Iron and Silk

by Mark Salzman

  She came the next night at exactly the same time. I had brought from the house a few handsome picture books of the United States and a few short story collections I thought she might enjoy. She marveled at the beautiful color photographs in the picture book, especially the ones taken in New England during the fall. “How beautiful,” she said over and over. “Just like a dream.” I could not openly stare at her, so I contented myself with gazing at her hand as she turned the pages of the book, listening to her voice as she talked, and occasionally glancing at her face when she asked me something.

  We talked and talked, then she seemed to remember something and looked at her watch. “Oh my …” she gasped, looking suddenly worried. “What is it?” “Look what time it is!” It was after ten o’clock—nearly two hours had passed. “I’ve missed the last bus!” She was staying in a hospital on the other side of the river, a forty-five minute bus ride and at least a two-hour walk. It was a bitter cold night; even if she was strong enough to make it by foot, she would get back after midnight and arouse considerable suspicion. The only thing to do was to put her on the back of a bicycle and ride her. That in itself would not attract attention, since that is how most Chinese families travel around town. I had seen families of five on one bicycle many times, and young couples ride that way for want of anything else to do at night. The woman usually rides side-saddle on the rack over the rear wheel, with her arms around the man’s waist, leaning her shoulder and face against his back. A Chinese woman riding that way on a bicycle powered by a Caucasian male would definitely attract attention, however. I put on my thick padded Red Army coat, tucked my hair under a Mao cap and put on a pair of Chinese sunglasses, the kind that liumang, the young punks, wear. To keep my nose out of sight I wore a surgical mask, the way many Chinese do to keep dust out of their lungs. She wrapped her scarf tightly around her head and left the building first. Five minutes later I went out, rode fast through the gate of our college, and saw her walking a few blocks down the street, shrouded in a haze of dust kicked up by a coal truck. I pulled alongside her and she jumped on before I stopped.

  The street was crowded, so neither of us said a word. Trucks, buses and jeeps flung themselves madly through the streets, bicycles wove around us, and pedestrians darted in front of us, cursing the “liumang” if we brushed too close to them. Finally I turned onto the road that ran along the river, and the crowd thinned out. It was a horrible road, with potholes everywhere that I could not see in time to avoid. She, too shy to put her arms around my waist, had been balancing herself across the rack, but when we hit an especially deep rut, I heard her yelp and felt her grab on to me. Regaining her balance, she began to loosen her grip, but I quickly steered into another pothole and told her to hold on. Very slowly, I felt her leaning her shoulder against my back. When at last her face touched my coat, I could feel her cheek through it as if my back were naked.

  We reached the bridge and I started the long climb. About halfway up she told me to stop riding, that we could walk up the bridge to give me a rest. When we got to the top of the bridge, we stopped to lean against the edge and look back at the dim lights of the city. Trucks and jeeps were our only company, so we talked quietly before going on.

  “Does this remind you of America?” she asked, gesturing toward the city lights with her chin.

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Do you miss home?”

  “Very much. But I’ll be home very soon. And when I get home, I will miss Changsha.”

  “Really? But China is so … no, you tell me: what is China like? I want to hear you tell me what China is like.”

  “The lights are dimmer here.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “and we are boring people, aren’t we?” Only her eyes showed above the scarf wrapped around her face, and they stared evenly at me. I asked her if she thought she was boring. She continued to stare at me, then here eyes wrinkled with laughter.

  “As a matter of fact, I am not boring. I believe I am a very interesting girl. Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She had pale skin, and I could see her eyelids blush a faint pink.

  “When you go back to America, will you live with your parents?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m too old! They wouldn’t want me to hang around the house. They would think it was strange if I didn’t live on my own.”

  “How wonderful! I wish my parents felt that way. I will have to live with them forever.”

  “Forever?”

  “Of course! Chinese parents love their children, but they also think that children are like furniture. They own you, and you must make them comfortable until they decide to let you go. I cannot marry, so I will have to take care of them forever. I am almost thirty years old, and I must do whatever they say. So I sit in my room and dream. In my imagination I am free, and I can do wonderful things!”

  “Like what?”

  She cocked her head to one side and raised one eyebrow. “Do you tell people your dreams?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Well, I’m not going to tell you my dreams.”

  We were silent for a while, then she suddenly asked me if I was a sad man or a happy man.

  “That’s hard to say—sometimes I’m happy, sometimes I’m sad. Mostly, I just worry.”

  “Worry? What do you worry about?”

  “I don’t know—everything, I guess. Mostly I worry about wasting time.”

  “How strange! My cousin’s husband says that you work very hard.”

  “I like to keep busy. That way I don’t have time to worry.”

  “I can’t understand that. You are such a free man—you can travel all over the world as you like, make friends everywhere, and see places that most of us can’t even imagine. You are a fool not to be happy, especially when so many people depend on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My relative says that your nickname in the college is Huoshenxian—an immortal in human form—because you are so … different. Your lectures make everyone laugh, and you make people feel happy all the time. This is very unusual. You should always be that way; it makes sad people happy. Isn’t that important?”

  I agreed with her that making other people happy was important, then asked her if she was happy or sad. She raised one eyebrow again, looking not quite at me.

  “I don’t have as many reasons to be happy as you.” She looked at her watch and shook her head. “I must get back—we have to hurry.” As I turned toward the bicycle, she leaned very close to me, almost touching her face against mine, looking straight into my eyes, and said, “I have an idea.”

  I could feel her breath against my throat. I asked her what it was. “Let’s coast down the bridge—fast! No brakes!”

  I got on the bicycle. “Are you getting on?” I asked her.

  “Just a minute. At the bottom I’ll get off, so I’ll say goodbye now.”

  “I should at least take you to the gate of the hospital.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Someone might see me and ask who you were. At the bottom of the bridge I’ll hop off, and you turn around. I won’t see you again, so thank you. It was fun meeting you. You should stop worrying.” She jumped on, pressed her face against my back, held me like a vice and said, “Now—go! As fast as you can!”

  Learning the long sword proved more demanding than any of the other wushu Pan had taught me. The morning after he agreed to teach it to me, Pan arrived very early with two broom handles, led me up to the bathhouse and began the training without a word. In the past, he had always told stories and imitated me with great humor to illustrate his points and to make me relax. Now, he rarely spoke and made no effort to be humorous, insisting that I simply drill until he taught me the next move.

  My last month in China was a busy one, as I had to complete my teaching duties, prepare my belongings for the move back to the States, attend farewell meetings and banquets and
begin saying goodbye to my friends, students, colleagues and teachers. Still, I practiced as much as I could with my broomstick, never knowing when Pan would come next, and always wondering what would happen if I “made him sad.” With two weeks to go, he stopped coming.

  I tried frantically to get word to him, so that I could at least see him once more before I left, but no one could reach him. Rumor had it that he was in North China, but why, and for how long, no one knew.

  The night before my departure, I was in my room packing the bag I had made for my swords and other weapons. I remember debating whether or not to pack my broomstick along with the swords when I suddenly jumped with fright. Pan stood not three feet behind me, with a rolled-up carpet under his arm. He smiled and told me to follow him. We would finish tonight, no matter how long it took. I reached for my broomstick, and he shook his head. “You won’t need that anymore,” he whispered, and we went outside. We made our way up to the bathhouse, and when we got there Pan put the carpet down and looked around at the night scene. “You leave tomorrow, don’t you?” “Yes.” “I will miss you.” I stood dumb for a moment. “I will miss you, too.” One of the coal trains blew its whistle, and Pan smiled. “I will leave tomorrow, too. By the time you reach America, I will be home as well. We are both going home.” He told me that after years of waiting, his request for a transfer back to North China had been accepted. He paused for a few minutes, taking in the view, then said in English, “Let’s begin.”

  He unrolled the carpet and took out two long swords. He handed me one, and we set to work. I felt light as a feather, and time had no meaning at all. We were both soaked with sweat, and he laughed and told stories the whole time. At last we did a routine together, then he told me to do it alone.

  “This is the end of your training. The last move of this routine will be your own, and after that, as far as wushu is concerned, you will proceed alone.” At that moment, everything was magnificent—the night, the heat, the sword, Pan and I—we were all magnificent. I flew through the routine, and when it was done, I thought I had never known such exhilaration before. Pan nodded, put the sword he was holding back on the carpet, rolled it up and faced me. He stood straight and looked right into my eyes, and suddenly I was back in the training hall, standing at attention during our first lesson. I waited for it, for the critical moment of our duel. Then, very slowly, he spoke: “I brought two swords tonight. I am taking only one back with me.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARK SALZMAN is the author of Iron & Silk, an account of his two years in China; the novels The Laughing Sutra and The Soloist, which was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for fiction; and Lost in Place, a memoir. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, filmmaker Jessica Yu.

  ALSO BY MARK SALZMAN

  THE LAUGHING SUTRA

  The Laughing Sutra follows the adventures of Hsun-ching, a naive but courageous orphan, and the formidable and mysterious Colonel Sun, who together travel from mainland China to San Francisco, risking everything to track down an elusive Buddhist scripture This irresistible narrative of danger and comedy speaks volumes about the nature of freedom and the meaning of loyalty

  Fiction/Literature/0-679-73546-1

  LOST IN PLACE

  At the age of thirteen, Mark Salzman decides he wants to become a wandering Zen monk So begins the uproarious account of an American adolescence during the era of Bruce Lee, Ozzy Osbourne, and Kung Fu. Coming of age with one foot in suburban Connecticut and the other in medieval China, Salzman tells the story of a teenager trying to attain enlightenment before he’s learned to drive.

  Memoir/0-679-76778-9

  LYING AWAKE

  In a Carmelite monastery outside Los Angeles, Sister John of the Cross experiences visions of dazzling power, but they are accompanied by powerful headaches. When a doctor reveals that her visions may be dangerous, she faces a devastating choice. With extraordinary empathy and imagination, Mark Salzman gives us a brilliant portrait of one woman’s trial at the intersection of faith and reason.

  Fiction/Literature/0-375-70606-2

  THE SOLOIST

  As a child, Renne showed promise of becoming one of the world’s greatest cellists. Now, years later, his life is altered suddenly by two events: he becomes a juror in a murder trial for the brutal killing of a Buddhist monk, and he takes on a new pupil—an unprepossessing Korean boy whose talent, potential, and outstanding musicianship remind him of his own past.

  Fiction/Literature/0-679-75926-3

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