River Town_ Two Years On The Yangtze Part 24

The only honest advice I could ever think of was: Don't get married. But this wasn't particularly realistic and it was easy for me to say; as a waiguoren waiguoren that was yet another way in which I was beyond the pale, because I wasn't going to be married in Fuling. None of those issues touched me directly, and I watched from a distance, the way I did with so many other things. It was like wandering through rich people's apartments, or reading the stories my students wrote, or standing out on my balcony watching the Yangtze boats slip past to unknown destinations. There was a certain power to that, because many things did not touch me, and from this distance there were moments-a trip down the river, a day in the countryside-that stayed with me in all of their vividness and beauty. But often there was helplessness and sometimes there was sadness. Sitting there with Ma Fulai, I knew that there would be something good about bringing this part of my life to a close. I watched him smoke another cigarette, and then he left. that was yet another way in which I was beyond the pale, because I wasn't going to be married in Fuling. None of those issues touched me directly, and I watched from a distance, the way I did with so many other things. It was like wandering through rich people's apartments, or reading the stories my students wrote, or standing out on my balcony watching the Yangtze boats slip past to unknown destinations. There was a certain power to that, because many things did not touch me, and from this distance there were moments-a trip down the river, a day in the countryside-that stayed with me in all of their vividness and beauty. But often there was helplessness and sometimes there was sadness. Sitting there with Ma Fulai, I knew that there would be something good about bringing this part of my life to a close. I watched him smoke another cigarette, and then he left.

THAT SPRING was Beijing University's hundredth anniversary, which nationwide celebrations combined with the seventy-ninth anniversary of the May Fourth Movement. There was a television special in which Da Shan, the Chinese-speaking Canadian, told jokes and introduced floor shows on a stage in the Beijing campus. was Beijing University's hundredth anniversary, which nationwide celebrations combined with the seventy-ninth anniversary of the May Fourth Movement. There was a television special in which Da Shan, the Chinese-speaking Canadian, told jokes and introduced floor shows on a stage in the Beijing campus.

The May Fourth Movement had occurred in 1919, in response to the Versailles Treaty. This agreement rewarded Chinese contributions to the Allied victory by granting former German concessions like Qingdao to the j.a.panese-an injustice that naturally outraged the Chinese people. The movement began as a student protest, expanding to include a wide range of reform-minded Chinese intellectuals. It was a nationalistic protest that simultaneously reached out to the West; "science" and "democracy" were its catchwords.

The Communist Party claimed that the May Fourth Movement was a predecessor to its own uprising, which was a particularly brazen instance of appropriating history. Indeed, some of the May Fourth leaders were Communist or eventually turned to Communism, but it was a stretch to link their ideals to the att.i.tude of today's Party. As a result, the television special was a surreal mixture of contradictions: Communist Party officials praised the memory of student activists; speeches extolled "science" and "democracy" and the Beijing University campus proudly commemorated the events of 1919 while tactfully making no mention of what had happened there in 1989. Da Shan told his usual jokes. In its own strange way the event made for gripping television.

Fuling Teachers College joined in the celebration by staging a short play compet.i.tion to mark the anniversary. Preliminary rounds took place in each department, with the winners performing once more in the campus auditorium. One of my literature cla.s.ses prepared some scenes from Romeo and Juliet Romeo and Juliet, while the other cla.s.s adapted Kate Chopin's "Desiree's Baby" for the stage. Linda played Desiree and Mo Money was the heartless Armand; I helped them practice, along with the Romeo and Juliet Romeo and Juliet group. group.

Adam's Spanish cla.s.s went to work on Don Quixote Don Quixote. That was a small cla.s.s-fewer than a dozen students total-and it included some of the liveliest third-year boys. They created their own version of Cervantes's novel, set in Fuling. Don Quixote became an East River noodle shop owner who spent his spare time reading about the fine deeds of Lei Feng, the worker-martyr whose selfless dedication to Chairman Mao had made him a propaganda fixture since 1963. Lei Feng Spirit was a Communist-style celebration of the ba.n.a.l: he had been a common soldier who showed no interest in either fame or worldly possessions, preferring to labor in silent anonymity until the day a comrade accidentally backed a truck into a clothesline pole that fell on Lei Feng's head and killed him (it took the driver another twenty-five years before he was finally admitted into the Party).

Reform and Opening had put a damper on Lei Feng Spirit, although there were a few echoes of the old days. Next to the Fuling stock exchange was a building whose original propaganda message, long since removed, was still weather-stained clearly onto the white tile: "Study the Lei Feng Spirit." March was officially Lei Feng Month, although most locals simply laughed if you reminded them of this outdated tradition. But the college still took it seriously, a.s.signing mandatory volunteer work to the students in honor of Lei Feng. In my second year, one of these March events was a cadre-led cleanup of the East River district, which consisted of a television crew filming college officials and students as they pushed dirt to the other side of the street.

The East River cleanup took ten minutes, and Adam and I watched it from the Students' Home noodle restaurant. It was a Friday afternoon and we were eating Sichuan-style spaghetti and drinking local beer. A couple of our students came over and asked us to partic.i.p.ate in the volunteer effort, so we could be videotaped working alongside the cadres. The students seemed disappointed when we declined.

"We're eating lunch," Adam said, sipping his beer.

"Anyway, we're already doing volunteer work right now," I said. "We're Peace Corps volunteers."

The scene wasn't exactly Peace Corps brochure material, but it was impossible for us to respond to Lei Feng Spirit with anything other than cynicism. The May Fourth anniversary felt much the same way, a shameless manipulation of idealism, and probably these were the forces that gave birth to the Spanish cla.s.s's play of Don Quixote Don Quixote. But in the end it was impossible to tell exactly where the play came from, because Adam gave the students the basic premise-that Don Quixote was an East River noodle shop owner who admired Lei Feng-and from there the students took over, writing the dialogue and adding their own details.

On the day of the department compet.i.tion, they were one of the last groups to perform. The play began with Mo Money sitting in his noodle shop, reading a book. He stared intently at the pages and then shouted: "How wonderful! Look at all the fine deeds that Lei Feng does-every day he helps so many people! How I wish I could be like Lei Feng!"

He read another page; his eyes grew bigger. He stood up and began to mop his restaurant, thinking hard: "Why do I spend all of my time working like this? How boring my life is! What good is it to mop my poor noodle shop when I could be a great hero like Lei Feng?"

And then the idea hit him: he could travel across the countryside, performing great deeds for the people. He turned his mop upside down, straddling it like a horse, and he put an old bucket on his head as a helmet. On the wall of the noodle shop was a pinup of a j.a.panese xiaojie xiaojie in a sundress (you could buy the pictures in downtown Fuling for half a yuan), and Mo Money looked at her in rapture: in a sundress (you could buy the pictures in downtown Fuling for half a yuan), and Mo Money looked at her in rapture: "My Dulcinea! I will travel everywhere until I find you!"

He turned the portrait into a banner and trotted off into the countryside. Soon he pa.s.sed a peasant toiling in his fields, played by a boy named Roger.

"Sancho Panza!" Mo Money shouted. "Would you like to come have adventures with me?"

But Sancho Panza kept working: "No, I have something to do!"

"Aah, you are very tonto! tonto!" Don Quixote said. "Come have adventures with me. We will go to fight injustice like Lei Feng, saving beautiful maidens, and I will introduce you to my number one girl, Dulcinea! Come on, don't be a yahoo!"

"You are the yahoo! I'm too busy to go with you."

"So tonto tonto," muttered Don Quixote. For a moment he stood there thinking about what to offer the peasant. In the novel, Don Quixote promises that he'll give Sancho Panza the governors.h.i.+p of an island, and Adam had suggested that the student play could use Hainan, the island province in the south of China. But the students had their own ideas about Sancho Panza's reward.

"I must have a servant," Mo Money said. "If you come with me, I will promise you...Taiwan Island! I will make you governor of Taiwan Island!"

With that, Sancho Panza grabbed a mop and the two of them rode off together, cantering in perfect time as the audience laughed. Mo Money and Roger were both talented actors, and there was an instant chemistry between them. Roger was the quintessential sidekick, a skinny, wide-eyed boy who weighed perhaps ninety pounds and listened intently to the Don's commands. And Mo Money seemed to have taken lessons from The Great Dictator The Great Dictator, shouting instructions and carrying an air of mock seriousness.

Together they b.u.mbled through the Sichuan countryside, attacking windmills, fighting tigers, and causing trouble in rural inns. At one point they stopped to rest and Don Quixote commanded his servant to compose a song to Dulcinea. Sancho Panza took his guitar and sang under the j.a.panese pinup: Dulcinea!Dulcineeeeeeeaaaa!You are so beautiful...Where is my island?My Taiwan Island...

By the time they reached Chongqing, the people had already heard about their exploits. The Chongqing mayor, played by Lewis, presented them with honorary toothbrushes, secretly pasting signs on their backs that said "Tonto," "Yahoo," and "Yashua" (toothbrush). The heroes proudly hung the toothbrushes around their necks, and Don Quixote puffed out his chest and shouted: "I dedicate all of my good deeds to the beautiful Dulcinea! And I hope that everybody begins to do great things like Lei Feng!"

By now the student audience was in hysterics. Even the department teachers, who sat in the front row as judges for the compet.i.tion, were laughing helplessly; and the crowd's energy fed the actors, driving them to dash madly across the stage from one adventure to the next. There was no question that it was by far the best play in the department-but also there was no question that the play was treading on risky political ground. Part of the audience reaction seemed to say: I can't believe I'm hearing this. To some degree I felt the same way, and at the end of the performance I found myself watching Party Secretary Zhang. It was hard to tell what he was thinking-he was smiling and laughing softly, but I could see the wheels turning in his head. And in the end he represented the only judge who really mattered.

IT TOOK THE DEPARTMENT authorities a day to react. They banned authorities a day to react. They banned Don Quixote; Don Quixote; five other plays were chosen to be performed in the campus auditorium, including "Desiree's Baby." There were never any appeals to decisions like this, and the department made it clear that political issues were involved. five other plays were chosen to be performed in the campus auditorium, including "Desiree's Baby." There were never any appeals to decisions like this, and the department made it clear that political issues were involved.

But for some reason the students, who usually kept their grumbling quiet, were openly angry. Even the ones who had produced Romeo and Juliet Romeo and Juliet muttered darkly that their play had also been denied for political reasons, because the t.i.tle actors were real-life boyfriend and girlfriend, which was against the college's anti-romance regulation (the most ignored rule on campus). The strongest reaction, though, was from the Spanish students, who refused to accept the department command. Mo Money angrily confronted the department's a.s.sistant political adviser, threatening that if muttered darkly that their play had also been denied for political reasons, because the t.i.tle actors were real-life boyfriend and girlfriend, which was against the college's anti-romance regulation (the most ignored rule on campus). The strongest reaction, though, was from the Spanish students, who refused to accept the department command. Mo Money angrily confronted the department's a.s.sistant political adviser, threatening that if Don Quixote Don Quixote was blacklisted he would also pull out of "Desiree's Baby." Quickly it became a serious problem: the authorities didn't want their compet.i.tion to fall apart, and they liked the politics of the Kate Chopin story, which criticized American racism. was blacklisted he would also pull out of "Desiree's Baby." Quickly it became a serious problem: the authorities didn't want their compet.i.tion to fall apart, and they liked the politics of the Kate Chopin story, which criticized American racism.

And so it went with the anniversary celebration of the May Fourth Movement. In many ways I felt the department, and by proxy the Party, got exactly what it deserved. If you tried to politicize everything, turning every piece of literature and every sc.r.a.p of history to your purposes, then at a certain point it was bound to blow up in your face. After two years I was sick of the countless anniversaries and commemorations; I was tired of the twisted history; and I had had enough of our propaganda-laced textbooks.

But at the same time, Adam felt guilty, and even though it wasn't my cla.s.s I felt the same way, because there was no question that our influence had led the students into trouble. If we hadn't been there, they wouldn't have been performing Don Quixote Don Quixote and "Desiree's Baby" (and without our influence there certainly would not have been a Communist Party Member with the English name Mo Money). It was different from the other parts of our lives, in which we watched Fuling from a distance. We had a direct effect on these students, and we had always encouraged them to be open-minded, questioning, and irreverent. Some of this had been intentional-the debates about Robin Hood, the conversations in Chinese-but mostly it was a matter of our fundamental ident.i.ty. We were and "Desiree's Baby" (and without our influence there certainly would not have been a Communist Party Member with the English name Mo Money). It was different from the other parts of our lives, in which we watched Fuling from a distance. We had a direct effect on these students, and we had always encouraged them to be open-minded, questioning, and irreverent. Some of this had been intentional-the debates about Robin Hood, the conversations in Chinese-but mostly it was a matter of our fundamental ident.i.ty. We were waiguoren waiguoren, and we didn't have that voice in the back of our minds that warned us when certain lines were being crossed. We had lived in Fuling long enough to affect some of the people, but not long enough to internalize all of the rules; and this transitional state, like the half-baked history of the May Fourth anniversary, led to risky politics.

It also seemed clear that even though the play had dealt with subjects that usually weren't a.s.sociated with laughter, the students hadn't intended to be subversive in any serious way. Mo Money, after all, was both a Party Member and the cla.s.s monitor, and any violation had simply been the result of everybody's losing track of the play as a whole. The subject matter came from too many directions at once: Adam had proposed the references to Lei Feng, and the students had come up with Taiwan, and all of the silly words that they loved had come from many contexts over the course of the year. Probably their biggest mistake was focusing too much on Don Quixote Spirit. They tried to be faithful to Cervantes's novel, applying its satirical bent to Fuling life, and they attempted to be as entertaining as possible. But both satire and entertainment were risky endeavors in a Communist system, which depends on the sort of control that ruins good comedy.

Mostly there was something disappointing about the pettiness. None of it had any larger significance beyond whatever knowledge the students were able to acquire in their enthusiasm, and a counterrevolution was not going to start with Don Quixote Don Quixote (although, by coincidence, some of the important dissident meetings of 1989 had taken place under Beijing University's statue of Cervantes). But in any case it seemed clear that if Communist China was going to crumble, the collapse was not going to begin here in Fuling with a group of peasant-students clowning around on mops. It was pathetic that somebody couldn't watch the play and simply laugh; it was unquestionably funny, but even intelligent, well-educated people like Party Secretary Zhang were always listening to that voice in the back of their minds: Should I laugh at this? Is it really funny? Or is it offensive and dangerous? In some ways this was what I had grown to loathe the most about Communism. I could almost bear the falseness and the lies, but I could not forgive its complete absence of humor. China was a grim place once you took the laughter away. (although, by coincidence, some of the important dissident meetings of 1989 had taken place under Beijing University's statue of Cervantes). But in any case it seemed clear that if Communist China was going to crumble, the collapse was not going to begin here in Fuling with a group of peasant-students clowning around on mops. It was pathetic that somebody couldn't watch the play and simply laugh; it was unquestionably funny, but even intelligent, well-educated people like Party Secretary Zhang were always listening to that voice in the back of their minds: Should I laugh at this? Is it really funny? Or is it offensive and dangerous? In some ways this was what I had grown to loathe the most about Communism. I could almost bear the falseness and the lies, but I could not forgive its complete absence of humor. China was a grim place once you took the laughter away.

Adam and I encouraged Mo Money and the other students to work things out without causing more problems, but other than that we weren't involved in the negotiations. As the week pa.s.sed and the students gave us regular reports on these meetings, I began to see why the Don had struck such a chord. He was the perfect Chinese character, the poor knight with his outdated ideals and heart of gold. I saw flashes of him in everybody involved: he was Mo Money and his hopeless play, but at the same time he was also Party Secretary Zhang and his hopeless political faith. When I thought about it, Party Secretary Zhang was just doing whatever he could to hold the line, just as others had held it before him, and probably he didn't enjoy this particular aspect of his job. Earlier in the semester his daughter had died and his wife had just given birth to a son; he had bigger issues to worry about, but regulating the students' politics was his job, and so he did it. Everybody was tilting at windmills and I really couldn't blame any of them.

After a few days they made a compromise. There would be a special final performance of Don Quixote Don Quixote, strictly for the English department, with all of the politically sensitive material vetted and purged. This satisfied everybody-"Desiree's Baby" would continue as planned, and the Spanish cla.s.s would get a final chance to perform in front of their friends, although they weren't allowed to appear in the campus auditorium. Once again Adam helped them practice and rework the script.

At the end of the week, all of us gathered to watch the second performance of Don Quixote Don Quixote. In some ways the play was a letdown; it lacked the energy of the original, and a few times the actors became nervous, stumbling over their lines. The problem wasn't so much that important material had been lost, but rather that too much had been added: the play had acquired incredible symbolic weight in the course of a week. During the first staging, n.o.body had thought too much about what it meant to refer to Lei Feng and Taiwan. Now some of the looseness that makes good comedy was lost; the banned references were conspicuous by their absence, and the students were worn out from a week of negotiating with the authorities.

But nothing could completely ruin the slapstick of the two heroes, and once again the crowd enjoyed it. The play ended in mock sadness, the duo separated by Don Quixote's decision to retire to his noodle restaurant. Mo Money rode his mop slowly home, hanging his head, while the theme song from t.i.tanic t.i.tanic played mournfully in the background. played mournfully in the background.

William Jefferson Foster was the play's narrator, and after the final scene he stood up to read the postscript. But as he spoke, Adam and I realized that he was departing from the prepared text, reading something that he had written himself. He was always heading off on his own like this; often in cla.s.s I'd see William Jefferson Foster with his nose buried in the dictionary, and then during the ten-minute break he'd sidle up to me and say, with careful p.r.o.nunciation, "How is your premature e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n?"

Much of his extracurricular studies was along these lines, and he was always trying out some new obscenity or perverted phrase. It was childish, but at the same time he was one of the best students in the cla.s.s, and I could see that much of his English skill came from the pleasure he gained from manipulating the language. He took English in his own direction, using it as he pleased, and I liked that. I also liked that he had grown up in a poor peasant home not far from Guang'an, Deng Xiaoping's hometown, and yet now he had given himself a ludicrously pretentious WASP name.

At the end of Don Quixote Don Quixote, William Jefferson Foster veered off on his own once more. Standing there in front of the department he read his own conclusion: Don went back to his noodle shop, and Sancho went back to his farm to raise hogs in order to support his tuition, hoping that he could get the degree in Oxford University. Meanwhile Don taught himself and got the bachelor's degree in Penn University. Later the two crazy men travelled to China and became two English teachers, also the most famous Yahoos in Fuling.

He spoke quickly and none of the cadres caught it. Afterward he looked up at Adam and me, to see if we had understood, and then he grinned. The play was over.

THE NEXT MORNING, Adam and I woke up early to do some filming downtown. For three days we had had access to a video camera, because the Peace Corps medical officer was making a site visit and she had brought the office film equipment. It was the first time anybody from the Peace Corps staff had come to Fuling since the week we arrived in the city. Adam and I woke up early to do some filming downtown. For three days we had had access to a video camera, because the Peace Corps medical officer was making a site visit and she had brought the office film equipment. It was the first time anybody from the Peace Corps staff had come to Fuling since the week we arrived in the city.

For three days we tried to capture everything about Fuling that we wanted to remember. We filmed the students' performance of Don Quixote Don Quixote, and we made trips to the countryside and the parts of old town that we liked. Much of the tape consisted of short conversations with friends: the family at the Students' Home, the priest, the people who worked in the restaurants, teahouses, and parks where we had spent so much time. We took a cab ride and asked the driver to go as fast as possible while I pointed the camera out the window, filming the traffic as it flashed past in a chorus of honks.

On the morning that the Peace Corps medical officer was leaving, we decided to do one final shooting before returning the camera. We were downtown by seven o'clock, filming a group of elderly people as they did their taiji taiji routines in South Mountain Gate Park, and then we took the staircases down toward the docks so we could get some typical street scenes. routines in South Mountain Gate Park, and then we took the staircases down toward the docks so we could get some typical street scenes.

It was difficult to film average street life because it always stopped the moment we arrived. The camera was bulky, an expensive model that was essentially the same size as what a television reporter might use, and crowds always gathered and stared. Apart from conversations with friends, much of our Fuling footage consisted of locals and stick-stick soldiers gaping at the camera.

Down near the docks I quickly found myself surrounded by a crowd. Neither Adam nor I had spent much time in this area; there were no teahouses or restaurants where we knew the workers. Many of the people who gathered hadn't seen us before, and we told them that we were local teachers who were filming as a hobby.

Adam decided to create a diversion. He drifted a few feet down the street, stopping to buy a steamed bun from a streetside vendor. They bargained for a while and the crowd started to s.h.i.+ft, and then Adam joked with the woman and she laughed, covering her mouth. Slowly I started to move backward, hoping to separate myself from the crowd. Twenty people gathered around Adam, then thirty, forty. A few cabs stopped to stare; traffic backed up. Horns honked. I crossed the street quickly and then I was alone, filming Adam in the center of the crowd. Everybody had forgotten that I was there.

It was the sort of scene that at one point had been terrifying-there was nothing more intimidating during the first year than standing in the center of a ma.s.s of people, all of them studying me with incredible intensity. But rarely were these groups anything but curious, and over time, like the other waiguoren waiguoren who lived in rural Sichuan cities, Adam and I learned how to work the crowds. I always smiled and stayed relaxed, usually focusing on a single bystander: he would ask questions and I would answer while the rest of the people listened. Usually I told them my salary, and what I did in Fuling, and I answered their questions about America. To make the crowd laugh, I could use the dialect or refer to myself as a foreign devil. It was like being a politician in a benevolent environment, handling a press conference at which the theme was simply curiosity. who lived in rural Sichuan cities, Adam and I learned how to work the crowds. I always smiled and stayed relaxed, usually focusing on a single bystander: he would ask questions and I would answer while the rest of the people listened. Usually I told them my salary, and what I did in Fuling, and I answered their questions about America. To make the crowd laugh, I could use the dialect or refer to myself as a foreign devil. It was like being a politician in a benevolent environment, handling a press conference at which the theme was simply curiosity.

There was a certain power to those moments, because it was a remarkable thing to hold the attention of forty people who had dropped whatever they were doing simply to see you. This morning the crowd continued to swell around Adam. More than fifty people gathered close, laughing at his jokes. He offered a bun to a pa.s.sing cab. He bought two more buns from the woman and began to juggle. Another battalion of stick-stick soldiers rushed across the street to join the spectators. I zoomed in with the camera, focusing on faces-the smiling bun vendor, the young shopkeepers who had come out into the street, the worn visages of the stick-stick soldiers, their faces broken into grins as they watched the waiguoren waiguoren.

Adam dropped a bun. He picked it up and tossed it across the street toward me. He pointed me out, and the people laughed, turning back to Adam as he told another joke. Slowly I panned across the faces once more, and then suddenly the viewfinder went black.

Something pushed me backward and I took a step to regain my balance. I still had my eye on the viewfinder and it went black once more, and this time I was pushed back harder. I looked up and a man was standing in front of me, waving his leather money bag.

"You can't do this," he said. "You can't film here."

"Who are you?" I asked.

He repeated his command, and I repeated my question. I was still filming, the camera on my shoulder.

"I'm a citizen," he said. "You can't do this. It's illegal."

He swung his bag once more, harder this time, and I felt my anger rise.

"Stop hitting the camera," I said. "Who are you?"

"I'm a citizen," he said again. He had a thick local accent and he stepped close, threateningly. He was a big man with a belly and a shock of greasy hair and a round face that shone with anger. There were certain things about him that I recognized immediately-from his accent I knew that he wasn't educated, and something in the way he dressed and carried himself told me that he had a position of some authority, perhaps as a minor government cadre or a lower-level factory boss. He was in his late forties-of that age group known as the "Lost Generation," because they had grown up during the Cultural Revolution.

"I'm a citizen," he said once more.

"I'm a citizen, too," I said. "I live here in Fuling. I teach at the teachers college. There's nothing illegal about filming here."

He swung again at the camera, hitting it. I stepped forward.

"Leave me alone," I said. "I'm not doing anything wrong. Get out of here. Blow away."

The last phrase caught him. His eyes widened.

"What did you say?"

"I told you to blow away," I said. "Who do you think you are? You can't just come up and hit somebody for no reason at all. Why do you have to be so rude?"

I used the harsh word for rudeness, culu culu, and again it caught him.

"You can't film here," he shouted. "You're not teachers-you're reporters. And you can't throw things on the street like he just did. You should show more respect, and you shouldn't be here."

"I've been here for two years," I said. "We're just teachers, and we're filming because we want to remember Fuling. You shouldn't be so rude."

By now a crowd was gathering around us, murmuring, pressing close. A woman was with the man and she began to shout at me, jabbing her finger in the air. I was still filming but I held the camera low against my side. Adam hurried over from the other side of the street, trying to explain that we were teachers. But by now the woman and the man were shouting angrily, and the crowd's murmurs were growing louder, and I realized that we were in trouble. n.o.body was smiling anymore. I turned the camera off. The crowd grew.

OF EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED during my two years in Fuling, I reviewed that incident the most times. It couldn't be avoided; that was one of the most troubling moments I ever had in the city, and it was on tape. during my two years in Fuling, I reviewed that incident the most times. It couldn't be avoided; that was one of the most troubling moments I ever had in the city, and it was on tape.

I did not enjoy watching the video. Every time I saw it, something tensed in my stomach and I could feel my pulse race. I watched the smiling faces as Adam juggled and joked around, and I told myself that the people were obviously happy. I thought about all the days I had spent in the city, all the crowds I had encountered, and all the times nothing had happened. And I remembered the incident when the shoes.h.i.+ne man had bothered me and the people had stood up in my defense.

But always when I watched the video I silently urged it forward, waiting for the man to appear on the screen. He came in from the left, long after Adam had drawn the crowd, but unlike the others the man and his wife stood apart, a few feet away from the pack. They watched Adam for half a minute, and then the man turned to look at me. He crossed the street and walked toward me, striding purposefully off the side of the screen, and then suddenly everything went black.

There was much that the video showed. Most painfully, it showed the mistakes that we had made, starting with drawing a crowd in a part of town that we didn't know well. It also showed that Adam had been too nonchalant, milking the attention, and it showed that he had been disrespectful in tossing the bun across the street. It showed that I was far too quick to anger and use strong language; from the tape it seemed that the man might have left me alone if I hadn't insulted him.

But at the same time there was much missing from the tape, which was probably what made it the most unpleasant to watch. None of the background was there-nothing could show how we had dealt with so many crowds in the past that we were overconfident, and nothing could explain that confidence and looseness were the best ways to deal with that aspect of life in Fuling. The worst reaction was to fear the crowds or wish that they wouldn't appear; you had to accept that you were an anomaly, and that people were going to gather to stare and listen to you talk. If you let this bother you, it would make you miserable, the same way that there was no point in worrying about the noise and the pollution.

And always the key was to avoid taking yourself seriously. To be successful you laughed at yourself, talking of "us foreign devils," and you made a sloppy and hilarious imitation of the dialect. If you felt an urge to juggle, you juggled. It was like something that Adam used to say before he went into town to practice Chinese: "Well, now it's time to be a buffoon for the next two hours."

The tape also said nothing about all of the baggage that accompanied a waiguoren waiguoren holding a camera in China. In 1972, when there were virtually no foreigners in the country, Zhou Enlai invited the Italian filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni to make a doc.u.mentary about China. It was a controversial invitation; Mao's wife, Jiang Qing, and other conservatives in the government opposed it, but Zhou believed that a Westerner could make a film about China that would appeal to the outside world. Antonioni was sympathetic to the Chinese government, but his final product enraged officials, who accused him of deliberately trying to make China look poor. Most famously, Jiang Qing pointed out that his shot of the Nanjing Bridge included a workers' laundry line in the foreground. holding a camera in China. In 1972, when there were virtually no foreigners in the country, Zhou Enlai invited the Italian filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni to make a doc.u.mentary about China. It was a controversial invitation; Mao's wife, Jiang Qing, and other conservatives in the government opposed it, but Zhou believed that a Westerner could make a film about China that would appeal to the outside world. Antonioni was sympathetic to the Chinese government, but his final product enraged officials, who accused him of deliberately trying to make China look poor. Most famously, Jiang Qing pointed out that his shot of the Nanjing Bridge included a workers' laundry line in the foreground.

This was precisely what the Chinese expected of a foreigner-only a waiguoren waiguoren would visit a modern bridge and come away with the image of a clothesline, making the country look poor. Although Antonioni denied strenuously that his intentions had been to criticize China, a 1974 propaganda campaign focused on the incident, turning it into a textbook example of the way would visit a modern bridge and come away with the image of a clothesline, making the country look poor. Although Antonioni denied strenuously that his intentions had been to criticize China, a 1974 propaganda campaign focused on the incident, turning it into a textbook example of the way waiguoren waiguoren came to China and searched for the negative aspects. I had met older people in Sichuan and Xi'an who were familiar with this story, and as a result I had learned to be careful with my camera in Fuling. More than once somebody had accused me of trying to show the bad side of local life. came to China and searched for the negative aspects. I had met older people in Sichuan and Xi'an who were familiar with this story, and as a result I had learned to be careful with my camera in Fuling. More than once somebody had accused me of trying to show the bad side of local life.

But all of our experience failed Adam and me while we videotaped. The camera showed our mistakes with an embarra.s.sing clarity, but it didn't show everything that happened before the man confronted me, and it didn't show what happened after I turned the camera off. And perhaps what bothered me the most was that I watched the tape more than a dozen times, but never could I tell the precise moment when the crowd turned against us. I had always been fascinated by that elusive but definite s.h.i.+ft, the quicksilver instant when a Fuling crowd became a mob, but in the end it remained a mystery. Even the camera couldn't capture it.

THE MOB GREW. I turned the camera off. Adam was at my side and both of us were trying to explain at once. The man and his wife were still at the heart of the mob, and I could hear the man saying over and over that we were reporters who had no respect for the city. But by now he wasn't the only one talking. Others pressed forward, shouting and gesturing angrily, and it was hard to understand what they were saying. The buzz of the mob rose, s.h.i.+fting into a roar.

I felt my anger turn to fear, and now Adam and I were trying to be conciliatory, apologizing and emphasizing that we were teachers who meant no harm. But it was too late for explanations; n.o.body was listening and bystanders were jostling in their effort to see what was happening. Somebody brushed against my back. I wrapped both hands around the camera and held it in front of me. More people were shouting, their faces hard with anger.

"We need to get the h.e.l.l out of here," I said to Adam. I started to leave, dropping my head and holding the camera carefully, but n.o.body budged. The man's wife stood directly in front of me. I felt somebody clutching at my arm.

"We're leaving," I said in Chinese. The woman made no reply. She didn't move and now there was a horrible smile on her face-a combination of anger and joy as she saw us get what we deserved.

"Jesus," I said. "They won't let me out."

"Follow me," Adam said. He was carrying the camera case, an enormous metal box, and now he held it before him. Hands grabbed at him, but he shook them off and kept walking, his size and the bulk of the box forcing the mob to give way. Somebody tore at my arm. I cradled the camera as I pressed close to Adam's back. I felt a kick glance off my leg, and then another blow struck me hard on the thigh. We were free of the mob now, starting to run, and I turned quickly to see who had kicked me. But all I saw was a pack of blurred faces. We hurried down the street. I didn't look back again.

NOTHING HAPPENED AS A RESULT of the incident. Somebody called the college to report the confrontation, and the college of the incident. Somebody called the college to report the confrontation, and the college waiban waiban called the Peace Corps. The called the Peace Corps. The waiban waiban said nothing about whether Adam and I had been in the wrong; they simply asked if the camera was all right, and the Peace Corps said there were no problems. We had told the medical officer about the incident before she left Fuling. said nothing about whether Adam and I had been in the wrong; they simply asked if the camera was all right, and the Peace Corps said there were no problems. We had told the medical officer about the incident before she left Fuling.

Adam and I talked about it with Noreen and Sunni, but we didn't tell anybody else in Fuling. Together we watched the tape a lot. Nearly all of the footage consisted of pleasant everyday scenes-the rivers and the countryside; our students and our friends-but mostly we watched the part with the crowd. It was as if we were looking for some insight that we could take away from the experience, something that would explain the unpleasantness, but there were no neat revelations. All it showed was a blunt useless truth about life on the streets of Fuling: after two years we were still waiguoren waiguoren, both in the way we acted and in the way the people saw us.

There was nothing to do about that now, and we recovered as best we could. Fortunately we left town for a few days, because there were some Peace Corps administrative matters to take care of in Chengdu, and after returning to Fuling I tried not to think too much about the incident. In some ways avoiding the memory wasn't as hard as I had expected, because already there were many things like that in the river town. You knew they were there, but you tried not to think about them too much.

I went to town during the evenings, just as I always had. I still felt comfortable when people pressed close to see me, and the people were still friendly. Nothing had changed. It was both comforting and disheartening to realize that in some ways things were the same as they always had been.