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More years pass as if in an instant. The nature of the world changes daily, the pace is rapid. People's hearts gradually leave the ancient world behind.
Whereas in the past, underground laborers had to carry out their business in secret, in the changed world such practices are no longer noteworthy. These days, there are many novelties.
One day, the long unseen Yellow Hair knocks at my door. After cigarettes and tea, I learn that his factory has run up against competition from computerized cutting tools, and his problems have been compounded by the depressed economy. There was for him no choice but to stop salaries and let people go on extended vacation. Without paychecks, however, vacations are not very interesting. He wants to change his profession.
I comment that the construction business is booming and that he is still a master mason. He says that his poor ancestors played with dirt for generations, and why should he hold on to this rotten rice bowl? Furthermore, he is in his late thirties and has had his fill of following orders. This time, he wants to strike out on his own and open a store.
What line?
"Dogmeat, snails, and cobras; salted olives, preserved ginger, dried litchis. If it's edible, I'll sell it."
I ask if this business will hold up, and he says he first will hire a clerk, and when he has found a wife, he will let the clerk go. I say, "Great, forget the rest, let's celebrate the opening by going out for snake soup"-which I haven't tasted since Hainan.
Yellow Hair, this easygoing fellow, unexpectedly stiffens and mutters that he is short on the capital he needs to open the store, to the tune of at least eighteen hundred.
I would like to reach into my pocket to help him, and although I receive modest compensation for my manuscripts, unfortunately I belong to the slow-scribbler's school and have not been able to save much. When I examine what I have at hand, the most I can come up with is four hundred yuan.
Yellow Hair waves his hand and shakes his head; it's not my money he wants, just the painting from long ago, which, if sold, could bring a tidy sum. He is afraid I don't believe him and tells me quite a few true-life stories, which to my ears seem more like folk legends, but all contain exact names, dates, and places.
And then I consider that there is another type of antique collecting-that is, speculation. Not very cultivated and overly profit oriented, but not without benefit to the national economy and the people's livelihood. "It's over at Old Wu's," I tell him.
Embarrassed, Yellow Hair says he knows where it is but that each of us has a stake in the painting.
Yellow Hair is not particularly friendly with Old Wu, this I know. When I think of that tattered old shroud, I suspect it can't be worth much at all, so that if we did sell it, we wouldn't be robbing the nation of very much. "Well, all right, I'll go talk it over with Old Wu, and if we sell it, no matter what the price, you can have my share, too."
The next day, I arrive on Old Wu's doorstep. After the many generations of poverty in his family, he is finally established, having been recently assigned to a certain graduate school to specialize in some sort of Western ism. I think of the verse he used to recite back in the days when he was down and out in Hainan: "If we raise our heads and laugh when we go out the door, how can we be lowly commoners?"
What is most admirable about Old Wu is that he is unswerving in his affectations and will never stoop to self-deprecatory or polite remarks simply because I happen to be momentarily enjoying a bit of notoriety. I have always genuinely sought out his teaching, and although his knowledge of archaeology is close to my own, when we get on to abstract topics, he brims with ideas; he has indeed been blessed with the benefits of higher education. After we settle down, he speaks with exuberance on the origin and development of philosophy, its implications for the future of humanity, how interesting a tool it is for dissecting our Chinese national consciousness, and so on. He admonishes me to renew my knowledge, especially the new findings in the social sciences. I promise to devote myself to this endeavor in the future. He continues by making pointed criticisms of my most recent fiction, saying that I am using uh, ah, hmm, and well too much. A piece of writing should be pristine and vigorous. I need to model my works after the ancient writers and to emulate the early Qin essays. Under no circumstances should I emulate Ming and Qing novels, for with the exception of a few works they all belong to decadent fin de siècle literary styles. Modern works are even worse. He gives me Liu Xie's volume on criticism, The Carving of Dragons and Literary Minds. I accept it and promise to read it for the fourth time.
He pauses, conceivably to consider if he has said something erroneous. This gives me an opportunity to explain the purpose of my visit.
"Hmm-Yellow Hair-well, it's been a real long time since I've seen him-uh, how come he didn't come? Uh, I miss talking to him-is he married? Hmm, no matter-talented fellow like that doesn't need to worry…"
I observe that he has used more than a few ahs, uhs, and hmms.
He subsequently comments that the weather is quite humid, oppressive really, but it just won't seem to rain, clearly the result of low pressure in the subtropics.
I agree with his meteorologic observations. "But where do you keep the painting?" I ask him.
He frowns, tracing his memory, and then finally says that the painting isn't here at his house; it's with a friend who is a graduate student at the Institute of Fine Arts. However, if he can locate that friend, he can get it back at any time.
That being the case, there's nothing more for me to say. As an afterthought, I ask Old Wu if he now knows the subject of the painting.
His mood shifts, and he says with pleasure and pride that he paid to have a frame made, that the painting has a white matting and looks much more impressive than it did. "Guess. I'll bet you won't be able to guess," he says in a mysterious tone. "It's a painting of a sleeping lion."
I want to comment but hold back. Such a long time has gone by since we've seen each other that it's better to let the talk flow naturally back to the conversation of old friends. I laugh and change the topic: "I hear your wife comes from a big family in society and is very pretty."
Old Wu is more than willing to acknowledge this fact, and of course the topic of the painting never comes up again. He says that someday soon he'll bring his wife to see me. Then he offers to give me a tour of his new house and to show me a color photo of his wife. In light of the fact that he is going to pay me a return visit, I could conceivably wait till later to regard his wife's beautiful countenance, but it would not be right to reject offhand this generous gesture. Who would have thought that no sooner is the bedroom door pushed open than he has a change of heart and slams the door shut again. "Forget it; it's a mess in there, and her foreign likeness isn't worth troubling ourselves over."
At this, my temper is sorely tested.
As I am about to leave, I say in all seriousness, "Old Wu, no matter who has that painting, let's get this story straight. The subjects of Han never once saw a piece of lion's fur, let alone a silk painting of a whole lion. But even if that thing were a rag used to clean people's feet, nobody should try to hog it for himself. If you want to keep it as a collector's item, you'd better come up with a price."
Old Wu blinks and says nothing.
And that is how the cursed sleeping lion returned from the underworld to the world of light, obsessing us for ten years and driving a wedge into our friendships.
Several days later, Yellow Hair comes by to check up on the situation. When I tell him what has transpired, he does not seem at all surprised, and although he ca