Free Iron and Silk by Mark Salzman

rushed back into my face, and I nearly saw double with anger. Humiliating unwitting foreigners is something of a popular sport in China, and it occurred to me that my little spectacle would soon be legendary. But he had me. If I accepted, I would go down in local history as the foreigner who made a fool of himself in front of Pan Qingfu and the Hunan Wushu Troupe; if I refused, I would be remembered as the foreigner who left the Hunan Sports Unit with his tail between his legs.
    I stood up, and the applause died down. Pan sat down, continuing to smile. I explained that my wushu couldn’t be compared to theirs and added, truthfully, that I had never imagined I would see such expertise as they possessed. I then said that for me to perform a Chinese routine would be a waste of time, since they did wushu so much better. I had come to learn. Better for me to do something they might nototherwise have a chance to see. I told them that in America, fighters have been exposed to a variety of Asian martial arts, Western boxing, and African dancing rhythms. Making it up as I went along, I explained that a distinctly American style has come out of all this, and is called “On the Street Boxing.” I started clapping out a syncopated beat, began moving in a modified hustle, and let loose, trying to make up for what I lacked in gymnastic skill with unrestrained violence. At the time I was not in good condition, so after a few minutes, when I started to taste blood in my throat, I stopped. The athletes exploded into cheers, and Dr. Nie slapped Pan’s shoulders in excitement, but Pan sat dead still, with the same smile on his face. I started to see black around the edges of my field of vision and no longer heard all the noise, but only saw Pan at the end of a darkening tunnel. He stood up and walked toward me, stopping when his face was very near my own. His smile had disappeared. In a very low voice he said, “That’s not gong fu.” We stared at each other for a long time, then he raised one eyebrow. “I could fix it, if you wanted.” I must have nodded, because then he asked me if I could
chi ku
, eat bitter, the Chinese expression meaning to endure suffering. Lying, I said yes. Then he asked me if I was afraid of pain. Lying again, I said no. “You want?” he asked. “I want,” I said, and became his student.
    E arly one morning a heavy fog fell over the city. Right away I thought of going down to the river to see what it looked like. I put a few pieces of steamed bread into a small covered pot, got on my bicycle and rode down to the end of Anti-Imperialism Road. I parked the bicycle against a tree, went down the stone steps of the flood wall to the riverbank and sat on a discarded tire.
    I hoped that I might see the fog rise, or at least have the sun burst through an opening and light it all up, but nothing like that happened. I ate my steamed bread and was getting ready to leave when something caught my eye. Out of the fog slipped a tiny boat with a fisherman standing in it, rowing slowly and singing to himself. Chinese rowboats, unchanged for many centuries, are shaped like cigars and have a curved roof of woven bamboo at one end. The oars are longer than Western oars, crossing in front of the oarsman to form an X. The oarsman stands at the rear of the boat, facing forward, with the oars in front of him. He pushes them through the water, pulling them for the return stroke. The fisherman stopped not far from me and took out his net, which was folded neatly into a ball and had several round metal weights dangling from it. He walked to the front of the boat, got his footing, wound up and threw the net. It spun in the air, and the weights went their separate directions, opening the round net like a flower before it hit the surface of the water and disappeared. After waiting a few minutes he pulled it in, taking a few wriggling fish out and dropping them into a bucket. He folded the net carefullyand prepared to move on. Just as he