Shaogong, han - A Dictionary of Maqiao.html

by A Dictionary of Maqiao (lit)

  *Beginning (End)

  : In Maqiao dialect, the word for "end" (pronounced wan in Mandarin) is pronounced the same as the word for "beginning" {yuan). Two temporal extremes are thus phonetically linked. In that case, when Maqiao people say "yuan," do they mean end? Or do they mean beginning? If things always have an end, then time always advances forward in a straight line, never repeating itself, with forward and back, this and that, right and wrong permanently in diametric opposition to each other, implying a certain standpoint for making comparisons and judgments. If, conversely, things always go back to the beginning, then time moves in a circle, always going around and starting again, with forward and back, this and that, right and wrong always confusingly overlapped and overturned.

  As I see it, history's optimists insist on the division between beginning and end, viewing history as an ever-advancing straight line, in which all honor and disgrace, success and failure, praise and blame, gains and losses are always precisely recorded, ready to receive true and just final judgment. Perseverance will receive its final reward. History's pessimists, however, insist on the unity between beginning and end, viewing history as an ever-repeating loop in which their retreats endlessly advance, their losses are endlessly gained, everything is futile.

  Which yuan would Maqiao people choose? Beginning or end?

  Consider Maqiao: a little village, impossible to find, almost dropped off the map, with a few dozen households in the upper and lower village combined, a strip of land, set against a stretch of mountain. Maqiao has a great many stones and a great deal of soil, stones and earth which have endured through thousands of years. However hard you look, you won't see it changing. Every particle is a testament to eternity. The never-ending flow of its waters gurgles with the sounds of thousands of years; the pearls of dew of thousands of years still hang on the blades of grass at the roadside; the sunlight of thousands of years now shines so brightly we cannot open our eyes-a blazing white heat that buzzes on the face.

  On the other hand, Maqiao is not, of course, the Maqiao of former days, or even the Maqiao of a moment ago. A wrinkle has appeared, a white hair has floated to the ground, a withered hand has turned cold, everything moves silently on. Faces appear one by one, then one by one fade away, never to return. Only on these faces can we look nervously for traces of the march of time. No power can stop this process, no power can prevent this succession of faces from sinking into Maqiao soil-just as one note plucked after another sounds and softly dies away.

  *Vernacular/Empty Talk (Baihua)

  : In Chinese, the word baihua has three meanings: 1. (Modern Chinese) vernacular (as opposed to the classical, literary language).

  2. Unimportant, nonserious, unverifiable chatter, spoken only for idle amusement.

  3. In Maqiao language, "bai" is also read "pa," which is a homophone of the word meaning "scary," so "empty talk" is also "scary talk," often meaning stories of ghosts or crimes told for the titillation and enjoyment of listeners.

  For Maqiao people, "empty talk" was what people in other parts might call gossip. It was an activity designed for passing the time, one that took place mostly on evenings or on rainy days. This led me to suspect that the beginnings of Chinese vernacular sprang from beneath gloomy thatched eaves such as were found here, that its roots lie in sources of vulgar diversion, in the records of the fantastic and bizarre, even in tales of horror. Zhuangzi viewed fiction as trivial, superficial blather; Ban Gu proclaimed it to be "that which is spoken on the streets, in the alleys, on the roads, on the byways," both of which views generally approximate such an understanding. From the "Tales of the Supernatural" of the Wei-Jin period to the early Qing "Tales of Liaozhai"-the source from which Chinese vernacular springs-the absurd and the abnormal, in the form of demons and bizarre happenings, abound everywhere, launch repeated assaults on the nerves of listeners. Here there was no possible recourse to Confucian statesmanship, no saintly purification of mind and desire. The difference between baihua and the classical language was that the former has never been seen as a high, noble language, has never had the capacity to induce or depict states of spiritual extremity.

  Baihua is just a daily consumer product, a language of the market-place. Its transformation by western languages, its maturation and development in the modern era have made no difference to the prejudiced value judgments made against it by the majority view-in the dictionary used by Maqiao people, until the 1990s at the very least, baihua was still "empty talk," still utterly detached from any subject of serious import, still a pseudonym for "that which is spoken on the streets, in the alleys, on the roads, on the byways." Maqiao people had never sensed any urgent need to use a new name, to differentiate clearly between the three implications of bai mentioned above, to escape from the confusion inherent within the concept itself. Maybe they considered themselves as belonging to an inferior category of person, that of ignorant peasants. They felt they could only penetrate this base, worthless form of "emptiness," this form of linguistic degeneracy-a feeling that amounted to no less than a self-imposed confession of linguistic guilt, to exile. As they saw it, true knowledge seemed to require another kind of expressive language, one that was mysterious, unfathomable, that lay beyond their powers of expression.

  Language of this kind had all but disappeared, they supposed, except in odd fragments of vocabulary handed down through their ancestors. Language of this kind lay far beyond their comprehension, was transmitted by spirits, was concealed perhaps in the spells of shamans, in the hysterics of dream-women, in rain and thunder, the sounds of nature.

  These people were very thin, their skin very dark, their joints stiff, their eyes and hair yellowed. Having sold off ultimate jurisdiction over their language, sold it off to people they didn't know, they then blindly followed life's path along to its end. The unfortunate fact of the matter is, though, that my attempts at fiction and the most important linguistic memories of my youth were succored first of all by their baihua-Slled evenings and rainy days, as we curled up in groups of threes and fours in preparation for the contented exchange of nonsense and tall stories. Bearing this immovable backdrop in mind, I'm sure they'd laugh at my fiction, sure they'd view it, in terms of moral or emotional value, as page upon page of wasted breath. In some respects, this contempt of theirs is a source of awakening for which I'm grateful. Despite my love for fiction as a genre, fiction is, in the end, fiction-nothing more. Even though humanity has produced countless beautiful novels, the wars in Bosnia and the Middle East were still fought. A Nazi who's read Dostoyevsky will continue to kill people, a cheat who's read Cao Xueqin and Lu Xun will continue to swindle. We shouldn't overstate the influence of fiction.

  One could go even further and say that not only fiction, but also all language is just language, and nothing else; no more than a few symbols describing facts, just as a clock is no more than a symbol describing time. Regardless of how clocks shape our sense of time, shape our understanding of time, they can never be time itself. Even if every clock were smashed, even if all instruments for measuring time were smashed, time would still go on as before. And so we really should say that all language, strictly speaking, is "empty talk," and its importance shouldn't be exaggerated.

  I've written a fair amount of fiction, as I've idled away my time as a writer over the last ten years. But essentially I've achieved no more than what anybody from Maqiao would have, my volumes of fiction amount exactly to what Fucha was doing just at that moment when he measured how deep we'd dug today, then heaved a sigh of relief. "Let's get the bad air out of us, let's have a bit of empty talk (baihua)!' He dropped his carrying pole, stretched his arms, and grinned broadly.

  It was very warm in the cave. There was no need to put any more clothes on, and we lay on our sides on the soft piles of earth, knees propped together, gazing at the lamp's hazy flickering on the cave wall.

  "Go on, then."

  "You go first."

  "You go first. You've read all those books, you must've read a lot of
empty talk."

  There was something not quite right about this remark, I felt, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

  "All right, I'll tell you something funny about Benyi, okay? This happened when we were doing People's Militia training last month, when you'd gone off for a meeting. Up he popped on the grain-drying terrace, telling me my commands weren't loud enough, so he got me to stand by and watch how he shouted. "Left turn," he shouted, "right turn," he shouted, then "back turn," finally "forward-turn." All over the place, the six guys were, didn't know what direction to turn in, but Benyi just glared, drew circles on the ground, and said this is how you turn, around and around and around and around!"

  Fucha roared with laughter, his head crashing against the wall of the cave.

  "Okay, my turn." By now quite excited, he moistened his throat and started to tell a ghost story. He said there once was a man from around Shuanglong who'd built a house near the mountains, very high up, projeering over the river. He lived on the top floor, and waking up one night he saw a head outside his window looking east, then west. At first he thought it was a burglar, but then realized this made no sense: if he slept on the upper floor and the window was a good twenty feet from the ground, how could a burglar have such long legs? Groping for a flashlight, he quickly turned it on, and what d'you think he saw?"

  "What?" My hairs were standing on end.

  "This burglar's face had no eyes, nose, or mouth-blank and flat it was, like a pancake…"

  We heard the sound of footsteps in the cave. A quick listen told us it was Fangying back from home. She'd said a little earlier that she was going to fetch a bit of baba cake.

  Ripping at the still-warm baba cake in his hand, Fucha said with a smile: "We're talking about ghosts, want to listen?"

  She made a terrified "uh" noise, her footsteps fleeing into the darkness.

  "Hey, aren't you afraid of the ghosts outside?"

  The sound of footsteps stopped.

  Fucha chuckled with delight.

  "Has it snowed outside?"

  No answer.

  "Is the sun about to come up?"

  Still nothing.

  "All right, all right, we won't talk about ghosts anymore, come and sit in here for a while, in the warm."

  After a moment of quiet, the rustling sound drew a little nearer. But still I couldn't see Fangying; only a metal buckle on her shoes floated up, flashed momentarily out of the darkness. This told me one of her feet wasn't too far from me.

  I don't know when, but I started to hear a thumping noise above my forehead, then after a while, another dull thumping started, a quake that made the lamplight quiver; it didn't sound as if it was coming from above my head, but as if it came from in front, or from the left, from the right, from all directions. An anxious expression clouding his face, Fucha asked me what was going on. I didn't know, I said. He said there was a mountain above us and it was nighttime, there shouldn't be any noise. I agreed, there shouldn't be any noise. Could we have dug down into a tomb? he asked. Had we really found ghosts? I said I didn't believe it. He said the old guard in the production team had told him Tianzi Peak used to have a cave which could take you through to Jiangxi, could it be we'd dug through? Could it be Beijing just outside, or America?

  You've been to high school, I said, d'you honestly think we've dug more than a few dozen meters? Reckon we haven't even dug as far as Benren's compost shed.

  He gave a small, sheepish smile: sometimes, he said, he could think things over and over in his head without finding a solution; when somewhere was far away, why did it always have to be so far? When something was a long time ago, why did it always have to be such a long time? Couldn't there be a way, a way of digging a hole, for example, of digging and digging until you reached another world?

  This had been one of my childhood fantasies-I'd burrow my head into the quilt and hope that when this head burrowed its way out again, it would find some dazzling miracle before it.

  We waited and waited for new noises, but heard nothing.

  Fucha yawned disappointedly: "That'll do, time's just about up, let's stop work."

  "Put out the light, will you," I said

  "Make sure you bundle up, it's cold outside," he said.

  The lamplight was now behind me. The shadow before me suddenly, dramatically expanded and swallowed me up in one gulp.

  *Officials' Road

  : When I look at it written down before me, the phrase "officials' road" conjures up visions of a narrow roadway paved with stone, twisting and turning as it stretched over the mountains to Maqiao-it wasn't just any old pathway that got to be called an "officials' road." I'd guess its history went something like this: way back in the past, someone from the village who'd left to take up an official post elsewhere had needed to ride back home to visit his elders; a good road being thus essential, his first act as an official was to build a road to his home village, an officials' road. Officials' roads were usually built by convicts. The official would allocate punishment through differing lengths of construction work, according to the respective gravity or levity of a crime: one hundred or two hundred feet, and so on. The construction of roads was not only a testament to wealth and honor: their growth rested on the crimes of bygone days. Neither the officials nor criminals of Maqiao's past left their names to posterity.

  As time went by, it fell into disrepair: some of the stone slabs shattered, or simply disappeared entirely. The fragments remaining sank into the surrounding topsoil, with only the part not yet grown over still poking out, trampled to a slippery gleam by passing bare feet, like a row of human spines lubricated with oil and sweat, eternally subjugated below our feet. I was once suddenly seized by an impulse to dig these spines out of the earth, to permit the skulls at the other end, slumped down into the soil, to rise up from their long darkness and look upon me-who were they?

  When the soil on the officials' road began to smell of dung, that was when you'd arrived at the village. A dazzling plum-blossom tree, a rustling burst of brightness, stood there marking the place.

  Panting, I turned to ask; "Aren't we in to Maqiao yet?"

  Fucha was hurrying along forward, as he helped us Educated Youth haul our luggage: "Almost there, almost there, can't you see it? That's it in front, not too far now, is it?"

  "Where?"

  "Underneath those two maple trees."

  "That's Maqiao?"

  "That's Maqiao."

  "Why's it called that?"

  "Dunno."

  My heart sank, as I took one step after another into the unknown.

  Afterword

  Humans are linguistic animals, but speaking is actually very difficult for humans.

  In 1988, I moved to the south of South China, to Hainan Island on China's southernmost tip. I couldn't speak Hainan dialect and, furthermore, I found their dialect very hard to learn. One day, going to the market with a friend to buy food, I spotted a fish I didn't know the name of, and so asked the salesman, a local. He said it was fish. I said I know it's fish, could you please tell me what fish? "Sea fish," he said, staring at me. I smiled and said, I know it's sea fish, could you please tell me what-sea-fish? He stared even more, seemingly impatient: "Big fish!"

  Afterwards, my friend and I couldn't help laughing when we thought back over this dialogue.

  Hainan has the largest coastal area in the country, countless fishing villages and a fishing industry with a long history. It was only later that I discovered they have the largest fish-related vocabulary of just about any people anywhere. Real fishing people have set vocabulary, have detailed, precise expressions and descriptions for all the several hundred types of fish, for every fishy part, every fishy condition, enough to compile a big, thick dictionary. But most of these can't be incorporated into standard Mandarin. Even the 40,000-odd characters in the Kangxi Dictionary, the largest compilation of definitions, are too remote from this island, have banished this abundant mass of deep feeling beyond its field of vision, beyond the controllin
g imperial brush and inkstone of scholars. When I speak standard Mandarin with the local people, when I force them to make use of a language they're not very familiar with, they can only fudge their way through with "sea fish" or "big fish."

  I almost laughed at them, I almost thought they were pitifully linguistically impoverished. I was wrong, of course. To me, they weren't the people I saw, they weren't the people I've been talking about, their chao-jiu-ou-ya-ji-li-wa-la mocking chirping spitting babbling gabbling gibbering crying jabbering was concealed behind a linguistic screen that I couldn't penetrate, was hidden deep in a dark night that standard Mandarin had no hope of illuminating. They had embraced this dark night.

  This made me think of my own hometown. For many years I've studied Mandarin. I realize this is necessary, it's necessary in order for me to be accepted by neighbors, colleagues, shop assistants, policemen, and officials, to communicate through television and newspapers, to enter into modernity. It's just that my experience in the market buying fish gave me a sudden jolt: I realized I'd been standardized. This implied that the hometown of my memories had also been standardized, that every day it was being filtered through an alien form of language-through this filtering, it was being simplified into the crude sketchiness of "big fish" and "sea fish," withering away bit by bit in the desert of translation.

  This isn't to say that hometowns can't be talked about. No, you can still use standard Mandarin to talk about them, you can also use Vietnamese, Cantonese, Fujianese, Tibetan, Wei language, every foreign language there is to talk about them, but is "Beethoven's Fifth" played on a Peking Opera violin still "Beethoven's Fifth"? Does an apple that has left its native soil, an apple that's been steamed and pickled, still count as an apple?