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

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!"