It is clear that, with this, the director has concluded his remarks concerning his role, so Stein now returns to an earlier theme in their conversation, and asks the director what he considers the focal point of the garden to be? What is its centre of gravity? Does the Chinese garden express a cosmological picture of the universe for a Chinese person? Or are these words too big? Or is it nothing like that at all? It’s just beautiful? And they, the Chinese, have they sensed this across the centuries? And do they delight in it?
fang. It would be very hard for me to express in words the essence, the focal point, the centre of gravity of the garden, as you have phrased it in your question. This question is too big for me. But the garden, including this one here in Zhuozheng, has a focal point, a centre of gravity, so that I would say that the proportions are somehow in harmony. Does this garden, our garden, itself express the universe? It does not. Instead, I believe this: the Zhuozheng Yuan is itself the universe.
It will soon be time to bring the conversation to an end. Stein smiles at him: please permit me one final question, he says. Clearly, the director must remain here alone, after closing time. Is there some place in the garden where he goes at such times, and sits down, and stays there, listening to the splashing of the brook, or the murmurings of the wind, or the trembling of the leaves, immersed in the beauties of this or that plant, when he does not remain here because of work, when he is not thinking of the tasks to be completed, but he can simply give himself over and so therefore he does give himself over to the enchantment of the garden?
fang. There are such times. And there is such a place in the Zhuozheng. And at moments like that I do feel something that connects me to the people of ancient times. There is a pavilion, it is called Yu shui tong zuo xuan (‘With whom may I sit’). . well, I acknowledge that if the occasion arises, I am in the habit of sitting there.
And what do you do then?
He answers so quietly that Stein can hardly hear him: ‘Oh, nothing. I just am. I think so.’
Their farewell is warm, Mr Fang accompanies them to the pavilion door, and, before they disappear into the garden to marvel in it again, he waves, smiling, to them.
And Stein looks at the garden, but he does not see it. He tries to think about why Tang Xiaodu sent him here. He thinks of Xiao Hai, he thinks of the gardens he has seen, and he thinks of the words of Mr Fang. He goes over everything in his mind, searching for the reason why he is here.
But he has no idea. He knows nothing, and he understands nothing.
There is a name in his notebook. A Shanghai publisher, Chen Xianfa had him write it down earlier: if he happened to be passing through Suzhou, he could call upon this person, a resident here, for practical assistance. Otherwise, said Mr Chen, he’s a writer but not a particularly interesting one. Just if Stein needs something taken care of, he explained.
And only then.
They look for a telephone booth.
They decipher the name: Ji Yinjian.
The phone rings.
The Road That Leads There, 3
The Canglang Ting, the oldest garden in Suzhou, is also in the southernmost part of Suzhou. They have arranged to meet with Ji at one of its entrances — Ji, recommended by their Shanghai friend as a good person for help with practical issues — which would seem to render this meeting completely superfluous, as Stein doesn’t have any kind of practical issues right now that need to be solved — his problem is that he doesn’t know what to expect, and he doesn’t understand what he should be waiting for. Master Ji, as they soon come to call him because of his clownish disposition, turns out to be a very particular individual, following in the spirit of the designation of the painters who entered Chinese pictorial history as the renowned ‘Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou’,[192] they should in fact designate Master Ji as the ‘Ninth Eccentric of Suzhou’, so droll is he, so morbid, continually play-acting, he says something, indeed, he speaks continuously and then suddenly he leaps up, and he enacts what he was just speaking of, he has no regard for anything or anyone, he doesn’t care where he is or if anyone heard what he just said, and he seems to decidedly take delight if one or two visitors notice his thundering tirades now and then, he takes delight in his own voice, he takes delight in the fact that he can perform for the two Europeans, that they are not looking for anything here, because this Canglang Ting is no longer identical with the Canglang Ting of the past, because the whole thing here is nothing more than a paltry forgery — he leads them around the garden — nothing here is how it should be, he points to a place on the ground and they look at the flagstones, do you see these square concrete slabs: these square slabs should never have been placed here, only ceramic tiles of much smaller dimensions should have been placed here, and crosswise, diagonally, in a word, the whole thing as it is now, he shrieks in rage, is a miserable desecration of tradition, but what can we expect, he bellows — and suddenly the pavilion falls silent — where are we exactly, and just what can we expect from an era like that of today, in which the garden of Canglang — where, he says, I kissed a woman for the very first time, at its entrance gate, and which is the oldest garden in all of Suzhou — has been utterly deprived of its meaning — its meaning, Master Ji yells in anger, not only at them but at everyone: for they have taken away its river, because why do you think its name is Canglang Ting? Well, why do you think? He looks around with a frightening and yet somehow amusing expression, asking: Who knows, now?! — no one — he purses his lips, they have not been taught this in the schools, he says sarcastically, no, not this, so then what have they been taught, and suddenly he will be severe again, with no trace of amusement, ah, let’s forget it, he says, and, leaving the frightened little group standing there in the room, he leads his two guests out of the pavilion, and they walk beside him like two faithful disciples beside a wild Taoist come down from the mountains, and it is not possible to know if Master Ji has gone mad or what has happened, they proceed beside him, they occasionally try to put a question to him but he doesn’t understand the words of the interpreter properly, he doesn’t even care if he finishes his sentences, so that if he seems to reply to the questions now and then, he does not reply directly but, rather, always in a single block of speech, moreover replying at times when a question is not even put to him, but Stein does want to ask him something, as for example when they enter into another room where a high wall on one side is covered with innumerable portraits; these are the Five Hundred Literati, says Ji very seriously, look at them — he now takes up a more intimate tone — here is everyone who meant something back then, and who trod with hallowed feet in Suzhou: here is Wu Zixu, here is Tong Wengshu, here is Bai Juyi, and here is Fang Chouyan, here is Su Dongpo, here is Li Bai, here is Xun Cunei, here is Han Shizhong, here is Weng Cengming, here above is Wen Tianxiang, there is Liu Zifu,[193] here they are all, Master Ji points round the huge wall, and before Stein can ask what, if they were to come to Suzhou now, these great masters would say about the world of today, Ji’s face distorts in hilarity, then into a bitter expression, finally as if he were shuddering, and as if anticipating the question, he says: brrr, well, what would they do here today? he asks; it’s possible they would change their clothes, they would admire and enjoy all the modern things, like a washing machine, Su Dongpo would do that; I think Li Bai would weep, but the others would watch TV, wash their clothes in a washing machine, Su Dongpo would do that, he’d use a washing machine, of this I am almost completely certain, but not Li Bai, he wouldn’t be able to, he would drink, get drunk, fall asleep and curse — and you, he turns to the interpreter, why are you using a camera, why are you using this tape recorder around your neck, do you need it? he shakes his head; well, fine, Master Ji nods; the poets here, he continues and points at the wall, they didn’t have any need for anything else, only impressions and inspiration, and that was all — that was all! Ji cries out, and once again the people in the room seem frightened, in particular, the two women at the souvenir kiosk at the end of the room regard them with some alarm, but no one dares utter a word, there is no way to make Master Ji stop, he has caught his stride, and it is clear there is no one who can keep him back now, and as they leave the room, and continue their walk through Canglang Ting, he loses his self-control more and more, he curses the age in which they live, he curses those who have disgraced Suzhou, who replaced the ceramic slabs, who stuck windows in the wall that don’t belong there, he points at one spot, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it, this is what the age is like, this is what China has become, these people couldn’t care less about tradition, these people aren’t interested in anything because they don’t even know anything, they don’t even realize that here — he points around himself at a pavilion furnished with Qing-era furniture — they should have put not these pieces but Ming-era furniture, because that’s what was here, they’re all just uneducated boors here, yells Master Ji, bursting into laughter, in what is meant to be a frightening but is nonetheless an amusingly strident voice, they just keep walking beside him, so many boors, he repeats, they listen like people who have been struck on the head, they have no words, nor can they have any, because they must comprehend that no, Master Ji is not the master of practical problems, no, he is much more than that, but then what — and this is hard to unravel from the circus with which he is amusing his guests, because he is amusing them, it is clear that he understands hospitality to mean that he must entertain these two Europeans — the close friends of Mr Chen, the famous publisher of Shanghai, and of Yang Lian, the renowned poet — it’s a little tiring as well, and it makes one think, and Stein is tired too, and he tries to think, how did this happen, how did Master Ji get into the picture? and who is he, and what does he want to say? — but as for time, there is none for thinking, because he must keep observing Master Ji, who is smoking his cigarettes, one after the other, just like Xiaodu, and he relates and he speaks and he yells, and, leaning closer, he whispers something into Stein’s ear, he’s a clown, whispers Stein to the interpreter, but it never occurs to him that he should get away from Master Ji, or that now, having passed two hours with him in Canglang, he should go somewhere — no, not at all, it never occurs to him, on the contrary, he tries to ponder how he can extend their time together; all the same, he does not understand Master Ji: what is this combination of buffoonery and invective, if he is angry, is he genuinely angry, or is this some kind of stage production, a jolly and yet acrimonious performance for their sake, a performance about something that is overwhelming and ghastly — well, this is precisely what is going through Stein’s mind when Master Ji says that, of course, to see Canglang is really not to see everything, there are still a few things in Suzhou that are worth having a look at; Master Ji, Stein says, he is speaking in all sincerity when he says that he has never felt so good as now, when he is with Master Ji, and he could never have any intention at all of doing anything in Suzhou without Master Ji, at which point Master Ji purses his lips, as it were, signifying that he too is wondering how this could work, asking: What exactly did you have in mind? — well, says Stein, that they should meet again, at which point Master Ji asks why, does Stein need anything — no, not at all, says Stein, he doesn’t need anything at all in the whole world. . but perhaps. . it would be good if someone could join their future conversations, an expert on the gardens of Suzhou; well, he knows one, answers Master Ji very seriously, is tomorrow good? he asks in his own fulminating conversational style, tomorrow is good, answers Stein, they will cancel everything that Stein had wanted to do, because now only this interests him, and so they part, with the words tomorrow and telephone and see you soon, and then — the interpreter just shakes his head: Has Stein gone mad? Maybe he’s lost his mind?! he looks at him dumbfounded when Master Ji dashes away, what could he possibly want from this halfwit, to which Stein can only reply that it’s only this halfwit that he wants: he, Master Ji, is the only one who feels exactly as he does in China, so why shouldn’t he spend all his time with him, the interpreter is silent, he is not completely convinced, he was amused too, and he even liked Master Ji, but to subordinate all their subsequent plans in Suzhou to him is clearly going too far and he considers it to be a hasty decision, nonetheless, Stein informs him, from this point on in Suzhou, they are giving themselves over to Master Ji, from this point on nothing else will interest them, only that which is in connection with Master Ji — the interpreter is silent, and Stein wonders again, as they trudge back to the hoteclass="underline" Why is he even saying things like this? Who is this Master Ji? And why is he so important?