The advantage for a Chinese person in learning English is that he can circumvent a great deal of official obstruction. Many books that are banned in Chinese are available in English. Leroy said that he had read 1984 and Animal Farm. I expressed surprise because Professor Dong had told me Orwell was neican, restricted. But Leroy didn't know this — didn't even know there were Chinese translations, because the translations were banned.
"What do you think of 1984?" I asked.
"It is like China today. Like certain parts. Like Tibet. And it is like Shanghai sometimes."
I said I thought the book was about fear and uncertainty, but when I pressed him for examples he became evasive, and not wishing to interrogate him I let the matter drop. He knew about the erotic classic Jin Ping Mei but did not know it was available to scholars or indeed that the book was circulated. For him, the book was part of the oral tradition, a lot of raunchy stories that people whispered to each other.
I asked him what changes in Shanghai had made the greatest impression on him. He said the difference in the way people dressed was the most obvious one, but that people's attitudes had also greatly altered — in thinking for themselves and in their expectations. He said I should see the free market and especially the sort of money-making work that people now did at home, such as tailoring, mending pots, fixing washtubs. And giving lessons: English lessons, music lessons, or dressmaking lessons. For 20 yuan you could be taught to sew by an established tailor — that was the going rate for about two months of twice-weekly lessons. There had never been any reason to learn to make clothes before because everyone wore the same factory-made clothes — the one blue cotton suit.
"But the biggest difference is that we can all get jobs now. In the past if you didn't have a job you stayed at home. The government gave you nothing, and you had to take money from your parents. Now everyone can find something to do. There is plenty of work."
I wished him well in pursuit of the job at the Sheraton, and I continued walking to test what he had said about people working at home. It seemed to be true that most people were toiling away at something or other to earn extra money — sewing, making pots, mending shoes, fixing umbrellas, selling homemade clothes. This sort of free-lancing was unheard of until about 1980. And the free market was also brisk, with small traders hawking vegetables, eggs, pet food, clocks, old watches, used eyeglasses, and birds they had snared.
A bloody revenge movie was showing in Shanghai. It was called Mister Legless and the hero of the title was shown on a poster in a wheelchair blowing the head off the man who had maimed him. Chinese were milling around and fighting for tickets, which they said were very scarce. All movies were popular and violent ones the most popular of all—Rambo had recently been shown to packed movie houses all over China.
An old man with a red armband was denouncing someone on the sidewalk, and when I inquired I discovered this man to be parr of the Anti-Spitting Brigade — there was a widespread campaign against spitting going on. I approved of that, but Chinese spitting is not half as bad as Chinese throat clearing: the hoick that can be heard for fifty yards and that sounds like the suction on a monsoon drain. After that, the spitting itself is rather an anticlimax.
Back at the English Corner in the park — which had a festive club-like atmosphere — I met Doctor Qin, who told me he was a psychiatrist.
I said I had been under the impression that there were no psychiatrists in China — certainly no universities had departments of psychology. And were there mental hospitals?
"Five years ago psychiatry was permitted — that was when I began studying," Doctor Qin said. "Before then there was no mental care. If someone had symptoms and was referred he was treated with acupuncture."
"Can you treat depression and schizophrenia with acupuncture?"
"No. And yet there were many cases. We see them all the time at the Shanghai Medical Center, where I practice. We have a famous medical system now, and there are eminent Chinese psychiatrists. They are old men who studied in Germany and the United States."
"How do you treat your patients?"
"We use drugs — medicine — and we talk to them. There are not many violent cases, but we have many depressives. That seems to be a Chinese problem. And about seventy percent of our patients are schizophrenics. Doctors in factories refer people to us, and we treat them."
I asked him whether he got many cases of paranoia.
"Not many. It is very rare in China. I only know of three such cases at the clinic."
"In the United States a paranoid person often thinks he's George Washington, and in other places paranoiacs says they're Hitler or Napoleon. Who does a Chinese paranoiac with a delusion of grandeur claim to be?"
'The emperor. Chairman Mao. Or God."
As I was talking to Doctor Qin a man approached me and said, "You speak German?"
"Ja wohl," I said, and babbled a little to please him. He spoke German very well and said that he had learned it as a messenger in the German consulate in Shanghai in the 1930s.
A little crowd had gathered around us. "Speak English!" someone said, and another bewildered Chinese said, "What language are you speaking — is that French?" Soon there were about twenty people listening to this man speaking German.
"If you want to stay here you must speak English," an officious Chinese man said, and took hold of the old man.
To calm matters, I asked the man his name. He said he was Mr. Zeng and he asked me to guess his age. I said, "About seventy."
"I was born in 1906," Mr. Zeng said. "I remember my father saying, 'The Emperor is on the throne.' He also told me about the old woman behind him" — the dowager empress—"that evil old woman."
"How do you manage to stay so young looking, Mr. Zeng?"
"It is easy. My father said, 'Never smoke opium' and I never did. At that time, everyone smoked it and they became very unhealthy. But I was strong — strong lungs." He puffed out his chest and then exhaled. "And I had another good reason. If I smoked opium my father would have beaten me on the backside."
I said, "You've lived through almost the whole of the twentieth century. What was the best period you've seen?"
"The best was just after Liberation. That was wonderful. Everyone was happy. There was peace."
"Is that the reason — because there was peace?"
"Not only that. I had two daughters. Before Liberation, girls were regarded as worthless — everyone wanted sons. But after Liberation I didn't have to worry, and my daughters didn't have to be ashamed anymore. Shall I tell you about my wife?"
"Please do," I said. Mr. Zeng had an impish and old-fashioned way of speaking, and the crowd of Chinese listeners leaned forward to catch what he said.
"About a year after I was born my parents decided that I was to marry a certain girl from the village. When I was twenty-three I finally married her. She was the most wonderful wife a man could have — the best cook. She made noodles. She made fish balls. She made the best dumplings. I can still taste those delicious dumplings." He licked his lips, and the watching Chinese laughed. He was aware that he was the center of attention, but he did not lose his poise. "She was my best friend! Shall I show you her picture?"
I said I would like to see it, and Mr. Zeng reached down and fossicked in his plastic bag — he had a bottle of Chinese rice wine and a pile of cookies; a comb; some pills; a blackened banana and a smudged newspaper. The crowd of onlookers pushed their heads forward as he searched for the picture.