[Chunlan]
by flonnebonne
Fine China
“You’ve never heard of, um, what’s the word, insei syndrome?” asked Yang Hai.
Isumi could honestly say he never had.
“Maybe it’s just a Chinese thing then.” Yang Hai rattled off a string of Mandarin before shrugging and switching back to Japanese. “Sorry, it doesn’t translate very well.”
“You can’t just say ‘it doesn’t translate very well’ and leave it at that.”
Yang Hai shrugged again. Isumi could hear a multitude of foreign sounds in the ensuing silence-the loud buzzing of a vending machine, the slaps and squeaks of flip flop-wearing feet, the steady murmur of Mandarin around them-and mixed in with all that was the sound of go being played, as timeless and universal a thing as anything Isumi knew.
“Time’s up,” said Yang Hai, pointing at Isumi’s game clock.
Isumi placed a black stone. Yang Hai studied it for a few seconds before commenting, “You didn’t think about that hand very much, did you?”
“I think I still need to work on my speed go.”
“Yeah. But not as much as your friend Waya.”
Inwardly, Isumi winced and glanced over at the other end of the room. Waya was probably getting slaughtered by Le Ping at that very moment.
“It’s pretty pigheaded of him to keep playing Le Ping all the time when he keeps losing,” Yang Hai added, as if reading Isumi’s mind.
“He’s usually not quite this stubborn.” Isumi was trying to keep a neutral expression and probably failing miserably. “When we were insei, Waya always used to lose to this friend of ours named Fuku. He played really fast.” He sounded almost apologetic.
Yang Hai’s response, when it came, was noncommittal. “Ah, I see.”
Sometimes Isumi wished Yang Hai could stop being his teacher for a while. Was there something wrong about worrying over Waya?
“Well, hey, it’s the man himself,” said Yang Hai suddenly, looking up from the board.
Isumi turned around and there was Waya.
“Hi,” said Isumi, wondering how much Waya had heard. “How was it?”
“Hey,” said Waya tiredly. “Yang-san, tell that little brat of yours I’ll get him tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“I’m too busy restraining myself from killing him.” Waya gestured at Le Ping, who was animatedly showing off the game he had just played to another child. “He can be a real nuisance sometimes.”
“He reminds me of you when you were young,” said Isumi with a smile. “Far too much energy.”
“How I was, huh,” said Waya.
Isumi realized he had said something wrong, but he didn’t know what to say to make it right. There was an uncomfortable silence until Yang Hai said, “You two better get going before Li-sensei catches you. We’re not supposed to have visitors this late.”
“Yeah, we should get going before Le Ping starts demanding you play a game with him, Isumi-san,” Waya added tiredly.
“I guess I resign,” said Isumi.
“You were losing anyway.” Yang Hai gave him an appraising look before shooing them away.
* * * * *
Under the fluorescent lights of the interior of the bus, Waya’s face was far too pale and taut. He had always been tan and healthy before, hadn’t he?
Isumi, being Isumi, didn’t say anything about this. Instead, he said, “Do you know what insei syndrome is?”
Waya stirred in his seat, but kept staring out the window, not looking at Isumi.
“No idea. But let me guess-something Yang Hai said?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t explain what it was.”
“He says a lot of weird stuff,” Waya murmured, his head falling against the window, his eyes drooping shut.
“He said something to you?”
“Hmm. He said, you know, how China is the middle kingdom? And how Japan and Korea and Mongolia or whatever used to be tributary states in some kind of weird Confucian way? But in this new world there’s no centre to the universe, no middle kingdom for the planets to revolve around. There’s only the temple of the self, and in the end it can’t be understood by outsiders. His words, not mine.” Waya yawned, his eyes watering.
“Okay...”
“Furthermore, the Great Wall,” Waya droned on sleepily, “was not built merely for defense but also as a means of attack. Surely you understand this, being a go player? When you place a stone, you claim territory as your own, however tenuously. Every stone has more than one role-and everything we build is a statement of some kind-because things aren't simple, right? Life isn't simple…and that sucks…”
Waya’s voice was fading with sleep. Isumi doubted he would remember what he’d said in the morning.
It occurred to Isumi that he could not read his friend anymore, not the way he used to. Or rather, Waya was keeping himself closed, trying to keep his weaknesses from showing even here, when the board was not between them, so that he wouldn’t show them when it was.
Isumi didn’t like this new development, which was hypocritical of him-emotional control was exactly the thing he had learned in China himself, last time. But sometimes he found himself wanting to shake Waya, to tell him he had no right to change himself like that, and that China wasn’t some magical place where such a change was meant to happen.
Around them, he could hear the drone of the engines and the quiet conversations of the other passengers, unfathomable. He was in a bus in Beijing with Waya, in his own little cocoon of friendship, and yet he felt alienness pressing in on him from everywhere, within and without. For all the vast distances he had come, he suddenly wished for a moment he could go back to a time when all he’d ever wanted was to pass the pro exam so he could be in the same world as Waya, and Shindou, and every other pro he’d ever admired.
Eventually, Isumi fell asleep, thinking of great walls, and the building of them, stone by stone.
Author's note: The idea of the Great Wall of China, and walls in general, being built for the purpose of both attack and defence was gleaned from the book The Great Wall: China Against the World, 1000 BC - AD 2000, which I've read a part of.
Fine China
“You’ve never heard of, um, what’s the word, insei syndrome?” asked Yang Hai.
Isumi could honestly say he never had.
“Maybe it’s just a Chinese thing then.” Yang Hai rattled off a string of Mandarin before shrugging and switching back to Japanese. “Sorry, it doesn’t translate very well.”
“You can’t just say ‘it doesn’t translate very well’ and leave it at that.”
Yang Hai shrugged again. Isumi could hear a multitude of foreign sounds in the ensuing silence-the loud buzzing of a vending machine, the slaps and squeaks of flip flop-wearing feet, the steady murmur of Mandarin around them-and mixed in with all that was the sound of go being played, as timeless and universal a thing as anything Isumi knew.
“Time’s up,” said Yang Hai, pointing at Isumi’s game clock.
Isumi placed a black stone. Yang Hai studied it for a few seconds before commenting, “You didn’t think about that hand very much, did you?”
“I think I still need to work on my speed go.”
“Yeah. But not as much as your friend Waya.”
Inwardly, Isumi winced and glanced over at the other end of the room. Waya was probably getting slaughtered by Le Ping at that very moment.
“It’s pretty pigheaded of him to keep playing Le Ping all the time when he keeps losing,” Yang Hai added, as if reading Isumi’s mind.
“He’s usually not quite this stubborn.” Isumi was trying to keep a neutral expression and probably failing miserably. “When we were insei, Waya always used to lose to this friend of ours named Fuku. He played really fast.” He sounded almost apologetic.
Yang Hai’s response, when it came, was noncommittal. “Ah, I see.”
Sometimes Isumi wished Yang Hai could stop being his teacher for a while. Was there something wrong about worrying over Waya?
“Well, hey, it’s the man himself,” said Yang Hai suddenly, looking up from the board.
Isumi turned around and there was Waya.
“Hi,” said Isumi, wondering how much Waya had heard. “How was it?”
“Hey,” said Waya tiredly. “Yang-san, tell that little brat of yours I’ll get him tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“I’m too busy restraining myself from killing him.” Waya gestured at Le Ping, who was animatedly showing off the game he had just played to another child. “He can be a real nuisance sometimes.”
“He reminds me of you when you were young,” said Isumi with a smile. “Far too much energy.”
“How I was, huh,” said Waya.
Isumi realized he had said something wrong, but he didn’t know what to say to make it right. There was an uncomfortable silence until Yang Hai said, “You two better get going before Li-sensei catches you. We’re not supposed to have visitors this late.”
“Yeah, we should get going before Le Ping starts demanding you play a game with him, Isumi-san,” Waya added tiredly.
“I guess I resign,” said Isumi.
“You were losing anyway.” Yang Hai gave him an appraising look before shooing them away.
* * * * *
Under the fluorescent lights of the interior of the bus, Waya’s face was far too pale and taut. He had always been tan and healthy before, hadn’t he?
Isumi, being Isumi, didn’t say anything about this. Instead, he said, “Do you know what insei syndrome is?”
Waya stirred in his seat, but kept staring out the window, not looking at Isumi.
“No idea. But let me guess-something Yang Hai said?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t explain what it was.”
“He says a lot of weird stuff,” Waya murmured, his head falling against the window, his eyes drooping shut.
“He said something to you?”
“Hmm. He said, you know, how China is the middle kingdom? And how Japan and Korea and Mongolia or whatever used to be tributary states in some kind of weird Confucian way? But in this new world there’s no centre to the universe, no middle kingdom for the planets to revolve around. There’s only the temple of the self, and in the end it can’t be understood by outsiders. His words, not mine.” Waya yawned, his eyes watering.
“Okay...”
“Furthermore, the Great Wall,” Waya droned on sleepily, “was not built merely for defense but also as a means of attack. Surely you understand this, being a go player? When you place a stone, you claim territory as your own, however tenuously. Every stone has more than one role-and everything we build is a statement of some kind-because things aren't simple, right? Life isn't simple…and that sucks…”
Waya’s voice was fading with sleep. Isumi doubted he would remember what he’d said in the morning.
It occurred to Isumi that he could not read his friend anymore, not the way he used to. Or rather, Waya was keeping himself closed, trying to keep his weaknesses from showing even here, when the board was not between them, so that he wouldn’t show them when it was.
Isumi didn’t like this new development, which was hypocritical of him-emotional control was exactly the thing he had learned in China himself, last time. But sometimes he found himself wanting to shake Waya, to tell him he had no right to change himself like that, and that China wasn’t some magical place where such a change was meant to happen.
Around them, he could hear the drone of the engines and the quiet conversations of the other passengers, unfathomable. He was in a bus in Beijing with Waya, in his own little cocoon of friendship, and yet he felt alienness pressing in on him from everywhere, within and without. For all the vast distances he had come, he suddenly wished for a moment he could go back to a time when all he’d ever wanted was to pass the pro exam so he could be in the same world as Waya, and Shindou, and every other pro he’d ever admired.
Eventually, Isumi fell asleep, thinking of great walls, and the building of them, stone by stone.
Author's note: The idea of the Great Wall of China, and walls in general, being built for the purpose of both attack and defence was gleaned from the book The Great Wall: China Against the World, 1000 BC - AD 2000, which I've read a part of.