This round of academic contention brings out other emotions in me. Our nation is indeed amazing. Any ancestral grave one treads upon can be traced back hundreds of generations. Take the thatched hut we live in, for example; six or seven thousand years ago, the people of Banpo village built their huts in the very same style-a civilization ancient enough to make one sigh in wonder.
The scaffolding shakes, and we are quiet. But the person who shows up turns out to be Yellow Hair. One of our own. He drops the weighted plumb line over the corner of the wall, then squints down and swears, using all his might to pry off one stone that protrudes prominently from the others.
If Yellow Hair has it in for Old Wu, it is because the latter is a loafer. And really, given half a chance to loaf, who wouldn't take it? When it's almost time for the bell to ring, there seems little point in being so diligent. It is not as if this structure will someday house people; it is going to be a meeting hall. We will continue to live in thatched huts. And while no one can dispute the fact that meetings are more important than sleep, on the other hand, there seems little danger that a column will come crashing down in the midst of a struggle session on account of a misplaced stone. This job is appropriate compensation for Old Wu, I kid him, because he has for years written political essays, beautiful works that he recites with great verve. A bit of Marx, Engels, Stalin, and Mao; of landlords, wealthy peasants, reactionaries, bad elements, and rightists-there is something in his speeches for everyone, and so naturally his audience resounds with animated shouts of support. After each meeting, he routinely crumples the perfectly crafted manuscript into a ball, which he tosses atop his mosquito netting to await appropriate use the next time he visits the pit that serves as the gentlemen's lavatory.
Old Wu has grown indignant, and in order to avoid a quarrel, I try to tell Yellow Hair that we weren't in the mood for work a moment ago, which is why the stone was not in place. Yellow Hair' eyes widen. Before I can finish my sentence, he takes hold of the rope on which the pipes are hung and slithers to the ground.
Yellow Hair is, of course, also a nickname. His hair is a yellow ish brown. We have yet to learn if this is a genetic trait that has been passed down over the years or evidence that he offended his ancestors. In fact, he is of pure Chinese extraction, last in the line of several generations of master masons. Even after traveling to the South Seas, he was not able to cast off his legacy, for he became the master mason of our construction group.
The bell rings. Still no sight of Yellow Hair on the opposite slope. Strange. Then, in a moment, he arrives with a face as black as india ink and, out of the blue, begins swearing: "Are you playing games with me? Just watch me plaster your mouth shut with a bucketful of mortar!"
What has happened? We sense immediately that something is wrong. The ghost grave hasn't got a damn thing in it. Even the bones have rotted into thin air.
We look at one another for a moment, but Old Wu is quickest: "It's them!"
Them. A complete mystery.
They are from the mainland, the Leizhou Peninsula. I was there once visiting relatives: barren soil as far as the eye could see, bringing to mind the saying red earth for a thousand miles. Here the soil is rich and black, yielding bricks as light and porous as steamed yeast cakes. Fortunately, there are rock formations in the mountains with such a good grain that in cutting them out, one has only to drive in a wedge to pull out neat square blocks. On the surface, it looks easy enough, but there's a trick to it, and no one at our farm can manage it.
They are strangers here and, as strangers, have yet to communicate with anyone outside their group, although the sounds of pounding echo in our respective camps. I have never been able to get a head count, but there must be six or seven of them. To me, they all look alike: jet-black faces with no more than a few ounces of flesh, their arms nevertheless thick from wielding a sledgehammer. They have their own language. The difficulty of the Leizhou linguistic family has stymied even the linguistically gifted Wu. A clan unto themselves. Though our brigade has empty huts to spare, they insist on pitching their own camp; our brigade has an eating hall, but they prefer to choke on the smoke of their cooking fires, stubbornly preserving their self-contained society. They know only work, with one exception. When the occasional young peasant woman makes her way to the rice fields, they come to life, first staring, then talking softly, perhaps in an exchange of opinions. Though the odds of viewing educated young women, who leave like clockwork at dawn and return at dusk, are greater, the stonecutters dare not take liberties-their eyelids never budge. While phoenixes may not be as valuable as chickens here in the wilderness, surely the cutters should allow themselves to take a glance or two.
The outside laborers keep their trade secrets to themselves. Their blasts produce scarcely any reverberations, the sound waves seemingly swallowed up into deep crevices. Every year when we expand our frontiers by opening up the mountains, we try to appropriate a small quantity of dynamite to throw at fish in the river, in the hope of varying our otherwise vegetarian diet. Damnably, control is tight, one stick to a ditch, and without this stuff there is no hope of snaring even a bit offish scale.
They
do not use sticks of dynamite; heaven knows what alchemy they perform. Do you think you can glean their secrets? They pretend not to understand what you say and refuse to let an outsider observe them at work. Even stranger is the imported marvel called directional blasting, of which we have heard vague mention. Who would have guessed that the Leizhou natives mastered this technique long ago, for they are able to set off silent blasts that are devoid of flying chips, and they do so in seeming disregard of their own mortality. Worthy indeed to be the descendants of the men who invented gunpowder. Although this technique is primitive, the clan has passed down its secret for years, perfecting it with each successive generation.
The riddle of their existence is particularly elusive.
Even the concept of outside laborer is tarnished and suspiciously independent of the established social order. In our civilized nation, the relatively advanced notions of isms and social classes dictatorships and party lines permeate the hearts and minds of even women and children.
What could have befallen the homeland of these nomads? Was there a restoration? A coup? Is their fee divided up according to work points, or do they split it evenly? Such a casual approach to compensation flies in the face of political economics.
Our brains are routinely washed, our tails routinely lopped off. But as we listen to nightly lessons on political struggle, we can hear in the distance the pounding of rocks, and we feel sorrowful and alone. When we aspire to conquer the mountains and rivers and then remember that we are stuck in this anthill of a meeting room, we have new regard for our comrades in the wilderness who continue the revolutionary struggle apace.
But then comes our epiphany: in a land so vast, with a population so great, some things just shouldn't be too conscientious. The people from Leizhou are capable of overturning anything and yet seek only to keep their families from starving. Their stomachs are not thinking organs. They do not concern themselves with philosophy.
And so it is as if we were living in different worlds: our philosophies conflict, our political lines differ, yet we coexist in peace.
Sleeping brass lion!
Well water and river water wage war before the ancestral graves.
"Who's in charge here?" We rush into their self-contained hut. Old Wu towers above the group, his voice ringing out, his query threatening.
No response. The scorching white rays of noon creep in to reflect detached wooden faces.
We take a look around, but of course the brass lion is nowhere in sight. We have never seen anything like this: woks on stone, bedding on stone, with no cushioning pads. The bed planks shine where sweat has polished them. The hammer handle of hard bamboo, which they replace daily, has been split into kindling and flickers and sputters as the cassava roasts.
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 dinner? Very well, the countryfolk's stubbornness and tenacity have not gone unnoticed. Now we must come to grips with this type of warfare.
"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 cannot be reckoned, you won't be able to dispose of it. If you try, the Public Security Bureau will get wind of it and will clap handcuffs on you in no time flat."
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 announces that we have already reported the situation to Farm Headquarters and that the security section is sending someone out to guard the grave. "Know how the security section makes its living? Don't wait to see the coffin before you start crying."
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.