But it is on the circle that the utility of the wheel depends.
Clay is molded to form a utensil,
But it is on its emptiness that the utility of the vessel depends.
Doors and windows are cut to make a room,
But it is on floor space that the utility of the room depends.
Therefore turn being into advantage, and turn nonbeing into utility.
It might be the most beautiful dining hall in the world, certainly the biggest. A Canadian football game could be played comfortably in one of its rooms, with space left a-plenty on all sides for bleachers and bathrooms.
During the day there is always a small crowd outside, gaping at the Great Hall's grandiosity. Tonight, a very large crowd was gathered because two monumental events were occurring: the banquet for the Beijing Marathon, and the State Formal Dinner for President Gnassingbe Eyadema of Togoland. In a land without M.A.S.H. reruns or video games this was big potatoes.
The crowd waited on tiptoes behind the line, hoping to catch a glimpse of something exotic - a famous athlete; perhaps the glint of an African potentate's eye. All the limos. Certainly they had to be disappointed by the first passenger exiting from the big black sedan they had allowed through - a spiny-headed Chinese in plain brown sports jacket was all. The next passenger was better, a big occidental stranger with beard, and the next was yet better and bigger. The last apparition rising out of the upholstered depths of the Russian limo - why, he was enough to stretch even the most curious rubberneck to its limits of awe. The man was beyond size or measure, and he carried an optical arsenal of the most convincing proportions crisscrossed across his girth, like bandoliers on one of the bandit giants of old. Many of the onlookers went home immediately after, sufficed.
The foursome was late. The feast had begun. The roar of it could be heard down the marble corridors, drawing them on like the seductive roar of a waterfall. When they at last reached the two ten-foot urns at the door and were passed by the armed guard, they were as dazzled as had been the crowd on the walk outside. A room big as a blimp hangar, with thousands of people at hundreds of round tables, each table manned by dozens of bustling attendants refilling glasses, removing platters, producing new dishes seemingly from the very air.
An usher led them to the table assigned by their invitation, where they found the eight other diners all still waiting politely for their arrival - two middle-aged Africans wearing somber suits and expressions, two seedy-looking Beijing men in drab Sun Yat-sen, a beautiful oriental woman, two young Chinese runners and their coach. All stood when they approached and shook hands while the woman translated.
The black men were from Tanzania, a coach and trainer. They were somber because their athlete apparently had not managed to fly out of Tanzania for the race tomorrow; they felt obliged to attend the banquet insofar as a place had been reserved, but they were flying out in the morning, too chagrined by their athlete's absence to attend the race. The seedy pair were from China Sports, a limp but adequate little sports rag printed in English. The two young runners were from the same village in a distant province, their faces subtly different from the Beijing faces-flatter, darker, with something almost Gypsy dodging about the eyes. The larger and older of the pair responded to introductions with a dental display that ranked right up there with the rest of the day's sights: he had an extra tooth, right in the middle, and was not at all backward about showing it off. The smaller runner was as shy as his friend was forward, frequently dropping long lashes over his black eyes and buttoning and unbuttoning the sports coat he was wearing. Their coach was studiously aloof.
After the initial ganbei of introduction they all sat down for the first course of a meal that would prove to be a marathon in its own right. While they were stabbing at the lead-off oddities with their sticks, the prizes for tomorrow's winners were unveiled on a table in front of the raised dais - ten cloisonne vases, each bigger than the last, and a solid silver trophy that would return to Beijing each year for the new winner. There could be heard all across the room an audible insucking of covetous acclaim. They were very classy prizes.
The speeches then commenced to drone from the dais. They saw Mude had a seat very near the podium. He had changed his attire from Western western to Eastern western - a preppy dark-blue blazer with coat-of-arms. He was introduced and stood to speak. The photographer took Bing's little Panasonic cassette recorder from his shoulder bag. He punched the Record button and set it on the table. It soon became obvious that neither Chinamen nor Roundeyes could understand a word of Mude's address, and the multitudinous roar of small talk rose again from the tables. Mude didn't seem to notice.
The American editor began to interview his Chinese magazine colleagues and the coach. The writer took notes. The photographer busied himself with photographing the exotic dishes as they arrived and whispering descriptions of each into the recorder: if this marathon thing didn't float he might get a cookbook out of it:
GREAT HALL - NIGHT BEFORE RACE
(Much noise of dining; unintelligible speech over loudspeaker in b.g.)
WHISPER NEAR MIKE:... tiny tomatoes pickled and arranged in delicate fan, gingered eel, lotus root in oyster sauce, duck neck, radishes carved to look like roses...
EDITOR: Whose idea was this race tomorrow?
(Chinese translation back and forth)
FEMALE VOICE: He says it started as a mass movement, the idea. In New China all ideas come from the masses.
EDITOR: Why don't they have better times? Ask him that.
FEMALE VOICE: He says their fastest runner is two hours and thirteen minutes. You will meet him tonight. He is from a minority in Union Province.
EDITOR: What is a minority?
FEMALE VOICE: In China there are many! These two boys are called minorities. From some provinces they speak different languages.
YOUNG MALE VOICE (Bling): Those stars you see on the Chinese flag? They each represent one of the minorities.
WHISPER: Boiled eggs, pickled eggs, eggs soaked in tea, and one one-thousand-year-old fossilized egg for each table, like sinister black jelly with a blacker yolk...
EDITOR: Will you ask if China is ready to devote the time and specialization it takes to become world class?
FEMALE VOICE: He says, absolutely.
EDITOR: Was he an athlete himself?
FEMALE VOICE: When he was twenty he had great hopes of going to the Olympics. That was thirty years ago, a time of great turmoil in China.
WHISPER:...beans, peanuts, pickled walnuts, fish stomachs and celery flambe...
MALE CHINESE VOICE: Ganbei!
FEMALE VOICE: He says, "To the good health of your country."
ALL: Ganbei!
EDITOR: If one shows athletic talent is he given special dispensation by the government?
FEMALE VOICE: He says, yes.
BLING: Yes, indeedy!
FEMALE VOICE: He says that the person with particular talent will get better food.
BLING: That's why the basketball team has those giants. One eight-foot-eight fucker called the Mongolian Tower! That's quite lofty.
EDITOR: Is there a philosophy... I mean, what's the party line on physical fitness?
FEMALE VOICE: He says the party line is to become healthy first and then friendship and then competition.
EDITOR: I knew there had to be a party line. So why, ask him, did they never address the issue of fitness before, because -
BLING: They did address it. Mao made a big point of it. He was a goddamn health nut.
EDITOR: I mean was Mao aware of the fitness of the nation?
(Long Chinese conversation back and forth)
FEMALE VOICE: In 1953 Chairman Mao noticed China's health standard was low... because of disease and poverty. So after the liberation in '53 Chairman Mao decided to make it a special issue.
WHISPER:... pickled cherries, pressed duck, shredded ham, mashed mollusks, dugong dumplings, goose ganbeied...
MALE CHINESE VOICE: Ganbei!
/> FEMALE VOICE: He says, "To the sportsmen of China and the U.S."
ALL: Ganbei!
EDITOR: Ask them what they prescribe for an athlete who's injured? Do they use acupuncture?
FEMALE VOICE: He says, "Yes."
EDITOR: Can he give me any specifics of athletes who had acupuncture used on them?
FEMALE VOICE: He says he can only give personal experience. He was injured once and cured with acupuncture.
BLING: You know what the most recent study proves? I'll tell you what the most recent study proves: That acupuncture works according to just how fucking educated you are. The more educated, the less it works. Ganbei to the ignorant.
WRITER: Better watch that stuff, Bling.
BLING: Know why it's called Mao-tai? I'll tell you why it's called Mao-tai. Mao had it invented when he couldn't get a good mai tai.
WRITER: Bling's fortifying himself for the heartfelt thank-you he's going to give Mr. Mude for all this free succor. Good God, look what I found in my soup. A chicken head!
BLING: You better keep it. That's the only head you're gonna get in China.
WRITER: Let's see what else -
WHISPER: He's going in again, folks. Look out!
WRITER: Well, here's your basic pullybone.
WHISPER: He's working his way down, folks.
WRITER: Pull, Big Tooth, win a wish.
FEMALE VOICE: He won't know that. He won't, from the southwest -
BLING: She's right. I've never seen a wishbone pulled anywhere but Pittsburgh.
WRITER: Whatcha mean? Look there. His buddy knows. Okay, cuz, you pull.
PHOTOG: Let me get a shot -
ALL: He wins.
WRITER: You win. Ask him what his name is again.
FEMALE VOICE: He says his name is Yang.
EDITOR: Ask him what his time is.
FEMALE VOICE: He says - oh, he is very embarrassed; we've: made him blush - that he has no time. '
EDITOR: No time? Hasn't he ever run a marathon before?
FEMALE VOICE: No. The older fellow says he is a very good runner though.
EDITOR: Why was he invited?
FEMALE VOICE: His friend says because he; Yang, has very good wins in 5,000.
EDITOR: What was his time in 5,000?
FEMALE VOICE: He says he does not know his time. No times were taken.
WRITER: Ask him - ask him about his family.
FEMALE VOICE: He says he lives with his aunt and uncle near Qufu. And his mother. He says his father is dead.
WRITER: An orphan! Here's our story. The Cinderella orphan marathoner! A minority, unknown, shy, out of Outer Mongolia, sails past the pack and takes the gold. Just what I been wishing for...
EDITOR: Very nice. But he was the one that got the wish.
MALE CHINESE VOICE: (something in Chinese) Ganbei!
FEMALE VOICE: To the Long March!
ALL: Ganbei!
EDITOR: To the Long Run!
ALL: Ganbei!
BLING: To the MX missile system!
ALL: Ganbei!
WRITER: Now you've stepped in it, Bling. Here comes our dude Mude.
FEMALE VOICE: The gentleman of the press says that is Mr. Xu Liang coming with Mr. Mude. Our fastest runner. He has run in two hours thirteen something.
EDITOR: Two-thirteen! That isn't loafing.
MUDE: Good evening. I would like to introduce you to our Chinese champion, Mr. Xu Liang.
ALL: Ganbei!
WRITER: He tosses 'em, the champ does.
BLING: And this don't look like the champ's first stop. Hey, Xu Liang! To the Pittsburgh Pirates!
ALL: Ganbei!
MUDE: By the way, Mr. Wu; I have something for you. Be so kind.
BLING: What is it?
MUDE: Your official packet - your passes and name card and number. You have been invited to participate tomorrow, Mr. Wu. To run.
BLING: Oh, shit.
EDITOR: Bling? To run tomorrow?
MALE CHINESE VOICE: Ganbei!
ALL: Ganbei!
MUDE: Gentlemen and ladies, I must take Mr. Xu Liang to other tables.
EDITOR: Goodbye.
ALL: Ganbei!
BLING: Ohhh, shit...
WHISPER:... and now the desserts: almond noodles in mandarin orange sweet syrup, glazed caramel apples that are dropped hot in cold water to harden the glaze; no fortune cookies - never any Chinese fortune cookies in China...
Past midnight at the Beijing Airport, a rickety DC-3 fights its way down through a rising crosswind. It was coming in from North Korea with more than a ton of red ginseng and one passenger, on the last leg of a many-legged flight originating in Tanzania.
Magapius woke to find himself unloaded on a windy airstrip. The shadowy workers loading the bundles of ginseng on a truck didn't speak to him, and he felt it would be futile to try to speak to them. He stood beside his suitcase and watched, feeling more and more melancholy. When all the crates were on the truck he stepped forward to ask, "Beijing?"
The workers stared at him as if he had just appeared. "I run," he told them, demonstrating his stride. "Beijing." A worker grinned and jabbered, then they all grinned and jabbered. They loaded his bag in the back of the truck. Magapius was about to crawl in after it but the workers insisted otherwise. They made him sit in the cab with the driver. They rode in back.
In the Chinese compound Yang rolled from his cot and tiptoed around his snoring roommate and closed the window. The wind had not wakened him. He had not been asleep.
He looked down the street stretching dimly below his hotel window. The start at Tien An Men Square some ten kilometers to his right, the turnaround some twenty to his left. He did not think about the finish, only about the two cut-off points. He must stay close to Zhoa, who had accomplished this 20-K time before; then he must keep going that fast to the 35-K mark, even if he collapsed ten paces after. He could get up and walk then, if he chose, and return to the square hours behind the ten winners. If the million spectators had all gone home, all the better.
A well-shut door needs no bolts,
yet it cannot be opened.
A well-tied knot needs no rope,
yet none can untie it.
A good runner leaves no trail.
September 27, 1981. Tien An Men Square, Beijing, China. Race scheduled to begin at 11:05 a.m.
10:00. Sky clear, blue, bright. Air sweet and chilled. Crowds already packing the curbs, obedient, quiet. The P.L.A. and police everywhere nonetheless.
10:15. The motorcycle brigade is ranked and ready, resplendent in their white tunics and blue trousers, alabaster helmets and chalk-white Hondas.
10:25. Last of the traffic allowed past before closure, buses jammed with expectant spectators, honking taxis.
10:26. All stop. Quiet. Such a quietness from so many! What attention. What power! And what fidgeting uncertainty as well, in the face of its own power. Men coughing and spitting; women with towels pressed over their mouths...
10:28. The participants jog across the vast square toward the starting line, nervous and colorful in their various outfits, like so many kites rattling in the breeze before launch.
10:35. A regiment of P.L.A. double-times past (they no longer like being referred to as the Red Guard), resembling ill-fitted mannequins wound too tight.
10:54. Balloon-and-banner lifts off, falls back, waggles in the wind, tries again, flapping a long red tail of welcome.
11:00. A sound truck goes by advising everybody to remain calm, and stay behind the lines indicated, and stay quiet...
11:05. Right on the nose a gunshot they're off! No shout, no cheer. One of the blunt khaki jeeps stenciled PRCC precedes the runners along the curb, honking and actually 'dozing into the throng. The American writer jogs to a vantage point and unfolds his chair. Here they come, a Korean in the lead. In the middle of the square the balloon is at last aloft.
Behind all the other runners, the Chinese come by in a pack.
The young boy, Yang, is at the
very rear. The writer lifts his crooked little finger, reminding the boy of the shared wishbone. Yang returns the salute.
The next turn around, Yang has worked his way up into the pack of Chinese, and it is little Bling who is bringing up the rear, looking as disheveled as ever in a U of Beijing track singlet, his number on upside down.
"How much farther?" he puffs.
"Only about twenty-four miles," they call back.
Twenty kilometers straight west out Fu Xing Avenue to the bamboo scaffold erected at Gu Cheng Hu, and twenty kilometers back, then once more around the square to finish. The course will take the runners past many sights of interest - the Forbidden City, the Military Museum of the Chinese People's Revolution, the People's Crematorium, with its sinister plume of yellow smoke... and millions and millions of people. This will be the predominant sight, multitudinous faces, yet each face transmitting its singular signal, like tape across a playback head, until the signals make a song and the faces flow into one. All the runners will forever be imprinted with a single billowing black-eyed image: the Face of China. No one else will see this sight.
This face falls when the public address truck informs them that their champion and favorite, Xu Liang, is not among the runners. He was taken ill after his evening at the Great Hall and has withdrawn from the competition. Xu's withdrawal has caused great disappointment among the Chinese runners and worked a great change on Yang's friend Zhoa. Zhoa holds the second-best Chinese time. He is expected to take over, now that the favorite has faltered. The responsibility weighs heavy on Zhoa, Yang can see, affecting his concentration and, in turn, his stride. Yang sees that his head is bobbing too much; this is not like Zhoa. Also there is lateral movement of the arms. Inefficient, inefficient.
When the runners are out of sight there is nothing left for the crowds to gawk at but the journalists, and vice versa. In spite of all their stroking of Mude, they have not been allowed to follow the race. They were informed they could watch the run quite adequately on television on the parked press bus, just like the rest of the world's journalists.
The bus is packed to the door. The American editor stays to argue; the photographer stalks off in a mountainous fit of pique. The writer wanders about the square carrying his chair and seeking inspiration. He finds instead a cluster of Chinese people watching a cardboard box sitting on a folding table. Inside the box is a color TV with a bouncing picture of the front runners. He unfolds his chair and joins the cluster. The beautiful woman from last night's dinner comes to share his seat and translate the TV announcer for him. He takes his thermos of gin and tonic from his bag and pours a cup. This is more like it! Inspiration might yet occur.