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

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.

The wicked still fear the law.

But is there really any law? I am not so sure. And if it did exist at one time, where is it now? In point of fact, it's there if you want it to be but disappears when you don't. At times of crisis, we offer it up as a sacrifice, but when the crisis has passed, we no longer think in such terms. To what higher court can one appeal? The Farm Headquarters political department? The Yanghuo County Revolutionary Committee? There are countless serious matters to seize hold of and promote; moreover, the people who have not been deprived of schooling are not necessarily more intelligent than the stonecutters. Foolish people can be taught. We are taught wherever we go, but no one will talk reason. Most frightening of all are the teachers who extract political elements out of the nonpolitical, revolutionizing the very life out of our bodies.

Back at the dormitory, the brass lion eats away at our gray matter, and we find it difficult to sleep at noontime. Old Wu pontificates about Shang wine cups, Zhou tripods, Qin and Han tiles. Yellow Hair does not aspire to such refined topics. I worry that we will be forced to let the truth be known and say that during the current "movement," we made a mess of this unidentified tomb, stirring up all sorts of spirits and unleashing the primal forces of nature.

Only now does Old Wu, our wise sage, wake up. "Since the world is the way it is, it's best not to publicize this incident. No one is able to communicate with heaven, and no one can frighten the authoritative scholars of history into action. Those who might are under house arrest or have been banished. Who has any authority these days? When academia itself founders, it's tough to be a scholar."

Should we bury the lion here for a few years, or should we make a switch and pretend it is still inside the tomb? Old Wu announces that he is up for family leave next month and that he would prefer to take the relic back to his hometown, where he can hide it in his house. Leave it to him to come up with this plan. Over the last couple of years, his home has been searched twice, and there is no guarantee that it won't be searched again. Besides, with him off in another part of the world and the road home long and arduous, what would his family do if that happened?

Who would have thought this matter would become so irksome? Without warning, a sleeping lion enters our stagnant-water lives, and suddenly towering waves crash upon us, and we are surrounded by whirlpools. The world is fraught with peril.

Yellow Hair has no plan of his own, but he is quick to agree with other ideas. "Don't scratch your ears and rub your temples like an old pedant," he says. "Do you think we have to stuff it back into the coffin and bury it for it to be at rest? Aren't you afraid of the stench? Any way you spread it, that precious relic can't leave this precious place; that would have disastrous consequences for the local geomancy."

We are agreed in principle but continue to debate until I have a brilliant idea. Aren't we about to put up the roof truss? We can add a few extra diagonal stays between the roof beam and the purlins, making an attic the size of a chicken coop that no one will ever notice, allowing the lion to continue its peaceful slumber.

Shouts of approval on all sides. Master Yellow Hair says he'll take care of the details. To think of the violent criticism and revolutionary struggles that will take place in the meeting hall while the brass lion, the emblem of royalty and imperial power, sits solemnly overhead, reigning over all-an interesting picture, indeed.

What lies in store now for the sleeping lion, already steeped in the vicissitudes of history? Will our own fate be linked to it? Maybe the sleeping lion will be our charm in days to come, and we'll be famous throughout the nation on account of this great achievement.

After a moment's reflection, I say, "That would be wonderful, of course, but in keeping the relic for individual fame and fortune, let's not forget what is ethically proper. For educated youths like us, the nation and the people come first; so as soon as an opportunity arises, we should turn the piece over to a museum." Old Wu quickly adds that when he visits his family next, he will make inquiries in the provincial capital.

The blood courses even more passionately through our veins. Although confined to a wasteland, we have not forgotten our duty to the motherland, and this, the thought of our spiritual loyalty, moves us greatly.

Who would have guessed that before long, our dream would be shattered? When we go out to work that afternoon, there is no sight of the outside laborers, and when we poke around in the chamber we find not only that the brass lion has not been returned but that many of the broken vessels have been carted away as well. What a band of wily foxes! We run straightaway to their lair, only to find that the place is deserted.

We stomp our feet, fuming, unable to contain our venom. Yellow Hair, especially, having never had a chance to see for himself if the object is brass or iron, is so angry that his yellow hairs are all standing on end. He vows to bring the stonecutters back, even if we have to traverse the four corners of the earth. Then it occurs to me: this place cannot be compared with the mainland, for on Hainan even if you sprouted wings, you would find it difficult to escape. The only way out is to hop on a boat at Haikou. Why not travel to the county seat and seal off the bus station-someplace where the law exists, where they won't be allowed to act as they please. If the stonecutters try to pull something funny, we can insist on seeing these officials, who will hardly be able to pardon them.

More shouts of approval. It is resolved that we will skip half a day's work and cut over to the highway to thumb a ride. The trucks that pass are mostly from the farm. Some stop, some don't. We press our way along the dusty road to the county bus station, which we carefully comb three times, then wait in ambush until the last bus finally prepares to leave, and we have nothing to show for our efforts.

Disconsolate, we make the rounds of the town. Anger fills every pore in our bodies, but we still need to eat, which in turn necessitates that several bottles of whiskey be opened. These we drink in silence. Soon, though, we begin to curse the band of thieves and then one another, for not having acted more decisively in the first place and for expecting the roving bunch of dirty thieves to have a change of conscience. The liquor and food are gone, and I hide a couple of plates to keep the tab down. Yellow Hair reaches under the table to snatch a machete from the seat of an intoxicated Li aborigine. A gentleman, Old Wu takes only half the toothpicks in the jar. We derive little pleasure from these pranks, however, for our setback has been too great.