In the Words of Poets

Stepping out of the bright sunlight, the inside of the bookstore seemed completely black. From the shadows I saw an elderly man. Slightly bald, with a wispy white beard like fingers of mist creeping down a mountainside, he looked through squinted eyes. I could hear a strange rattling as he breathed and wondered of it was just the dustiness or something more serious.

As my eyes adjusted, I noticed several dusty bookshelves with "approved" books prominently displayed. These books appeared to cover all the shelves in the store. I wandered into the corners but could find what I was looking for. Looking back at the old man I could see him smiling at me. It looked like he knew why I was there in his store. In a moment he motioned to me and I cautiously walked up to him and spoke:

"Forgive me, my Chinese is weak. I heard you have some older books, from before the liberation. The man who told me of these books is called Yan Shin, I believe he is a friend."

"True forgiveness is found in the words of poets. Your Chinese is fine and your friend in my friend." Grabbing his twisted walking stick, he walked to the store entrance, locked the door and pulled down a woven shade. He then limped back to his counter, motioning me to follow. He led me through some curtains and showed me a bare wall. Taking a deep breath, he pressed on one side of the wall and it moved, rotating about its center until there was a small passageway.

He led me through the opening and pointed to the back of the small room where there was a shelf with several books. I was surprised at how few books he had, disappointed in how few had been saved. My friend Yan Shin had said this collection of old books was the largest in the city, perhaps the largest in China.

I ran my hand over the binding of a few books, feeling the delicate but rough texture. The first few books I picked up and carefully opened seemed to be fiction books. I was hoping for something with poetry, so I picked out the oldest looking one and opened the cover. I couldn't read the text, Yan Shin would later translate for me, but I could see it was poetry.

I fumbled through my pockets and then handed the man several strange coins and waited as he carefully wrapped the book in paper. He then reached for a modern book from the bookcase to his left and pulled down a colorfully decorated book. I watched as he opened it and noticed it was hollowed out. A small rectangle had been cut into the pages. He grabbed my wrapped book and placed it in the hollow, carefully closing the larger volume and wrapping it with the same care he took with my smaller book.

He handed me the package and then limped out to the front door, lifting up the shade and unlocking the door. He opened it for me, bowed his head and whispered "Thank you," in his most formal dialect. I took the package and.stepped back into the bright sunlight.

The next morning Yan Shin and I sat outside my hotel room in the shade of a plum tree reading from the ancient book. He would read the words first in Chinese, running his fingers under the words so I could see. He then did his best to translate the basic meaning of the poem. As he talked I looked at the shadows of the trees on the wall, they painted a strange calligraphy with small fruits dangling gingerly.

The following morning we awoke to a strange rumbling. I ran to the window and looked into the courtyard but I didn't see the trees' shadows; dark clouds lined the skies. I saw tiny plums littering the ground and felt the ground shake. Glancing out another window I looked up the street towards the square. A tank sped down the narrow roadway and turned onto the square, and another followed behind it, their tracks tearing loose cobblestones wherever they rolled.

Stunned, Yan Shin and I sat down and read from my book:

The poem sounded so odd, with the squeaking clang of the tanks in the background. Yan Shin translated the passage into English and then I got up to begin packing. It was time for me to leave.