Back out among the stalls; sugar-cane stock and buttons of shells, handkerchiefs and peanuts. Here among the crowds, a man in a bright suit with an amethyst necktie pin, an old woman in shoes only two inches long. All around him, Ryūnosuke could see characters from The Plum in the Golden Vase or The Precious Mirror of Ranking Courtesans. But Ryūnosuke could see no Du Fu, Yue Fei or Wang Yangming; the new China was not the old China of poetry and essays; rather, it was the cruel, greedy and obscene China of fiction …
Back along the lake, into the deserted teahouse, deafened by the sudden screeching of an invisible shower of birds, birdcages hanging from the beams of the ceiling. So many cages, so much shrieking, their eardrums bursting as they fled from this horrible teahouse of screaming birds, their hands still over their ears in the street, yet more birdcages hanging in every shop, as Yosoki shouted, ‘Please wait while I buy a bird for my children …’
Down a quiet side street, before a shop window, Ryūnosuke was looking at a picture of the famous opera singer Mei Lanfang, but thinking of Yosoki’s children waiting for him to return home, and of his own son, waiting in their house, back in Tabata, back in Tokyo.
‘Come on,’ said Yosoki again, a bird in a cage in his hand. ‘As the locals say, the sun sets on the old city and rises on the Concessions …’
5
Mr Sawamura had arranged for Ryūnosuke to meet and interview a number of important Chinese intellectuals. Mr Nishimoto, the editor of the weekly magazine Shanhai, had kindly agreed to accompany and interpret for Ryūnosuke. In a study in the French Concession, their first appointment was with Zhang Binglin. A philosopher and a scholar, a leading political figure during the various revolutions and recent upheavals, Zhang Binglin had been imprisoned, then had spent time in Japan. Now the man welcomed Ryūnosuke into his study; a tiled room, a cold room, with no stove, with no rugs, only books. In a thin serge suit, on a cushion-less wooden chair, Ryūnosuke stared at a large stuffed crocodile mounted flat against a wall. The skin of the crocodile offered no comfort, the cold of the room piercing his own skin. Ryūnosuke was certain he would catch his death of cold.
In a long grey official gown and a black half-length riding jacket with a thick fur lining, on a fur-draped wicker chair, with his legs outstretched, Zhang Binglin seemed oblivious to the cold. His skin almost yellow, his moustache very thin, his red eyes smiled coolly behind elegant frameless glasses as he spoke. ‘I am sad to say that contemporary China is politically depraved. You might say that since the last years of the Qing dynasty, the spread of injustice has reached immense proportions. In scholarship and the arts there has been an unusual stagnation. The Chinese people, however, do not by nature run to extremes. Insofar as they possess this quality, communism in China is impossible. Of course, one segment of the students welcomes Soviet principles, but the students are not the populace. Even if the people were to become communist, at some point would come a time when they would dispense with this belief. The reason is that our national character – love for the Golden Mean – is stronger than any momentary passing enthusiasm for fireworks …’
On his hard chair, Ryūnosuke desperately wanted to smoke, but just nodded along, Zhang waving long fingernails as on he went –
‘So, what would be the best way to revive China? The resolution of this problem, no matter how concrete, cannot emerge from some theory concocted at the desk. The ancients declared that those who understood the requirements of the times were great men. They did not deductively reason from some opinion of their own, but inductively reasoned on the basis of countless facts. This is what it means to know the needs of the times. After one has ascertained what those needs are, then and only then can plans be made. This is ultimately the meaning of the dictum of governing well according to the times of the years …’
Ryūnosuke nodding along, his eyes wandering to the crocodile again. The rays of the spring sun, the warmth of the summer water, the fragrance of the lotus blossoms: once you knew them all, but now how lucky you are to be stuffed. Have pity on me!
‘The Japanese character I detest the most’, declared Zhang abruptly, ‘is the Momotarō of your favourite fairy tale, who conquered the Land of the Demons, and which you tell to all your children. I cannot suppress a feeling of antipathy for the Japanese who love this Momotarō.’
Ryūnosuke had heard many foreigners talk about Japan, holding up Prince Yamagata to ridicule or praising Hokusai to the skies. But until now, Ryūnosuke had never heard any of those so-called Japanese experts utter one word of criticism of Momotarō, the boy who was born from a peach. Zhang’s words contained more truth than all the eloquence of those experts.
Now Ryūnosuke looked at Zhang Binglin; now Ryūnosuke knew he was in the presence of a true sage.
6
In the Public Garden that was not public. No Chinese allowed, only foreigners here. The nannies and their charges, the sycamore trees with their budding leaves. It was all very pretty, but it was not China. It was the West. Not because it was advanced; it was no more advanced than the parks of Tokyo. It was simply more Western. And just because something was Western did not necessarily mean it was advanced. It was the same in the French Concession. The doves cooing quietly, the willows already budding. The smell of peach blossoms in the air. It was all very pleasant. But Ryūnosuke did not care for the Western houses. Not because they were Western, just because they seemed somewhat unrefined. Like the Japanese
