P’an questioned the occupant of the neighboring bed. Do they beat you a lot? He replied: Not much. What do they do? They teach you a foreign language and lots of other things. He complained about the food: they only got dessert once a week, on Sundays. In general, it was boring.
In came “Father” in a long cassock. In a flash his neighbor buried himself into his pillow, pretending to be asleep. He faked it so cleverly that before the rounds were finished he was snoring in earnest. The other questions would have to wait till morning.
For the first time in his life P’an stretched out in a real, clean bed. It seemed to him rather uncomfortable. The pillow somehow didn’t fit his head. He pushed it aside. The blanket, on the other hand, was very much to his liking – it was warm. The silence in the room, cushioned with the boys’ soft exhalations, helped him think things through.
Ah, it’s not so terrible after all. If the runt is telling the truth, then it looks like this is just a school. They teach you a foreign language, and other things, too. It never hurts to learn. Except where did these white folks get the idea of teaching Chinese kids? It must be some kind of con. Nothing to worry about, they’re sure to guard their secrets pretty closely. Anyway, I’ll have to poke around. The most important part will be to learn the foreign language. Then I’ll be able to listen in on the white people’s conversations. They might divulge something. Got to stay alert. Not let anything get past me. Root out what I can.
He slept curled up like a hedgehog – a captive behind enemy lines.
Then days and weeks. Strangeness and bizarre tales. It turned out, for example, that the man nailed to the tree wasn’t a thief at all, nor even a man, but rather the true – the truest – God. Pudgy Father Francis liked to say that this god had turned into a man on purpose, to suffer for everyone, even for him, for little P’an. Apparently they gave him a fairly good beating as well. It was all so hard to swallow. Why would a white man – even if God himself – have suffered for all the Chinese?
Father Francis told lots of funny stories about him. For example, when he was beaten and slapped on the cheek, he didn’t return the abuse, but presented his other cheek instead. Here you go, hit it, give it all you’ve got! Just like a clown at the fair. Father Francis said that humility was a great virtue. But what good was humility when they were beating you? If you don’t defend yourself – they beat you to death. Apparently they killed that guy as well. A nut, basically.
But then again he wasn’t just any old nut, as it might have seemed, he was clever. He kept up the humility. Don’t fight evil. Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and unto God what is God’s. And unto God… well, God doesn’t need much. Not so with Caesar. Caesar is your enemy, as everyone knows. He helps the Mandarins and the white men rob the people, so that Uncle Chow-Lin’s children died of hunger. What kind of honest and just God could order the Chinese not to fight Caesar? A white one, obviously.
Oh, as Father Francis said not more than a week ago: “Easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” And every Sunday he accepted all sorts of presents from rich white people, wine and fruit, and spoke with them cordially for hours at a time, and when they finally left he would see them to their cars, not troubled in the slightest that they wouldn’t be entering the Kingdom of Heaven. Clearly it wasn’t so terribly important if someone was entering the Kingdom of Heaven or not, if the rich folk weren’t so eager to get there, and Father Francis didn’t see much of a problem with this. Obviously this Kingdom of Heaven wasn’t anything special if only the poor folk were being sent there. No, P’an didn’t much care for this docile god. The rich folk and the Caesars had clearly bought him out, so that he would convince people to be subservient. He could set an example by letting himself be beaten to his heart’s content. If he was in fact God, it would hardly hurt. And he could die as much as he liked. No, you couldn’t believe in a god like that. That kind of god was a scam.
But he pretended to believe. He feverishly crossed himself and recited long-winded prayers by heart. Everyone praised him. Even gloomy Father Seraphim, withered like the bark on an old log, would sometimes slip an orange or a pretzel into his hand. This P’an was an unusually devoted lad!
He studied diligently. He spent hours with his eyes shut, cramming the strange foreign words into his head. He had his multiplication tables down within two weeks. The further he went, the more outstanding his work.
At year’s end, Father Gabriel himself arrived, the eldest of the Lazarists. The whole shelter was cleaned and swept for two days before his visit. He arrived fat, obese even, scarcely capable of making his way up the stairs. Two brothers led him by the hand, showing him around. He spoke with P’an. He inquired about this and that. His interest was piqued. He started to ask more precise questions. He checked how well he knew the catechism. He praised the boy. Upon leaving, he extended his hand to kiss and gave him a kindly pat on the head.
Skulking behind the door, P’an heard the fatso talking to Father Francis:
“A very, very bright lad. Mature beyond his years. It would be a shame to send him to a trade school. He should attend a gymnasium. I’ll have a chat with Father Dominic myself.”
And that was how he came to attend the gymnasium in Shanghai.
The gymnasium students were both Chinese and white. It turned out that they were all learning the same things. He studied harder than before. The white students kept to themselves. They stared at the Chinese with contempt. They would scoff: “Hey, Chink! Where’d you leave your ponytail?” But they weren’t so revolted by them that they didn’t copy their homework. They would share a bit of croissant under the desk. But then when recess came – get lost! The same fellow who had copied the homework and shared the croissant would smirk: “Beat it, chump!”
Once P’an overheard that during recess they were going to change the marks in the grade book. A freckled kid with a mole on his cheek had stolen the keys to the office. He changed all the marks. They caught on. There were interrogations: Who was to blame?
Freckle-face stood up:
“It wasn’t us, it was the Chinese. They changed our marks on purpose so we’d get a hiding. I saw that Chink myself steal the key to the office.”
He pointed at little, innocent Hu.
Father Paphnutius grabbed little Hu by the collar and rapped his knuckles with a ruler:
“Scram!”
P’an couldn’t bear it. He leapt on the freckled kid and gave him one right in the mouth! It took some effort to pull them apart. Freckle-face’s nose was bleeding and a welt like a great plum appeared under his eye. He shuffled home with his face bashed up.
P’an was grabbed by the ear and locked in an empty classroom.
Freckle-face’s father pulled up in his car after lunch. Handsome, fragrant, a little red jewel in his buttonhole. In Father Dominic’s office he screamed and stomped his feet:
“Expel him at once!”
P’an heard everything through the wall. Father Dominic begged forgiveness. It came out that it was in fact the freckle-faced boy who had tampered with the marks. The boy’s father simmered down a bit:
“Punish him in my presence! Fifty strokes, and not one less!”
Guards were called in. P’an was hauled into the office. He was stretched out on the bench. They started counting the lashes. The white man with the little jewel in his buttonhole tapped out the time with a slender foot clad in an elegant shoe, snorting with irritation. After the fortieth stroke the cane snapped in two. The man with the little jewel didn’t press further. He went home, slamming the door behind him. Father Paphnutius lifted the flogged P’an onto his knees and had him turn to face the wall. He stayed that way till evening.