Riding the Iron Rooster

"Cans of Ma Ling cow's tendon, and White Lotus pigs' trotters in gelatin, and Sunflower pork luncheon meat, and China National Foodstuffs boneless chicken pieces in spicy broth—that kind of thing?"

"Yes. And noodles. I think so."

I imagined crates and cartons stacked to the ceiling of the dormitory where this team of workers lived.

"Is there any advantage to living that way and eating out of cans in the sandstorms of Kuwait?"

"You can buy some things."

"What did your friend buy?"

"One refrigerator. Three television sets—one had remote control. A radio. A video recorder. An oven for the kitchen—microwave. Cassette recorder. And a Honda motorcycle. All Japanese."

It was as if the fellow had won the jackpot on a game show.

"It must have cost him a lot of money," I said.

"He earned one hundred and seven U.S. dollars every month."

And lived on cans of Ma Ling loquats in syrup and Double Happiness dried noodles for two years—pass the Lucky Eagle can opener, Abdul.

"What will he do with all those televisions?"

"One for his mother, one for his brother, and one for himself."

"What are you planning to buy in Kuwait?"

"A Japanese refrigerator."

"What will you do with it?" I asked, because Mr. Sun had already told me that he lived with his parents.

"I will need it, because after two years in Kuwait I will be of marriageable age."

He told me that the legal age for marriage in the north of China is twenty-six for a man and twenty-four for a woman; and that in the south it is a year lower. But I bought a pamphlet of the Chinese marriage laws a few weeks later and it seemed to dispute what Mr. Sun had said.

"Is that all you want—a refrigerator?"

"I also want a video camera. I want to take pictures of Kuwait and of different places in China. Then I can show these pictures to my mother. She has never been anywhere except Shenyang."

It was smoggy in Shenyang that day—a brown sky and icy streets; and it was as cold as Harbin.

Mr. Sun said, "You should stay longer here."

"It's too cold," I said. "I want to go south."

"Where do you come from in the United States?"

"Not very far from Portsmouth, New Hampshire."

He looked puzzled. He didn't have a clue. Why did so many Chinese have an intimate knowledge of ancient history, the legendary Yellow Emperor and the Tang Dynasty, and have no information at all about more recent Chinese history?

I said, "Does the Treaty of Portsmouth mean anything to you?"

It was the treaty that ended the Russo-Japanese War and that gave Shenyang—then called Mukden—to the Japanese. It was only eighty years ago, probably in the lifetime of Mr. Sun's mother. This treaty was suggested by Teddy Roosevelt and signed in that little town—actually in the Portsmouth Naval Yard, which happens to be just over the state line, in Kittery, Maine, but I felt that would only confuse Mr. Sun.

He didn't know anything about it. He wanted me to see what Shenyang was famous for now—not only its "three great treasures" (ginseng, sable pelts and furry antlers), but its factories and its automobile assembly plant. Just as the Chinese make steam engines and spittoons and quill pens, so they also make brand-new old cars—the Red Flag is a slightly bloated and swollen version of an old Packard. I declined a visit to Fushun, to see China's largest open-pit mine—more than four miles across and a thousand feet deep. In this smog and frosty air it would be impossible to see the bottom, much less get a glimpse of the other side of the mine. I wanted to leave this great dark city.

Mr. Sun persisted. Did I know that the Liaoning Tourist Board offered specialist tours? There were cycling tours. There were "local dishes tasting tours." There were "convalescence tours," and "recuperation tours"—"traditional Chinese physical therapies are applied for better treatment and recuperation results." Far from visiting Shenyang to get well, it seemed to me a place where even the healthiest person would end up with bronchitis.

These tours were a consequence of the brisk competition among the various provincial tourist boards. Mr. Sun also mentioned one called a "lawyers' tour."

"Any foreign friend who is interested in Chinese laws and our legal system can come on this tour, attend courts in session and can visit prisons," he said. "This provides them a chance to understand another aspect of China."

That was one I would have taken, but I could not do it at short notice. We talked about the legal system for a while, and I asked Mr. Sun—as I had other Chinese—about capital punishment. He was an enthusiast. But he claimed that the condemned prisoner was shot in the head, while I maintained the bullet was aimed at the back of the neck.

I asked him to reflect on capital punishment in China, the 10,000 corpses that had accumulated in the past three years (and they had just added prostitution to the list of capital crimes, so there would be many more).

"Capital punishment in China," he said, and paused, "is swift."