Riding the Iron Rooster

"Five years ago psychiatry was permitted—that was when I began studying," Doctor Qin said. "Before then there was no mental care. If someone had symptoms and was referred he was treated with acupuncture."

"Can you treat depression and schizophrenia with acupuncture?"

"No. And yet there were many cases. We see them all the time at the Shanghai Medical Center, where I practice. We have a famous medical system now, and there are eminent Chinese psychiatrists. They are old men who studied in Germany and the United States."

"How do you treat your patients?"

"We use drugs—medicine—and we talk to them. There are not many violent cases, but we have many depressives. That seems to be a Chinese problem. And about seventy percent of our patients are schizophrenics. Doctors in factories refer people to us, and we treat them."

I asked him whether he got many cases of paranoia.

"Not many. It is very rare in China. I only know of three such cases at the clinic."

"In the United States a paranoid person often thinks he's George Washington, and in other places paranoiacs says they're Hitler or Napoleon. Who does a Chinese paranoiac with a delusion of grandeur claim to be?"

'The emperor. Chairman Mao. Or God."

As I was talking to Doctor Qin a man approached me and said, "You speak German?"

"Ja wohl," I said, and babbled a little to please him. He spoke German very well and said that he had learned it as a messenger in the German consulate in Shanghai in the 1930s.

A little crowd had gathered around us. "Speak English!" someone said, and another bewildered Chinese said, "What language are you speaking—is that French?" Soon there were about twenty people listening to this man speaking German.

"If you want to stay here you must speak English," an officious Chinese man said, and took hold of the old man.

To calm matters, I asked the man his name. He said he was Mr. Zeng and he asked me to guess his age. I said, "About seventy."

"I was born in 1906," Mr. Zeng said. "I remember my father saying, 'The Emperor is on the throne.' He also told me about the old woman behind him"—the dowager empress—"that evil old woman."

"How do you manage to stay so young looking, Mr. Zeng?"

"It is easy. My father said, 'Never smoke opium' and I never did. At that time, everyone smoked it and they became very unhealthy. But I was strong—strong lungs." He puffed out his chest and then exhaled. "And I had another good reason. If I smoked opium my father would have beaten me on the backside."

I said, "You've lived through almost the whole of the twentieth century. What was the best period you've seen?"

"The best was just after Liberation. That was wonderful. Everyone was happy. There was peace."

"Is that the reason—because there was peace?"

"Not only that. I had two daughters. Before Liberation, girls were regarded as worthless—everyone wanted sons. But after Liberation I didn't have to worry, and my daughters didn't have to be ashamed anymore. Shall I tell you about my wife?"

"Please do," I said. Mr. Zeng had an impish and old-fashioned way of speaking, and the crowd of Chinese listeners leaned forward to catch what he said.

"About a year after I was born my parents decided that I was to marry a certain girl from the village. When I was twenty-three I finally married her. She was the most wonderful wife a man could have—the best cook. She made noodles. She made fish balls. She made the best dumplings. I can still taste those delicious dumplings." He licked his lips, and the watching Chinese laughed. He was aware that he was the center of attention, but he did not lose his poise. "She was my best friend! Shall I show you her picture?"

I said I would like to see it, and Mr. Zeng reached down and fossicked in his plastic bag—he had a bottle of Chinese rice wine and a pile of cookies; a comb; some pills; a blackened banana and a smudged newspaper. The crowd of onlookers pushed their heads forward as he searched for the picture.

There were loud gasps and hisses of disgust as Mr. Zeng brought out the picture. He flourished it—it was a corpse in a coffin, a small, pale head among some ruffles of satin; some wilted flowers; an incense burner; the withered face of the dead woman.

"She was a good wife," Mr. Zeng said proudly, and he smiled at the picture, and when he showed it around, the Chinese made faces and began to leave.