by Peter May
Li felt his pulse quicken. It was the connection they had been looking for. Red Guards! They had all been Red Guards! He leaned forward. ‘Were they the ones who smashed down the school gate and destroyed the school records?’
Teacher Sun nodded. ‘They had already left the school. Most of them were unemployed and simply used the Cultural Revolution as an excuse not to work. They came back to take revenge on their teachers. They went through the school records, destroying any evidence of their poor exam results. And school reports we had written criticising lack of effort, or lack of discipline, were then used against us. In their eyes we were responsible for all their failures, not them. If they were lazy, or stupid, or incompetent, or badly behaved, it couldn’t be blamed on them. It was our fault.
‘They made us wear dunce hats and parade around in the square out there with signs around our necks. Reactionary Monster Sun Lian, they scrawled on mine. They made us beat gongs and shout, “I am a reactionary teacher. I am a reactionary monster.” And they would kick us and whip us with their belts. They tore my classroom to pieces looking for black material.’
‘Black material?’ Zhao asked, puzzled. ‘What’s that?’ Li glanced at him and saw that he had gone very pale, shocked by what he was hearing.
Teacher Sun said, ‘The Communist Party was symbolised by the colour red. Black, being the opposite of red, was used to represent anything or anyone opposed to it. Chairman Mao declared that the Five Black Categories were the worst enemies of the people — landlords, rich peasants, counter-revolutionaries, criminals and rightists.
‘Anything foreign was black. I was a teacher of history, and so of course I had many foreign books and magazines, and many more books on world history. The Revolt-to-the-End Brigade declared all that material black, and I was made to drag it out into the square, all my books and papers, and make a big bonfire of them all.’
Li glanced out of the window and saw that a couple of students were playing badminton. He tried to picture what it must have been like out there. Red-faced adolescents screaming at their teachers, abusing and beating them; teachers with tall, pointed dunce hats banging gongs and denouncing themselves; the smoke from burning books drifting across the court where two students now whipped a shuttlecock back and forth. And he remembered how his own primary school teacher had been beaten to death in the lunch hall. To his surprise he realised that Teacher Sun was chuckling now.
‘It started to rain,’ he said. ‘Quite heavily. And it was putting out the bonfire of my books. The Revolt-to-the-End Brigade were getting agitated, and one of them told another to go and get my umbrella from the classroom. Yang-san he called it. And one of the others accused him of spreading the four olds. The boy didn’t understand why. And the other, I think he was their leader — a big, coarse boy that they all called Birdie — he said that yang meant foreign, and so yang-san meant foreign umbrella. He claimed they were called that because before the Liberation umbrellas were imported from abroad. He said that now they were made in China they should no longer be called yang-san and anyone who did was a xenophile.’ The old man shook his head. ‘No doubt he learned the word from the newspapers. Anyway, I burst out laughing and told him he was just an ignorant boy who had not worked hard enough at school. His face went purple with anger and embarrassment. In the first place, I told him, yang meant sun, not foreign. A yang-san was a sun umbrella, or parasol.’
The smile faded from Teacher Sun’s face. ‘The rest of them went very quiet, everyone wondering what he would do. For a moment, I don’t think he knew himself, then suddenly he flew into a terrible rage and grabbed me by the neck and dragged me back into my classroom. The others followed, and he ordered them to smash all the windows in, and then spread the broken glass across the floor. I was the xenophile, he screamed, and I had to be taught a lesson. And he pushed me down to my knees and forced me to cross the classroom on them, from one side to the other. The broken glass splintered beneath the weight of me, cutting through my trousers and into my flesh.’ He leaned over and pulled up his right trouser leg above the knee, and Li and Zhao saw the intricate lace-pattern of tiny scars where the glass had cut into him all those years ago. ‘There are still some splinters of the stuff in there yet,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they work their way out and I start bleeding again.’
He rolled down his trouser leg and looked at the two detectives. ‘So, yes,’ he said, ‘I remember these boys. I am not likely to forget.’
‘They were all in this Revolt-to-the-End Brigade?’ Li asked. And he went through the names again — Tian Jingfu, Bai Qiyu, Yue Shi, Yuan Tao.
Teacher Sun nodded. ‘All except for Yuan Tao, of course. I heard that he got out and went to some university in America just before the Cultural Revolution began. He was one of the lucky ones. One of the very few, very lucky ones.’
III
The air was thick with huge pennants fluttering in the smoke of battle as armoured soldiers rushed forward, swords raised, the thunder of horses hoofs filling the air behind them. Margaret flinched involuntarily as the soldiers surrounded her, rushing past, the sound of bronze blade on bronze blade ringing out above the bloodcurdling cries of anguish. She felt the warmth of Michael’s body pressed against her as she clutched the rail. A soaring orchestral score, like something from a Hollywood musical, reached fever pitch as the battle neared its climax. And then the pennants flew in her face, one by one, as the flags of the conquered states were laid out before the all-powerful first emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Michael whispered.
Margaret nodded. It was the first time she had experienced surround cinema. Screens entirely circled the auditorium, the action moving freely from one to the other and continuing on behind. The sense of being in the middle of it all was extraordinary, standing clasping metal rails and listening to a surround soundtrack that completed the illusion. ‘This must have cost a fortune to make,’ she said. ‘There’s an incredible number of extras.’
Michael smiled. ‘If there’s one thing the Chinese have in plentiful supply, it’s people.’ Thousands of coolies carrying baskets of earth on bamboo poles, moved all around them. ‘That’s them starting work on Qin’s tomb,’ Michael said. ‘One hundred and twenty thousand craftsmen, labourers and prisoners. It took them forty years. In those days people believed that when you died your soul lived on underground. That’s why Qin built his Terracotta Army and buried them in three different pits, or chambers, around his mausoleum — to guard his underground empire.’
On the screen, semi-naked labourers tramped clay underfoot before pounding it with great clubs and setting it in moulds to make the warriors and horses. The body parts were then assembled, and overlaid with hand-carved armour and delicately shaped faces — each one different, unique. Hair was sculpted in pleats or piled high, fine detail worked even into the treads of their boots. Warriors were divided into generals and officers, foot soldiers and kneeling archers, charioteers, and then fired in huge kilns. All around her Margaret saw Terracotta Warriors standing in rows as artists painted them in vivid primary colours.
‘Are these real?’ she whispered.
Michael laughed. ‘No. They are exact reproductions, handcrafted from the same clay as the originals, and fired at the same temperature. You can buy them, full-sized, have them shipped to America for a couple of thousand dollars to stand in your garden. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the reproduction and the real thing. They did paint the originals, though. Just like that,’ he said, nodding towards the screen.
Margaret said, ‘In all the photographs I’ve seen, they just look sort of clay-coloured.’
Michael said, ‘The warriors were buried for more than two thousand years. The paint simply didn’t survive. The clay colour is just a coating of dry, dusty earth. Underneath they are a sort of bluish black, as they were when they came out of the kilns.’
Labourers, their bodies glistening with sweat, dug the pits to house the warriors
. Great beams were raised to support the roofs. Then the warriors were put in place, arrayed in battle formation, between high walls of rammed earth. Real weapons were placed in their hands — swords, bows, spears — and then logs laid overhead to form the roof which was covered with straw matting and then buried under tons of earth. The shadowy figures of the warriors were swallowed into blackness.
And then suddenly the screen was afire with battle again. The voice of the commentator relating the story rose above orchestral crescendos.
‘What’s happening now?’ Margaret asked.
‘A peasant uprising, a year after Qin died. They sacked his palace and broke into the three chambers containing the warriors and stole their weapons to use against the real army of Qin’s successor.’
The blackness burst violently to life as the peasants smashed their way into the warriors’ chambers, carrying flaming torches that cast long shadows among their terracotta counterparts. As they took the swords and spears from an opposing army fired in clay, they began smashing the serried rows of warriors. The distinctive sound of breaking pottery was sickening. All that work and artistry. All the years it had taken to achieve. Smashed in a few moments of mindless vandalism. Margaret watched, wide-eyed, as the peasants set fire to the pits, roof timbers blazing and then caving in on the army below.
From its pitch of excitement, the orchestra swooped to a meandering, tranquil melody of violins to match the sudden pictures of peaceful, open countryside that now surrounded them in the shadow of a hill that rose to a central peak.
‘That’s the tumulus of Qin’s mausoleum,’ Michael said. ‘The one they are afraid to open because of the rivers of mercury. The year is 1974. China is still in the throes of the Cultural Revolution.’ A group of peasants in Mao suits was digging in an open field. ‘These guys were digging a well, when suddenly they started unearthing terracotta heads and hands. The first fragments of a great army that had remained buried for more than two millennia.’
Margaret said, ‘You know, you should think about doing this sort of thing for a living. You might be quite good at it.’
He laughed and took her arm. ‘Come on,’ he said.
‘But it’s not finished yet.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s go see the real thing.’
Outside the auditorium, they blinked in the bright sunlight. The huge concourse was crowded with tourists come to see the Eighth Wonder of the World: busloads of Western tour groups, parties of Chinese schoolchildren, families from all over the Middle Kingdom, from every walk of life; all drawn by the extraordinary phenomenon of the Terracotta Warriors, housed in three huge halls constructed over the pits where they had been found.
As they crossed the concourse Michael said, ‘What happened after they discovered the warriors was a comedy of errors. The officials and cadres at the local cultural centre didn’t seem to think the find was worth telling anyone about. They dragged some bits and pieces off to the centre and started reassembling three of the figures, patching them together and then putting them on display. It was only when a visiting journalist wrote an article about it, months later, that the authorities found out. They immediately put the whole site under state protection, and in 1976 built the first of the exhibition halls over the biggest of the pits — Pit No. 1.’ He inclined his head towards the huge domed construction that loomed over them, and took Margaret’s arm, led her up steps and through the pillared entrance.
He spoke to an attendant, who hurried off, and they took a seat in the entrance hall, beneath big squares of yellow light that fell through the glass roof and dazzled on the marble floor. ‘Someone will come and get you in a minute,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going to have to go off to my meeting.’
Margaret flipped through the pages of a book she had bought on the way into the auditorium. It was filled with photographs of the three pits, and an account of the excavations by the lead archaeologist, Yuan Zhongyi. She said. ‘I thought there were only three chambers.’
‘There are,’ Michael said.
‘That’s not what it says in here.’ She read from Yuan Zhongyi’s account: ‘Our drilling also revealed a fourth pit at about 20 metres north of the middle part of Vault 1.’
‘Sure,’ Michael said. ‘But the pit was empty, filled with sand and silt. They figured that the fourth chamber was never finished because the workers all got sent off to fight against the peasant uprising.’
She read on, ‘As no clay figures have been found in this pit, it is not counted in the vaults of the terracotta army. Generally we speak only of the other three.’ She cocked an eyebrow at Michael. ‘Bet that pissed them off. All that digging and the damn thing turns out to be empty.’
‘That’s archaeology,’ Michael said. ‘You can spend years on something and get nowhere. Then start again a couple of metres to one side or the other and discover a whole civilisation.’
A small man with a shock of spiky black hair laced with streaks of steel-grey, came smiling through the squares of sunlight, his hand outstretched. He shook Michael’s hand warmly and they exchanged greetings in Chinese. He was a man perhaps in his middle fifties, with square tortoiseshell glasses on a smooth, unlined face. He wore an open-necked white shirt loose over dark slacks, and blue-cloth rubber-soled shoes.
‘Margaret,’ Michael said, turning to her, ‘this is Mr Lao Chuanfang. He is one of the most experienced archaeologists working on the excavation.’
His handshake was dry and firm, and his eyes sparkled. ‘How d’you do, Miss Margaret,’ he said, bowing his head slightly.
‘It’s very good of you to look after me like this,’ Margaret said, embarrassed. ‘But it’s really not necessary. I could just as easily wait here for Michael.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Lao. ‘It my pleasure. Mr Michael is ve-ery good friend of Chinese people.’
‘Well, one or two of them, anyway,’ Michael said, grinning. He checked his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, Margaret. I’ll come and get you when I’ve finished my business. Take good care of her, Mr Lao.’ He winked at her and hurried off.
Mr Lao led Margaret into the main hall. ‘I didn’t realise excavations were still going on,’ she said. ‘I thought it was all finished.’
Mr Lao laughed. ‘It ma-any years before we finish, Miss Margaret. There are maybe six thousand warrior and horse in here. We uncover, maybe, one third.’ And they stepped out on to a gantry that ran all the way around the pit.
Margaret was not certain what she had been expecting, but it had been nothing on this scale. An intricate network of scaffolding supported a roof that arched over an excavation site that shimmered off into a hazy blue distance. Immediately below them, between high walls of rammed earth that stretched away both left and right, stood the warriors. Some two thousand of them, in battle formation. In gaps between the ranks, horses stood patiently, harnessed to wooden chariots that had long since decayed and disappeared. Sunlight fell in angled slabs through occasional windows in the roof, and lay across the silent soldiers, casting shadows across ancient faces.
The hair rose up on Margaret’s neck and arms, and she felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked, surprised at her reaction. She had not anticipated anything like this. But there was something startling in the sight of these life-sized figures, something extraordinary in their silent dignity, in their patient vigil. They stood, still guarding their emperor’s tomb, with a mute determination. All around, the voices of chattering tourists filled the hall, and Margaret was consumed by an almost irresistible desire to shout at them. To tell them to shut up. There was something here that deserved the dignity of silence, the awe and respect of all who cast eyes on it. This was a privilege, a rare glimpse of a priceless heritage, an insight into the minds of men, their fears and beliefs, their endless futile attempts to transcend death. And in a way, the men who had created these figures had achieved a kind of immortality. For here their warriors still stood, a testament to their makers’ existence, silent witnesses to a dawn that predated Christ.
‘I don’t know what I am,’ Margaret said. ‘Speechless, really. They are …’ she searched for the right word, ‘… fabulous,’ she finished lamely, unable to find an adjective that could adequately describe her feelings.
‘You come,’ he said. ‘I show you more than tourist see.’ And she followed him around the gantry, gazing down on the figures below as they went.
There was a sudden clamour of raised voices, and she turned to see a green-uniformed police officer snatching a camera from a struggling Chinese tourist. The man and his wife screamed at the officer, waving their arms belligerently, as he opened up their camera and ripped out the film, exposing its entire length to the light.
‘It forbidden to take photograph here,’ Mr Lao said. He shrugged philosophically. ‘It happen all the time.’
At the far end of the site, raised on an area that had not yet been excavated, Margaret could see now that there were hundreds of pottery figures crowding together, archaeologists moving amongst them, piecing together the broken bits and pieces that would make them whole again. A large motorised conveyer belt was removing great piles of excavated earth out through a large rear hatch. But this was an area not open to the public. And below them now, crouched in the dust, white-shirted archaeologists of all ages worked among dozens more figures, still immersed in earth, and emerging centimetre by centimetre from their ancient graves as brushes and knives scooped and swept away the layers of time that had buried them.
Mr Lao opened a gate and Margaret followed him into an area off limits to tourists, down stippled metal steps to where a small group of archaeologists was at work: two men, and a young woman perhaps a little younger than Margaret. Mr Lao made introductions in Chinese, and they all shook her hand and bowed their heads and smiled. Mr Lao handed her a short, round-bladed knife with a curved handle that fitted the back of the hand behind the thumb and forefinger. ‘Now you be archaeologist, too,’ he smiled. ‘Miss Zhang show you how.’