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I once thought that we were wanderers, unencumbered with material possessions, going nakedly about our life's business. But these fellows are the true nomads, a fact that somehow serves to deepen my awareness of their ability to endure hardship. When I realize that people can survive under such extreme conditions, our own incessant complaints seem rather petty. But no matter how pathetic the stonecutters look, I'll not relent, even if they begin to chew on cassava bark. So I shout out, "Hey, we're talking to you!"
"Don't pretend you can't hear us!" Old Wu chimes in forcefully.
It is like advancing upon a steadfast and impenetrable stone wall, which causes the invading enemy to crumble in despair. Pity that their knack of self-preservation does not fool us: we understand each other only too well.
Yellow Hair is furious: "Up your mother's… Don't play dumb with me. Hand over the brass lion right now!"
They respond by smoking a long bamboo water pipe, which gurgles loudly as it is passed from one sinewy hand to the next. A secret signal, perhaps? After one round, the black faces still do not appear contented; on the contrary, they now seem savage.
I decide a change of tactics is in order. "Do you know what that mound of dirt is? A national treasure! Aren't you Chinese?" Wasted breath, playing a zither for a cow. They're Chinese, but they're pretending not to understand Chinese. Damn them!
The cassava is done, but it could cook until it was burned to a crisp, and we'd still be at a standoff. How could these obedient citizens have become so greedy and contemptible so suddenly? Is it that they're too poor and they want to make some money? They had to have heard Yellow Hair's insults and challenges, yet their gaunt faces remain unmoved. Their bulging biceps twitch dangerously, signaling nervousness and anger, as if to say that no matter what country or region they are from, they are still human beings, not beasts of burden to be abused.
Old Wu, who normally thrives on conflict, is silent.
Who is the flying dragon of strength here? We are. Who is the snake accustomed to this turf? Again, we are. It is not they who can hurt us but the other way around. Except that it would appear we can't do much. What-beat them to death and boil them for di
"Surely, at least one of you must have had some schooling? You must know what a historical relic is. You can't eat it, and you can't do anything with it, so what's the point of keeping it? Are you hoping to make a couple of yuan? I'll give it to you straight: this piece of brass is a priceless treasure; it has no price, understand? When something is so valuable that its value ca
This seems to have had an effect. One of the younger members of the group looks uncomfortable, glances at his fellow workers. But as long as they continue to act dumb like this, it's still rats pulling a turtle-there's no place to get a handhold.
My remarks arouse Yellow Hair, who lets forth a barrage of patriotic invective and then a
Good old Yellow Hair, every word worth its weight in gold.
With this exchange, the cassava gets really burned, and the stonecutters finally open their mouths. Leizhou-style Mandarin is pretty awful, every syllable harsh and palatal, and the grammar is a mess. But their message is clear: they were the ones to blast open the unclaimed tomb, and finders are keepers.
What an infuriating band of rogues. We'll see who first discovered this national treasure. Why, if Old Wu and I hadn't come onto the scene, they would have been scared out of their wits and probably would have set off firecrackers and burned paper money to drive away the evil spirits.
"Watch what you say. Whose turf is this, anyway?" My face grows stern.
Fearless leader Yellow Hair is undaunted. "This is a case of piling earth on top of the emperor's head. What nerve! Leizhou men, go back home, and dig up your own ancestral graves!"
The situation is rapidly deteriorating. Should Yellow Hair turn and strike the bell, the army would come charging in and torch the hut.
Old Wu has been muttering to himself; he must have something up his sleeve. "All right, you don't know how to read, you're uneducated; it's not really your fault. But common folk have to obey the law, too. The law states that the land belongs to the nation, including the skeletons in the ground. Even if your great-grandfather had gold bricks and silver ingots buried with him, don't think you could touch it. This is no bluff. Nowadays the government is picking up people like caterpillars; the man with the chop that's round and not square-the man with the government chop-is the man who gets to point the finger. And if, when they look at your family history, they find one tiny bit of dirt, they'll push you into a bad social class, then walk you right past the hall of justice to where the firing squad is waiting."
Old Wu is a real hero, who approaches all matters from a position of strength. He threatens and coddles, mixing truth with fiction, his cause just and his message stern. I watch the stonecutters pale as they exchange glances. Silenced.
A psychological attack is best, and we won't stop until their number has been called. Old Wu shouts a command: "Return the brass lion to the ancient tomb, and handle it carefully!"
Total victory. Their troops withdraw.
The wicked still fear the law.
But is there really any law? I am not so sure. And if it did exist at one time, where is it now? In point of fact, it's there if you want it to be but disappears when you don't. At times of crisis, we offer it up as a sacrifice, but when the crisis has passed, we no longer think in such terms. To what higher court can one appeal? The Farm Headquarters political department? The Yanghuo County Revolutionary Committee? There are countless serious matters to seize hold of and promote; moreover, the people who have not been deprived of schooling are not necessarily more intelligent than the stonecutters. Foolish people can be taught. We are taught wherever we go, but no one will talk reason. Most frightening of all are the teachers who extract political elements out of the nonpolitical, revolutionizing the very life out of our bodies.
Back at the dormitory, the brass lion eats away at our gray matter, and we find it difficult to sleep at noontime. Old Wu pontificates about Shang wine cups, Zhou tripods, Qin and Han tiles. Yellow Hair does not aspire to such refined topics. I worry that we will be forced to let the truth be known and say that during the current "movement," we made a mess of this unidentified tomb, stirring up all sorts of spirits and unleashing the primal forces of nature.
Only now does Old Wu, our wise sage, wake up. "Since the world is the way it is, it's best not to publicize this incident. No one is able to communicate with heaven, and no one can frighten the authoritative scholars of history into action. Those who might are under house arrest or have been banished. Who has any authority these days? When academia itself founders, it's tough to be a scholar."
Should we bury the lion here for a few years, or should we make a switch and pretend it is still inside the tomb? Old Wu a