China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Whenever the weather was fine, he had fallen into the habit of walking through the village before dawn and taking the narrow path that led up the steep hillside to the family graveyard. Or sometimes he would continue to the little Buddhist temple higher up. And from these high vantage points he would gaze down the great sweep of the Yellow River valley while the dawn chorus began. Often he would remain up on the hill from before even the first hint of light appeared on the eastern horizon until long after the sun was up.

  At these times when the whole world as far as the eye could see was filled with the sound of the birds’ grand salutation to the sun, he would so lose his sense of self that he felt as if he had dissolved into the great space of the morning. Some days he’d return to the same place to watch the sunset and then, for an hour or more, stare up at the stars.

  Over time, these sessions became as important to him as prayer to a monk, so that he could hardly imagine living without them anymore.

  * * *

  —

  He’d also made a new friend—an old scholar who lived a few miles away, up in the hills overlooking a village called Huayuankou, where, since time out of mind, there had been a ferry across the Yellow River.

  Mr. Gu was nearly a decade older than Shi-Rong. It was hard to be sure of his original height, since he was almost bent double now. His little face was wizened, but his eyes remained very bright, and he still kept up a busy correspondence with scholars all over the kingdom.

  He lived in a modest farmhouse with a small garden, where he liked to tend the plants. Sometimes Shi-Rong worried because the house was in disrepair, and he’d offered to build a new house for the old scholar on his own property. “I shouldn’t bother you with visits,” he assured him. “At least, no more than I do now.”

  But Mr. Gu shook his head. “These are the lands that the Zhou kings gave to my family,” he reminded Shi-Rong. “That was over two thousand years ago. Where else should I live?” His bright eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “Tell me if you change your mind,” Shi-Rong replied. But it was obvious his friend had no intention of moving.

  Shi-Rong would go over to Mr. Gu’s house about twice a month, and they would discuss all manner of things. The old scholar would lend him books, and they would read together. It was like becoming a student again, Shi-Rong used to think—only without the exams.

  These visits were never complete without their taking a walk to the river. It was over a mile down a long, steep path, but the old man was remarkably spry. “I can go up the hill easily by myself,” he’d explain, “as long as I have a good stick to lean on. But getting down is harder. I need your arm for that.” Shi-Rong was happy to oblige, though he’d warned Mr. Gu that he might not be able to manage this himself for much longer.

  But the thing he loved best of all in these visits was when they practiced calligraphy.

  Shi-Rong had always been rather proud of his writing. As a mandarin, he had been known for his elegant letters and memorials. Shi-Rong’s brushstrokes were always well balanced, firm, and flowing. So the first time that the older man had suggested they might each take the same poem and write it out, he’d gladly complied. It was an ancient poem about a scholar in the mountains, and Shi-Rong’s version expertly reproduced the style of calligraphy from the period when the poem had been written. When he handed it, not without some pride, to the scholar, Mr. Gu nodded thoughtfully.

  “This would impress the national examiners very much,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “One can see at once that you are a bureaucrat.”

  “Ah.” Shi-Rong frowned. Was that a compliment?

  Without a word the older man passed across his own copy. It was not just different. It came from another world. Each character had a mysterious life of its own—merging with, commenting upon, sometimes opposing the next—until the last but one, which, having a long tail, seemed almost to dissolve into the mountain mist until the final character acted as a kind of seal to hold the whole together.

  “In calligraphy and painting, which are almost the same thing, both the yin and the yang must be present,” said Mr. Gu. “You know this. But you do not practice it. You think too much. You impose. This is the yang. You must let go, not try to form your thought. Forget yourself. Allow the negative, the yin, to enter. Contemplate in silence and then, with much practice, without your seeking any form at all, your hand will unconsciously become the thought.”

  As the old man said, Shi-Rong knew all this in theory; but he was surprised, after so many years as an administrator, to find how hard it was to do it in practice.

  Almost every day after that, he would spend an hour or two working on his calligraphy. Sometimes he would write only a single character and ponder its meaning. Quite often, he would copy a poem. Occasionally he would compose a short poem of his own and then try to write it, perhaps many times, closing his eyes as he wrote the characters so that he would not correct them at all. And sometimes, when he did this, the results had a beauty quite beyond what he would have thought of himself. And when he shared these efforts with the older man, Mr. Gu would say: “Better. You have far to go, but you are on the path.”

  One winter afternoon, after he’d been applying himself in this way for some three years, Shi-Rong made a confession to his mentor. “I have noticed something recently. But I am not sure what it means.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I hardly know how to describe it,” said Shi-Rong. “A feeling of separation. Things that were always important to me—my rank, my family honor, even my ancestors—no longer seem to be so. It is a terrible thing, surely, not to care about one’s ancestors.”

  “As we grow older, we become more aware of the larger flow of life,” said Mr. Gu. “This is part of what the Taoists practice. Our individual lives become less large in our minds.”

  “Even the rules of Confucius, by which I have tried to live, no longer seem so important.”

  “In my opinion,” said Mr. Gu, “Confucius is important for the young. He gives them moral rules by which to live, without which society falls apart. Young people need to believe. If they don’t believe in Confucius, they’ll only believe in something worse.”

  “You don’t think the young should seek enlightenment?”

  “A little, but not too much,” the scholar replied cheerfully. “If they become too enlightened, they won’t do any work.” He smiled. “Enlightenment is for old men like us.”

  In the months that followed, as Shi-Rong’s calligraphy continued to improve, his sense of detachment also seemed to grow, and generally this was accompanied by a sense of peace. But he still attended to the business of the estate. And the small things of life—a difficult tenant, a leaking roof—were just as irritating as they had been before.

  During this last year, however, he had begun to notice a further change in himself. It was insidious, hardly noticeable from one day to another, but it was there. He was losing the desire to attend to things. He walked up the hill at dawn less often. His studies were becoming more desultory. He wished he could turn the estate over to his son.

  * * *

  —

  Ru-Hai and the boy did not come that day, but they came the next, arriving at noon, Ru-Hai riding a strong horse and his son a sturdy pony, which the groom took care of. The little gaggle of servants had all known Ru-Hai since he was a boy, so there were many greetings before the three of them sat down to eat a meal together, and Shi-Rong had a chance to observe his grandson. He wanted to like the boy and to be liked by him.

  It had to be said, his grandson was not quite what he had expected. Of course, he reminded himself, it had been some years since he’d seen Bao-Yu, and naturally the child had grown a lot. All the men of the mother’s family were large, so it really wasn’t surprising if, already, one could see young Bao-Yu was going to be a big, flat-faced sort of fellow when he
grew up. But he was very polite and respectful. Shi-Rong was grateful his father had seen to that—even if the boy did wolf his food.

  During the meal Shi-Rong asked Ru-Hai for news about his wife and two daughters, and received a promise that the entire family would come for Qingming the following spring. Then, so as not to leave him out of the conversation, Shi-Rong asked his grandson about his studies at school. How far had he progressed with Confucius?

  “He does all right,” Ru-Hai answered for him, a little too quickly perhaps. “He has a good head for mathematics,” he added.

  “Ah,” said Shi-Rong a little absently. “I am glad to hear it.” And he gave the boy an encouraging nod.

  If Shi-Rong was slightly puzzled by his grandson so far, he was entirely disconcerted when, after the meal was over and they were about to walk up the hill to visit the ancestral tombs, Bao-Yu suddenly lay down on his back in the courtyard and invited his grandfather to stand on his stomach.

  “What does he want?” Shi-Rong asked Ru-Hai.

  “He wants you to stand on his stomach,” his son replied with a smile. “He’s always asking people to do that.”

  “He can jump on it if he wants,” the boy cried proudly.

  “Certainly not. Tell him to get up at once,” said Shi-Rong crossly.

  “It’s all right, Father,” said Ru-Hai, “he just wants to impress you with how strong he is.” It seemed to Shi-Rong that both Ru-Hai and his son had taken leave of their senses. Was this any way to show respect to a grandfather?

  “He can lie there all day,” he said, “but I’ve got better things to do than jump up and down on him.” And taking his son firmly by the arm, he started to leave the courtyard. If the boy was crestfallen, however, he didn’t show it. He just bounced up and trotted after them.

  “It’s all right, you know, Father,” said Ru-Hai. “Remember what they say: strong in body, strong in mind.”

  “He needs exercise,” Shi-Rong replied drily.

  * * *

  —

  It was a fine afternoon. The view from the tombs across the huge valley was magnificent.

  “You have been here before,” Shi-Rong said to the boy, who looked uncertain.

  “He doesn’t remember,” said Ru-Hai.

  Quietly Shi-Rong showed the boy the tombs. “This is my father, your great-grandfather. Here is his father and his…” For several minutes he went reverently from tomb to tomb, saying a few words about each. Then he and Ru-Hai and the boy prayed for all their ancestors. Bao-Yu behaved very properly, and Shi-Rong told him: “You must remember this day for the rest of your life, when you and your father and your grandfather prayed together at the tombs of our ancestors. Will you promise me to do that?”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” he said.

  “He will remember this time,” said Ru-Hai.

  “Good. Let us look at the view. It will be fine today.” Indeed, Shi-Rong could scarcely remember a day when it had been clearer. “You like the view?” he asked Bao-Yu.

  “I do, Grandfather.” The boy nodded vigorously.

  “Our family’s been looking at this view for hundreds of years,” Shi-Rong said. “This river valley is where Chinese history began. We don’t even know when we first came here, it’s so long ago. And whatever we do in life, we always finally come home and look over the river. My father did. So will your father, I daresay.” He glanced at Ru-Hai.

  “Of course,” said Ru-Hai.

  “And me too?” asked the boy.

  “I can’t see any point in moving, can you?”

  “Oh no,” said his grandson, “I can’t.”

  “Well then, we agree,” said Shi-Rong. “What else do you know about the river?”

  “It runs within its banks because of the irrigation works of Yu the Great.”

  “The civilization of the Yellow River owes everything to him. When did he live?”

  “Legend says four thousand years ago.”

  “Good boy. And did he have illustrious ancestors?”

  “He was tenth generation in descent from the Yellow Emperor, who may have been a god.”

  “Well,” Shi-Rong remarked to Ru-Hai, “my grandson knows the most important things.” He gave the boy a smile of approval. “Perhaps I’ll jump on his stomach after all.”

  “It needs dredging again,” said the boy unexpectedly.

  “Yes, it probably does,” Shi-Rong agreed, but with some surprise.

  “He wants to dredge it,” his father explained.

  “I want to be like Yu the Great,” Bao-Yu declared.

  “He wants to be an emperor?” Shi-Rong asked in astonishment.

  “No, Father.” Ru-Hai laughed. “He wants to be an engineer.”

  “An engineer?” Shi-Rong frowned. “That sounds rather mechanical. We don’t become engineers in this family,” he told the boy, “though you can employ engineers, of course.”

  “You forget, Father,” Ru-Hai interposed, “Yu the Great was not too proud to work with his hands alongside his laborers when they were building and dredging. So they say.”

  “That was a long time ago,” his father muttered. He turned to the boy. “I’ll show you an even better view,” he said, and led them up the path towards the little Buddhist temple.

  There was nobody there. But the view of the valley was breathtaking.

  “It’s beautiful,” said the boy. “Has the temple been here long?”

  “About three hundred years. We gave the money to build it, on our land.”

  “Where are the monks?”

  “They come from a big monastery about three miles away. Every few days one of them comes.”

  “Are they Zen monks?”

  “No.”

  “Father’s taking me to a big Zen monastery where they practice martial arts,” said Bao-Yu. He punched his arms in the air. “Bam, bam…Hai…Za-bam.”

  “I know,” said Shi-Rong. “It was my idea.”

  “Really?” The boy looked at his grandfather in surprise. “That was a really good idea,” he said artlessly.

  After a while, they returned to the house, where Shi-Rong showed them around, talking about his scholarly father and his old aunt. “She could have been a scholar or a musician herself,” he told them. “Here”—he showed them—“are the I Ching sticks she used.”

  His grandson listened attentively to everything, though whether he was really interested, Shi-Rong couldn’t tell. It was Ru-Hai who finally suggested that, as they were both tired from the journey, they might like to rest a little.

  * * *

  —

  About an hour had passed before, sitting in the room he used as a library and office, Shi-Rong suddenly became aware of his grandson standing in the doorway. He looked a bit sleepy, uncertain whether to disturb his grandfather.

  “Come in,” said Shi-Rong. “They just brought me some tea. Would you like some?” The boy nodded, and Shi-Rong poured him a cup.

  “It’s nice and quiet here,” the boy said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” I’ve lectured him enough for today, he thought. So he said nothing as the boy started to wander about the room, looking at things.

  “What are these?” Bao-Yu asked, taking a bowl off a shelf. The bowl was full of little bones and broken shells.

  “My father bought them in an apothecary’s. A farmer had found them on his land, thought they might be magical, and wanted the apothecary to grind them up to make a magic potion.”

  “Oh.” His grandson sat down with the bowl in his lap and started turning the bones over. “Man,” he said suddenly.

  “Man?”

  “The writing on the bones. Man. House.” He turned a bone over, then inspected another. “Sun. River. Horse. It’s writing, isn’t it—on the bones?”

  “That’s what my father thought. Very old
writing. Thousands of years. The characters aren’t like ours today. They look primitive, you might say.” Shi-Rong paused. “Where did you find the character for horse?”

  Bao-Yu showed him a splintered bone and pointed to a tiny scratching. “It looks sort of skinny and incomplete,” he said, “but the idea’s the same.”

  “So it is,” said Shi-Rong. “I never noticed that before.”

  * * *

  —

  They ate early that evening. Bao-Yu was getting tired and Ru-Hai told him to go to his room and sleep. Only when the two men were alone did Ru-Hai turn to his father to address the issue that was really on his mind. “I came at once when I got your letter.”

  “You are a good son.”

  “Are you unwell, Father?”

  “I am getting old.”

  “Not so old. You do not look ill.”

  “Perhaps. But I believe the end is near. I feel a strange weakness. Other things also. Something similar happened to my father. I am certain this winter will be my last.”

  “I hope you may be wrong.”

  “I would not have sent for you otherwise,” Shi-Rong went on calmly. He gave a wry smile. “I want my grandson to remember me as I am now.”

  Shi-Rong gazed at him. They hadn’t seen much of each other over the last ten years. It was nobody’s fault. Ru-Hai had been busy in Beijing. On the one occasion since Ru-Hai’s marriage when Shi-Rong had gone to the capital, his son’s wife and little children had received him respectfully and kindly, exactly as they should treat an honored grandfather. His daughter-in-law had several times said how much she wished they could spend more time at the family estate so that his grandchildren should know him better.

  “The house awaits. I’m keeping it warm until you come,” he had told her with a smile.

  Did his son respect him? He hoped so, but he wasn’t sure. That accusation, about the bribes he took, had been made a dozen years ago. But it still hung, silently between them, like a swinging pendulum in a clock.