Riding the Iron Rooster

But in the way it was ignored by the world, and even ignored by most Chinese (it was just a tiny news item), and in the way it was quickly remedied, it was a very Chinese disaster. (The 1976 earthquake in China, hardly noticed by the world, killed more than 2 50,000 people, and the famines of the late 1950's killed as many as 16 million people.) After the death and destruction, shovels were distributed, the trains were dug out, the tracks disinterred and new sand barriers erected—fences this time, instead of grass clumps. The Chinese had their political dilemmas, and the technological side of Chinese society was a mess ("communications" was an inappropriate word for toy telephones, Morse code and scribbled notes), but if it was possible for the Chinese to shovel themselves out of trouble, they succeeded brilliantly. Digging was a national preoccupation, and during the Cultural Revolution—as my friend Wang said—everyone had his own hole, in case of war. Come to think of it, the Great Wall too was a sort of digger's masterpiece. And the old fable that Mao always cited, "The Foolish Old Man Who Removed the Mountains," was the digger's gospel—the point was that the old man was not foolish at all and that the Chinese could move mountains (even the metaphorical ones of imperialism and feudalism) by digging.

When the line was clear, I left for Hohhot, in Inner Mongolia. I was not alone. A small portly gentleman had been assigned to me. He had the face of a sea lion—not an unusual face in China. Speaking English was not one of his skills, but he was fluent in Russian, a language that mystifies me. His name was Mr. Fang. We were traveling together as a result of a discussion I had had with the Railway Board, but these discussions were more in the nature of struggle sessions.

A delegation had come to my hotel and delayed me with politeness and abused me with flattery, blackmailing me with such phrases as "famous writer," "important person" and "foreign friend." Indeed, I was so important and dignified that I could not possibly travel alone on this journey to the west, but would have to be provided with an entourage.

I said that I usually traveled alone, and that I made a virtue of it, and I refrained from saying that if I was in need of a traveling companion it certainly would not have been a huge, goofy man like Mr. Zhong, with his sinister laugh and his slurping way of eating.

We were in the restaurant of my hotel, Mr. Zhong, Mr. Fang, Mr. Chen and I. Mr. Zhong blew on the surface of his tea, then sucked it in, gurgled it inside his cheeks and gulped it. And his way with noodles was worse, and noisier: he made his mouth into a suck-hole and woofed them through it in a wet, twisted hank. His gasps made me feel violent towards him.

So far, Mr. Fang had not said anything; and Mr. Chen only put in a word now and then to be helpful.

"There is no earthly reason why anyone should come with me."

Mr. Zhong went schhhllooopp with his tea, and chewed it loudly, and then said, "To give you correct information."

"I think I'm capable of getting correct information on my own," I said. "I've done a little traveling, you know."

"But not in China."

"In China, as a matter of fact. Six years ago. Down the Yangtze."

"The Chang Jiang," he said, giving me correct information, as if I didn't know what the Chinese called the damned thing. Like all pedants, at heart he was just being stubborn and obstructive.

"And Peking and Canton."

"Beijing and Guangzhou," he said, woofing noodles.

"I'm giving you their English names, Mr. Zhong. We don't say Hellas for Greece, or Roma for Rome, or Paree, if we're speaking English. So I don't see the point—"

"I must come with you," Mr. Zhong said.

Never, I thought.

"We will leave tonight," he said.

Over my dead body, I thought.

"I will help you," he said.

"Believe me, it's extremely kind of you to offer," I said, "but I don't need your help."

His face was big and pale. He smiled at me and said, "I can carry your bag."

I said, "Did you go to a university?"

"Oh, yes. Jiaotong University. I studied engineering."

"So you're trained for a different job—not for carrying bags."

"My English is very good. I can be your interpreter."

"I want to improve my Chinese."

"I can help you with that," he said. "And you can teach me some more English, and about literature, and about your country."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," I said.

"You must be looked after properly."

"I don't want to be looked after," I said. "I just want to take the train and stare out the window."

"Oh, no," he said. "We must do our best. You are our responsibility. And we can talk."

Why wasn't Mr. Fang saying anything?

"I may not want to talk," I said. "I may want to sit and read. I may want to look out of the window."