee sings too, and very soon hundreds of people are also singing, like the great chorus in a revolutionary opera. They sing triumphant verse after verse that Lee does not know. The sound of their voices fills the city. Lee looks up into the Shanghai sky that seems at that hour to glow pink and hears one-fourth of the world’s humanity singing:

  Arise, you prisoners of starvation.

  Arise, you wretched of the earth.

  For justice thunders condemnation,

  for a better world’s in birth.

  No more tradition’s chains shall bind us.

  Arise you slaves, no more in thrall.

  The earth shall rise on new foundation.

  We have been naught, we shall be all.