[h1]China[/h1]
[h2]Beijing[/h2]
[h3]Xicheng District[/h3]

	Dawn's light closed in on the capital. The sky turned a deep purple as pale oranges and yellows followed after the setting sun as it lowered below the crowns of the buildings and tree tops to the west. The distant outlying hills and mountains outside of Beijing took on dark shapes pressed against the evening sky as the street lights flickered on. But in places in the old city where the damage of the war had not been so severe, where work crews had not the opportunity or ample reason to carry on reconstruction many of the streets and narrow Hutongs lay dark and dreamy in the fading lights. As birds clambered and chirped madly in the trees, drowning out the sounds of traffic on the mainroads the sounds of dogs barking and children crying their final screams of the late evening sang in the cool summer's air.

	The gentler folk who lived along the narrow hutongs had done what they could to hand lanterns up from the small gateways into their family homes, which provided a soft orange light for the late-night travelers on their way home. Many were old blood in the city, merchants who had found a new life under the Communist regime or a few professionals who wanted what was believed to be a fleeting facet of old Chinese life and moved into the empty Siheyuans. As men in factory garb or faded bureaucratic suits shuffled through the narrow streets, or skillfully wove along them on bicycles a small group of youths made their huddled way through the narrow corridors smelling the late evening smells of fried dumplings, searing fish, or the incense on old family altars.

	High atop an old stone wall a cat sat perched and meowed down at the group as they passed. Its eyes glowing a bright green as it caught the soft light below. But they disregarded the feline, chattering and talking warmly among themselves as they went along their way. The topics varied, ranging from idle banter to conversation on life and women, or rather simply women. The singers of the day spun in and out of conversation.

	“The ladies really like Ai Wung.” said one to his companions, “My older cousin said they really like to be called a Silken White Lilly, after his song.”

	There was dismissive laughter, and they went along.

	Their walk came to an end at a small gatehouse. Nondescript, blending in with its neighbors its only tell as to whose it was, let alone it was not unlike the others was a large painted wooden sign reading “Gao – Song, Zhen, Liling, Huang, Ji, and family”. There was also a potted plant.

	Acting as not being strangers, the company of young men stopped at the door and their leader reached for the wooden door to the courtyard beyond and grabbed the robe to the bell there. With a firm tug he rung it and a dull brass note rang in the night. Moments later an old thin woman came to the door dressed in a gray cotton dress. Smiling wide, her pale cheeks glowing in the lantern lit courtyard beyond she began happily greeting them. Bidding them welcome with each name she recited with warm familiarity, “Guang, Ho, Hei, Da, Cong,” she said, “Biming, Chao. Welcome. Head along, the professor is waiting.”

	The students exchanged her hospitality and returned the bows. Some pointed out the decoration of the evening and complimented the lanterns strung above the stone courtyard. One mentioned the well kept plants in the scattered garden plots in the courtyard, distributed as if one had cast a few pebbles into the air and dug up the dirt there for flowers and trees. Besides the wall to the narrow Hutong street behind them, they were enveloped completely by house. A wide veranda ran the edge of the open courtyard, including in its circuit the southern wall at the street. A few electrical lights in the rafters illuminated the darker spots and one their left side an elderly couple could be seen watching them as they rocked back and forth in their chairs. The youths bowed to them, and the couple returned the favor by waving hello, or bowing their heads.

	Moving ahead they stepped into the main house proper and they were greeted immediately by the smells of fry and cooking of stew. As the guests came to a hungry excitement they were greeted by the man of the house, a tall impressive figure with a thinning head of hair.

	“Good evening! Welcome!” he said in a loud cheery voice. A pair of round circular glasses sat atop a dapper, delicate nose. His cheeks were round and wrinkled, especially as he smiled and his voice carried like a thunder clap in the theater. He spoke warmly and with candor, his brown eyes glowing brightly in the lantern and candle light of his house. There was not much room for electricity, he seemed to provide his own in any case.

	The guests and their hosts migrated to a dinner table, small and normally not fitted for such a large number they none the less found a way to pack themselves in. As genially as they had come, so they set about the evening's events. Opening with stories. “I was visiting my cousins in the country last weekend.” one of the young men started, Chao Biming. A broad shouldered young man with a face that threatened to turn into Guan Yu's if he did not shave. He was a student of engineering at the university. 

	“When I joined my eldest cousin in a walk around the fields I saw two small birds fighting off a large hawk. This was amazing, I thought and I pointed it out to my cousin. Nonplussed he looked up at the fighting birds and shrugged it off. 'It happens all the time.' he told me, 'sooner or later one gets the better of the other.'

	“'How often does it turn out?' I asked him.

	“'It depends on how hungry the eagle is.' my cousin said casually.

	“I was still impressed by this, and I watched them as we walked. I was amazed at the agility of the small bird's performance and the endurance and stability of the hawk in flight. He acted as if there was nothing to bother him and stayed the course.

	“This simple thing had to be the single most fascinating thing that day. And my cousin brushed it off! He showed me a creek instead he would take his kids too on an easy day and let them play and cool off in the water as he sat by and carved wood with his knife.”

	“What does your cousin make?” a thin wiry man said, barely a boy. Like the professor Gao Song he wore a pair of spectacles, though his larger and square in shape. He wore a collared shirt that hung loose at the shoulders. His name was Hu Hei.

	“Just, little things.” Biming said, “I don't think he makes anything practical. He just cuts into wood and tries to make little designs or something. He had a refuse pile near a log, you could tell that's where he sits. He was still thinking about those birds when we sat down there, and I asked if he could make me a bird. He said he'll see what he can do.”

	“Your cousin sounds like an interesting man. Does he have a collection of carvings perhaps?” professor Gao Song asked from the head of the table. His wife quietly entered the room and began asking if anyone wanted any beer to drink, a few said yes and she soon disappeared in the kitchen for a few bottles.

	“I never saw any. I suppose if he makes anything worth keeping it might give it away.”

	“And on those birds.” another student said with a raised voice, a square jawed man with a set of eyes that seemed to gaze distantly, “I don't suppose you're going to try and design an airplane after them?” he asked with a laugh.

	Biming shook his head, “No. But that would be nice. But I don't know where I should start.”

	“Maybe later.” the square-jawed man said.

	“Huang Guang, you have anything interesting to tell?” asked the professor. The square-jawed man considered for a moment and shrugged, “If we're talking about animals I was walking around Qiangdao Island with my girlfriend at the water side. At some point we stop to look at the water. A moment later an old man stops next to us and starts tossing small bits of bread and shit into the water. Some large fish, carp or something come up and start eating at the scraps he's feeding them. Up until this large monster of a fish enters the fray and things turn violence.

	“My girlfriend starts laughing as the water is splashed by all these fish fighting with the big fish for food. This goes on until the old man finishes his bag, maybe fifteen minutes. And he turns to us, nods his head, and walks the way we came. Without any food the water clears and the fish disperse.”

	“I have something similar.” Hu Hei interjects, “It's not mine specifically. But it's a story I heard none the less. Apparently there was a fisherman down south on the river with a boat in the early morning. Somewhere nearby a flock of ducks land. Moments later he claims to have seen a large fish rise from the water and swallow a duck whole before disappearing into the murky water and the mud. My brother said he heard it from a friend who was down there on a trip.” the table laughed. It counted.

	Gao Song's wife reentered the room, circling the table Gao Zhen placed a bottle of beer infront of everyone who said they'd have one. “Dinner will be ready in a moment.” she said cheerily. Her cheeks glowing in the warm light of flickering candles and lanterns.

	“Thank you.” a chorus echoed as she left, and in strolled a young girl carrying a thin young black cat.

	Smiling the professor said, “So we adopted a new member a couple weeks ago.” he said, holding a hand out and gently scratching behind the ears of the nervous cat in the young girl's arms. “Or rather Liling did. I was apprehensive at first but I suppose it warmed on me.”

	“Oh boy, how'd this happen?” a student asked.

	“Well I suppose finding fish in the tree is sometimes possible when you try. Or at least when someone puts them there.” Song said, “Liling picked her up on the way home from school.” he began as the young girl walked around the table letting the guests pat the nervous feline on the head. It was jet black with glowing yellow eyes. At each stretch of the hand it would try to push back, but the young girl's arms were too tight. In the end it surrendered to the generosity of each touch and comforted, “By the time I noticed, my little jasmine had her well at home and there was no use getting rid of it. Her ear was cut, and Zhen had to head out into Fengtai to find an animal doctor to look into it. Apart from the one injury, she got a clean bill of health.”

	“What are you naming it?” asked a student.

	“Oh, that's up to Liling.”

	“What is she naming it?”

	“Hou.” the table laughed.

	“That's a funny name.” they pointed out.

	“I know, but not my cat.” Song said with an indifferent shrug.

	Song's wife again materialized from the kitchen, this  time carrying a metal tea pot and a tray full of small tin cups. She set them on the table, “Tea for anyone who wants it.” she said.

	Following her was a young boy, maybe two years younger than Liling. He was perhaps twelve. He had a wild head of unbrushed hair and he helped carry in a tray full of bowls of soup which were quickly served to each of the seated guests. “We're almost ready.” said Zheng in a warm tone, there was relief at the edge, knowing all on her end was beginning to wrap up.

	“I had the opportunity to eat cat years ago.” another student chimed in, “Maybe... five?” he said thinking. He was dexterous looking with an athletic look. His hair was combed tight against his skull which narrowed nearly to a rounded point, and again likewise at the chin. “It was a student trip when I was in primary school and we were seeing Hong Kong and where Hou began his career. We stopped over at a small place tucked neatly away, just big enough to house us all. Unwittingly I and my friends opted to a dish that contained cat and we ate it. The meat has a strange taste to it, I can't place it. But I didn't like it very much.”

	The table broiled with disgust. All of them from the north there was agreement eating cat was unacceptable. As they ate their soup they continued exchanging stories, going in a circuit around the table until they had exhausted their options. By this point, the main meal was out and everyone was starting to dig in.

	“Comrade professor,” a student started as he served himself a stack of dumplings from the spread laid out on the table. By this time with the food all sorted Zheng seated herself next to the head with her husband and with a relieved look was going about to partake in the food at hand. The son who had been with her had appeared and disappeared from the kitchen holding onto several plates and shuffled off elsewhere. “I have heard a lot about your lectures from Guang, and I want to know what your thoughts on Hou.” said a student, the young man known as Guang, with the narrowing brow and chin looked up expectantly to observe the conversation.

	“What is the occasion?” Song asked, piling up rice with his chopsticks.

	“I was talking one day with a foreign yankee living here in China who pointed out that it seems to him Hou's work is nearly everywhere, or should be. But that many people don't seem to see it. He seemed to suggest that as a leader he should be an involved man, or at the least be a man to make statements on what is happening in the world. But so far he hasn't. To him, he claims to remember the last time Hou has firmly commented on things was in the early fifties.”

	The professor nodded and tapped his chopsticks on his plate as he parsed together his thoughts. “He doesn't have to.” he said.

	“How is that?” asked the student.

	“In the tradition of China a leader is most often an individual who delegates. Or more ideally is one to act behind the scenes. In China's recent past it was the mandarins of the Qing who were the public face of the Imperial court, while it was known that the Emperor was at the head, it was broadly seen and recognized as the Qing court and its tendrils as the face of proclamation and action. Less so perhaps during the Republic, where its rule was so tenuous the generals in its army became their own face in ensuing warfare. But Hou has readopted the imperial policy.”

	“Yet he is not an emperor.” the student pointed out.

	“That is for the best.” Biming quipped.

	“It is, but it's also for the best that Hou's position has thus far been unchallenged.” Song said, “I foresee terrible times for China if at this time it has to negotiate elections.”

	“How is that so?”

	“As recognized by Sun Yat-Sen, the full breadth and conditions of liberty are not wholly realized by the Chinese people. For thousands of years the Chinese people have only known central authority beyond their grasp, they are not trained to think democratically, and they will not overnight realize they have options as the Party or its more radical counterparts wish to be.

	“I am not saying China is without hope on this. But Hou and his Party have considerable work ahead of them to erode the Old Ways.”

	“How might Hou possibly want to erode the old beliefs when he uses them?” asked Guang, looking over at the student who had initiated the table conversation, “As has been debated in class what does it mean really for the state ideology in moving ahead that it drags behind it the chain of the past? I do not really think Hou wishes to erode these positions, and I still stand by that position. But what is new about Hou's philosophy when it is referential and relies so heavily on the old traditions?”

	“Are you trying to imply that Hou is mixing Marxism into Confucianism, or Confucianism into Marxism?” asked Biming.

	“He is saying that Hou is reconciling Taoism with Marxism.” professor Song smiled, “Which is on point. But he is using it in such a way to give pause for the reconsideration on how the ancient texts are written.”

	“It sounds like he's disagreeing with you.” Biming said.

	“He disagrees with another student in the class, but besides the point.” Song said. Guang bowed.

	“As in Confucianism,” continued Guang, “as we explored in the class, while the student is subservient to the master, the master is not immune to the student's questions or challenges. Likewise is the government not immune to the critiques of the people.”

	“Hou has outlined this.” Song said, “From a philosophical perspective it is not as if he is negating Confucianism by saying it is wrong from an external. He's pulled from the Analects to imply that there is not an absolute top-down flow of power. For the rest of the Chinese people, he tries to de-alienate Communism and European popular liberation ideology by making comparisons with what exists in our own canon to make it immediately palpable. He's also since 1954, '55, or '56 began practicing what it was he preached and slipped further into the background, about the time political parties returned to China.

	“However, while Guang asserts that Hou is fully canonizing Marxism as Chinese by referring to the ancient texts I have to propose a correction – probably – to the analysis and say that while Laozi and Confuxi are being appropriated to make elective government appear less alien to the broad masses and de-alienate it, a man like Hou is simply not a resource that can be quietly dispensed with in an election, not like in the Philippines with Priscilla's departure.”

	“How so?” asked the student who had begun it.

	“Namely, it would be immature. Hou understands his methodology more completely than anyone else. He can write about it and explain it, but in the climate of China's politics many of the representatives still act as if they were Mandarins and their political allegiances shift organically day to day. While there is a large core of officers in Hou's party many of the rest start off one month as a Unionist and might the next move to the 2nd Movement, or to Hou's Party, and vice-versa. No one has yet learned the political realities in China and for us to hold an election now would invariably entail we elect a snake who will sell out or change the national principle before we know it. An election might well kill the revolution now, but Hou seems to have a trust that these people will not create the conditions to endanger it.”

	“Though, given what is happening had has happened in countries outside of China,” Hei said, between mouthfuls of food, “is democracy the safest course of action? As you admit we need Hou, he is the only one who understands. And assuming that someday in the future China is to understand what he is he's thinking; wouldn't Democracy ultimately weaken China to the pressures of capitalists? Look at America: Hou even criticizes the Americans for having lost their democracy. Democracy is an open door to any ideology, what comes it. And all it takes is for them to enter. The very revolution in China would be threatened if in absence of Hou, capitalism reasserts itself in China and spoils the work my father and my uncles have done in this country. And by the very notion of democracy, that which is the popular opinion of the country is ultimately right, never mind what happens after. If we democratically elect a capitalist, we spit on the graves of our fathers.”

	“That is bourgeoisie democracy.” Gao Song said, “It is easier for the bourgeoisie of a country to say, 'Look! It is what what most of the people want! And so it shall!'.” he took a moment to take a drink of beer, “But this is a half-democracy, a hidden dictatorship of the bourgeoisie built on the appeal to the majority as made by the dollar. In the end, what Hou has manifested  from the old writings, and innumerate from Marx is that democracy, and the dictatorship of the Proletariat is a democracy of meeting where all barriers to political discoursed are lowered so all might participate. That majority opinion be not just a one-way dialog of ideology but also of consensus; as in the village community.”

	The table murmured, until someone spoke up, “Ms. Ghao, what do you think?”

	She looked up and smiled politely, “I don't think about it.” she admitted, “I just handle the house, the groceries, and the parties.”

	“That is a shame.” Biming said, “But you do cook the best dinner ever.” the table nodded in agreement.