Riding the Iron Rooster

His perhaps made me suspicious. I then suspected that they were striking, protesting, making some sort of fuss. If so, that was interesting, because fusses and strikes were never reported in the China Daily. In fact, the demand of most demonstrations—when they occurred, which was rare—was that the demonstration be reported in the Chinese news media.

"What do those signs say, Mr. Fang?"

"I can't read them without my glasses."

"Please put on your glasses," I said. "I am very curious."

"Hah! Hah! Hah!" he howled, pushing his glasses on and leaning forward. "Hah! Hah! Hah!"

This grunting mirthless laugh meant: I have just made a jackass of myself.

Then he removed his glasses and became very solemn. Chinese laughter often had a sobering effect. It was more than explanatory; it was also cathartic.

'They are advertising a hotel."

"One hotel?"

"Many hotels."

"How many?"

"Many, many," he said sadly. "When the passengers come out of the station they will look up and see the banners. This hotel offers good food, that one offers good rooms, this one is nearby. They are in competition. They are doing it for business."

Mr. Fang was surprised that such go-ahead commercial sense existed in distant Gansu. And I think it was news to him so many restaurants, guest houses and hotels were available in Lanzhou. It suggested more than the free market; it hinted at bourgeois ideas and competitive instincts.

I said, 'They are taking the capitalist road!"

Mr. Fang replied coldly, "We do not use that expression any more."

He always winced when I trotted out expressions such as "class enemy" (jieji diren) and "running dog" (zou gou).

We bypassed the clamor of two hundred travelers trying to push through the Hard Sleeper turnstile, and we knocked at the Soft Sleeper Waiting Room door. The room attendant admitted us and showed us to the overstuffed chairs. I made a mental note to add antimacassars to my list of antiquated Chinese manufacturing (washboards, quill pens, corsets, backscratchers, fish glue, spittoons, steam locomotives, etc.), and I asked Mr. Fang for his dictionary.

Capitalist road was in it under road, and so was running dog ("a lackey, a flunky, a stooge"). I looked up ziyou, "freedom, liberty," and found a series of definitions, each with its own explanatory sentence. I copied the most interesting ones into my notebook.

Citizens of China enjoy freedom of speech, correspondence, the press, assembly, association, procession, demonstration, and the freedom to strike.

Bourgeois ideas must not be allowed to spread unchecked.

The petty [sic] bourgeoisie's individualistic aversion to discipline.

Liberalism is extremely harmful in a revolutionary collective.

We can't decide this matter for ourselves; we must ask the leadership for instructions.

This official Chinese dictionary, reprinted by the state publishing house in 1985, contained definitions and illustrations that all contradicted life in China in fundamental ways. I thought: When that book is revised and rewritten I will believe that China has changed. It was clearly out-of-date, but like much else that was said—the guff about Marxism-Leninism and the guiding spirit of Mao's Thought—it was ineffectual. Such sentiments were dead but they wouldn't lie down.

Around midnight, the train drew in. There was a commotion outside as the hotel touts and agents jostled for attention. I went to the sleeping car. Mr. Fang vanished. I found my berth and discovered that no one else was going to Xian. The sleeper was empty. This was the rarest situation on a Chinese train, and one to be relished. Such circumstances were almost luxurious and definitely cozy. My own gooseneck lamp, plastic flowers, thermos, pillow, quilt and comforter. There was a tablecloth on the little side table, and a five-foot crocheted antimacassar on the seat back.

The only disquieting part of it was the music. I couldn't twist the knob with my rubber-band trick, so I took out my Swiss army knife and unscrewed the loudspeaker from the ceiling, disconnected it, replaced the plate and was able to read in silence. I was reading Lu Xun's "The True Story of Ah Q" because a Chinese woman had said that the story revealed the Chinese national character. So far it was about Ah Q's pompousness, foolishness, pretense and cowardice—and he had the farcical misapprehension of Mr. Pooter. Was that the point? ^*

I read on, soothed by the ponderous motion of the train and the melancholy cry of the steam whistle.

There had been a bucket of dead eels next to the hopper in the toilet cubicle. I had glimpsed the creatures in the middle of the night. That was memorable—and a good thing, too, because the next morning I went to the dining car and asked what was on the menu, and the chef said, "Eels!"