"Covered himself fore and aft, did he?"
"In a way. In another way, he set up the sequence that was bound to be his undoing. Contradiction may create revolution, but when the revolutionary takes control he tries to eliminate the very thing that brought him to power – dissent, dissatisfaction, distrust of big government. Revolution is a dragon that rises to the top of the pile by eating his daddy. So the revolutionary dragon has a natural mistrust of his own issue – see? – as well as any other fire breathers roaming the rice paddies."
"Sounds to me like it was this dragon's old lady what swallowed him," the photog remarked. He had been following the latest denouncements in the little English-translation newspapers.
"You mean the Widow Mao and her Quartet? Naw, she's just a foolish old broad happened to inherit the reins. Not enough class or courage or just plain smarts to pull off a conspiracy against old Mao, even on his most senile doddering day. No, what it was was Mao did some bad shit to stay on top of the dragon pile, to some heavy people. Imagine the ghosts of his private helclass="underline" all those people he had to liquidate to grease the works of the fucking Cultural Revolution, all those comrades, colleagues, professors, and poets."
"I thought this guy Mao was what you left Pittsburgh for, Bling. You talk now like he was your typical totalitarian."
"Contradiction," Bling answered, turning to look out the window at the endless parade of black bicycles, "has become the New Way for a lot of us."
"Is that why you like Devo?" the writer asked. He thought Bling with his funny crewcut and ragged T-shirt had said New Wave. Bling gave him a curious glance.
"I don't like Devo. I listen to Devo for the same reason I run – to get an endorphin rush." He patted his pockets, looking for his comb. "I run because it hurts."
The original intention of the meeting was to let the doctors and the press examine the seventy-some participants who would be running tomorrow's race. But what can a doctor know about a marathon man that the athlete doesn't already know about himself? What can a heart specialist say about a thirty-five-year-old phys ed fanatic with a 35-beats-per-minute heartbeat and heels calloused thick as hardballs?
So the physical examination was waived and worried warnings submitted in its place. Of greatest concern was the water.
"Do not suck the sponges. Drinks from race organizers will be on white tables. Private drinks on red tables. Take when you want. Private drinks must be handed in tonight for analysis."
Chuck Hattersly leaned over to whisper, "I get it! They're trying to steal our formula for Gatorade."
"Please don't injure yourself with strain. Take it easy. However, to avoid delaying the traffic and spectators, there will be cut-off points for the slow -"
The shuffling murmur of the room stilled. Cut-off points? No one had ever heard of cut-off points in a marathon. As long as you could put one foot in front of the other, you could run.
"Those who have not reached 25 kilometers by the time of 1:40 will be removed from the race."
Sitting amidst 60 other Chinese runners, Yang felt knots start in his stomach. He had no idea of his time for 25 kilometers. No notion, even, how far that was. From the village to the school? Half that? Twice?
"If you have not reached the 35-kilometer point by 2:20 you will be removed."
For a moment Yang was cramped with panic. He remembered the cheering crowd at the cemetery. If he were removed he could never return home; better not to start than not to finish! Then it occurred to him that all he had to do was expend his total force to reach that 35-km mark in 2:20; he could crawl the remaining distance.
"We also suggest if you begin to feel uncomfortable that you volunteer to drop out."
"Uncomfortable?" a gnarly veteran from New Zealand muttered. "Take it easy? The bleeding hell does he think we run for?"
"One important thing further. The water in the sponges is for wiping the face. Do not drink it. There will be plenty of drink at the tables. Our deepest suggestion is that you ingest no water from the sponges. Now. I wish you all once again good luck. And look forward to seeing you this evening for the banquet at the Great Hall. Thank you for your attention."
It had been a peculiar event, lengthy and uncomfortable. And if its thrust and purpose had been somewhat vague, to say the least, no one wanted to prolong it by asking questions. As the runners were queueing up for their buses, the writer, notebook and pen in hand, corraled Chuck Hattersly and inquired reporter-fashion what in his opinion was the upshot, the kernel of the long conference.
"Don't," was Hattersly's immediate summary, "suck the sponges."
After lunch there awaited, according to Mr. Mude, a plethora of palace and pagodas all deemed mandatory for a first-time visitor to Beijing. The journalists wanted to know if they might go instead to the compound assigned to the Chinese runners. Mude said this afternoon was prescribed rest for the Chinese entries. Then they asked to see Democracy Wall. Mude explained that Democracy Wall no longer existed. Quill-headed free-lunched Bee Wing Bling, feeling looser by the minute among his second-countrymen, explained that the wall in fact still existed but was covered now with billboards bragging about refrigerators with egg trays. No more homemade posters of dissent and protest. Mude felt obliged to further explain that those foolish posters had only caused confusion among the people.
"If one has comment, one can write the government bureaus direct."
"Right," Bling agreed. "It's better to cause confusion among the bureaucrats. They're trained."
"Ah." Mude swiveled his smile back to the journalists. "Perhaps you will like to stop at the Friendship Store before continuing to Forbidden City? They have Coca-Cola."
The journalists would have preferred to scout off on their own but since they were stroking Mude to try to get permission to follow tomorrow's race in a taxi, instead of sitting on their thumbs for two hours at the start/finish with the rest of the press, they had decided to try and keep on his good side.
And if he did not have a good one, to at least stay off his bad.
One sensed that beneath that Western suit and patient Eastern smile an irritability was beginning to bubble. Though Mr. Mude never said so, it was obvious to all that whatever affection he had ever held for Mr. Bling was now in rapid decline. Whenever he acquired tickets for a tourist attraction he no longer included the scraggly little student. Bling had to fork over his own fen to get in the Forbidden Cities and Summer Palaces. When Bling was finally fenless the journalists forked over for him. This made Mr. Mude twitch and fidget in his unfamiliar cowboy clothes.
The tour had taken a turn not to Mr. Mude's liking: too many Yankee guffaws at Bling's sardonic commentary on the Beijing scene; too much talk from which he felt excluded, especially track talk.