Ken Kesey - Demon Box

An usher led them to the table assigned by their invitation, where they found the eight other diners all still waiting politely for their arrival – two middle-aged Africans wearing somber suits and expressions, two seedy-looking Beijing men in drab Sun Yat-sen, a beautiful oriental woman, two young Chinese runners and their coach. All stood when they approached and shook hands while the woman translated.

The black men were from Tanzania, a coach and trainer. They were somber because their athlete apparently had not managed to fly out of Tanzania for the race tomorrow; they felt obliged to attend the banquet insofar as a place had been reserved, but they were flying out in the morning, too chagrined by their athlete's absence to attend the race. The seedy pair were from China Sports, a limp but adequate little sports rag printed in English. The two young runners were from the same village in a distant province, their faces subtly different from the Beijing faces-flatter, darker, with something almost Gypsy dodging about the eyes. The larger and older of the pair responded to introductions with a dental display that ranked right up there with the rest of the day's sights: he had an extra tooth, right in the middle, and was not at all backward about showing it off. The smaller runner was as shy as his friend was forward, frequently dropping long lashes over his black eyes and buttoning and unbuttoning the sports coat he was wearing. Their coach was studiously aloof.

After the initial ganbei of introduction they all sat down for the first course of a meal that would prove to be a marathon in its own right. While they were stabbing at the lead-off oddities with their sticks, the prizes for tomorrow's winners were unveiled on a table in front of the raised dais – ten cloisonne vases, each bigger than the last, and a solid silver trophy that would return to Beijing each year for the new winner. There could be heard all across the room an audible insucking of covetous acclaim. They were very classy prizes.

The speeches then commenced to drone from the dais. They saw Mude had a seat very near the podium. He had changed his attire from Western western to Eastern western – a preppy dark-blue blazer with coat-of-arms. He was introduced and stood to speak. The photographer took Bing's little Panasonic cassette recorder from his shoulder bag. He punched the Record button and set it on the table. It soon became obvious that neither Chinamen nor Roundeyes could understand a word of Mude's address, and the multitudinous roar of small talk rose again from the tables. Mude didn't seem to notice.

The American editor began to interview his Chinese magazine colleagues and the coach. The writer took notes. The photographer busied himself with photographing the exotic dishes as they arrived and whispering descriptions of each into the recorder: if this marathon thing didn't float he might get a cookbook out of it:

GREAT HALL – NIGHT BEFORE RACE

(Much noise of dining; unintelligible speech over loudspeaker in b.g.)

WHISPER NEAR MIKE:… tiny tomatoes pickled and arranged in delicate fan, gingered eel, lotus root in oyster sauce, duck neck, radishes carved to look like roses…

EDITOR: Whose idea was this race tomorrow?

(Chinese translation back and forth)

FEMALE VOICE: He says it started as a mass movement, the idea. In New China all ideas come from the masses.

EDITOR: Why don't they have better times? Ask him that.

FEMALE VOICE: He says their fastest runner is two hours and thirteen minutes. You will meet him tonight. He is from a minority in Union Province.

EDITOR: What is a minority?

FEMALE VOICE: In China there are many! These two boys are called minorities. From some provinces they speak different languages.

YOUNG MALE VOICE (Bling): Those stars you see on the Chinese flag? They each represent one of the minorities.

WHISPER: Boiled eggs, pickled eggs, eggs soaked in tea, and one one-thousand-year-old fossilized egg for each table, like sinister black jelly with a blacker yolk…

EDITOR: Will you ask if China is ready to devote the time and specialization it takes to become world class?

FEMALE VOICE: He says, absolutely.

EDITOR: Was he an athlete himself?

FEMALE VOICE: When he was twenty he had great hopes of going to the Olympics. That was thirty years ago, a time of great turmoil in China.

WHISPER:…beans, peanuts, pickled walnuts, fish stomachs and celery flambé …

MALE CHINESE VOICE: Ganbei!

FEMALE VOICE: He says, "To the good health of your country."

ALL: Ganbei!

EDITOR: If one shows athletic talent is he given special dispensation by the government?

FEMALE VOICE: He says, yes.

BLING: Yes, indeedy!

FEMALE VOICE: He says that the person with particular talent will get better food.

BLING: That's why the basketball team has those giants. One eight-foot-eight fucker called the Mongolian Tower! That's quite lofty.

EDITOR: Is there a philosophy… I mean, what's the party line on physical fitness?

FEMALE VOICE: He says the party line is to become healthy first and then friendship and then competition.

EDITOR: I knew there had to be a party line. So why, ask him, did they never address the issue of fitness before, because -

BLING: They did address it. Mao made a big point of it. He was a goddamn health nut.

EDITOR: I mean was Mao aware of the fitness of the nation?

(Long Chinese conversation back and forth)

FEMALE VOICE: In 1953 Chairman Mao noticed China's health standard was low… because of disease and poverty. So after the liberation in '53 Chairman Mao decided to make it a special issue.

WHISPER:… pickled cherries, pressed duck, shredded ham, mashed mollusks, dugong dumplings, goose ganbeied…

MALE CHINESE VOICE: Ganbei!

FEMALE VOICE: He says, "To the sportsmen of China and the U.S."

ALL: Ganbei!

EDITOR: Ask them what they prescribe for an athlete who's injured? Do they use acupuncture?

FEMALE VOICE: He says, "Yes."

EDITOR: Can he give me any specifics of athletes who had acupuncture used on them?

FEMALE VOICE: He says he can only give personal experience. He was injured once and cured with acupuncture.

BLING: You know what the most recent study proves? I'll tell you what the most recent study proves: That acupuncture works according to just how fucking educated you are. The more educated, the less it works. Ganbei to the ignorant.

WRITER: Better watch that stuff, Bling.

BLING: Know why it's called Mao-tai? I'll tell you why it's called Mao-tai. Mao had it invented when he couldn't get a good mai tai.

WRITER: Bling's fortifying himself for the heartfelt thank-you he's going to give Mr. Mude for all this free succor. Good God, look what I found in my soup. A chicken head!

BLING: You better keep it. That's the only head you're gonna get in China.

WRITER: Let's see what else -

WHISPER: He's going in again, folks. Look out!

WRITER: Well, here's your basic pullybone.

WHISPER: He's working his way down, folks.

WRITER: Pull, Big Tooth, win a wish.

FEMALE VOICE: He won't know that. He won't, from the southwest -

BLING: She's right. I've never seen a wishbone pulled anywhere but Pittsburgh.

WRITER: Whatcha mean? Look there. His buddy knows. Okay, cuz, you pull.

PHOTOG: Let me get a shot -

ALL: He wins.

WRITER: You win. Ask him what his name is again.

FEMALE VOICE: He says his name is Yang.

EDITOR: Ask him what his time is.

FEMALE VOICE: He says – oh, he is very embarrassed; we've: made him blush – that he has no time. '

EDITOR: No time? Hasn't he ever run a marathon before?