Iron and Silk (6 page)

Several weeks after I had taken my receipt to the Foreign Affairs Bureau, Canton announced that Postal Regulations had changed, and all related debts owed to foreigners had become void.

I
spoke some Cantonese and hoped to keep it up while I was in China, since Cantonese is useful in southern China and in most overseas Chinese communities, where people may understand Mandarin but not be able to speak it. The two dialects are so different that, while visiting Guangdong Province where Cantonese is the native language, northern Chinese traveling through the province often asked me to translate for them. There were several Cantonese families living in our
danwei
, or unit, so I passed word around that when they saw me they should speak Cantonese to force me to practice. The Cantonese, who are in general very proud of their language and distinct customs, were all too happy to fulfill my request. One man, a physiology teacher, offered to tutor me regularly in exchange for English lessons. We prepared some materials and agreed to meet once a week for two hours.

Mr. Gong was patient, generous, and extremely polite; I had warm feelings for him, but our friendship was very formal and therefore a bit exhausting. During our conversations I sat up straight in my chair to seem fully attentive, and since he always smiled, I always smiled as well. When he spoke about his experiences during the Second World War and the Cultural Revolution he leaned forward and indicated that I should lean forward too, so that he could whisper into my ear. During these tragic stories he continued to smile, making me self-conscious—it was difficult to maintain an expression of concern or sympathy when he was smiling, yet I could not smile at his misfortune.

He especially liked to tell me about the countryside, where
he had lived for several years when he was “sent down” for ideological reform. Although that was certainly a time of hardship for him, he spoke fondly of the impoverished villagers with whom he had lived and seemed to have great respect for their courage and sincerity. Once, a young boy from a neighboring village ran a high fever. Mr. Gong heard about the boy and went to see if there was anything he could do. He managed to keep the fever under control and the boy recovered, but the boy’s father was deeply ashamed that he did not have even a piece of cloth to offer as a token of gratitude.

Thirteen years later this same peasant, having traveled more than one hundred miles on foot and on the backs of trucks, appeared at the gate of Hunan Medical College with three baskets of eggs. When he found Mr. Gong he said, “At last I have something to give you.” Then he left, too ashamed of his appearance to visit Mr. Gong’s home.

One day Mr. Gong asked me what I liked to do in my spare time. Among other things, I mentioned that I liked taking walks. From that time on he insisted that we have our lessons on foot, and he led me to most of the parks, zoos, museums and monuments in Changsha. These walks lasted two or three hours, and whenever we passed a food stand or restaurant he would treat me to candies, beer or noodles, no matter how I might protest. As good as his intentions were, walking through the noisy streets of Changsha was trying, especially while learning a language. When I suggested that we go back to having lessons in my room, he thought I was only being polite, so I asked instead if we could have our lessons in his home.

I thought I saw him wince, but he agreed right away and assured me that it would be no trouble at all for him or his family. I was to come one evening the next week.

As soon as I entered his home I realized that it had been considerable trouble for him and his family, for not only was the entire three-room apartment spotlessly clean, but a nine-course banquet was waiting for me on the dinner table. My heart sank with guilt, but I made myself register surprise and delight at the elaborate meal that I had virtually forced them to prepare.

Mr. Gong’s household consisted of his mother, his wife and his two sons. The older boy was eighteen years old and went to college in the city, and the younger, twelve, was still in middle school. Though they all must have worked for days to get ready for my visit, they seemed genuinely excited that I had come and took great pride in introducing each of the dishes—all Cantonese specialties—to me.

The older son had to leave early to get back to his college, so we all walked him to the bus stop and saw him off. When we got back to the apartment, attention shifted to the younger son, and Mr. Gong asked him to show me his drawing pad. The boy looked embarrassed but obediently produced a sketch pad filled with pencil drawings of Japanese soldiers beheading Chinese peasants. As he handed it to me, I noticed that he wore exceptionally thick glasses.

“My boy is very near-sighted,” Mr. Gong said, putting his hand on his son’s head. “He will not be able to go to college because he cannot pass the eye examination. We all hope he will learn a trade soon so that his future will not be so uncertain. We keep telling him he must get serious and take responsibility for his future. So far, his only interest seems to be drawing.” The boy looked at the ground as his father spoke, then silently retrieved his pad from me and disappeared into the bedroom.

The next day I stopped by Mr. Gong’s house to distribute some gifts I had chosen for him and his family that morning.
They were very ordinary gifts, except for the one I gave to the younger son. I had been moved by the story of his interest in drawing and had decided to give him the watercolors, brushes and charcoals that I had brought from America.

Not long after, Mr. Gong and his son appeared at my door. After a gentle nudge from his father, the trembling boy thanked me for the gift. After another gentle nudge, he asked me with utmost humility if I would be so generous as to teach him to draw. His request was so charming I felt I could not refuse; on the other hand, I did not want to take full responsibility for his career as an artist. I fumbled for words, and at last agreed to come three or four times to show him how to use the materials.

I went to their home that Sunday night after dinner and they had a three-course “snack” waiting. Then the table was cleared and Mr. Gong and his wife reverently placed my watercolors and charcoals on it. Five stools were placed at the table, and the boy sat to my right, with his father, mother and grandmother huddled around him. I thought I would explain how to use the charcoal first, to see if he understood the principles of three-point perspective, before going on to the watercolors. I set a piece of paper in front of him and one in front of me, handed him a charcoal stick, and told him to imitate me. I drew a broad line across the paper using the side of the stick, showing him how to change the width of the line as he liked with his wrist. Nervously he began his line, but he pressed too hard, breaking the delicate stick. His parents and grandmother gasped and quietly scolded him, “Look what you did, you broke it!”, and Mr. Gong apologized to me for his son’s clumsiness. The boy’s face reddened but showed no emotion. I quickly explained that a broken charcoal stick is as useful as a whole one To put him at ease, I broke my own with a comic gesture and showed him how to use the different-sized
pieces to advantage. He did not seem particularly amused, but neither did he seem too upset to go on.

I put a teacup in front of us and suggested that we each try to draw it; that way I could give him some tips as we went along. His every move met with his parents’ gentle but firm criticism: “You see the way Uncle Mark did it? Yours doesn’t look the same. Imitate Uncle Mark, that’s why he has come here.” “Why are you making trembly, crooked lines? Concentrate, don’t just play—Uncle Mark’s time is very precious, don’t waste it.” I tried to make him feel better by pointing out that trembly, crooked lines can be expressive, and used them to draw a cartoon of a frightened pig to show him what I meant. I thought I saw him smile, but his parents reminded him that I was only being kind, and that he should remember to concentrate next time.

Any American twelve-year-old would have exploded in embarrassment or resentment, but the boy did not protest or even frown. He stoically continued to draw, showing no signs of either exasperation or pleasure.

At last I could bear the gravity no longer, so I leaned back and said to the boy that the most important thing was that he should enjoy learning to draw.

“Are you having fun?” I asked him, praying that he would answer yes.

“Aren’t you having fun? Tell him!” his parents said at once, smiling.

“Yes,” he replied, with neither irony nor joy.

And then it occurred to me what a burdensome affair this must be for the child, obliged to relieve the anxieties of his parents by displaying sober, concentrated effort, and to please the American, who demanded that he enjoy himself. He met the situation bravely, looking only at the paper and charcoal in front of him—as if the rest of us were too far away to be
quite in focus—and maintaining an expression vague enough to allow for interpretation.

A few weeks after I had taught him how to use all the materials, I happened to bump into him walking to the market with his father. I asked about his progress, but he only looked down. His father sighed and patted him on the head.

“Aiya,” he sighed, “my foolish boy. He has stopped drawing and seems to have become interested in sports. What will we do with him?”

Peking Duck
 
 Pan
 
 A Fisherman
 
 Kissing
 
 A Suicide