by Mark Salzman
At seven o’clock I was finishing up my coffee and wondering whether to wake Bill. He almost never overslept, especially on days when he had morning class. I walked over to his bedroom door and knocked. “Just a minute,” he called, then opened the door a crack. “I’ll be right out. I have a visitor who isn’t awake yet.” I shuffled back into the common room and told the others. We looked at each other in stunned silence and waited.
A few minutes later Bill walked into the common room with his visitor—an eleven-year-old boy with thick, dark eyebrows and narrow eyes that looked at me without fear. His face was streaked with grime, his clothes looked badly worn, and his shoes were caked with mud. “He showed up here at about four-thirty,” Bill said. “He got off the train in Changsha at about three in the morning, then walked here from the train station. Isn’t that incredible?”
“Who is he?” Bob asked.
Bill sat down, scratched his forehead, then told us how he knew the boy. “I know this will sound unbelievable, but this is a runaway I met last year in Sichuan Province! I was climbing Emei Mountain when this kid latches onto me and asks if he can travel with me for a while. He told me he was from a village in Hunan, but that when he was about nine or so he decided he didn’t like hanging around at home and took off to travel all over the world. He also told me he had two brothers and a sister, but a few hours later it became three sisters and no brothers, and the last I remember we had settled on three brothers and two sisters. He said he travels by his wits and doesn’t need money—no one ever asks him for tickets, thinking he’s just someone’s kid who didn’t want to sit with his parents on the train. We stuck together for about two days, then I had to leave. He wanted to go with me, but I told him it was impossible. I gave him my address here, though, and told him to write me every once in a while. About six months ago I got a letter from him. He was home again and said that he had talked it over with his parents and they had agreed to let him become my adopted son! So he asks if I will take him to America. If not, he says, could I just send him a few hundred dollars foreign currency? I don’t remember if I wrote him back or not. Anyway, I guess he’s on the road again.” Bill asked the boy if he wanted some tea. The boy shook his head. “Nope. I don’t drink tea anymore. I want coffee—that’s what you foreign uncles drink, isn’t it?” Bill laughed and asked the boy if he had ever had coffee before. “Nope. But that’s what you drink, isn’t it, Uncle Bill? Let me have some of that.”
“Imagine,” Bill said as he poured the coffee, “in a society like this, where there are regulations prohibiting everything—then this eleven-year-old just decides to take off and see the world, and no one stops him. It’s like something out of a Mark Twain story, isn’t it?” The boy took a sip of the coffee and made a face. “Bitter. Can I use the bathroom?” Bill led him to our bathroom and showed him how to use our Western-style toilet. When the boy came out a few minutes later, Bill asked him, “Do other boys want to travel all over the world like you?”
“Nope.”
“Why do you, then? What makes you so different?”
The boy shrugged. “They don’t have the abilities that I do.” He gulped down some more of the coffee, then sat in a chair, his feet not quite reaching the floor.
By lunchtime most of the college knew about the little runaway living in Teacher Bill’s room. Old Sheep threw a fit when she saw him, saying that he was filthy and covered with lice, making her job difficult, since she cleaned our thick cotton bedsheets. Fatty Du came over to have a look at him and asked him in a booming voice if he realized that by running away and skipping school, he was becoming stupid while all of his peers were becoming smart. The boy frowned and answered that he was smarter than any of them and didn’t need to go to school. In the afternoon we were visited by Comrade Hu of the Foreign Affairs Bureau. After he interviewed the boy, Comrade Hu told us that, of course, he could not live with us any longer.
“We will provide a bed for him in the college Guest House until we find out who he is, then we will arrange to have him sent home.”
“I understand that he must go home,” Bill said, “but can’t he stay with me until he leaves? I like him, and he certainly can’t be dangerous.”
Comrade Hu shook his head. “That would be impossible. According to regulations, any visitor here in the Foreign Guest Building must register with the Public Security Bureau. This boy does not have a Work Card, so he does not have a number. Without a number, he cannot register. Don’t worry, we will bring him back to say goodbye before he is sent home. And now, let’s go.” With that he took the boy by the arm and led him away.
That night we sat in the common room and wondered what would become of him. Would he be severely punished for having shamed China by coming to our house? Foreigners are not supposed to see beggars, prostitutes or runaways, not to mention put them up for the night. Just as we got up to go to bed, the boy sauntered into the room, hands in his pockets, and sat down.
“What are you doing here?” Bill asked.
“I don’t like those people,” the boy said. “So I left. I would rather sleep here.”
“But how did you get into our building?”
“The back door isn’t quite closed. I noticed it this morning. I notice things like that. I am very clever.”
The next day while Bill had class I kept the boy company, letting him join me as I gathered props for that night’s lecture, “Crime and Punishment in America.” Bob and Marcy were giving the lecture, but I had promised to help by dressing up as a policeman and catching Bob in the act of holding up Marcy. The boy showed great interest in the project, asking if he could go to the lecture and watch. “I like acting,” he said. “I can act, you know. But I think it would be interesting to watch you foreign uncles act. I think I should learn some English, though, so I’ll understand what you say tonight.” I told him that one morning wasn’t enough time to learn English, but that if he worked hard at it, I was sure he could learn very quickly.
“Yes, I think so. I learn very fast.”
As I opened my closet to get a woolen cap for Bob to wear, the boy noticed a sabre hanging from a coat hook inside. “Uncle Bill tells me you are learning Chinese wushu. Do you learn fast, too?”
“Well, I doubt I’m as clever as you.”
“Hm. I think you must be. Probably more clever than me, because you can speak Chinese and English. I can only speak Chinese. Yes, I’m sure you are more clever than me.”
This bit of humility softened my attitude towards him; in truth, up until that moment I did not like the boy at all. When I was eleven years old, I was small for my age, weak, and a shy, sniveling coward. I was forever being punched or teased by cunning, worldly boys like this one who, it seemed to me, could get away with anything. This boy’s casual arrogance, and the ease with which he had become the center of attention in our house, bothered me. Maybe he sensed my coolness toward him, for he made every effort to speak politely to me.
“Could you perform some of your wushu for me? Uncle Bill says you are very hard-working, so I think your wushu must be very good.” I felt myself liking the boy more and more. I showed him a routine with the sabre, and he clapped when I finished, asking very nicely if I would show him another. Just as I got started, the local gang of spoiled six to eight-year-old boys, who were a terrible nuisance, made their usual appearance. Whenever I practiced they surrounded me, yelling, poking little twigs at me, and singing “Waiguoren, waiguoren!”—foreigner, foreigner—over and over. When I tried to chase them away, they only hooted with laughter and became naughtier, challenging each other to run forward and touch my legs, and so on. Adults would walk by all the time and see this happen, but no one ever helped me by scolding the boys. Rude little boys are called “little devils” in China and are looked upon with amusement. So I usually had to interrupt my practice, go inside, and wait until they got bored and left.
When the youngsters began poking me with the twigs, I stopped and told the runaway to follow me inside for a few m
inutes. He grasped immediately what was going on, but instead of following me in, he marched up to the leader of the pack and delivered a forceful lecture. “Do you think it is polite to do what you have just done? He’s working, and you bothered him! Don’t you have any manners? Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to behave? Now go home!” The boys, their eyes wide with fear and amazement, dropped their twigs and left without a murmur. In my eyes the runaway was now a hero. I did all of my wushu routines for him, made him some coffee and showed him some pictures of America.
That afternoon Comrade Hu returned. He sat us all down in the common room, then told us what he had been able to learn about the boy. “We have contacted his parents, who live in a village two days’ bus ride from here. As you know, this is not the first time he has run away. His parents say that he stole a large sum of money before he left.” Turning to the boy, Comrade Hu asked if he still had the money.
“Nope. I spent it.”
“Do you have any money at all?”
“No.”
“You will have to come with me now.” Comrade Hu turned back to us and said in English, “We will put him on a bus for his village tomorrow. We are sorry for the inconvenience this has caused you.” We assured Comrade Hu that the boy had been a pleasant enough guest, so we hoped that “disturbing foreigners” would not be added to his list of crimes.
That night after dinner the boy strode once again into our common room and sat down. “I’d rather sleep here again,” he said. “And besides, I want to see your lecture tonight.”
We took him to the lecture and he sat quietly in the back for the whole ninety minutes. Bob and Marcy stayed on afterward to answer questions, so the boy walked with me back to the house. We were making our way through the maze of gates and walls leading to our compound when he turned to me and said, “There’s a shortcut, you know.” “Really?” “Yes. Follow me.”
He led me, in pitch-darkness, to a hole in a wall that I had never noticed before. Passing through it, we nearly halved the distance we had to walk.
“How did you know about that shortcut?” I asked, thoroughly impressed.
“I saw it this morning. I notice things like that.”
Later that night Bill announced that he would take the boy to the bus station early the next morning and pay for the ticket himself. “Do you plan on running away again?” Bill asked him.
“Probably.”
“I see. And where will you go next time?”
“Hong Kong.”
Bill laughed in surprise. “Hong Kong? What do you know about Hong Kong?”
The boy picked his nose before answering. “It’s a big department store, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Bill said, reaching over and picking up the small black vinyl bag the boy always carried with him—his only luggage. “I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’d better look in here.” The boy didn’t flinch. Bill opened it and pulled out a few postcards and bric-a-brac taken from our common room.
“Just souvenirs,” the boy said. The objects were all valueless, so Bill put them back into his bag, saying, “You should never take things without asking, no matter how unimportant they are.”
“Sorry.”
By the time I woke up, Bill was already back from the station. “Is he gone?” I asked. “Yes, I put him on the bus. I took him out there early so I wouldn’t attract attention—I could just see someone alerting the Public Security Bureau that they saw a foreigner kidnapping a Chinese boy on the back of his bicycle. Wouldn’t you know it, though? I was riding over the bridge, when who should come up from the other side but the whole Public Security Bureau Academy, marching before breakfast in full uniform. Just my luck. Anyway, I got him on the bus. I made him promise, since I bought him the ticket, not to jump off it and to go home this time. He said ‘Sure,’ waved goodbye, then hopped on—just like that.”
The boy became the topic of discussion in most of my classes for several days after that. Almost all my students agreed that the boy was a “bad element” and needed to be disciplined. One aging doctor, though, had a different opinion. She had surprised me once before in class when we talked about retirement. Many doctors in China are not allowed to retire, and some of them have never even had a vacation. This woman announced that she had a retirement plan: she would pretend to die, have herself nailed into a coffin and driven to her home village, then climb out during the funeral and declare herself a ghost. “Then I could have a garden and take care of my grandchildren.” She agreed with the others that the runaway was a bad boy. “But,” she said quietly, “this boy has imagination.”
During the summer between my two years I returned to the States, where I practiced Pan’s routines in Central Park and drank milk shakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. While there I picked up some sheet music for a woman in Changsha, a professional singer, who had taught herself to play classical guitar and desperately wanted new material. I brought her the music in September and she vowed to repay the favor.
One week later she appeared at the medical college with a strikingly handsome man who looked about forty and who wore the coordinated outfit of a professional athlete. She stepped forward to greet me while the man stood politely behind. “This is Teacher Hei,” she said. “His surname is very uncommon—it means ‘black.’ Most dancers and musicians in Changsha know about him because he teaches wushu in the Arts and Culture Department of Hunan Teachers’ College. I don’t know him personally, but many of my classmates do. They say that his wushu is very good. Even more important, though, they say he is a wonderful man. When I told him about you, he said he would be willing to assist you in your study.” She led me over to him and introduced us. He smiled shyly and said, “I told the young lady several times that my wushu would not be good enough to be of use to you, but she insisted that I come anyway.”
“Don’t be polite,” I said. “She speaks very highly of your skills.” He shook his head. “My wushu is not exceptional. It will seem especially ordinary to you, who are the student of Pan Qingfu. He is no ordinary man. Why would you need further instruction?”
“I am very fortunate to be Master Pan’s student, but, you know, he leaves Changsha all the time. I get discouraged when I don’t have someone to go to, who will push me to keep trying.”
“I understand,” he said. “I will help you in any way I can. But I must ask that you do not mention to Master Pan that you are studying with me.”
“Not tell him?”
“Try to understand. He is famous in China, a well-known fighter. He has chosen to teach you, so of course many Chinese are envious of you. Some say he teaches you because you have a great desire and you work hard. But some say it is because you are a foreigner—you are his exotic pet. Master Pan takes a great risk, teaching you. If he knows that you are studying with me, he will think that you feel dissatisfied, and he will be insulted because I am so common. Please, let it be our secret.”
“If you say so.”
“The other thing is that I don’t want you to pay me or give me any gifts—it would only cause trouble. I teach for my own pleasure. Just let me know when to expect you so I can be prepared.”
“You are terribly kind, Teacher Hei, but how can I show my appreciation? I’ll feel embarrassed if I can’t do something for you.”
He stared at me for a moment, then laughed. “Practice, of course! It sounds so easy, but so few students do. Shall we start now?” The singer, her obligation fulfilled, said goodbye, and right there on the sidewalk Hei began teaching me the footwork of the two styles he loved most, Xingyiquan and Baguazhang. These styles are closely related, so a master of one usually becomes competent at the other as well. According to popular history, a xingyi master and a bagua master competed against each other in the last century, but when several matches held over three days produced no clear winner, they became friends and agreed that their two styles should from that time on be taught and learned together. After Hei demonstrated the fundamentals of the two styles, he pe
rformed an advanced routine of each, to give me an idea of the distinct character of the two systems. It was not difficult for me to see that his skill was by no means “common.”
After an hour’s lesson and a break for tea he suggested that I follow him home so I would know how to get there next time. He lived across the river on the far side of Yuelu Mountain, a fifty-minute ride that took us along a narrow, battered road jammed with overloaded trucks, homemade tractors, wheelbarrows carrying screaming pigs and buses going back and forth from the countryside. About a mile from his home, as I strained to pedal up a hill, my bicycle chain snapped. We walked it to a roadside “fix bicycle” stand; just as the repairman got over the shock of seeing me, a loud bell rang and the local elementary school across the street let out for the afternoon. A huge iron gate swung open, releasing a horde of children who perceived and then surrounded me like a single, vast organism. After an eternity the chain was fixed and we managed to ride through the sea of children. Teacher Hei, looking dazed, asked me if I always drew crowds like that when I rode my bicycle. “I’m afraid so.” “Oh … well, you know, you are quite a spectacle. Not many people look like you around here.” I asked Teacher Hei if people in Changsha thought I looked ugly. “Oh, no!” he answered quickly. “Not ugly—you look … interesting! You have a very three-dimensional face.”
