Iron and Silk

by Mark Salzman

  My lessons with Teacher Wei had come to involve more than reading and writing assignments. She was a teacher in the Chinese tradition, taking responsibility not only for my academic progress but for my development as a person. She had advice for me concerning my family and friends, my diet, my clothing, my study and exercise habits, and my attitude toward life. At times I got impatient with her and explained that in America, children become adults around the time they leave for college and like to make decisions for themselves after that. She was appalled. “Don’t your parents and teachers care about you?”

  “Of course they do, but—”

  “Then how can they leave you stranded when you are only a child?”

  “Well, we—”

  “And how can you possibly think you understand everything? You are only twenty-two years old! You are so far away from home, and I am your teacher; if I don’t care about you, won’t you be lonely?”

  She pointed out that the close relationship between teacher and student has existed in China since before the time of Confucius and should not be underestimated—besides, she was older than me and knew better. I couldn’t help respecting her conviction, and she seemed to get such pleasure out of trying to figure and then to straighten me out that I stopped resisting and let her educate me.

  I learned how to dress to stay comfortable throughout the year (a useful skill in a place without air conditioning or heat in most buildings), how to prevent and treat common illness, how to behave toward teachers, students, strangers and bureaucrats, how to save books from mildew and worms, and never to do anything to excess.

  “Mark, you laugh a great deal during your lectures. Why?”

  “Because, Teacher Wei, I am having fun.”

  “I see. Laugh less. It seems odd that a man laughs so hard at his own jokes. People think you are a bit crazy, or perhaps choking.”

  “Teacher Wei, do you think it is bad to laugh?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, it is healthy to laugh. In Chinese we have a saying that if you laugh you will live long. But you shouldn’t laugh too much, or you will have digestive problems.”

  Teacher Wei also encouraged me to travel. She knew I was homesick; she said that travel gives experience, helps cope with sadness, and in any case is fun. I disagreed with her. My last trip, from Hong Kong to Changsha, had given me unwelcome experience and was no fun at all. She let the issue drop until I told her one day that Bob, Marcy and Bill were planning a trip to Wuhan to spend a holiday weekend with the Yale-China teachers living there. Actually, I had already decided to join them, but I did not want to rob Teacher Wei of the opportunity to talk me into it. After I promised her that I would go to Wuhan if she really thought I should, she wanted to know who was going to arrange our travel.

  “Teacher Wei, it is only a six-hour train ride.”

  “Yes, but who will buy the tickets for you? Who will see you to the train station? Who will see to it that you get seats?”

  “Teacher Wei, we will just take the bus to the station, get in line, buy the tickets, and find seats ourselves.”

  She could not understand why I would not allow her to get all of her relatives in Changsha and Wuhan to arrange our passage.

  “It is my duty to help you!”

  “We will be all right, Teacher Wei. It is only for a weekend.”

  “Well, when will you be back?”

  “Monday night.”

  “Which train will you take?”

  “Probably this one—the one that arrives at dinner time.”

  “I see.”

  The weekend in Wuhan turned out to be fun, although I did not enjoy the train ride either way. Going up we sat on pieces of newspaper on the floor between two cars, knee to knee with three exhausted men traveling from South to North China. On the way down it was so crowded there was not even room on the floor between cars, so we stood, packed like cattle, with our faces pressed against a mountain of cabbages stacked up to the ceiling of the train. Bob had the clever idea of anchoring his arms in the pile of cabbages and leaning against it so he could sleep, so I followed his example and managed to doze for a few hours. When we got back to Changsha we stopped at a shop for some noodles in broth as the sun went down, before going home.

  By the time we reached the gate of our college it was nearly dark. As I passed through it I heard someone calling my name and turned to see Teacher Wei waving at me from under a tree. I walked over and asked if she was on her way somewhere.

  “No—I am waiting for you.”

  “Why are you waiting for me?”

  “This was your first trip in China. How shameful it would be if no one greeted you when you came home.”

  Changsha stayed hot and humid through the early part of November. By then I had developed a painful case of athlete’s foot and started looking around for some medicine. None of the local stores carried anything for it, and none of my doctor students was familiar with the symptoms. At last someone acquainted with diseases of the skin had a look at me. He recognized the problem right away, but was unable to treat me. Athlete’s foot, he told me, had been declared successfully driven out of China, and therefore could be contracted only if one left the Socialist Motherland or had contact with foreigners. For this reason it was now called “Hong Kong Foot,” and no medicine was available for it. He advised me to have someone send medicine from the States.

  I wrote someone in Hong Kong and he put a few tubes of medicine, along with some candy bars and brownies, in a small cardboard box and mailed it to me right away.

  A few days later a pick-up notice addressed to me showed up in our mailbox. I walked over to the post office and handed it to a young woman behind the counter. She snatched it out of my hand, marched into the back room, came out with my package—torn open, its contents in disarray—dropped it on the counter, slapped a bill in front of me and barked, “Sign and pay!” She seemed to be in terrible humor and refused to look me in the eye, choosing to glare at the clock on the wall instead. I looked at the bill and saw that it imposed on me a tax that surpassed the value of the package’s contents.

  I took a deep breath and risked all by asking the woman to explain the tax. Her face turned white and her nostrils flared. “Import tax for Foreign Friends! Hurry up!” I began to get annoyed, because I had been told repeatedly by the Foreign Affairs Bureau that this tax was waived for foreigners living and working in China. It was supposed to be levied only on foreign travelers, who presumably are all rich and don’t mind being exploited. When I explained this to the young woman, she yelled, “Then let the Foreign Affairs Bureau pay the tax!” shoved my box to the far side of the counter, and refused to pay attention to me anymore.

  I stalked over to the Foreign Affairs Bureau office, calming myself by anticipating the satisfaction of thrusting an official document bristling with angry red seals under that woman’s nose. She would have to surrender my box or be sent to a labor camp. But when I told Comrade Hu at the bureau about the problem, instead of giving me an official document he told me not to worry, that the Foreign Affairs Bureau would “research the matter” for me. In Chinese bureaucratic language, “researching a matter” means putting it aside until it solves itself or just goes away, so I pressed him for a better answer. He said he understood the need for expediency and smilingly agreed to “look into the matter,” which is usually better than “researching the matter.”

  A few days later I visited the Foreign Affairs Bureau again to see if my medicine had been released.

  “Oh yes,” Comrade Hu said, smiling, “it is a very simple problem. You see, this tax is imposed on foreigners who import things into China that China already has. China is a developing country, but nevertheless has medicine and food of its own. For someone to import medicine and food insults our country and the government assumes that foreigners wish to exploit Chinese people by selling foreign goods to them at high prices, saying that their foreign goods are better than Chinese goods. Of course, we know that you wouldn’t do anything
like that! You are a friend of China! But, unfortunately, we don’t control the regulations!”

  “Yes, Comrade Hu, I understand that, but I was told that this import tax applied only to foreigners traveling in China, not to those living and working in China.”

  After a pause and a few words with Group Leader Chen, Comrade Hu smiled again.

  “Yes, exactly. But the Postal Customs officials in Canton get confused. Apparently they don’t have your name on their list of foreign residents. So why don’t you just pay the tax. We will examine the matter for you, and Canton will reimburse you in no time.”

  Not wishing to let responsibility for the matter shift to Canton, I tried something else.

  “Since this is an internal matter, Comrade Hu, why doesn’t your office pay the tax, and then have Canton reimburse you?”

  After another pause, and a few more words with Group Leader Chen, Comrade Hu smiled and answered, “Our office, I am sorry to say, is not authorized to disburse funds. If you like, though, we can look into the possibility of having the Health Office of the medical college pay the tax for you. It might take some time for us to determine exactly which channels to go through, however.”

  Knowing that I had been defeated, I said I would think about it and let them know later. They smiled, and Comrade Hu told me that anytime anything came up I should feel free to come see them. That way, even if we couldn’t solve a problem right away, we could come to understand it.

  I felt I had had enough of the matter for the time being, and decided to pay the tax the next day. At dinner that night the wife of an American doctor doing research at our hospital mentioned to me that she had a package of mine. She brought it out and indeed it was my medicine and chocolates—she had seen it on the counter at the post office in the afternoon, saw that it was for me, and innocently walked out with it. Our little American community cheered this small victory over the forces of evil, and I went to bed a happy man.

  The next day we received no mail. The day after that, we again received no mail. The third day without mail I went to the post office.

  I walked straight to the counter where the young woman worked and stood there until finally she hissed, “What do you want?” I answered as quietly as possible that we had not been getting any mail recently, was there a problem? Without looking up she pointed at a pile of mail in the far corner of the room, on her side of the counter—all international mail. I asked if I could pick it up, and once more she slapped the tax bill on the counter. I paid up without a word, and that afternoon we got a big pile of mail.

  Several weeks after I had taken my receipt to the Foreign Affairs Bureau, Canton announced that Postal Regulations had changed, and all related debts owed to foreigners had become void.

  I spoke some Cantonese and hoped to keep it up while I was in China, since Cantonese is useful in southern China and in most overseas Chinese communities, where people may understand Mandarin but not be able to speak it. The two dialects are so different that, while visiting Guangdong Province where Cantonese is the native language, northern Chinese traveling through the province often asked me to translate for them. There were several Cantonese families living in our danwei, or unit, so I passed word around that when they saw me they should speak Cantonese to force me to practice. The Cantonese, who are in general very proud of their language and distinct customs, were all too happy to fulfill my request. One man, a physiology teacher, offered to tutor me regularly in exchange for English lessons. We prepared some materials and agreed to meet once a week for two hours.

  Mr. Gong was patient, generous, and extremely polite; I had warm feelings for him, but our friendship was very formal and therefore a bit exhausting. During our conversations I sat up straight in my chair to seem fully attentive, and since he always smiled, I always smiled as well. When he spoke about his experiences during the Second World War and the Cultural Revolution he leaned forward and indicated that I should lean forward too, so that he could whisper into my ear. During these tragic stories he continued to smile, making me self-conscious—it was difficult to maintain an expression of concern or sympathy when he was smiling, yet I could not smile at his misfortune.

  He especially liked to tell me about the countryside, where he had lived for several years when he was “sent down” for ideological reform. Although that was certainly a time of hardship for him, he spoke fondly of the impoverished villagers with whom he had lived and seemed to have great respect for their courage and sincerity. Once, a young boy from a neighboring village ran a high fever. Mr. Gong heard about the boy and went to see if there was anything he could do. He managed to keep the fever under control and the boy recovered, but the boy’s father was deeply ashamed that he did not have even a piece of cloth to offer as a token of gratitude.

  Thirteen years later this same peasant, having traveled more than one hundred miles on foot and on the backs of trucks, appeared at the gate of Hunan Medical College with three baskets of eggs. When he found Mr. Gong he said, “At last I have something to give you.” Then he left, too ashamed of his appearance to visit Mr. Gong’s home.

  One day Mr. Gong asked me what I liked to do in my spare time. Among other things, I mentioned that I liked taking walks. From that time on he insisted that we have our lessons on foot, and he led me to most of the parks, zoos, museums and monuments in Changsha. These walks lasted two or three hours, and whenever we passed a food stand or restaurant he would treat me to candies, beer or noodles, no matter how I might protest. As good as his intentions were, walking through the noisy streets of Changsha was trying, especially while learning a language. When I suggested that we go back to having lessons in my room, he thought I was only being polite, so I asked instead if we could have our lessons in his home.

  I thought I saw him wince, but he agreed right away and assured me that it would be no trouble at all for him or his family. I was to come one evening the next week.

  As soon as I entered his home I realized that it had been considerable trouble for him and his family, for not only was the entire three-room apartment spotlessly clean, but a nine-course banquet was waiting for me on the dinner table. My heart sank with guilt, but I made myself register surprise and delight at the elaborate meal that I had virtually forced them to prepare.

  Mr. Gong’s household consisted of his mother, his wife and his two sons. The older boy was eighteen years old and went to college in the city, and the younger, twelve, was still in middle school. Though they all must have worked for days to get ready for my visit, they seemed genuinely excited that I had come and took great pride in introducing each of the dishes—all Cantonese specialties—to me.

  The older son had to leave early to get back to his college, so we all walked him to the bus stop and saw him off. When we got back to the apartment, attention shifted to the younger son, and Mr. Gong asked him to show me his drawing pad. The boy looked embarrassed but obediently produced a sketch pad filled with pencil drawings of Japanese soldiers beheading Chinese peasants. As he handed it to me, I noticed that he wore exceptionally thick glasses.

  “My boy is very near-sighted,” Mr. Gong said, putting his hand on his son’s head. “He will not be able to go to college because he cannot pass the eye examination. We all hope he will learn a trade soon so that his future will not be so uncertain. We keep telling him he must get serious and take responsibility for his future. So far, his only interest seems to be drawing.” The boy looked at the ground as his father spoke, then silently retrieved his pad from me and disappeared into the bedroom.

  The next day I stopped by Mr. Gong’s house to distribute some gifts I had chosen for him and his family that morning. They were very ordinary gifts, except for the one I gave to the younger son. I had been moved by the story of his interest in drawing and had decided to give him the watercolors, brushes and charcoals that I had brought from America.

  Not long after, Mr. Gong and his son appeared at my door. After a gentle nudge from his father, the trembling boy thanked me for
the gift. After another gentle nudge, he asked me with utmost humility if I would be so generous as to teach him to draw. His request was so charming I felt I could not refuse; on the other hand, I did not want to take full responsibility for his career as an artist. I fumbled for words, and at last agreed to come three or four times to show him how to use the materials.

  I went to their home that Sunday night after dinner and they had a three-course “snack” waiting. Then the table was cleared and Mr. Gong and his wife reverently placed my watercolors and charcoals on it. Five stools were placed at the table, and the boy sat to my right, with his father, mother and grandmother huddled around him. I thought I would explain how to use the charcoal first, to see if he understood the principles of three-point perspective, before going on to the watercolors. I set a piece of paper in front of him and one in front of me, handed him a charcoal stick, and told him to imitate me. I drew a broad line across the paper using the side of the stick, showing him how to change the width of the line as he liked with his wrist. Nervously he began his line, but he pressed too hard, breaking the delicate stick. His parents and grandmother gasped and quietly scolded him, “Look what you did, you broke it!”, and Mr. Gong apologized to me for his son’s clumsiness. The boy’s face reddened but showed no emotion. I quickly explained that a broken charcoal stick is as useful as a whole one To put him at ease, I broke my own with a comic gesture and showed him how to use the different-sized pieces to advantage. He did not seem particularly amused, but neither did he seem too upset to go on.

  I put a teacup in front of us and suggested that we each try to draw it; that way I could give him some tips as we went along. His every move met with his parents’ gentle but firm criticism: “You see the way Uncle Mark did it? Yours doesn’t look the same. Imitate Uncle Mark, that’s why he has come here.” “Why are you making trembly, crooked lines? Concentrate, don’t just play—Uncle Mark’s time is very precious, don’t waste it.” I tried to make him feel better by pointing out that trembly, crooked lines can be expressive, and used them to draw a cartoon of a frightened pig to show him what I meant. I thought I saw him smile, but his parents reminded him that I was only being kind, and that he should remember to concentrate next time.