River Town_ Two Years On The Yangtze Part 4

"Miss Sai," echoed Dean Fu, grinning.

Teacher w.a.n.g said something and everybody laughed. For a few minutes the entire table was focused on Teacher Sai's cup. It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago we had been talking about Saul Bellow and Joyce Carol Oates. Finally Teacher Sai relented.

"Only one more," he said. "This is the last one."

The waitress filled his cup. Teacher w.a.n.g smiled and turned his attention toward Adam and me. He made a quick gesture, holding up his cup, and the three of us drank. Teacher w.a.n.g downed the baijiu baijiu easily and he was not turning red. easily and he was not turning red.

The food came and for a while the shots slowed. When they resumed, everybody had forgotten about Teacher Sai, who was only good entertainment at the start and finish of a banquet. He was too much ha.s.sle once the serious drinking started and now he sat sipping tea while the baijiu baijiu flowed in earnest. flowed in earnest.

There was strategy to this part of the banquet and usually the shots were preceded by low murmurings, the teachers speaking the Sichuan dialect while Adam and I muttered English back and forth. The trick was to get a two-for-one-if Party Secretary Zhang toasted both Adam and me, then we would both drink and immediately afterward Dean Fu could do the same. Our response was to hit them with a preemptive strike; if we sensed that they were plotting, one of us would toast the pair, or the entire table, and then they would have to recover before resuming the attack. Occasionally they tried to focus on me, sensing weakness, but when that happened Adam would step in and cover me. That was acceptable in Sichuan-a friend could take a shot for you. Sichuanese drinking was a lot like war.

Every banquet had a leader, a sort of alcoholic alpha male who controlled the direction of the baijiu baijiu. Party Secretary Zhang always led the English-department events, but tonight he deferred to Teacher w.a.n.g. The big man worked quickly and with surprising fairness, toasting the entire table until the other teachers started to weaken. After that he focused on Adam and me, scorning the usual two-for-one as he traded personal shots between the two of us. It was a remarkable exhibition. After half an hour the three of us were still the most sober at the table, but I was fading quickly and Teacher w.a.n.g showed no signs of slowing. I heard Dean Fu and Party Secretary Zhang asking him to ease up, because they were afraid I would get sick, and at last the flurry of toasts ended.

Teacher w.a.n.g began to tell a long story. It was about a pedicab and he told it in Sichuanese while Teacher Sai translated. The story moved slowly and I was too drunk to listen carefully. My gaze wandered across the table until I found myself looking at the little man who had come with Teacher w.a.n.g. I had forgotten entirely about him and now he smiled. He said something, but I couldn't understand; he was a dialect speaker and in any case the baijiu baijiu had not improved either of our language abilities. Finally he concentrated very hard, p.r.o.nouncing four Mandarin syllables clearly. had not improved either of our language abilities. Finally he concentrated very hard, p.r.o.nouncing four Mandarin syllables clearly.

"Sha s.h.i.+ bi ya," he said.

"I'm sorry," I said in Chinese. "What did you say?"

"Sha s.h.i.+ bi ya."

I shook my head and he repeated it a few more times, gesturing as if he were reading a book. Finally something clicked in my mind.

"Shakespeare?" I said.

He laughed and gave me the thumbs up. "Di gen si." "Di gen si."

"d.i.c.kens?"

He nodded and laughed again.

"Ma ke tu wen."

"Mark Twain."

Slowly we made our way through Melville, Norris, O'Connor, and Cheever. It took me a long time to guess Norris and Cheever. There wasn't anything else that we were able to talk about and I never learned the little man's name, although he was able to communicate that he especially liked the Norris novel McTeague McTeague, which is perhaps the only great American novel about a dentist. Nowadays hardly anybody in America reads Norris but there was at least one fan along the Upper Yangtze.

Teacher w.a.n.g finished with the pedicab story. Even though I had missed most of it I could gather that it was about a time when he was very drunk and spent half an hour negotiating with a pedicab, only to realize that he was already in front of his hotel. All of the men laughed at the story. Listening to its translation reminded them that Teacher Sai was still there.

"Drink," said Party Secretary Zhang, pointing at Teacher Sai's cup.

"I can't."

"Drink."

"I can't."

"Yes."

"No."

"Drink."

"I'm sorry."

"Miss Sai!"

"Miss Sai!"

Finally he shuddered through another shot. It was clear that the banquet was breaking up, and Teacher w.a.n.g held his cup up to Adam and me. We raised our gla.s.ses.

"To books," I said.

But Teacher w.a.n.g had something else in mind. He spoke to me, seriously now, and Teacher Sai translated.

"Mr. w.a.n.g," he said, "wants you to write something for the college magazine."

Our cups were frozen above the table.

"What do you mean?"

"He wants you to write an article about literature."

"American or English? And how long?"

They discussed this quickly. Our three cups were still in midair; it was without question the most favorable instant for a request.

"American is better," said Teacher Sai. "Only about ten thousand words."

I caught my breath. "I don't know American literature well enough for that," I said. "Tell him I can do either Elizabethan poetry or Charles d.i.c.kens, because that's what I studied at Oxford. Or Shakespeare. But otherwise it would be difficult. I don't have many notes here."

There was another discussion. My arm was growing heavy. Teacher w.a.n.g nodded.

"d.i.c.kens," said Teacher Sai. "Ten thousand words."

We drank the shot. The baijiu baijiu was starting to taste dangerously foul and I shuddered after it was down. A good banquet was like a good short story: there was always a point, but you didn't quite understand it until the very end. Now I realized why we had been invited tonight, but I wasn't resentful; at least now I knew how a Sichuanese literary journal recruited new material. The table bullied Teacher Sai for a few more minutes and then all of us staggered out. was starting to taste dangerously foul and I shuddered after it was down. A good banquet was like a good short story: there was always a point, but you didn't quite understand it until the very end. Now I realized why we had been invited tonight, but I wasn't resentful; at least now I knew how a Sichuanese literary journal recruited new material. The table bullied Teacher Sai for a few more minutes and then all of us staggered out.

I HOPED THAT EVERYBODY would forget about the promised essay, but within a week the quiet reminders started. I delayed, explaining that I was busy with teaching, but then I began to receive messages about Teacher w.a.n.g's impending deadline. Finally I sat down and wrote what he wanted, which was an essay about d.i.c.kens' relations.h.i.+p to political reform. would forget about the promised essay, but within a week the quiet reminders started. I delayed, explaining that I was busy with teaching, but then I began to receive messages about Teacher w.a.n.g's impending deadline. Finally I sat down and wrote what he wanted, which was an essay about d.i.c.kens' relations.h.i.+p to political reform.

I wrote it as quickly as possible. I argued that d.i.c.kens was essentially a middle-cla.s.s figure who liked writing about social problems not because he wanted revolutionary change, but rather because these subjects made for good creative material. I knew the Marxists wouldn't like this approach, so I added a line that accused d.i.c.kens of being a Capitalist Roader. I liked being able to use that term in a literary essay. Otherwise the article was not very enjoyable to write, and I loaded the descriptions in order to jack up the word count. Teacher Sai had to translate it into Chinese. For a solid week he struggled with the d.a.m.n thing, coming into my office with questions about my inflated prose, holding his head in his hands.

ON THE SECOND DAY of January, the city of Fuling held a road race in the center of town. It was the Twenty-second Annual Long Race to Welcome Spring, and all of the city's schools and of January, the city of Fuling held a road race in the center of town. It was the Twenty-second Annual Long Race to Welcome Spring, and all of the city's schools and danwei danwei, or work units, competed against each other. Two weeks before the race, Dean Fu asked if I would run on the college team. He was obviously nervous, because it hadn't been long since the problems of the faculty basketball tournament.

"You must understand," he said, smiling uncomfortably. "There will be many peasants and uneducated people. They don't know anything about sportsmans.h.i.+p, and perhaps some of them will be rough. Also, in twenty-one years they have never had a foreigner in the long race. They welcome you to partic.i.p.ate, but I think it will be different from in America."

I could see that Dean Fu thought it would be simpler if I didn't run, and I knew he was right. For a while I considered not taking part, because the basketball tournament had been a low point in an otherwise good semester. All of the difficult parts of my life were already public; there wasn't any reason to seek out more crowds.

But there are no referees in running, and it is not a contact sport. There would be crowds but I figured that at least I would be moving. It couldn't be much different from a race in America-and even if it was, I was curious to see what it was like, at least once. I told Dean Fu that I wanted to partic.i.p.ate.

He explained that every runner had to have a physical exam, and a week before the race I visited a doctor in the college infirmary. It was a low tile-roofed building next to the croquet court, one of the old structures on campus that remained from the pre-Cultural Revolution days when the college had been a high school.

The doctor checked my pulse and blood pressure. After each test he smiled and told me that I was very healthy, and I thanked him. Then he led me to a side room where a dirty white box-shaped instrument hung on the wall. Dean Fu said, "Now you will have a chest X ray."

I stopped at the entrance to the room. "I don't want to have a chest X ray," I said.

"It's no problem," said Dean Fu, smiling. "It's very safe."

"I don't want a chest X ray," I said again, and I looked at the dirty box and thought: Especially I don't want this this chest X ray. "Why is it necessary?" chest X ray. "Why is it necessary?"

"Everybody in the race must have one. To make sure they are healthy."

"Everybody?" I asked, and he nodded. I asked how many people would be running.

"More than two thousand and five hundred."

"And all of them must have a chest X ray before they can run?"

"Yes," he said. "That is the rule. It is very safe."

It struck me as a ludicrous notion-that a city with a per capita income of about forty American dollars a month would require a chest X ray from each of the 2,500 partic.i.p.ants in a four-kilometer road race. I had my suspicions about what was really happening: some administrator in the college was probably worried about me dropping dead in the middle of the race, and they wanted to cover their tracks. It was always Dean Fu's job to convey such commands to the waiguoren waiguoren, and occasionally he served as a filter as much as a translator. It was a lousy job and I always felt sorry for him when I sensed that this was happening, but there was nothing to do about it except try to find a tactful solution.

We were at an impa.s.se. Dean Fu could see that I was serious about refusing to have an X ray, and I knew that he couldn't simply back down and say that the procedure wasn't in fact required. We stood there for a moment, the doctor watching expectantly. Finally I told Dean Fu that I would go to my apartment and call the Peace Corps office in Chengdu.

I tried to call but the medical officer wasn't in. I sat in my bedroom for ten minutes, reading a book, and then I returned to the infirmary.

"I'm very sorry," I said, "but the Peace Corps told me I can't have a chest X ray. I don't know what we can do about this."

"It's no problem," Dean Fu said. "I just talked to some of the people in charge of the race, and they said it is fine if you do not have an X ray. They will give you an exception because you are a foreigner."

I thanked him and apologized for the ha.s.sle, and he apologized back. Both of us shook the doctor's hand. He walked us to the door, smiling and waving as we left.

THERE WAS NO SCHEDULED TIME for the race to start. The runners a.s.sembled in a disorderly mob at the starting area, and at nine o'clock the cadres began their speeches. The race would begin whenever the speeches finished, and the officials droned on and on while the starting line repeatedly broke and surged. A small section would make a false start and the rest of the crowd would react, and then the police would call everybody back. I tried to jog in place to stay warm, fighting with my elbows to keep position. for the race to start. The runners a.s.sembled in a disorderly mob at the starting area, and at nine o'clock the cadres began their speeches. The race would begin whenever the speeches finished, and the officials droned on and on while the starting line repeatedly broke and surged. A small section would make a false start and the rest of the crowd would react, and then the police would call everybody back. I tried to jog in place to stay warm, fighting with my elbows to keep position.

The starting line was spread across a ma.s.sive construction site where a new public park was being built. The entire left side of the line headed directly toward a six-foot drop-a small, crumbling cliff. On the far right was a narrow dirt road that provided the only safe exit for the runners, but it was so close to the start-less than forty yards-that it would be impossible for the crowd to funnel in such a short distance. And even for the runners who did make it safely, the course immediately took a ninety-degree turn that would claim more victims.

Without question it was the most dangerous starting arrangement I had ever seen in a lifetime of racing. I was tempted to pull out, partly for my safety but mostly because I wanted to be able to watch the disaster from the perspective of a spectator. Rob Schmitz, another Peace Corps volunteer, was visiting us that week, and he and Adam took their cameras and gleefully waited across the road.

The college team had staked out a spot on the right side of the line, directly in front of the exit. Most of them were physical education students, and usually we were the best team in the race, along with the Taiji medicine factory. All of us squeezed together, waiting for the start. It was a cool morning and the winter smog hung low over the city.

Five minutes pa.s.sed, then ten. The cadres kept talking, and the police were having trouble holding everybody back. Either they were going to start the race or it was going to start itself, and finally one of the cadres must have realized this. He fired the gun.

It was China. Chaos, noise, adrenaline; fear and surprise and excitement; a ma.s.s of bodies, everybody yelling, horns sounding, the earth pounding; all of us running madly, arms outstretched to clear room; legs pumping, das.h.i.+ng, sprinting, trying to keep the back kick low to avoid being tripped; some runners shouting as they stumbled over the cliff, others skidding around the first turn, dodging the few unfortunate ones who fell and skidded below the rush of legs. The seconds slid past, each moment an eternity of concentration and effort. We flew down the street in a wild charging mob, hit the second turn, and headed west on Xinghua Road.

The course began to climb uphill. The scene was still shaky with adrenaline but I realized that the eternity of the start was over, and that I was no longer a part of the starting mob. After the beginning of a race there is always that moment of disengagement, when the euphoria of being a part of something ma.s.sive is over and you realize that you are alone, and that you have your own race to run.

I slowed down. Suddenly I felt tired; the adrenaline evaporated and everything slipped into focus. I checked myself-no sc.r.a.pes, no bruises; no memory of exactly how I had made it safely off the line. I glanced around me. I was in the lead pack, a group of perhaps fifty, and the others were also settling in after the rush of the start. We were climbing steadily now and the pace was slowing. I felt my legs come back to me, the numb excitement replaced by the rhythm of a long hard run-steady steady steady steady, up on my toes as the hill steepened. Police cars rolled their lights in front of the pack. Far ahead, groups of school kids were trying to cheat, jumping into the race with a lead of a hundred yards, but the cops pulled them out as they drove past.

The entire first half was uphill, and by the time I took the lead, perhaps two minutes into the race, I could see that the others were finished. It was a varied field-college students and danwei danwei workers and a few athletes who clearly could have been good runners with more training-but all of them were done. Quickly I slipped ahead. workers and a few athletes who clearly could have been good runners with more training-but all of them were done. Quickly I slipped ahead.

To lead any big race is a strange feeling. People speak of the loneliness of running, but I've always felt that the sport is lonely only in the races, and especially when the pack breaks and you find yourself alone in front. In the pack you usually feel some solidarity with the other athletes, even though you are still competing, but in front there are no illusions. That's when the race becomes a chase-one man against the rest of the field-and I've always felt that this is the loneliest feeling in the world. And it's even lonelier when you are the only foreigner in a field of more than two thousand, and all along the course spectators are calling out "Waiguoren, waiguoren, waiguoren." "Waiguoren, waiguoren, waiguoren." Out-of-country person, out-of-country person, out-of-country person. Out-of-country person, out-of-country person, out-of-country person.

I looked back. Behind me I could see the rest of the field-an endless stream of people, a black-haired mob. The main pace car had slowed and I was following a few strides behind its flas.h.i.+ng lights. I looked back again, so I would remember the strangeness of the scene. The hill was steep now, climbing toward the pointed tower of the Monument to the Revolutionary Martyrs. The street was lined with spectators and I could hear the wave of surprise as I pa.s.sed; they were talking excitedly and exclaiming with amazement. "Waiguoren, waiguoren, waiguoren." "Waiguoren, waiguoren, waiguoren."

And I thought: Not today. If you're looking for people who are out of their country, out of place, out of step, out of shape, awkward, clumsy; if that's what you're looking for, look back there. Look for the ones who started too fast, or the men who have smoked too many Magnificent Sound cigarettes, or the people who are wearing too many clothes and are choking with heat and sweat. Don't look at me-I've done this for many years in many places, and always it has been exactly the same. There are no referees, no language barriers, no complicated rules of etiquette. All you do is run.

By the turnaround I had more than thirty seconds on the next runner, and I took it easy from there. The second half was all downhill, and because it was an out-and-back course I pa.s.sed the rest of the field. The ones who weren't too exhausted joined in the chorus: "Waiguoren, waiguoren, waiguoren." "Waiguoren, waiguoren, waiguoren." But it didn't bother me a bit, because for those four kilometers I felt completely at home. But it didn't bother me a bit, because for those four kilometers I felt completely at home.

FOR THE VICTORY I won two pairs of polyester sports uniforms, both too small, with the characters for Fuling City inscribed proudly on the chest. I also received a certificate testifying that "Comrade He Wei," my Chinese name, had won the Twenty-second Annual Long Race to Welcome Spring. The race organizers awarded me twenty yuan, and the college gave me five for partic.i.p.ating on its team. They also gave me one and a half yuan for undergoing the medical exam, which made me wonder how much I could have made if I had agreed to the chest X ray. All told I cleared twenty-six and a half yuan, which paid for two weeks of noodle lunches. I won two pairs of polyester sports uniforms, both too small, with the characters for Fuling City inscribed proudly on the chest. I also received a certificate testifying that "Comrade He Wei," my Chinese name, had won the Twenty-second Annual Long Race to Welcome Spring. The race organizers awarded me twenty yuan, and the college gave me five for partic.i.p.ating on its team. They also gave me one and a half yuan for undergoing the medical exam, which made me wonder how much I could have made if I had agreed to the chest X ray. All told I cleared twenty-six and a half yuan, which paid for two weeks of noodle lunches.

I was on the local TV news for the following week, and the next day's paper featured a front-page story about the race. They reported that an American teacher from Missouri named H.Essler had partic.i.p.ated, and there was a detailed description of the way I had warmed up before the start. They reported the excitement of the college representatives when I finished in first place, and they quoted one of the other top finishers, a young man from the medicine factory who said, "If this race had been right after my military training, I definitely would have beaten that foreigner." The end of the article read: The compet.i.tion also succeeded in establis.h.i.+ng patriotism in sports. When our reporter asked, "What are your thoughts about a waiguoren waiguoren finis.h.i.+ng first," a Trade School student named Xu Chengbo said: "To have a sports compet.i.tion in a Chinese area and allow a finis.h.i.+ng first," a Trade School student named Xu Chengbo said: "To have a sports compet.i.tion in a Chinese area and allow a waiguoren waiguoren to take first place, I feel very ashamed. This gives us a wakeup call: our students and adults need to improve the quality of their bodies, because if we improve our strength, we can be victorious!"...A Southwest Military School teacher said: " to take first place, I feel very ashamed. This gives us a wakeup call: our students and adults need to improve the quality of their bodies, because if we improve our strength, we can be victorious!"...A Southwest Military School teacher said: "The waiguoren took the initiative, and that sort of spirit deserves to be studied. Only if we plunge into developing our bodies, and have more diligent and scientific training, will we see the day when we achieve the champions.h.i.+p!" took the initiative, and that sort of spirit deserves to be studied. Only if we plunge into developing our bodies, and have more diligent and scientific training, will we see the day when we achieve the champions.h.i.+p!"

It wasn't exactly the reaction I had hoped for, although I wasn't surprised. There was a great deal of patriotism in Fuling, and sports always made these feelings particularly intense. That was why the basketball had been such a failure, and sometimes I wondered if it had been a bad idea to run in the race. A few of my Peace Corps friends thought that at least I shouldn't have tried to win. But I liked running races hard, just like many others in the compet.i.tion, and I saw no reason to treat the people in Fuling like children. I wanted them to know that waiguoren waiguoren were living in their city, and I wanted them to see that despite all my struggles with the language, there was at least one thing I could do well. If they reacted with shame, that was unfortunate, but perhaps when they grew to know me better it would be different. I figured it was a good sign that my certificate read "Comrade He Wei." were living in their city, and I wanted them to see that despite all my struggles with the language, there was at least one thing I could do well. If they reacted with shame, that was unfortunate, but perhaps when they grew to know me better it would be different. I figured it was a good sign that my certificate read "Comrade He Wei."

A few days after the race, I had cla.s.s with Teacher Liao, who beamed when we started the lesson.

"I saw on the department message board that you won the long race in Fuling!" she said. "I hadn't heard-why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not important," I said. "In fact, I didn't run very fast at all."

"Yes, you did!" she said, doubly pleased by my false modesty, which followed the appropriate Chinese custom. "That's a very big race-in all of Fuling City, you are the fastest person!"

"There are probably better athletes who didn't partic.i.p.ate," I said. "And you know, w.a.n.g Junxia is still faster than me."

w.a.n.g Junxia was the Chinese woman distance runner who had recently won gold and silver medals in the Atlanta Olympics, and this reference made Teacher Liao even happier. She praised me again, and finally we settled down to a chapter on how to say goodbye. Either I did unusually well or she was in a particularly forgiving mood; on that day she hardly said budui budui at all. at all.

THE WHITE CRANE RIDGE.

TODAY THE YANGTZE RIVER is two inches higher than it was in midwinter 1,234 years ago. The intervening years have witnessed other changes-the pa.s.sing of five imperial dynasties; the arrival and departure of the Mongols, the Manchus, the British, the j.a.panese; the construction of the Great Wall and the destruction of the Cultural Revolution; the Great Leap Forward and the Reform and Opening; the development of the Three Gorges Dam from a half-formed dream to the biggest building project in China-but despite all of these changes the level of today's Yangtze is exactly two inches higher than it was in 763. Two inches in 1,234 years. is two inches higher than it was in midwinter 1,234 years ago. The intervening years have witnessed other changes-the pa.s.sing of five imperial dynasties; the arrival and departure of the Mongols, the Manchus, the British, the j.a.panese; the construction of the Great Wall and the destruction of the Cultural Revolution; the Great Leap Forward and the Reform and Opening; the development of the Three Gorges Dam from a half-formed dream to the biggest building project in China-but despite all of these changes the level of today's Yangtze is exactly two inches higher than it was in 763. Two inches in 1,234 years.

This is the story that is told by the White Crane Ridge, an eighty-yard-long strip of sandstone that sits like a temporary island in Fuling's harbor. At most the ridge emerges from below the muddy skin of the Yangtze for five winter months, in the heart of the dry season, and the ridge does not appear at all if the year is unusually wet. When it does emerge, the sandstone speaks-twenty-two pictures and over 300,000 characters are engraved on its surface. Along the nearly four thousand miles of the Yangtze's length, there is no other place where man has left such a vivid record of the river's life.