Iron and Silk

by Mark Salzman

  Any American twelve-year-old would have exploded in embarrassment or resentment, but the boy did not protest or even frown. He stoically continued to draw, showing no signs of either exasperation or pleasure.

  At last I could bear the gravity no longer, so I leaned back and said to the boy that the most important thing was that he should enjoy learning to draw.

  “Are you having fun?” I asked him, praying that he would answer yes.

  “Aren’t you having fun? Tell him!” his parents said at once, smiling.

  “Yes,” he replied, with neither irony nor joy.

  And then it occurred to me what a burdensome affair this must be for the child, obliged to relieve the anxieties of his parents by displaying sober, concentrated effort, and to please the American, who demanded that he enjoy himself. He met the situation bravely, looking only at the paper and charcoal in front of him—as if the rest of us were too far away to be quite in focus—and maintaining an expression vague enough to allow for interpretation.

  A few weeks after I had taught him how to use all the materials, I happened to bump into him walking to the market with his father. I asked about his progress, but he only looked down. His father sighed and patted him on the head.

  “Aiya,” he sighed, “my foolish boy. He has stopped drawing and seems to have become interested in sports. What will we do with him?”

  Peking Duck

  Pan

  A Fisherman

  Kissing

  A Suicide

  Five minutes after the bell rang for afternoon class, the Middle-Aged English Teachers gradually trickled into the classroom and argued with each other for a few minutes. It seemed that the blackboard had gone unerased the night before, and they were trying to determine who among them had been responsible for erasing it. I saw that the discussion could easily fill the two hours, so I asked them to put it off until after class and to open their textbooks to Chapter Thirteen. That chapter was entitled “War” and contained two pages of photographs of World War II destruction, including a shot of the atomic bomb explosion over Hiroshima.

  After they had settled down I had them read passages from the text and do a few grammar exercises. As usual, we finished up with “free talk” on the chapter. Since China and the United States fought on the same side during World War II, I did not think this would be an offensive or controversial subject.

  “Teacher Zhu, you were a Navy man, can you tell us something about your experiences during the war?”

  Teacher Zhu, an aspiring Party member, stood up and smiled.

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “This is a picture of the atom bomb, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled stiffly. “Teacher Mark—how do you feel, knowing your country dropped an atom bomb on innocent people?”

  My face turned red with embarrassment at having the question put so personally, but I tried to remain detached.

  “That is a good question, Teacher Zhu. I can tell you that in America, many people disagree about this. Not everyone thinks it was the right thing to do, although most people think that it saved lives.”

  “How did it save lives?”

  “Well, by ending the war quickly.”

  Here, Teacher Zhu looked around the room at his classmates.

  “But Teacher Mark! It is a fact that the Japanese had already surrendered to the Communist Eighth Route Army of China. America put the bomb on Japan to make the world think America was the … the …”

  “The victor!” shouted Fatty Du.

  “Yes—the victor,” said Teacher Zhu.

  I must have stood gaping for a long time, for the other students began to laugh nervously.

  “Teacher Zhu,” I asked, “how do you know this is a fact?”

  “Because that is what our newspapers say!”

  “I see. But our newspapers tell a different story—how can we know which newspaper has told the truth?”

  Here he seemed relieved.

  “That is easy! Our newspapers are controlled by the people, but your newspapers are owned by capitalist organizations, so of course they make things up to support themselves. Don’t you think so?”

  My mouth opened and closed a few times but no sound came out. Fatty Du, apparently believing that the truth had been too much for me, came to my aid.

  “It doesn’t matter! Any capitalist country would do that—it is not just your country!”

  My head swimming, I asked her if she thought only capitalist countries lied in the papers.

  “Oh, of course not! The Russians do it, too. But here in China we have no reason to lie in the papers. When we make a mistake, we admit it! As for war, there is nothing to lie about—if you look at history, you can see that China has never attacked a nation, it has only defended its borders. We love peace. If we were the most powerful country in the world, think how peaceful the world would be!”

  I said that I certainly agreed that war was a terrible thing and that I was glad that China and the United States had become so friendly. The class applauded my speech and said that things were much better now that America was their friend than when Russia was their friend.

  After our ten-minute break for tea between the two hours, I decided to put away the textbook and ask them to read aloud their latest compositions, entitled “My Happiest Moment.” They all thought this was a very good idea, but no one wanted to read first. Finally I called on Teacher Xu. He shrugged his shoulders with resignation and began.

  “My happiest moment. When I was a young man I attended a dance at night. We were all very excited about this dance. The music was being played, and stars shone brightly. I saw a girl standing, and wanted to ask her to dance, but as I am shy and full of fear I did not dare! But then I did, and we danced. I did not know her name. We did not talk, we only danced. We danced in circles, around and around, and the stars went around and around, and my cheek touched hers. The room disappeared, the other people disappeared, and I could only see the stars dancing around and around. After that, I did not see her ever again. I wonder where she is.”

  The rest of the class clicked their tongues in mock disapproval of his romantic story and teased him, asking if he had shown this essay to his wife. Teacher Xu smiled faintly, shrugged again and said, “She cannot read English.”

  I called on Teacher Cai, famed in our college for his beautiful wife, to read next.

  “In the 1950’s, many Russians come to our country. These are so-called advisors. How terrible it was! They were not friendly as Americans, dear Teacher Mark. No! They drove in large, black cars and would not be friends of common people like us. They were not happy to be in China, I think. They held big dances, drank vodka and danced with our Chinese girls, and often tried to kiss them! We hated the advisors very much, but at that time we cannot say this, we can only be silent.”

  Everyone began to speak at once, confirming this account, but Teacher Cai said “Shhhh!” and continued. “One day there was a wonderful news—I was helping my wife to cooking then—the Leaders of our country told the Russian hegemonists to go home. When I heard this, I am sure this was my happiest moment.”

  Fatty Du, beaming in memory of the Russians’ expulsion, volunteered to go next.

  “Although I live in Changsha, I did not always live here. I was born in the eastern part of our country, in a little village. During the war our life was terrible. We often had to run into the mountains to escape the Japanese soldiers. Many times our village was destroyed, and we were always filled with sorrow in our hearts. After 1945, the life of our village did not improve much. Everyone was very poor and the government of the Kuomintang was not helping the people. All of us felt hopeless. Then we began to hear about the liberation of villages by the Communists, and we were full of hope. When the Communists came and liberated our village, I remember our village welcoming the soldiers. How proud and strongly they were! How gay and joyous we were! I remember that we found everything red in color, even pieces of paper, and held them in our hands
to wave as the soldiers marched. Around my neck I wore a red piece of cloth. This was my happiest moment.”

  Next I called on Teacher Zhang, known for his fear of Fatty Du. At first he declined to read; sitting sideways in his chair and shaking his head, he said he was a sad man and could not remember a happy moment. But his colleagues insisted that he had written an essay and coaxed him into reading it aloud.

  “I love my parents and my brothers and sisters very much. I think of them every day. After I graduated from college I felt proudly and my family was happy for me. But then I received the news: I was assigned to Hunan Medical College. I am from Beijing, far away from here. Beijing is a wonderful place and Hunan is a terrible place. The weather and general situation is terrible.

  “I tried to convince the Leaders to change it so I could stay with my family but it was impossible, and I must go where the Party sends me. When I got on the train, I did not know when I could come back again, and I cried for a thousand miles.

  “Several years later our college gave me permission to visit my family. When the train arrived in Beijing, my whole family was at the station to meet me. I had so much to tell them, I had planned on the whole train ride all the stories I would tell them, but when I saw them, no words came out from my mouth. I only stood there and tears fell out of my eyes like rain. This was my happiest moment.”

  Teacher Zhu read last.

  “My story is very common, because I am a very common man. In the winter of 1975 I traveled to Beijing. My relative in Beijing invited me to a restaurant famous for its Beijing duck. On a cold day we walked in the restaurant. Inside was warm and comfortable! We sat down and the banquet started. First we ate cold dishes, such as marinated pig stomach and sea slugs. Then we had steamed fish, then at last the duck arrived! The skin was brown and crisp and shiny, in my mouth it was like clouds disappearing. The sauces were various and delicious, and each piece of skin we put in a bing—Teacher Mark, how do you say bing in English?”

  “We call them pancakes.”

  “Pancakes. Each piece of skin we put in a ‘pancakes’ with sauce and scallions. Afterwards we had the duck meat with vegetables. After that we had duck bone soup and fruits.”

  He seemed to be finished, but then he put his composition down and smiled sheepishly at me.

  “Teacher Mark. I have to tell you something. Actually this story is true, but actually I have never been to Beijing. Can you guess? My wife went to Beijing and had this duck. But she often tells me about it again and again, and I think, even though I was not there, it is my happiest moment.”

  Early one Saturday morning in March one of my doctor students knocked at my door. A cold, steady drizzle that had been falling since January had convinced me to stay in bed as long as possible, but at ten past seven a terrific pounding and the voice of Dr. Nie calling my name woke me from a dream. I remember the dream clearly. A team of cadres from the Public Security Bureau had tied me by my feet to a giant ferris wheel, so that each time it completed a circle my head scraped along the ground. Once awake, I thought I might keep silent and pretend to be out, as I was in no mood to smile and answer grammar questions at that hour. Then I heard Old Sheep telling Dr. Nie that I hadn’t gotten up yet, so he should just knock louder. When the pounding became unbearable I got up. I didn’t bother putting clothes on over my several layers of woolen underwear, and tried to look as much like hell as I could manage, but this only seemed to amuse him. “Follow me,” he said, and started down the stairs. My annoyance grew as he yelled from the front door for me to hurry. I told him that I had something to do. That was all right, he didn’t mind, and he laughed—let’s go! I said I was expecting a visitor any minute now, so I couldn’t leave the house; he said it didn’t matter, and laughed—let’s go! I said I didn’t feel well, maybe we could go out and play another day; he said we could do that, too, and laughed—hurry up! I put on some clothes, went downstairs and pleaded with him to leave me alone, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the house. “Do you have grammar questions this morning, Dr. Nie?” I asked. “Thank you,” he answered, and led me out of the college gate.

  I was in a poor mood as we wandered through the streets, splashing up coal dust mixed with rain, at seven-fifteen in the morning. I could only hope that this would be a half-day outing instead of the full-day English-speaking marathons our students loved so well. At least it was winter; if it had been warmer out, I would have been obliged to spend several hours in a rented rowboat at Martyrs’ Park eating dried melon seeds and enjoying “free talk” with no hope of interruption or distraction. “Free talk” involved relentless, vigorous conversation of absolutely no import that drove me to near-madness. Floating helplessly in the middle of a dirty pond only made it worse. “Where are we going?” I asked. “A surprise,” he answered, and I shuddered to imagine what it could be.

  Twenty minutes later we came to the gate of the Provincial Sports Unit, a large complex for the Hunan athletes. Each province in China has such a unit, where the best athletes live and train. They receive their education there, too, but an abbreviated one. They are the closest thing to professional athletes China has, and they spend most of their time training.

  I remembered that Dr. Nie specialized in athletic medicine and performed surgery on the more serious cases that arose in this unit. He led me to a large five-story cement building, which had a training space on its uppermost floor, judging from the arrangement of its windows. We climbed the filthy, unlit staircase and Dr. Nie paused in front of two large wooden doors to savor the moment. He turned and smiled at me, indicating that I should listen. I heard through the doors a cacophony of cracks, whooshes and thuds. Just as it began to dawn on me what might be going on, he swung open the doors to reveal a dingy, cavernous room with bare cement walls and a dull red carpet on the floor.

  Ten or eleven young men and women in battered sweatsuits stood around against the walls, watching silently as three of their colleagues engaged in furious armed combat. Two of the men had six-foot wooden poles, and were teamed up to defeat the third, who wielded a three-section staff—three short poles connected by chains. Even in the movies, with the assistance of trick photography and trampolines, I had never seen anything to match this fight. I felt my stomach tighten, thinking one of the fighters would surely be brained by the poles, which swung by so fast I could barely see them. Suddenly, in perfect unison, the two with the long poles froze in position, poised for the last attack. The other athletes tensed, and all was quiet for a full second. Then several of them shrieked, and the fighters seemed to go mad, rushing into their final clash. The man with the three-section staff leapt into the air, rolled over the back of one of his opponents, and took an overhead swing at them both. They moved out of the way just in time and the weapon crashed to the ground, inches from their feet, with such force that the whole carpet shook and the air filled with dust. Without stopping, the three spun and froze again in an attitude of readiness, held it, then doubled over to breathe. The assistant trainer, a frail-looking woman in her thirties, walked over to them and barked a few words of criticism on the routine, then told them to get out of the way for the next group. The three fighters, who looked more like panthers than humans, loped off to one side. Immediately, two young women marched to the center of the room. Theirs was to be an unarmed battle.

  They stood about an arm’s length from one another, staring straight ahead. The trainer gave a yell and the two women turned their heads to exchange a deadly glance before exploding into action. One of the women was fairly tall, with long hair put up in a bun; the other was short, with thick shoulder-length hair that hung loose around her face. The tall woman began the attack, lashing out with a back-fist. The short woman leaned back so that it just grazed her throat, spinning around and jumping into the air as she did so, so that her right leg swung in an arc that ended full-force on the chest of the tall woman. Both crashed to the ground and lay still. Then, as if they had springs underneath them, they bounced up into the air and co
ntinued to fight. What struck me most about these women was their power; they hit with enough force to knock a large man unconscious. The short woman, especially, fought like a demon. I found out later that she had doubled for the heroines in the fight scenes of several movies. But she was not to be the main attraction this morning. After the women finished up, Dr. Nie led me into the room. The men looked at me curiously. The women all giggled and shifted to the far corner of the room, taking turns looking quickly at me and then at the ground.

  The assistant trainer came over to greet us. Dr. Nie introduced her as Little Liu, and me as the American Professor Mr. Sima Ming (my Chinese name). I had to go through this ritual at least once a day in China, where “distinguished Foreign Guests” must be introduced politely, meaning that their credentials are blown well out of proportion. I explained to her that I was not a professor, but an English teacher, and that since she was older than me, she should refer to me as Little Sima, but she and Dr. Nie agreed that since I had been educated in America, I should be a professor, and that since I had traveled far, my experience was great, so I should at least be Mr. Sima Ming.

  Little Liu pointed to the athletes. “These are the members of the Hunan Provincial Wushu Troupe. Today you are our guest. Please feel free to ask any questions you like, and voice your criticisms to help us improve.” “Where is he?” Dr. Nie asked her. “He’ll come soon,” she assured him, “but he didn’t want to get here first. He wanted the professor to wait a while.” Liu invited me to sit down on one of the long wooden benches that lined the walls of the room. “Now they’ll practice their solo routines.”

  The solo routines of wushu are something like floor exercises in gymnastics; each routine is a prearranged series of moves, created by the master and student together, that best displays the student’s versatility and special strengths, but within the aesthetic boundaries of that particular style of wushu. For example, a double-edged sword routine must not contain moves characteristic of sabre. Each style has its own repertoire and personality, and mixing them is considered a sign of poor taste or careless training.