Issue 6 Summer 2010

Unsolicited manuscripts are welcomed throughout the year.

Terracotta Typewriter seeks submissions of literary works

with a connection to China. The definition of “connection to

China” can be stretched as much as an author sees fit. For ex-

ample, expatriate writers living in China or who have lived

in China, Chinese writers writing in English, translators of

Chinese writing, works that are set in China, manuscripts

covered in Chinese food (General Tso’s chicken doesn’t

count), or anything else a creative mind can imagine as a con-

nection to China.

© 2010 by Terracotta Typewriter. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Matthew Lubin © 2010

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This literary journal is free for distribution.

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Terracotta Typewriter

A Cultural Revolution

of Literature

In This Issue

Robert G. Longpré 1 Arrival at Pudong

Dennis Maulsby 2 My Asian Son Lifts Weights

Katharine Mitchell 4 Turtle Skirt

Karen Loeb 8 Lei-an-gu

10 Case of the yellow umbrella

Liang Yujing / 12 Song of West Islet

Yuefu translations 15 Song at Midnight

17 Song of River Water

Charles Lowe 19 The Incident

R.D. Lomax 34 Tantilising

Buff Whitman-Bradley 35 An Airplane Crash in

Ancient China

Contributor Notes 37

Robert G. Longpré

Arrival at Pudong

Bodies

Moving with one will

Following strangers

Turning as they walk

Through the maze

Of signs and names

Searching

Slowing

Eyes turning and searching

Hoping

A flimsy card

Name printed hastily

Affirms

Right place

Right time

1 一

Dennis Maulsby

My Asian Son Lifts Weights

Black cast iron disks

ring together

with each of his curls,

a musical beat in 4/4 time.

On the TV, a PBS crew

explores the ancient

Ch’in emperor’s tomb,

an army of terracotta soldiers

arranged there on parade.

The cameras do profiles,

pans and close-ups

of the statues thin-lipped faces,

high cheekbones and Asian eyes.

On the screen

my son’s reflected image

animates the molded faces,

as if he had been the model

for the 2000-year-old sculpted clay.

The empty shells clutch life:

brows lift, black eyes shine again,

gray pottery cheeks flush to tan,

lips part and nostrils flare.

Finished with his sets,

2 二

a red Hibiscus silk shirt

pulled over his head,

my son strides from the house.

In his silvered sunglasses

shields flash, banners wave—

ten thousand warriors bow.

3 三

Previously published in The North American Review May-August 2004.

Katharine Mitchell

Turtle Skirt

“N o really,” I told Mr. Wang, “I can’t run.”

Mr. Wang, giggled. “That is not true.

Foreigners are very fast. Besides, you

are track star!”

In a discussion about sports, I’d told my class of 40

Chinese middle school students about the tradition of Letter-

man’s jackets. I’d bragged about earning my own fuzzy, red

“G” as a freshman on the Varsity cross country team. What I

didn’t bother mentioning was that my school didn’t have a

JV team; that I’d only joined Varsity to help diversify my pro-

file for college applications; or that I was, hands down, the

slowest runner on the team.

But it was too late to rectify the truth now. As the new

foreign teacher at the Number 2 Middle School of Zhenjiang,

I was required to participate in the upcoming faculty vs. stu-

dent relay race, a highlight of the school’s annual sports day,

which my students had described as one of the most exciting

days of the whole school year. All classes were canceled and

students and faculty gathered to cheer on Olympic hopefuls.

I wondered if Pearl S. Buck had ever been forced to partici-

pate in a sports day. I seriously doubted it.

Xiao Ping laughed when I told her I’d been selected to

participate in the race. She had recently discovered I wasn’t

very athletic—a weakness she milked mercilessly. Every day

for weeks, between lulls in cooking and cleaning, Xiao Ping

challenged me to various physical fitness tests. She delighted

in demonstrating how high she could kick, and laughed her-

4 四

self silly when my leg didn’t swing higher than my hips. We

raced each other up and down the steps, lunged across the

courtyard and jumped ropes fashioned from laundry lines.

Yet no matter how hard I tried, Xiao Ping always outdid me.

Though we both weighed 115lbs, she was three inches

shorter, 20 years older and far more limber and fit. If only she

could take my place in the big Sports Day relay race, we’d all

have saved a lot of face.

I’d read about a similar sports event in Peter Hessler’s

memoir River Town. Hessler, who taught English along the

Yangtze River on a Peace Corps assignment, had actually

won a foot race against hundreds of other runners. I knew for

a fact I wasn’t going to be a winner; I just hoped I’d sped up

since my turtle days of high school.

The day of the school-wide sports event was hot and

humid. Sun glinted like diamonds off mica chips in the hard

baked dirt. Students, grouped by class, filled the concrete

stands on either side of the field, two seas of bright yellow-

and-white-striped tracksuits, buzz cuts and ponytails.

Class 9 had prime seating, on the end of the field

where a few oaks and smaller magnolias cast partial shadows

on the warm concrete bleachers. Despite the mottled shade,

students’ nylon tracksuits were damp with sweat by ten

o’clock, their only refreshment boiled water. During morning

break I snuck off to the closest grocery and bought several

dozen packages of boxed drinks—apple juice, yogurt and

chocolate milk. If anything, I figured, the sugar would help

pep them up before their events.

A tireless announcer called out the endless heats, and

students sprinted down to the field to line up alongside their

classmates. Jiang Liu taught me to chant “Jia you!” to encour-

5 五

age participants. Li Mei Mei translated the phrase as “Add

oil.” It was the equivalent of “rah” or just “Go!” I joined in

the shouting, jumping up and down and frantically waving

my arms each time a Class 9 student approached the starting

line.

Caught up in the excitement, I started shouting along.

“Jia you, Mr. Xu! Jia you, Girl!” I still had names to learn.

At the end of each race or event, the boys would storm

the field to high-five winning classmates. The girls, mean-

while, seemed less concerned about the actual race than com-

peting for the most dramatic finish. Dozens of girls collapsed

at the finish line, languishing in the dirt until their classmates

rushed over to scoop them up. The school nurse was sum-

moned repeatedly, and an ambulance collected one student,

whose reddened cheeks and arms glinted with mica and

sweat. Most of the exhaustion appeared to be posturing, but I

did worry about the students and encouraged Class 9 to

drink plenty of water—even if it was piping hot.

The faculty vs. student relay race was finally an-

nounced. After hours of student sprints, a mile-race, long

jump, javelin, parallel bar stunts and a single silly sack race,

it was my turn to storm the field, flanked by a team of all-

male colleagues. No one had warned me I was the only

woman on the team.

I hadn’t brought any shorts to China, so I opted for the

same old flowery cotton skirt I always donned. Because I was

the foreigner, I was volunteered to run first. Just before the

gun started, Mr. Wang warned me, “Careful. Watch your

skirt.”

The gun fired and all I could think about was the elas-

tic waistband of my skirt slipping down over my granny

6 六

panties and tangling up my feet in the dirt. As a precaution, I

kept one thumb hooked around my waistband, and pumped

my other arm full force, which caused me to weave and al-

most trip. As my black Skechers beat the hard earth, I was

passed left and right by flashes of yellow-white tracksuits.

By the time I’d made a full loop around the track, I’d

been double-lapped by two student runners, and my own

teammate, impatiently had taken off. I stood panting in the

dusty air, my sweaty hand still clenching the elastic waist-

band of my skirt.

My students had the grace to shout “Jia you!” as I

climbed back into the stands, and a few boys gave me high

fives but their nervous giggles and hung heads told me what

I already knew. I’d not only disappointed my students, the

faculty and Mr. Wang; I’d caused them all to lose face.

Unlike my students, Xiao Ping was not so kind. She

berated me all throughout dinner, joking about my turtle

pace, and forced a goose head into my rice bowl, insisting the

protein would help build up my muscle. I skipped the goose,

but I did pile on the tofu, determined to increase my strength

and flexibility over the coming months. I wouldn’t be able to

redeem myself in another Er Zhong sports match, but I might

be able to beat Xiao Ping at her own game before the year

was up.

7 七

Karen Loeb

LEI-AN-GU LEI-AN-GU In the White Swan Hotel in the

days after adoption--2001

Our daughter at three

tries out light switches, tub faucets,

stereo knobs

and water bottles.

There are many plastic water bottles

for her and the girl next door to

play with in a common bath. “Lei-an-gu,

lei-an-gu” our daughter exclaims,

plunging her hands into the tub,

proudly holding up the bottles, her catch.

The four parents

crowd into the bathroom

not wanting to miss a moment of what the girls

are up to. We’re pleased

to decipher lei-an-gu so easily.

I grasp a bottle, saying, “Lei-an-gu.”

“Kokunay?” our daughter asks. We don’t

know that word either, but her frown

declares lei-an-gu doesn’t mean bottle. “Lei-an-gu,

lei-an-gu,” she says, holding up one bottle, then

another, tipping them, letting fountains

of water arc into the tub.

Weeks later, home in Wisconsin,

we finally get it.

Maybe it’s when she holds up two crayons

8 八

one after the other,

says, “Lei-an-gu, lei-an-gu” one more time.

She’s a toddler, interested in

shapes, brimming over with the

knowledge that one thing is like another.

Lei-an-gu, lei-an-gu is one of the strings

unwinding back to our daughter’s language

that she has not forgotten

from the many that she has.

In our house even today

we celebrate this simple phrase.

Lei-an-gu,

lei-an-gu.

Same,

same.

Kokunay?

Lei-an-gu,

lei-an-gu.

What is it?

Same,

same.

9 九

The Case of the Yellow Umbrella—China, 2008

My daughter has lost her umbrella,

with a flashlight in the handle.

It’s not really lost—she abandoned it

in the supermarket while looking at

pens and pencils.

I left it on a shelf. Come back with me

so I can get it. Please come back with

me. I don’t want to go there alone. Why

won’t you come with me? I’m only ten—what

do you expect me to do? I know you don’t

speak the language. I don’t either. Come

back with me. It’s going to rain later. It

always rains here. I WANT MY UMBRELLA.

I left it on a shelf so I could buy you some

pencils. You always need pencils for

your crossword puzzles. There’s no other

umbrella in the world that has a flashlight.

Please come back with me. NOW.

My daughter has lost her umbrella. She

was sent to the store for bananas

and strawberry jelly, which in this

store, comes in a jar the size of a baby’s

fist. Straying into the aisle with pencils

was optional, her own doing. She is

Chinese, but she no longer speaks

the language.

10 十

She closes the door harder than she should

when she heads out. Her steps are reluctant

and heavy on the marble staircase. She is

going to her doom, she’s sure of it. Later,

when she returns with a clutch of yellow fabric

she’s surprised that she made it happen.

I found it right away. The man at the door

wanted to make me PAY for it. I told him ten

ways in English that it was my umbrella, that

they didn’t sell ones like this in his store. Luckily

one of your students, you know, Grover, was

there, and he explained to the man what had

happened. I could have gone to jail. I would

have too. It was my umbrella.

11 十一

Anonymous Yuefu poems

translated by Liang Yujing

Song of West Islet

Recalling the plums I went down for West Islet

To pluck a plum twig and send it to the north of Yangtze.

My unlined garment was apricot-red

And the hair on my temples, the color of a fledgling raven.

Where is West Islet?

I only need to row a double-oared sampan past a bridge

And reach the ferry.

At nightfall, on my way back, the shrikes were flying over

And wind was blowing the tallow trees.

Under the trees is my gate,

In which lives a girl, with a jade hairpin.

I opened the door but you were not there,

So I went out to gather red lotuses.

In autumn I gathered lotuses in the south pond

Where the flowers were higher than my head.

Lowering my head, I played with lotus seeds,

The seeds they were clear as water.

I put the seeds in my sleeves and in my bosom;

Their hearts were red, to the core.

I remembered you but you were not here;

So I raised my head, seeing the flying swan geese.

The geese were flying around West Islet

And I climbed up my attic to look for you

Far into distance.

12 十二

My attic, though high, failed to give a view of you;

I stood at the balustrade, till sunset.

The balustrade has twelve curves

And my hands were drooping, fair as white jade.

Back in my boudoir, I pulled up the curtain

Only to see the sky was high

And the seawater was waving emerald, in vain.

The sea is in an endless dream—

You’re sad, and so am I

And the south wind knows my mind

And brings my dream to West Islet.

13 十三

西洲曲西洲曲西洲曲西洲曲

忆梅下西洲，折梅寄江北。

单衫杏子红，双鬓鸦雏色。

西洲在何处？两桨桥头渡。

日暮伯劳飞，风吹乌桕树。

树下即门前，门中露翠钿。

开门郎不至，出门采红莲。

采莲南塘秋，莲花过人头。

低头弄莲子，莲子青如水。

置莲怀袖中，莲心彻底红。

忆郎郎不至，仰首望飞鸿。

鸿飞满西洲，望郎上青楼。

楼高望不见，尽日栏杆头。

栏杆十二曲，垂手明如玉。

卷帘天自高，海水摇空绿。

海水梦悠悠，君愁我亦愁。

南风知我意，吹梦到西洲。

14 十四

Song at Midnight

My heart is North Star

That never moves an inch for a millennium,

Yet my love he’s got a sun-like heart

That’s in the east at dawn,

But at nightfall runs to the west.

15 十五

子夜歌子夜歌子夜歌子夜歌

侬作北辰星，千年无转移。

欢行白日心，朝东暮还西。

16 十六

Song of River Water

The water in the river flows to the east,

And a girl in Luoyang her name is Mochou.

At thirteen Mochou learned to weave damasks,

At fourteen she picked mulberry-leaves by the south road.

She married into Lu the noble family at fifteen

And at sixteen she gave birth to Ah Hou her son.

In Lu’s mansion her boudoir has laurel-made beams

Permeated by a mixed scent of turmeric and storax.

Her locks are decorated with twelve gold hairpins

And the silky shoes on her feet, of five colors.

Her mirror, hanged on coral twigs, is glazed with luster

And hooded servants carry her powder box around.

A wealthy and noble life she has, what else can she wish for?

She only wishes she had married Wang

The boy once in her eastern neighborhood.

17 十七

河中之水歌河中之水歌河中之水歌河中之水歌

河中之水向东流，洛阳女儿名莫愁。

莫愁十三能织绮，十四采桑南陌头，

十五嫁为卢家妇，十六生儿字阿侯。

卢家兰室桂为梁，中有郁金苏和香。

头上金钗十二行，足下丝履五文章。

珊瑚挂镜烂生光，平头奴子提履箱。

人生富贵何所望，恨不嫁与东家王。

18 十八

Charles Lowe

The Incident

W en had learned over his long career, at least

long by the standards of the trade, that mis-

understandings and miscommunication

were the basis of success. Others might ar-

gue that the key to success was an effective sales

pitch. Others would say that a solid business was founded

on having a steady and satisfied clientele. Don’t trust those

two-faced bastards. The truth was success in the business

was dependent on a few choice misunderstandings, not lies.

Then, the customer could demand his or her money back,

and even if Wen didn’t give a full cash refund, Wen would

be stuck without a ready reply and listening to an angry cus-

tomer tear into him from an obscure province in Australia for

an incident, unforeseeable or not, demanding that the price

of the phone call be included in the refund.

A refund and include the phone call. What did the

customer think? Wen was a three-year-old. But could Wen

say that? No, of course not: the second rule being that the

way to handle a disgruntled client was simply to take the

abuse. Be a wall so to speak. Despite whatever background

noise, whatever screaming that took place over the phone,

despite the customer’s deciding to use every epitaph known

to humanity over a three-minute period, your job was to take

it. Never give a refund. Under no condition, give a re-

fund. And if you could, turn the unfortunate incident to

your advantage, better, but if you couldn’t, take it as if you

were responsible not only for a bad experience but for every

bad experience that had ever been inflicted on this poor soul.

19 十九

By now, Wen’s line of work must be obvious, and

Wen was a success in his chosen pursuit. Though it took 14

long months of diligence and minor deceptions, Wen had his

own office on No. 112 Goubuli where from the Happy Times

Travel Agency, Wen would book many “luxurious” vaca-

tions for the many up-and-coming workaholics in the

Goubuli District, many of who were for the very first time,

ready to dip into the savings hoarded away in case of an ill-

ness and reward their families with a first perhaps modest

taste of success.

But here was the flaw in the otherwise well-earned va-

cation break. The customer would want a luxurious break,

but at the same time, well the customer didn’t want to pay

the whole price: the fantasy being that well at some time, the

family would need the whole lump sum. Let’s say a grandfa-

ther: there was always one of those, was in a taxi ride: the in-

cident, the taxi collided with a bicyclist that dreamily took in

a left turn as if on remote control, and the cab had to break

quick into traffic, slamming the old fellow into a metal net

separating the front from the back seat, causing the guy to

pull a muscle in the rib, and then, when you got to the hospi-

tal, you discovered that your grandfather needed a machine

to help him carry out the bodily functions.

The body was a jig-saw puzzle, and one piece out of

place. Well, Wen had a colleague who had been so

unlucky. You know, a grandfather gets into an accident, not

a taxi but a bus, and then, guess what, no office, nothing, just

working as a free-lancer, no hope at all to get out of the circle.

So, Wen understood these customers all too well. But

as he told Lin, his younger colleague unlucky enough to have

a living, though not fully in tact grandfather, Wen wasn’t a

20 二十

three year-old. The customers wanted to cut corners. They

could cut corners, but there was always a price. For instance,

Wen gave a pair of teachers the true price for a luxury cruise

down the Yangtze. Normally, Wen would not have at-

tempted the deal. He would have pawned the teachers off on

a company with a bullhorn, but the teachers had a real job.

They were a cigarette smugglers so might genuinely be able

to afford a 5-star vacation. But alas, when they got the fig-

ures, they wanted to know if there was a discount. Always

the discount, and right then, you could tell the teachers were

counting body parts: what if the police arrested them for

bringing in cigarettes without paying the custom’s duties.

What then, a beating? So what, a few broken bones: a little

pain, okay, that was incidental, but what if the stay was

longer. They had insurance no doubt, but the insurance was

flat fee, so once the bill got over 40,000RMB in a few weeks or

so, what then?

You could hear the accounting. Three broken bones

take three months to heal, and with only a couple of 100,000

cushion: they might be forced to reside on a park bench off

the stone walkway off the Hai River. What then? No use ex-

plaining to a couple of nervous cigarette smugglers the price

of rest and relaxation. So instead, Wen gave them their

dream, which as a dream, sounded nice: “I mean many of the

foreigners take the three-star vacation,” but Wen didn’t ex-

plain that these foreigners were students and wanted to

travel, as one of them put matters, “like a real Chinese.”

Well, that little info won’t have helped. No Chinese

wanted to vacation like a real Chinese. So, instead, Wen sug-

gested that the vacation package had more or less the same

amenities as a five star one. It had a complimentary break-

21 二十一

fast, featuring dumplings and watermelon slices plus coffee

and tea. Westerners liked coffee, Wen explained as if giving

away a trade secret. Plus, the tour boat went down the same

river that Wen had gone down, and indeed gave off a spec-

tacular view of a cliff where Li Bai and Du Fu penned their

poems before visiting the Three Gorges Damn and watching

from a distance an entire city of workers working at dynamit-

ing a lovely precipice. What a vacation, and the teachers

agreed.

Now, one of the luxuries of success is the opportunity

to mentor a junior colleague, in particular a colleague

unlucky enough to foot the hospital bills for a grandfather

not fully in tact. And Wen felt that he was fulfilling a duty—

a successful man should provide guidance to those burdened

with incidents not within their control—and Wen felt, be-

cause of the injured grandfather, that in helping his colleague

somewhat junior to him, Wen was showing respect to an in-

firmed elder.

Quite simply, Lin had a job for life, and beside the

pleasure of being dutiful boss, Wen had an assistant ready to

take the complaints at the any time of the day or night when

inevitably the other shoe fell, and of course, the customer dis-

covered the truth that a discounted luxury tour was not same

as a luxurious tour: in fact, could be the very opposite of a

luxurious tour.

Wen was well aware of this eventuality, and as a good

teacher himself, Wen practiced foreshadowing, noting that

the customers might experience some small incidents along

the way in return for holding onto some RMB just in

case. The customers almost always nodded, putting on the

grim expression that accompanied the chance both to have a

22 二十二

western and Chinese breakfast thrown into a near five-star

vacation.

Then, the complaints would start to flow in: some-

times full force, mostly like a drizzle on an early March day

before a sandstorm blew off the Mongolian plains and into

the Goubuli District.

For instance, the teachers would text message that

their small luxurious bungalow with a slender view of the

dynamiting was in fact the summer residence for a family of

rats. To which Wen would tell Lin to apologize and to tell

them that Happy Times would try to get a bungalow where

the teachers would not have to share their vacation with an-

other family and be given as a bonus a full view of the pyro-

technics. And so these text messages went back and forth.

The teacher got ill from the milk served for free at an Authen-

tic Continental breakfast with fresh toast. The teachers were

woken near midnight, and led by a kid overly familiar with a

loud speaker up a rickety ladder to a string of huts, flooded

with neon, where the teachers were nearly forced to pay an

old woman to recite a Li Bai poem about an incidental

drowning after drinking too much plum wine.

But the most challenging part of Lin’s job came when

the teachers called to say that the near five-star boat was fully

equipped with a doughnut sized hole and therefore, was

slowly but consistently sinking. Immediately, Wen noticed

that Lin’s voice had lost the necessary element of profession-

alism and had verged onto complete shock. Wen grabbed

the phone from his associate’s hand and started in on how he

had explained that near five star vacations did have a sort of

adventure quotient that many Westerners in fact appreci-

ated. But for some reason, this remark did not have a com-

23 二十三

forting effect but instead got the teachers screaming about

how they wanted their money back for an incident that was

fully foreseeable plus compensation for a drowned video

camera that had filmed near midnight a peasant woman re-

citing a poem about getting drunk on plum wine and drown-

ing a poet in a river.

Well, Wen said afterwards to his associate, do they

think I’m three years old? I asked them whether they had

taken his advice and invested in travel insurance, which

though nearly the price of the vacation, would have provided

the couple with absolute security. This admonition provoked

silence, then, a guilty mumbling response, which Wen had

seized on, saying that he only wished that the customers had

listened to their older brother instead of crying only after the

dumplings were steamed.

Happy Times Travel could help them though get a

discount on a cruise that would allow a safe passage to Wu-

han if they wanted their older brother’s help. Otherwise the

teachers were on their own.

Lin had to admire his boss’s skill and apologized as

soon as the phone call was over for having so obviously

botched the situation. Wen just put his arms on Lin’s shoul-

ders, not an easy feat, considering the height differential be-

tween the very squat boss and the very slender and tree-like

junior colleague. Then, Wen explained that the incident was

not everyday one but you had to be prepared. Lin nodded

his head. It was an age-old problem. He was weak. No mat-

ter how many times he had tried to develop a thicker skin, he

would hear someone would toss back a nasty comment, in-

tentionally or otherwise, or in the case of these teachers,

would blame Lin for an incident that was entirely of their

24 二十四

creation. And Lin would accept the blame.

Lin was weak and easy to manipulate and had been as

far as he could remember. Everyone knew it. That was why

when his oldest uncle’s wife had come to him as the only son

of a middle son and said the old man was your burden, Lin

accepted the duty. No complaints. Lin didn’t point out that

there were seven other grandsons equally culpable. Lin sim-

ply took on the new duty. Worse, Lin felt guilty for being un-

able to afford a nearly first class hospital and had sent his

wife to keep the old man company. Nurses were terrible in

these private dives, and someone had to hold down the

clamp on the intravenous and clean up the old man’s shit un-

til Lin arrived at 11 after closing up Happy Times Travel.

Naturally, his wife didn’t argue. What could she say? Leave

an elder alone in the hospital to die in unwashed pajamas

next to the screamingly uninsured. But his grandfather’s per-

manent residence in the hospital did end their mar-

riage. Well, not ended, but at least ended Lin’s stay on their

double bed. Lin’s wife was willing to hold together an intra-

venous so that the old guy could have his regular feeding,

but she was certainly not willing to sleep with his weak-

minded grandson. Maybe, if Lin had taken a harder line,

claiming that the unfortunate situation was entirely the result

of a combination of incidents that was entirely outside Lin’s

control: an analysis that would have contained more than a

little truth. But Lin acted as if he was a tourist in unfamiliar

surroundings, and that was that. His wife threw every fore-

seeable and a few unforeseeable curses in his direction, and

after taking over for his wife at 11 and holding together the

clamp holding together an intravenous throughout the full

half-and-hour feeding period, Lin returned to his family

25 二十五

apartment where Lin fell asleep alone on a rollout until each

morning Lin made his own congee and went to work to learn

from his boss the art of making someone else feel guilty, an

art that Lin felt that he would never master.

Once though, Lin believed that he might at least have

begun to climb that first unsteady rung leading to success. It

was on a brief business trip that normally the more senior

colleague of the Happy Times Travel Agency would have

taken but Wen’s wife’s cousin had a wedding, and Wen had

to be in town to arrange the five-star trip to Guilin. The wife’s

cousin was marrying a government official who, since retire-

ment, had bought into a coal mine and therefore, had an

armed body guard. Someone was always taking a shot at one

of these fellows after every accident whether the incident

could be proven to be the owner’s fault or not, so this fellow

did have the bucks and Wen was hooking up the couple with

a vacation at the Shangri-La, a hotel featuring a real Western

breakfast—they served real cheese and chocolates!—which

left Lin to pick up some group tickets for a school trip to

Mount Emei which was famous for having especially nasty

monkeys, so Wen had warned the Principal to buy insurance

just in case of a foreseeable or unforeseeable incident, “but

did the fool listen!”

But in any case, that wasn’t Lin’s problem. Lin only

had to pick up the ticket package, a task that might seem at

first glance not too daunting except that this was the first

time that Lin had been to the capital, not that such the inex-

perience was that unusual for the time though Tianjin was

really only three hours from the capital even if you traveled

by school bus.

The incident, after all, had taken place only a few

26 二十六

years earlier, and everyone in the District, it seemed, had a

similar vision. They were walking in the capital all innocent:

maybe shopping at a newly opened Parkson. What could be

more innocent than shopping at a Malaysian-run department

store chain? Then, a tank approached. From real far away,

the tank looked like an oblong bottle of plum wine. Then,

closer up, an insect with an unusually flat skull. Then, closer

a long steel tube and at first to the hard working residents of

the Goubuli District, the steel tube looked like an all season

vacation spot—well designed to insulate the individual tour-

ist from the cold. Beijing winters were famously bone chill-

ing. And in the springs with a little blanket could keep the

dust rolling off the Mongolian plains that was otherwise

blinding. And of course the benefits were clear in a dry sum-

mer heat. But Lin wasn’t a tourist seeking a resting spot free

of seasonal discomfort. Lin was in the capital for purposes of

business so had problems of a different order: the first being

how to board a third-class bus.

You wouldn’t think that would be a problem. You just

buy the ticket, 10 bucks. Get on with the rest of the passen-

gers. Then, close your eyes or do whatever it is that passen-

gers on a bus do. Simple perhaps but not for a colleague with

a slim travel allowance: then, there were two possibilities,

both with a significant downside. Lin could climb on top of a

reconverted school bus and hold onto the steel luggage rack

in case the driver put too much a swerve into a left turn or

sliced off a right corner too sharply so that the passengers

had too close a view of the tulip poplars planted on the side

of the road recently for cosmetic purposes. The obvious step,

though, was to try to find place inside, not that the choice did

not come with its own hardships.

27 二十七

First there was the matter of boarding a ’50s school

bus, an undertaking that did not necessarily come with a

happy ending. Lin had to be lucky enough to find the opti-

mal place in the crowd of passengers flooding through two

narrow doors. Not that there wasn’t a skill: there was a skill

to everything including surviving standing room on a third

class bus: the number 1 being similar to the first rule of be-

coming a successful travel agent (a resemblance that gave Lin

hope). Take whatever comes your way. When an old lady

knocks you in the side with a bag of rice flour or a young stu-

dent claps you on the ear with a recycled Red Book before

letting you have it on the other end with a used copy of a

Harvard MBA’s Recipe for Success: just smile: smiling was

good. But taking it was better. And when the bus driver

made up for the time lost from overfilling the bus with more

last fare paying customers: bend your head and assume a fe-

tal position, while making sure to check your back pocket for

the fifth time. No one has picked your pocket and the tickets

are not lying on the floor next to the business/poli sci major.

Now, make the next connection. The lot is filled with

dirt, the dirt invading your shirt and pack but not the enve-

lope safeguarded by your un-tucked button down missing

the top and third to the top buttons. Okay, you made your

next connection and are hanging out the front door as the

capital assumes a small city character: rice thrown on the side

of the road to be ground and dried by a regular traffic flow

till you reach the point where the buildings are taller than the

threatening tulip poplars lining the side of the road from

Tianjin to the capital. Then, the ticket collector, a lovely 12-

year-old, shoves you out on your backside at a stop near a

very historic square, leaving you to ask a peddler or at least a

28 二十八

guy you think is a peddler because in your experience, there

can be no other reason for a guy (and he definitely wasn’t re-

tired) to be loitering at 3 in the afternoon who directs you,

kind of, to an alleyway where you come face to face with a

tank blocking its entrance, a tank that is also a catty corner

from a two-floor barber shop that catches your attention be-

cause the shop is lit with neon in the mid afternoon.

The tank does bear an odd resemblance to an oblong

wine bottle—from a distance—a resemblance that leads you

to figure that the other travel stories must be true, that the

turret, looking like the tower of European castle can (when

set in motion) have a dangerously hypnotic effect on a tourist

who may confuse the tank with an actor in a sci-fi film in

which a large metropolis is demolished by a humongous in-

sect that is intelligent enough to score high on a college en-

trance exam. So you pay the high fee for the 3-D glasses and

watch a film that is altogether too vivid so must represent an

advance in technology until you realize that the fact is that

you have a bit part. The tank has annihilated an army of ex-

tras. Now it’s your turn. The spectators are all addicts to ca-

ble news so misinterprets the scene, taking the lead from a

commentator who is paid to find a clever phrase to find a

phrase to fit your dilemma—which is why you are called

tank man though you are barely, if at all, aware of the tank’s

slow but consistent progress, instead absorbed in finding the

single turn amongst any number of turns that brought you to

an alleyway opening onto a vast and historic square, so you

close your eyes.

But the junior colleague of Happy Times Travel was

not on vacation so had no discernible reason to close his eyes.

He was in the capital strictly on business, so his problem as-

29 二十九

sumed a wholly different dimension: how to convince a tank

that he, Lin, was not a tourist but was expected by a corrupt

mid or high-level official who was selling off a vacation pack-

age intended as a perk for a military contingent? Lin’s more

senior colleague had, to a certain extent, taken into account

the challenge faced by a junior colleague: providing a letter

that should secure clearance. Still, what if the soldier in the

tank (Lin assumed that the tank was controlled by some hu-

man intelligence) started to approach Lin without troubling

to discover that Lin was not a tourist—which was why Lin

surrendered: a form of non-resistance that the junior col-

league at Happy Times Travel was well practiced at: waving

the official’s letter as if the letter constituted a white flag, the

tactic working in so far as Lin was not crushed by the tank.

The remaining directions were printed on stationary

with a lilac as well as the company’s name embellished in

green on the upper right corner. Step 1: find a heavy canvas

tent less than a meter inside the perimeter. Step 2: make cer-

tain that all 25 tickets were inside and that all 25 had stamped

“redeemable at a discount” on the upper right corner of an

envelope marked “for PLA Troop 74” before completing

steps 3, 4, and 5: putting down the cash envelope on a

wooden mahjong table and proceeding to take the group

ticket package before escaping the perimeter while making

certain to stroll nearby a soldier as if the soldier was a some-

what distant friend. Step 6: again face the flat square steel top

of a tank with a turret that turn in either direction. Step 7:

there are no more steps.

Lin felt satisfied, having following all the steps out-

lined by his senior colleague except of course that now his

business was finished and Lin was again within firing range

30 三十

which was when Lin became attracted to the neon multi-

colored bulbs decorating the barbershop like a vacation home

overlooking the Yangtze River—which was why Lin was not

very deterred by a teenager, wearing a flowing polo shirt and

holding a pair of metal shears. Later that evening, a mas-

seuse, a little older than a soldier but younger than a barber,

approached Lin: asking if Lin wanted to venture upstairs. Of

course, Lin wanted to venture upstairs, and that was without

considering the immediate prospect of facing a tank or the

eventual outcome of falling asleep on a rollout—alone. But

here was Lin’s problem. The no nonsense haircut had eaten

through the meager allowance given to the junior colleague

for a day in the capital. And the junior colleague didn’t have

enough for a bowl of congee and a pot of cheap five-flower

tea, no more a foot or hand massage, not to mention the full

body type. So Lin showed a bulk ticket passage, which the

masseuse, just older than the soldier but younger than the

teenage barber, inspected carefully, leading Lin to recall how

the senior colleague had exhibited a similar thoroughness a

week or so ago when perusing a contract in which a nearly

five star tour company agreed on the appropriate kickback in

return for sinking a boatload of teachers. The masseuse gave

back the envelope marked on the front cover, “for PLA Troop

74,” and led Lin up an uneasily attached metal staircase to a

room the size of a closet and a half with a door to a room that

Lin would never see. Then, motioned for a masseuse who

looked as if she were a very small and timid boy: who very

professionally turned off the lights: pulled a warm towel

over Lin’s eyes and began to massage his knuckles and lower

forearm till Lin was able at last to close his eyes, and imagine

resting inside the turret of a gun facing down a crowd of an-

31 三十一

gry demonstrators. Lin released his tickets, feeling that he

was on vacation.

Later, on the way back home, on the first rung of some

steps, leading up to a rather squat bus driver who took one

corner very sharply, nearly brushing the bus against a yellow

tulip, Lin began to consider his next problem, a problem of

more immediate import to a junior colleague than what to do

when facing down a tank that could flatten a threatening or

non-threatening traveler with equivalent ease. What to tell

his boss about the missing tickets and what to tell his wife

about the missing hair (the boyish masseuse would remain

his secret)? Lin wanted to be honest, but what could Lin

really say? That he had a first encounter with a tank, a tank

with a heavy steel turret that looked to house a comfortable

vacation spot, provided that Lin was traveling unaccompa-

nied and the junior colleague had decided to celebrate that

encounter by not resisting a barber holding a pair of sharp-

ened metal shears and to further the festivities, had ex-

changed a bulk ticket package, redeemable at a discount, for

a hand and foot massage, lasting forty-five minutes if that.

Even if his wife and senior colleague were to accept Lin’s ex-

planation (doubtful) and not divorce and fire Lin respec-

tively, Lin would still be stuck paying back the price of the

bulk package for the duration, and his wife would of course

add the incident to her ready stash of highly imaginative

curses.

So naturally, Lin was not especially pleased to come

face to face with his wife and his senior colleague, both of

whom had blocked off the open entrance to Happy Times

Travel until the junior colleague at Happy Times Travel came

up with a tactic to turn the unfortunate incident to his advan-

32 三十二

tage—and told his wife and senior colleague that the trip

went longer than expected, which was the truth as far as it

went. And when his senior colleague asked for the missing

tickets and his wife for an explanation for the sudden rise in

the hairline since her husband had last ventured out Goubuli

Alley, Lin replied that the bulk package and the extra hair

were gone.

After, Lin prepared to apply the second rule being

that, when as was almost inevitable, his senior colleague or

his wife (or both) would explode, Lin’s job was to be the wall

so to speak, and despite whatever screaming took place, de-

spite whatever epitaphs were hurled in Lin’s direction, Lin’s

job was to take it as if Lin was responsible not only for one

terrible incident but for every incident that had been inflicted

on these poor souls. But his senior colleague and his wife did

not continue to try to parse out the mystery of the unac-

counted-for tickets and the unaccounted-for hair. The two of

them were caught off guard, enabling Lin to take advantage

of the lull in the hostilities and slip off to the back storage

room for a nap: exhausted from a first trip to the capital.

33 三十三

R.D. Lomax

Tantalising

There’s chicken feet and coke in my fridge.

And I am just not even going to go there with the metaphors.

Just trying to show the shock of solitude I sometime find

On Wednesdays.

Contentedly boasting also

That a soliloquy can be found in a world of billions,

In a country not so much smaller than that

And my family of three.

The reports I could make,

Proof of how there is a lot more going on than numbers.

A life bigger than a half an hour, six o’clock news slot,

On all of the other days.

There’s even the light relief bit.

The part that is suppose to ward off nightmares,

Caused by insight into our fellow in-humans;

Very randomly scheduled.

But this is not about the news:

Merely some way to realise, to express the absolute joys

At finding chicken feet and coke in my fridge

On Wednesdays.

34 三十四

Buff Whitman-Bradley

An Airplane Crash in Ancient China

Tu Fu, drunk in his boat, contemplating the moon

Had to be careful of falling overboard

Lest his great sleeves drag him down

To the bottom of the cold black lake

Above him a sliver plough cut a trench in the sky

The emperor’s philosopher told the Ch’an master

Someday people will fly around the earth

The Ch’an master replied

What do you mean, someday?

A plane crashed in the mountains of Wu

And the dead wrote their names in the snow

The rice sings in the wine in the brain

Time is nothing

If we think we will die we are wrong

If we think we will not die we are wrong

Each moment the plane slams into the ground

In the apricot dawn Tu Fu rows ashore

His sleeves are soaked with dew

His tongue tastes of ashes

In his mind the brush

Forms the first characters

Of a new poem

35 三十五

36 三十六

Contributor Notes

Liang Yujing is a Changsha-based poet and literary transla-

tor who writes in both English and Chinese. His poetry in

English has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Word

Riot, Weyfarers, Wasafiri, Peril and Tipton Poetry Journal. He is

now working as an English teacher in Hunan Business Col-

lege, China.

Yuefu is an ancient official collection of folk songs in China.

they were composed during the Southern Dynasties (420-581

A.D), with their authors unknown.

Karen Loeb’s experience in China started in 2001 when she

adopted her three-year-old daughter. She returned in 2008,

where she and her husband team-taught in a Guangzhou

university. Her work has appeared in magazines and news-

papers, including The Louisville Review, 100% Pure Florida

Fiction, Phantasmagoria, Pinyon, Wisconsin People and

Ideas, Flash, and Verbsap. A collection of her stories, Jump Rope

Queen won a Minnesota Voices award and was published by

New Rivers Press.

R.D. Lomax has been writing and working in Huhhot, Inner

Mongolia, for more years than can really be good for him and

is indeed as happy as the poem suggests.

Robert G. Longpré’s poems are based on the impressions he

experienced as a foreigner hired to teach history and English

in a university in Changzhou. Jiangsu, from August, 2006 to

June, 2008.

37 三十七

Charles Lowe’s work has appeared in Guernica, Fiction Inter-

national, Pacific Review, and elsewhere. He lives in China

with his wife and daughter and is a lecturer at Shanghai Uni-

versity of Finance and Economics.

Dennis Maulsby is a retired bank president living in Ames,

Iowa. His poetry and short stories have appeared in Lyrical

Iowa, the Des Moines Register, Peregrine, The North American

Review, and other journals. His book of poetry, Remembering

Willie, and all the others was published in 2003 and won silver

medal book awards from the Military Writers Society of

America (2005) and the Branson Stars & Stripes organization

(2009).

After five years of living and working in China, Katharine

Mitchell returned to the Carolinas to spend time with her

family, including her five lovely nieces and nephews. She

hopes to travel again soon, but is increasingly enjoying life

back in these United States, where she’s studying for a

teacher certification (high school English) and continuing to

work on a book about her first year in China with Xiao Ping–

an auntie who continues to inspire her, wherever she is now.

Buff Whitman-Bradley is the author of two books of po-

etry, b. eagle, poet, and The Honey Philosophies. His poetry

has appeared in many print and online journals. In addition

to writing, he produces documentary videos and audios. His

interviews with U.S. soldiers who have refused to fight in

Iraq and Afghanistan can be heard at

www.couragetoresist.org. He lives in Marin County, Califor-

nia, with his wife Cynthia.

38 三十八