Salzman - Iron and Silk

Evocative Salzman is a gifted storyteller, able in short order to capture the look, the feel, even the smell of everyday life in the Peoples Republic.

Philadelphia Inquirer

Lucid, accurate, and compelling Salzman has begun to capture the peculiar and poignant pulse of life as it is actually lived today in the Middle Kingdom.

Chicago Tribune

Salzman is a master storyteller. A tender, heartwarming, laugh-filled, rewarding volume that is universal in its appeal.

The Oregonian

An engrossing, beautifully written tale a rich portrait of life in contemporary China that even the most seasoned sinologist will find engaging.

Foreign Affairs

Its hard to imagine how anyone could fail to enjoy this book.

San Diego Tribune

There have lately been dozens of books about the new China but none has the charm of this one. Mark Salzman is a delightful writer with a keen eye. Hes full of compassion and humor.

St. Petersburg Times

Salzman writes wonderfully observed anecdotes and sketches of his Chinese acquaintances and of the moments of humor, pathos, and cultural confusion arising from their meetings and conversations.

Pittsburgh Press

V INTAGE D EPARTURES E DITION , J ANUARY 1990

Copyright1986 by Mark Salzman

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc, New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto Originally published, in hardcover, by Random House, Inc, in 1986

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Salzman, Mark
Iron & silk
(Vintage departures)
Reprint Originally published:
New York: Random House, c 1986
1 ChinaDescription and travel1976
2 Martial artsChina
3 Salzman, MarkJourneysChina
I Title II Title: Iron and silk
DS 712 S 245 1987 951 05 87-40085
eISBN: 978-0-307-81423-4

Author photo copyright 1987 by Jill LeVine

Calligraphy by Mark Salzman

v3.1

Her swordplay moved the world.

Those who beheld her, numerous as the hills, lost themselves in wonder.

Heaven and Earth swayed in resonance

Swift as the Archer shooting the nine suns,

She was exquisite, like a sky-god behind a team of dragons, soaring.

From On Seeing a Pupil of Lady Kung-sun

Dance with the Sword, by Tu Fu, (71270); translation by the author.

Leaving

Arriving

F or some reason I always had bad luck in Canton. In August 1984, on my way out of China after two years in Hunan Province, I was delayed at the Canton train station for half a day because of the seven-foot leather bag I carried. It contained five swords, four sabres, a staff, a halberd, two hooked swords, some knives and a nine-section steel whip. I had receipts and photos and a manila folder full of Foreign Affairs Bureau correspondence to prove that the weapons were all either gifts from my teachers or had been purchased in local stores, that none of them was an antique, and that I was the legitimate student of a well-known martial artist residing in Hunan, but the officials right away saw an opportunity to play their favorite game, Lets Make a Regulation.

This bag is too long. You cant take it on the train. Theres a regulation. We discussed this point for a while, and eventually the regulation was waived. But these weapons are Chinese cultural artifacts. They cannot leave China, thats a regulation. You can take the bag, though. In time it was determined that the weapons might conceivably leave China, but I would need special permission from a certain office which would require a certain period of time to secure, so wouldnt I stay in Canton for a few days and come back with the proper documentation? My flight from Hong Kong to New York left in two days; I was desperate not to miss it. As I walked around the train station trying to think up a new strategy, I happened to bump into a Cantonese policeman I had met a year before. When I told him my problem he took me by the arm and led me back to the train station, where he began arguing on my behalf. He talked with the officials for over an hour about this and that, occasionally touching on the subject of my bag and its contents, then gently retreating to other matters. He eventually suggested that I give a short martial arts demonstration there in the train stationWouldnt that be fun? He asked the people sitting on the long wooden benches in the station to make room for a performance, then helped them move the benches out of the way. I warmed up for a few minutes, took off my shoes and began a routine. Somewhere in mid-air my pants split wide open, from the base of the zipper to the belt line in back. A crowd of giggling old ladies rushed forward with needles and thread ready, followed by an equal number of old men with incurable illnesses who believed that I must have learned traditional medicine as part of my martial arts training, convincing the officials to let me through without further delay. The policeman helped me get on the train, then sat with me until it began to move. He hopped off, wished me well, then saluted as the train left the station.

I dont know exactly when the loudspeaker woke me up, but it was early, and the song was Without the Communist Party, There Would Be No New China. I tried wrapping a pillow around my head, but one of the conductors tapped me on the knee and told me if I wanted any breakfast Id better get to the dining car fast. It was 96 degrees already and rising. I stumbled over to a sink, splashed some water on my face, drank a few mouthfuls, then noticed the sign over the faucet DONT DRINK THIS . I found my way to the dining car and sat down with my three friends, Bob, Jean and Julian, also on their way into South Central China to teach English. An attendant urged us to try the Western style breakfast. It cost three times as much as the Chinese style breakfast, but I figured it might be the last Western food I would eat for some time, so I ordered it. It turned out to be a ham sandwicha single slice of ham on two squares of dry bread, with no butter or mayonnaise, served with a warm glass of sweetened powdered milk. I heard a Peoples Liberation Army man behind me muttering to his friend, Look at the foreignerhow can he eat that at seven in the morning? After a few minutes the attendant returned and asked if I wanted the Western-style dessert, too. I said no, but that I would like to try the Chinese-style breakfast, a steaming bowl of noodles with a fried egg on top. Ah yes! An international breakfast! he said, and disappeared into the kitchen. How can he eat so much? the PLA man mumbled.

The four of us had had a difficult time in Canton the day before. A China Travel Service representative had approached us as we got off the train from Hong Kong and insisted that we would require his services if we expected to reach our destinations in China. China Travel Service, Chinas only travel service, specializes in imposing services on foreigners and then failing to carry them out properly, thus creating a need for more services. We would need a dolly to move our bags from the customs office to the waiting room; once hired, it turned out that the dolly could not leave the customs building parking lot, so we had to hire a taxi to carry them the rest of the way. We would have to buy the most expensive bunks on the train, since they were the only seats left. The CTS man led us to an empty waiting room and told us to sit there and watch the luggage while he arranged everything. My three companions, who had all lived or traveled in China before, sensed disaster and insisted on going with him to the ticket office. I did not feel like sitting alone with the bags in that miserable room, so I asked Jean to stay with me.