Howard Goldblatt (Editor) - Chairman Mao Would Not Be Amused – Fiction From Today

The stranger reassured him, "I don't mind if it takes two."

"But," the punishment expert said, "the punishment allows for only a single stroke."

The stranger told the punishment expert he didn't understand why he insisted on being so fussy.

"Because it would defile the integrity of the punishment," he explained.

"On the contrary," the stranger asserted; "you might actually contribute to the development of the punishment."

"But," the punishment expert quiedy explained to the stranger, "if we proceed with the experiment, your own experience would be ruined. I would hack your waist to mincemeat. Your stomach, your intestines, and your liver would just tumble to the ground like overripe apples. I wouldn't be able to put you on the glass. You would fall over instead. And all you would see as you approached the end would be a mess of wriggling earthworms and lumpy toad skin. And worse."

The punishment expert delivered his judgment with incontestable authority. There was no longer any doubt that events would begin to move in an entirely different direction. The stranger began to put his clothes back on. He had thought he would never need them again. His pants felt like oil paint as they smeared up his legs. His eyes were hooded and dark with disappointment. Through them, he could see the dark figure of the punishment expert standing by him like a distant memory.

The stranger could no longer avoid the realization: the punishment expert was powerless; the punishment expert could not reunite him with his past. And though the stranger was baffled and angered by the way in which the punishment expert had so beautifully laid waste his four dates, he was not without compassion for the punishment expert's predicament. The punishment expert suffered because he could no longer muster the strength to carry out his marvelous experiment. His own pain came as a result of being unable to reunite with his past. But they were bound together by their common suffering.

The silence that ensued was as heavy as night. It was only after they returned to the living room that they were finally able to dispel the oppressive silence that had enveloped them following the failure of the experiment. They had moved to the living room after standing motionless, enveloped by the glitter of the glass that suffused the little room. Having arrived in the living room, however, they were able once more to take up something resembling a conversation.

Soon after they had begun, the punishment expert's voice began to grow hoarse with passion. As they spoke, the punishment expert rapidly recovered his composure, despite the gravity of his defeat. For his final punishment was the best of all. His final punishment was his life's work, his masterpiece, his crowning glory. He told the stranger, "It is my own creation."

The punishment expert began to tell the stranger another story: "There is a man, strictly speaking, a scholar-a true scholar, the kind of scholar that simply doesn't exist anymore in the twentieth century. He wakes up one morning and finds several men in gray suits standing around his bed. These men lead him out of his house and push him into a car. The scholar, mystified, repeatedly asks the men where they are going. His questions are met with stony silence. He begins to grow uneasy. He stares out the car window, trying desperately to determine what is going to happen next. He watches as they pass through familiar streets, drive by a familiar stream, and finally move into uncharted territory. Soon they arrive at a grand public square. The square is big enough for twenty thousand people. In fact, there are already twenty thousand people gathered in the square. From afar, they look like so many ants. When they pull up to the edge of the square, he's pushed through the crowd and onto a platform set up at one end of the square. He gazes down at the crowd. The square looks as if it's choked with weeds. A few soldiers with rifles stand with him on the platform. They aim the muzzles of their rifles directly at his head. The scholar is terrified. But a moment later, they lower their guns. They had forgotten to load them. The scholar watches bullets glinting in the sunlight. One by one, the bullets are stuffed into the rifles' magazines. Then the rifles are leveled once more at his head. At this point, a man who looks like some kind of judge climbs up onto the platform. This man tells the scholar that he has been sentenced to death. The scholar, unaware of having committed any offense, is dumbfounded. The judge, seeing the shock ripple across his face, adds, 'Just look at the blood dripping from your hands.'

"The scholar looks down at his hands but can't find the slightest trace of blood. He extends his hands toward the judge to protest his innocence. But the judge simply moves to the side of the platform without even noticing the gesture. The scholar watches as people in the crowd stream up to the edge of the platform to give their testimony. One by one, they relate how he bequeathed his punishments to their loved ones and relatives. At first, the scholar argues passionately with those who have come forward to condemn him. He tries to make them understand that one must sacrifice everything in the name of science. He tells them that their relatives have been sacrificed in the name of science. As the procession of plaintiffs continues to stream toward the platform, however, he finally begins to realize the gravity of his predicament. His predicament is this: in a few moments, a hail of bullets will fly in the direction of his head. His head will shatter like a piece of tile. He sinks into a despair as vast as the crowd that unceasingly streams toward the platform to air its grievances. The denunciations continue for ten hours. And for ten hours, the soldiers keep their rifles trained on the scholar's head."

The punishment expert paused at this point in his narrative and commented with an enigmatic air, "The scholar, of course, is me."

He proceeded to tell the stranger that it had taken him a whole year to perfect each and every detail of the ten hours on the platform. "In the ten hours immediately following the scholar's realization that he has been sentenced to death, he falls victim to terrible psychological torment. In those ten hours, his mind becomes a whirlwind of emotion, careening from one spiritual state to another, passing through lifetimes of feeling in mere moments. One moment, he is awash in terror and abject cowardice. The next moment floods him with bravery, resolve, and indomitable courage. Seconds later, he feels a stream of urine trickling down his legs. Just as soon as he has begun to welcome the prospect of death, he starts to realize just how beautiful it is to be alive. And through the turbulent hours, each of these moments is felt just as sharply as a knife piercing his flesh."

It was clear to the stranger that this punishment was almost perfect. When the punishment expert brought his narrative to a conclusion, he clearly and unmistakably proclaimed to the stranger that "this punishment is reserved for myself."

He told the stranger that this punishment represented ten years of blood, sweat, and tears. He told the stranger that he couldn't possibly give the product of such laborious years of toil to someone else. By someone else, he was clearly indicating the stranger himself.

The stranger smiled. It was a noble smile. It was a smile that successfully hid from the punishment expert's view the doubts he harbored concerning the punishment. For he sensed that the punishment was not nearly as perfect, or as complete, as the punishment expert would have liked to think. There seemed to be a flaw that the punishment expert had overlooked.

The punishment expert rose from his seat and told the stranger that he would carry out the experiment that very evening. He hoped that the stranger would appear by his bedside in twelve hours, because by then "you'll still be able to see me, but I won't be able to see you anymore."