“Do you realize what this is, you imbecile?” he demanded.
Xian Bai regarded the grinning balloon face in perplexity. All seemed quite ordinary, except for the bulb at the end of the long white rodent’s muzzle, which, instead of the traditional black ball, seemed to be a small silvery packet of some sort of electronic circuitry….
“This,” said the Deputy Minister, poking Xian Bai’s nose with that of Mickey, “is a satellite television antenna!”
If somewhere the spirit of Chairman Mao might be scowling down unhappily on this spectacle, surely that of Deng Shao Ping would approve, Xian Bai told himself, and at any rate Mao the Panda smiled down benignly on his enterprise from atop the steepled entrance as he cut the ribbon to open his fifth Panda Pagoda.
After all, as Lenin himself had pointed out, you can’t make a revolution without breaking eggs, though in this case the standard recipes supplied in MAO THE PANDA’S LITTLE RED BOOK were admirably parsimonious with this relatively expensive ingredient.
Xian Bai, partly as punishment, and partly because there was no one more experienced to dispatch, had been sent back to Anaheim to confront the minions of the Mouse. This time, however, it was a cut-rate charter flight and a grim motel in Santa Ana, and when he finally found himself dealing with the legal department, with what the natives called a “Suit,” a hard-eyed fellow replete with tie and wire-rim glasses.
“No international laws, treaties, or conventions were violated,”
Xian Bai was told firmly. “The balloon antennas were released in international airspace.”
“And just happened to drift en mass over China?”
The Suit shrugged. “An act of God,” he said. “You could try suing the Pope, I suppose—I could give you my brother-in-law’s card—but you’ll get nowhere with us.”
“Even though the only channel the balloon antennas will receive is the Disney Channel? Which just happens to have begun broadcasting in Mandarin and Cantonese?”
“The satellite is in geosynchronous orbit which is international territory. We have a legal right to broadcast whatever we like in whatever languages we choose.”
“But it’s illegal for Chinese citizens to own satellite dishes.
It’s illegal for Chinese citizens to watch foreign broadcasts!”
The Suit displayed a porcelain crocodile grin that was a perfect example of the Beverly Hills dentist’s art. “That’s your problem,” he said. “Our problem is your refusal to allow us to release THE LONG MARCH in China and rake in the profits from the merchandising tie-ins and Panda Pagodas.”
The grin vanished, but the crocodile remained.
“And unless our problem evaporates by the film’s international release date,” said the Suit, “your problem is going to get a lot worse.”
“Worse…?” stammered Xian Bai.
How could it get worse? There was no way to confiscate the millions of balloon antennas, at the approach of the police, they were just deflated and hidden away, to be redeployed the moment it was safe. Million upon millions of Chinese were watching broadcasts from the Disneyworlds, cartoons and feature-length animated films, endless trailers for THE LONG MARCH, endless commercials for the tie-in merchandising, endless promotions for the Panda Pagodas. The demand for the opening of China to the minions of the Mouse was building to a frenzy.
According to the latest public opinion polls, 41 million Chinese people already believed that Mao Tze Tung had been born with black and white fur.
“Much worse,” said the Suit. “We could give free air time to the Dalai Lama. We could broadcast clips of the Tien An Mien massacre with music by Nine Inch Nails. We could subject your people to reruns of old Charlie Chan movies. And if none of that worked, there’s always the ultimate weapon…”
“The…ultimate weapon…?”
“We broadcast the first twenty minutes of THE LONG MARCH in clear, scramble the rest of it, force everyone in China to buy expensive decoders to see it, and blame the Communist Party.”
The crocodile grin returned.
“Do you really believe any government could retain the Mandate of Heaven after that?”
“Mess not with the Mouse…” sighed Xian Bai.
“Not a good career move at all,” agreed the Suit. “On the other hand, in return for say five percent of the gross, I could aid you in making a sweet one. In the words of Mao the Panda, one hand washes the other.”
Well, the Chinese people had not survived several thousand years of turbulent history without paying due attention to the sacred bottom line. Indeed one might argue that the bottom line, like most else, had been a Chinese invention. Especially when there was rich profit to be made in convincing yourself that it was true.
And for those Panda Pagoda franchisees who had trouble swallowing that one, MAO THE PANDA’S LITTLE RED BOOK, in return for the Mouse’s 30% of the gross, provided more than standard recipes and accounting procedures, it provided an ideological rationale.
Fast food was, after all, a Chinese invention itself. Dim sum, wonton soup, noodles, and stir-fried vegetables with a bit of meat, were quicker to make, tastier, ecologically more benign, and far more nutritious than hamburgers, pizzas, and greasy fried chicken parts.
And since the ingredients were much cheaper, the profit margin was higher too.
Today China, tomorrow the world, promised Chairman Mao the Panda.
And what did it matter if MAO THE PANDA’S LITTLE RED BOOK had appropriated the epigram from Confucius or Lao Tze or the Buddha himself if Chairman Mao the Panda’s words had the ring of truth?
The wise man does well by doing good.
It was enough to keep Xian Bai smiling all the way on his frequent visits to the bank.
