Letters Back to Ancient China E-Book

Herbert Rosendorfer

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

A 10th-century Chinese mandarin travels forward in time, and writes letters home reporting on the strange land of 'Zha-ma-ni' in which he is surrounded by giants with big noses, and frightened by the iron carriages called 'mo-tao-kas'. We gradually realise that he is in present-day Munich, and the hapless voyager's encounters with modern life and love, make delightful reading." Scotland on Sunday Two million copies of the German edition have been sold which belies the claims that the Germans do not have a sense of humour and do not like satire.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

The Author

The Translator

First Letter

Second Letter

Third Letter

Fourth Letter

Fifth Letter

Sixth Letter

Seventh Letter

Eighth Letter

Ninth Letter

Tenth Letter

Eleventh Letter

Twelfth Letter

Thireenth Letter

Fourteenth Letter

Fifteenth Letter

Sixteenth Letter

Seventh Letter

Eighteenth Letter

Nineteenth Letter

Twentieth Letter

Twenty-First Letter

Twenty-Second Letter

Twenty-Third Letter

Twenty-Fourth Letter

Twenty-Fifth Letter

Twenty-Sixth Letter

Twenty-Seventh Letter

Twenty-Eighth Letter

Twenty-Ninth Letter

Thirtieth Letter

Thirty-First Letter

Thirty-Second Letter

Thirty-Third Letter

Thirty-Fourth Letter

Thirty-Fifth Letter

Thirty-Sixth Letter

Thirty-Seventh and Last Letter

Copyright

THE AUTHOR

Herbert Rosendorfer was born in Germany in 1934 and died in 2012. His first novel Der Ruinenbaumeister (1969) was a critical and commercial success, and is regarded by many critics as one of the masterpieces of German twentieth-century fiction. It was published in English by Dedalus in 1992 as The Architect of Ruins. This was followed by Stephanie in 1995, which was shortlisted for the Shlegel-Tieck Translation Prize. Letters Back to Ancient China is the most commercially successful of his novels. Mike Mitchell’s translation was awarded the Schlegel-Tieck Translation Prize in 1997. Dedalus published Grand Solo with Anton by Herbert Rosendorfer in 2006.

THE TRANSLATOR

For many years an academic with a special interest in Austrian literature and culture, Mike Mitchell has been a freelance literary translator since 1995.

He has published over seventy translations from German and French, including Gustav Meyrink’s five novels and The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy. His translation of Rosendorfer’s Letters Back to Ancient China won the 1998 Schlegel-Tieck Translation Prize after he had been shortlisted in previous years for his translations of Stephanie by Herbert Rosendorfer and The Golem by Gustav Meyrink.

His translations have been shortlisted four times for The Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prize: Simplicissimus by Johann Grimmelshausen in 1999, The Other Side by Alfred Kubin in 2000, The Bells of Bruges by Georges Rodenbach in 2008 and The Lairds of Cromarty by Jean Pierre Ohl in 2013.

His biography of Gustav Meyrink: Vivo: The Life of Gustav Meyrink was published by Dedalus in November 2008.

Letters back to ancient China

Thirty-seven letters from the mandarin, Kao-tai, to his friend, the mandarin Dji-gu.

The dating of the letters has been transferred from the old Chinese to the European calendar.

The modes of address and the set phrases used at the end of the letters have been simplified, just the main gist being given. The conventions of ancient Chinese correspondence required set phrases which are extremely complicated and flowery; these have all been omitted. In the originals, Kao-tai addresses his friend by his personal name and signs his letters with his own scholar’s name, occasionally with his personal name. This has been simplified by using just the two men’s family names.

First Letter

(Wednesday, 14th July)

Dear Dji-gu, my faithful friend,

The future is an abyss. I would not undertake this journey again. Not even the darkest chaos is comparable to what lies in wait for our poor human race. If it were possible, I would return immediately. I feel as if I have been cast out into an indescribably cold, alien place (even though it is summer here). All I can tell you for the moment is that I have arrived here safely and, considering the nature of the journey, in a passable condition. I have just time to dash off these lines and place the letter at the contact point. I hope you find it. Greetings from your affectionate friend,

Kao-tai

Second Letter

(Saturday, 17th July)

My dear friend Dji-gu,

The future is an abyss. I think I wrote that on the note I placed at the contact point for you three days ago (I hope it reached you so that you will not be worrying about my safe arrival). The things I have seen here are so completely different from everything to which you and I are accustomed, that I do not know where to start. Here — actually I shouldn’t say ‘here’, I should say ‘now’, but this ‘now’ is so unimaginably foreign that I find it difficult to believe that this is the same place where you are living, even if separated by the space of a thousand years. A thousand years. Now I realise that that is a stretch of time which the human mind cannot encompass. Of course, you can start counting, one, two, three … until you reach a thousand, and try to imagine that with each number a year passes, generations come and go, emperors, even whole dynasties change, the stars pursue their courses … but I tell you, a thousand years is more than mere elapsed time: a thousand years is such a colossal mountain of time that even the boldest imagination cannot spread its wings and fly over it.

A thousand years is not ‘now’ and ‘then’, a thousand years is ‘here’ and ‘there’. I will stick to ‘here’.

I’m glad I managed to find the contact point again, where I am going to deposit this letter. For that I have to thank a man who has helped me very much and is still helping me. More about him later. I could not have found the point without someone else’s help, for our Kai-feng has changed so completely that it seems like a different city to me. That may perhaps be connected with the fact that the river has changed direction; now it flows almost due north. The city has grown incredibly large and almost unbearably noisy. From what I have seen so far, there is not the least trace left of any of those palaces, which looked to us as if they were built for eternity, not to mention ordinary houses. Even the hills have gone. Everything is flat. To make up for that, the houses tower up like jagged mountains, and there is scarcely a tree that rises above the roof-tops. You would not recognise a thing, not a single brick or stone. I cannot imagine how all this has come about. I can well believe that our barbaric descendants — a coarse rabble they are, I can tell you, completely lacking in dignity — would flatten the hills. It even seems to me that the permanent layers of smoke and soot have driven our sky away to more distant regions. I almost feel as if I were not only in a different time, but in a different place as well.

As I write this, I am sitting here on a stone. The noise blaring all round me is not excessive; one or two li* farther on it is much worse. Not far from the stone must be the little summer-house where I gave you my farewell embrace a thousand years and three days ago. There is not the least speck of dust from it remaining. There is a row of ugly houses standing in its place. I have not been able to find the other stone, the one we rammed into the ground in the park in the hope it would last a thousand years. Fortunately I have no need of the silver shoe† we hid in the hollow in the stone; the fifty silver bars I have with me will suffice. And I still have the five beautifully decorated gold chalices as my ‘iron’ reserve.

I wish I could return immediately, but I will have to wait for the day we calculated to come round, and that will not be for eight months. It is my own presumption that has brought me to this misbegotten, noisy future. Pray for my safe return. Give my greetings to my Shiao-shiao; after you, she is the one I love the most.

Kao-tai

Notes

† A stamped ingot of between 100 and 250 grammes in weight, roughly resembling a Chinese shoe.

Third letter

(Tuesday, 20th July)

My beloved friend Dji-gu,

Yes! I have found another human being in this black maelstrom of a future! No, I must be fair to our descendants: two human beings, and in the case of the second, it does not seem beyond the bounds of possibility that he may become my friend, although, as you above all have reason to know, I am extremely sparing with that designation. Mr Shi-shmi (that is the name of the second one) shouts like all the rest, but I have the feeling that there are not 100,000 li separating him from me, as there are with all the others, but a mere 99,999. Apart from these two, all the people here still seem to me like pale giant crabs with no resemblance to you or me, or to people like us. Of course, Mr Shi-shmi is far from being able to understand me, but he helps me to understand his alien world.

The events which led to my making Mr Shi-shmi’s acquaintance were rather trying and, unfortunately, also rather painful. When you hear them, you will see how much I have been through in the course of the few days I have been on my ‘travels’. I am sitting in Mr Shi-shmi’s house, writing at his table. He is not here at the moment. Fortunately, the contact point is not far from the house. If necessary, I could find it myself.

Before I left we had many conversations about my under-taking, an undertaking which, many would feel, was not without its dangers. You, my dear Dji-gu, inventor of the mathematical time-leap, are the only one to know about my journey. We had many conversations, and you will remember there was a wise observation by the great Meng-tzu which I took as one of the guiding principles of my enterprise: ‘He who would observe must himself remain unobserved.’ For this reason I chose, as you yourself saw, the most inconspicuous costume possible for my journey, wearing none of the insignia of my rank as kuan of the A4 grade*, and even leaving behind my chain of office as Prefect of the Imperial Guild of Poets called ‘Nine-and-twenty Moss-grown Crags’, which it is my duty to wear. But none of the wise sayings of Meng-tzu, nor even the whole of the Li Chi, are of any help whatsoever in this mad future. My costume, which we assumed would be inconspicuous, is, by the standards obtaining here, so outlandish that I could just as well have arrived dressed as a woman or a gaudy palace dog, the fuss it caused could not have been any the greater.

The journey itself passed without any difficulties at all and was over in a moment, proving the value of all our experiments. After I had embraced you on that little bridge over the Canal of the Blue Bells, which, according to our calculations, was the most suitable place, and set everything necessary in motion, I felt as if I were being lifted up by an invisible force and at the same time spun round by a whirlwind. The last thing I saw was your red robe gleaming in the sunlight, then everything went black. One second later I was sitting, somewhat dazed, on that selfsame bridge over the Canal of the Blue Bells, only it wasn’t the same, it was quite different. Not one of the buildings, walls, stones that I had just been looking at was still there. Engulfed in a cacophony of noise, I was sitting on the ground beside my travelling bag, which I was clutching tightly to me. I could see trees. It was — it is — summer, just as it was a thousand years ago. An alien sun shone down on this world, which is so strange, so completely incomprehensible, that at first I could not take anything in. I sat there, clutching my travelling bag, and if it had been possible, I would have returned immediately. But, as you know, that is impossible. My first thought was, ‘Does Shiao-shiao miss me? It will be a long wait before I can caress her again’. A long wait for her too.

The bridge on which I arrived — or woke up — is quite different from the bridge where I left you. It still crosses the Canal of the Blue Bells, only it is no longer made of wood, but of stone, of stones which have been very crudely hewn and obviously thrown together with little care for either material or design. Everything here is just casually thrown together. I thought how fortunate I was that they still had a bridge in the same place a thousand years later. After the old wooden bridge had rotted away, or collapsed or whatever, they could well have built the new one farther up or downstream. Then I would have landed in the water, which would have been unpleasant, of course, but not at all dangerous, for the Canal of the Blue Bells is no longer the deep waterway you know, though what it has lost in depth it has gained in filth. More or less everything here is extremely dirty. Dirt and noise, that is what dominates life here, that is the abyss to which our future leads.

The hills on the west side of the canal have also been removed, everything is flat as far as the eye can see. But I told you that in my last letter.

I stood up, quite dazed, as I said, set my travelling bag down and looked around. According to the marvellous plan we worked out (I can tell you right away, it turned out to be completely unworkable) my first steps in the future were to take me to the place where your summer-house stands, in order to find the stone that we had hammered into the ground by the entrance. I did not get that far. At the spot where the house of the widow of Ma-wang’s gamekeeper used to stand (‘stands’, you will be thinking) I saw — don’t be frightened! — a giant approaching. He was completely dressed in funny grey clothes, which were very unnatural (I’ll come back to their clothes later on). He had a very unhealthy, brownish complexion and, this was the most striking part, a huge, an incredibly large nose; it seemed to me as if his nose took up half his body. However, as far as I could tell, his look was not unfriendly. He was about to cross the bridge, but stopped when he saw me. I haven’t yet got to the point where I can interpret the facial expressions of our descendants. (They are so unlike us, that I wonder whether that is what they really are, our descendants I mean.) I am only just starting to learn to distinguish their faces. It’s very difficult, they all look the same, and they all have the same big noses. However, I did feel I could tell that this giant — or giantess, it is almost impossible to tell the sexes apart either —, the first person I encountered after my journey of a thousand years, was not adopting a threatening posture. Presumably he was as astonished to see me as I him. I picked up my travelling bag, went up to him, bowed and said:

‘Noble sir or noble madam, I, Kao-tai, the unworthy, the less than worthless kuan of the fourth-highest grade and Prefect of the Nine-and-twenty Moss-grown Crags Guild of Poets offer my deepest respect to you and your ancestors.’ Who knows, I thought, I could even be one of those ancestors myself. ‘Can you tell me whether the summer-house of my friend, the exalted mandarin Dji-gu, used to stand behind that wall?’

The giant clearly did not understand a word of what I had said. He said something in a completely incomprehensible language. That is, he bellowed in such a deep voice that it almost swept me over the parapet of the bridge and I would have taken flight there and then if it had not been for the other giants, who had meanwhile gathered round us and were all staring at me. I was desperate. If I had been able, I would have vanished on the spot back into the past, into your present and mine. But that is something I could not and cannot do. I must see it through. That is how it has to be, that is the purpose of my journey. So, grasping my travelling-bag, I put my question to each and every one of them, to see whether there was one among them who could understand human speech.

There wasn’t.

When you remember that we can read books that are 2,000 years old without any difficulty whatsoever, that language has not changed that much from the oldest times to our age, is it not astonishing that human speech is going to change so much in the thousand years that will follow us that I cannot make myself understood at all? Can it perhaps be that these people, these giants with their bellowing speech, are not our descendants at all? Have the northern barbarians finally managed to overcome the Great Wall? Have they overrun our country, have they exterminated us? Are they the ones who inhabit our empire now? On the other hand the northern barbarians, though strong and tough, are in general shorter than we are. Well, that’s another thing I will have to try to find out.

Since the first day of my arrival I have learnt a few words of the language of the future, but more of that later, too. It is very difficult.

The bignoses, the giants surrounding me (there is no need to worry, they aren’t really giants; everybody ‘here’ is taller than we are used to), were all shouting at once in their dreadfully loud, deep voices. If you had had a dream like this, you would have thought you had run into a pack of demons arguing among themselves. Obviously they were talking about me. Since they were all bellowing so (at that point I didn’t know that they always bellow when they talk here) I was afraid that at any moment it might turn into a brawl. While they were all thus occupied, I took the opportunity to slip away and left the bridge. Running alongside the canal, just where, as you are reading this letter, you will see the outside wall of the imperial stables, there is now a road made completely of stone. I decided to cross this road and that was when something really terrible happened.

Incidentally — you must excuse the way I keep jumping from one idea to another and then back again, but during these last few days I have been bombarded with so many new experiences that I find it difficult to order my thoughts — there was no brawl among the people on the bridge. Fights don’t often break out here, not even among low-class people. Of course, it is possible that they do not fight in public, but pursue such activities in the privacy of their own homes. My command of the local language is still far too limited for me to ask Mr Shi-shmi such a question. They don’t fight, but they bellow. They always bellow, all of them, all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. And of course one must remember that, given the constant noise here, conversation at anything like a normal sound level is impossible. They wouldn’t be able to hear each other. Can you imagine a life, Dji-gu, my old friend, where you have to spend the whole time shouting to be heard over the noise that goes on day and night here. You cannot. The future, Dji-gu, my dear old friend, is an abyss. But I am still alive.

It is time for me to take this letter to the contact point, so that will be all I can write today. With a distant embrace from

Your friend

Kao-tai

Note

* The correct ancient Chinese designation for what we call ‘mandarin’. During the Sung period, from which Kao-tai comes, there were two classes, each with nine grades. Kao-tai is, then, a high official; the ‘A4’ grade is, mutatis mutandis, comparable to a permanent secretary in the British Civil Service.

Fourth Letter

(Thursday, 22nd July)

My dearest friend,

Two more days have passed, days during which, as always, I have been subjected to new, astonishing, strange and inexplicable experiences. However, for the moment I will continue with my description of the events immediately following my arrival.

The street I told you about, the one I wanted to cross, was an avenue. On either side of the cobbled carriageway is a wretched, neglected strip of grass. The stones, too, have been set in the road in a very slipshod manner, making it pretty bumpy. If the Exalted Son of Heaven had driven along this street just once, he would immediately have had the mandarin in charge of road construction beheaded. In the strips of grass there are ugly, unkempt trees growing.

All unsuspecting, I was just starting to cross this avenue when I heard an unimaginable roaring, grinding, rattling noise approach; there is simply no comparison for it in our world. At the same time a huge animal — or a fiery demon, that was the thought that flashed through my mind — came rushing towards me at lightning speed; no, even faster than lightning, so incredibly fast that I could not see the animal or thing at all. Since then I have found out, more or less, what these things are (they aren’t demons, though they are at least as dangerous as demons are for superstitious people) but on that first day I was naturally completely unprepared. I was half-way across the road when, as I assumed, this snorting beast noticed me. Everything happened in the time it takes a bat to beat its wings. I realised that the demon was not after me. It made an even more hideous roaring noise, if possible, and tried to avoid me. I too tried to get out of the way and, with a couple of bounds, reached the safety of the bridge. But, like a wild boar in a frenzied charge, the animal (bigger than ten wild boars) could not change direction so quickly. Still roaring, then making a bang such as you would only get if you set off the whole Imperial stock of fireworks for the New Year’s celebrations at once, the demon, so it seemed to me, leapt up a tree. I collapsed to the ground and fainted.

By the time I regained consciousness an even greater crowd of bignoses had gathered, and again each one looked like the next. They had laid me on a bench between two of the trees but apart from that they hardly paid any attention to me at all. They were all standing round the tree the ‘Ten Wild Boars’ demon had climbed up. No, when I sat up a little I saw that it had not climbed up, it had sunk its teeth into the trunk. Now I know that it wasn’t a demon, nor a wild boar the size of a dragon. It was a carriage made of iron. Mr Shi-shmi’s house is close to the bridge and I have passed the place several times since. The tree is not going to survive, I’m afraid.

There are large numbers, dangerously large numbers, of these iron carriages that move without a horse and go much, much faster than any horse could gallop. In each carriage there is one — usually — of these bignoses sitting, and he twists and turns a further wheel inside the carriage and thus steers it, after a fashion. They go so quickly that they have disappeared before you realise they are coming. These iron carriages are so numerous that no one can walk on the stone streets. They race up and down, in and out, all at the same time. I wonder how they manage not to keep constantly crashing into each other. They probably have some kind of magnetic repelling device to keep them apart. Flocks of starlings, too, fly round the trees in apparently complete disorder, but I have yet to see two starlings collide. I imagine it must be something like that with the iron carriages, but I will try to find out. The name for these iron carriages, by the way, is ‘mo-tao-ka’. That is one of the first words of bellow-speech I learnt.

But even when there is no mo-tao-ka in sight, no one dares to step out into the road. These infernal machines appear so quickly that even the nimblest do not have time to jump out of the way. For that reason on either side of the roads they have installed smaller, separate roads which are slightly raised and on which one can walk in relative safety. And the people crowd onto these little walkroads and make their noise. Compared with the iron-carriage roads, the walkroads are very narrow. From that I deduce that the people sitting in the mo-tao-ka rule the city, and presumably also the country, and that the men and women who go on foot have no say in deciding things.

But to return to the events of the day of my arrival: I sat up. After I had seen the mo-tao-ka with its teeth sunk into the tree, I noticed there were a number of other mo-tao-ka carriages tied up at the side of the road. I wanted to get up and leave, since I immediately realised that, being different and therefore conspicuous, if harmless, someone might possibly want to blame me for the fact that the iron carriage — which now was just standing there, gently steaming — had ended its journey against the tree and possibly even damaged the tree. But two giants, dressed in identical green costumes with an inordinate number of silver buttons sewn on, had clearly observed me and immediately detained me. They were obviously two minions of the Imperial Mandarin of Police. Straight away I recognised the tone in which they bellowed at me, even though I naturally did not understand a word of what they said. This was the first similarity with the world I had left behind, and it almost made me feel at home, even if the arm-lock they put on me was rather uncomfortable.

I said to the two minions, ‘Venerable and exceedingly aged officers of the Imperial Constabulary! You see before you the base, unwashed, though harmless mandarin, Kao-tai, kuan of the fourth grade, spouse of two nieces of Her Sublime Majesty, the all-illuming, unfortunately recently deceased, Chiang-fu, fourth favourite wife of our exceedingly fortunate ruler, the Son of Heaven; I am also Prefect of the Poets’ Guild that goes by the name of Nine-and-twenty Moss-grown Crags. Would you be so good as to release me immediately, although I am completely undeserving of your mercy, otherwise it might happen that this unutterably unworthy person’s friend, the exceedingly powerful and highly respected kuan Fa-kung, the Mandarin of Police, your sunbeam-bright superior, whose cousin I, incredibly considering all my moral imperfections, have the honour to be, might cause you serious difficulties, which your almost incomparably beautiful heads beneath those caps the colour of the imperial forests in early spring might not survive.’ Habit so often takes over when our thoughts give out, and in my confusion I had forgotten that ‘here’ my cousin Fa-kung has been dead for nearly one thousand years, and that another mandarin will long since have taken command of the police, a mandarin, moreover, to whom the name Fa-kung may well mean nothing.

But, of course, the two minions could not understand a single word I said anyway. One of them did try bellowing something else, but I just kept shaking my head until they realised conversation between us was impossible.

For a while the two green-clad minions discussed the matter. I believe I was not wrong in thinking I could perceive expressions of bewilderment on their rather flat, vacant features. Then they led me, not particularly gently, to a mo-tao-ka waiting nearby. It may well have been that their lack of gentleness was not intentional; perhaps these giant minions of the Mandarin of Police are incapable of behaving otherwise. Their hands were as big as palm leaves and as clumsy as two short planks. They shoved me into the iron mo-tao-ka. I was terribly frightened, and clutched my travelling bag tightly to my chest.

You must understand, my dear Dji-gu, that all this, spreading over page after page, only took up a quarter of an hour, perhaps less. Unfamiliar impressions were rushing past me like a river in spate and disappearing in a furious roar. My memory only retained a few haphazard fragments. During the early part of my stay ‘here’ I must have missed much of the significance of what was happening. But in such a situation who, no matter how cool he normally is, could keep a clear head and note every detail?

I realised there was no point in resisting arrest; it was obvious that was what it was. I took heart from the hope that Imperial justice had perhaps not declined to the same extent as general behaviour; if that were the case, then, I told myself, I had nothing to fear. I was innocent. And anyway, the purpose of my journey is not to feel afraid but to observe. We knew all along that risks were involved in an undertaking of this kind, though it is true that I little thought my first experience would be to be treated as a criminal. But I came to the conclusion I would just have to regard it as part of my journey into the future.

The minions’ mo-tao-ka, clearly an official carriage, was frightfully cramped, as cramped as a primitive litter, but at least it had a well-upholstered bench. One of the men in green sat beside me, the other farther forward, where there was the internal wheel. There was a dreadful smell in the carriage, and when it started to move, with all that unspeakable rattling and roaring, I fainted again. Since then I have travelled in similar mo-tao-ka several times. One can get used to anything. I don’t faint at the inordinate speed any longer, but I still cannot travel in them with my eyes open. As the houses and trees outside rush past at — I use the word advisedly — inhuman speed, it is as if a huge file were rasping away at my capacity to absorb impressions. I think it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the speed of things here has filed away all the locals’ finer feelings. Perhaps that is why they are so crude.

The two minions took me to a very large, very dark house, where there were many other officers of the law. It seems there are some things in this world that have managed to survive unchanged over the centuries. Once — it was in my thirty-second year, and I was a mere kuan of the A7 grade — I was a member of an imperial commission that inspected the prisons of the seaport, Hai-chou. What characterised the prisons for me was a certain rancid smell and it was that same smell that I noted in the building to which I was taken. That was how I knew straight away that it was a prison. There are, as I said, certain things and certain characteristics that do not change over a thousand years. And clearly these are neither the best characteristics, nor the best things.

In the prison, that obviously also served as the minions’ headquarters, I was taken before the head minion. Prior to that, one of them had taken my travelling bag away from me and searched it. As I was led down the long dark corridors with their rancid smell, another minion carried it. Not, I am sure, out of politeness.

After my experiences so far, I did not even bother to address the head minion. I remained silent and confined myself to bowing slightly whenever he said something. But the language in which he spoke to me was the extremely loud, harsh, unmelodious language of our unfortunate descendants. He, too, soon began to look baffled. I had to sit down on a grubby wooden bench. My travelling bag — clearly they had realised it represented no danger — they set down beside me. Countless minions came into the room, trying to give the impression they just happened to be passing, and stared at me. I had to laugh, in spite of my humiliating situation. But it was still embarrassing.

Some time later the head minion came back with a person who was not wearing a uniform. This person — I think it was a woman — also tried to speak to me. I realised that they had fetched an interpreter, but I still could not understand the language the interpreter woman was speaking. I could not hear any difference at all between the idiom they had used before and the one the interpreter was using. Eventually they must have fetched about ten interpreters, one after the other. At first I had a flicker of hope that there might be one among them who understood our language, but it was soon extinguished. The head minion felt the same way, too, I suspected.

How long that all took I cannot really say. But after four of the interpreters had tried their luck, an under-minion brought me — I am sure it was kindly meant — a plate of sheet iron on which there was a pile of something which, after several minutes close scrutiny, I presumed was intended to be eaten. He also handed me an implement which was likewise made of sheet iron (I have since become familiar with these implements, more of that later). The implement is called a fa-lik. Very wisely, people here do not pick up their food with their hands but convey it to their mouths by means of these fa-lik devices. With all the agitation and fright, I did not feel the slightest bit hungry; on the contrary, I felt sick at the sight of the light grey, gritty porridge (very remotely resembling our rice) with a few blackish lumps on top, which, on closer inspection, proved to be some kind of meat. A layer of reddish sludge had been poured over it. But I told myself, ‘Kao-tai, you haven’t travelled to the future to feel sick, but to observe and to gather impressions’, and ate some of the porridge. It mainly tasted of salt and was very hot. Since then I have learnt that people ‘here’, even educated people, are addicted to eating their food scalding hot. That is one of the reasons why they have to use a fa-lik. Eating normally, the way we do, they would burn their fingers. The meat tasted like leather and was also hot.

I ate a little and then, once I felt I had gathered enough impressions of this particular aspect of future life, I returned the iron plate and the fa-lik with a one-eighth bow (the head minion is doubtless far below me in rank). When I indicated by gestures that I was thirsty, they brought me a glass containing a disgusting white liquid, which I now know to have been nothing other than cow’s milk. Yes, milk from cows! The mere smell of it made my stomach turn and at first I thought they were trying to poison me. Shaking his head, the bignose took the cow’s milk away and brought a container with a quarter sheng* of water, which I drank. The water was good.

When the tenth interpreter came, it was like the sun rising after the gloom of a stormy night: this interpreter had a human face. Although taller than me, he was not as gigantic as everyone else here. Imagine my disappointment when he could not understand me either. I think he must have come from the Southern Islands.† Is it possible that people there have not changed quite so much as the inhabitants of our unfortunate capital? Or where am I? That is a question I will perhaps have the opportunity of investigating. Wherever I am, the language has degenerated to the point where it is incomprehensible. Nor could he understand the characters I wrote down.

By that time, it was evening. I was locked up. Yes, dear, faithful Dji-gu, your friend, Kao-tai, kuan of the A4 grade and Prefect of the Nine-and-twenty Moss-grown Crags Guild of Poets, was locked up in a prison cell. After all I had been through, I was past caring. Before I was locked up I had to go through a number of what were presumably ritual ceremonies. I had to dip my fingers in black ink and then touch a sheet of paper. Probably to ward off demons. Then I was taken into a room where another minion was fiddling with an incomprehensible machine that gave out little flashes. I had to sit on one particular stool and look once to the right, once to the left and once straight ahead. Each time there was a flash of lightning from the box, but I was unharmed. Perhaps it was a purification spell. As a precaution I gave the flash-box three two-thirds bows. If they are as superstitious as that, I thought, the least I can do is to show their superstition a minimum of respect. In the cell it was very uncomfortable, cold and dirty as well, and there was a rancid stench. In spite of that I lay down on one of the wooden beds and tucked myself in with a coarse brown blanket. And I did get to sleep, though not without first of all sighing as my thoughts went to you, my friend, and to my beloved sweet Shiao-shiao (who so often shares my bed), to my blue silk pillows at home, and to the saffron blanket that guards my dreams. Thus I spent my first night in this distant age in prison. Well, even that is an experience. Perhaps it is the worst humiliation that I am fated to suffer in the course of this journey? In that case it is probably a good thing that it has come right at the beginning. I have not given up hoping that there will be good and useful experiences as well, although sometimes I despair in this fog-hole of a future. Yes: fog-hole. Although the weather is reasonably fine, I feel as if I am walking through grey mist. Does it ever lift?

I have spent the whole morning writing. Mr Shi-shmi is just coming in through the door. He is signalling me to follow him. We will probably go out to have what passes for a meal here. Afterwards I will go to the contact point — it will be the right time — and place this letter there to send it back on its 1,000-year journey. Perhaps I will find a letter from you waiting for me.

With thoughts of our beautiful past together, I remain ever

Your

Kao-tai

Notes

† Presumably Indonesia is meant

Fifth Letter

(Saturday, 24th July)

My beloved friend Dji-gu,

Once again I am sitting in a room in Mr Shi-shmi’s house. It isn’t really a house, but more of that later. Two days have passed since my last letter. For the moment I am going to stay with Mr Shi-shmi, may Heaven pour down its blessing on him! He is, although he does not look like it, a true human being. We get along better each day. He has turned over one of his rooms to me and, although to people like us it seems as small as a beggar’s shack, I am already beginning to feel at home in it. The main reason for this is that here I wear my usual clothes, while outside I have to go round in one of those dreadful, grey tube-garments that they call a su-ta. This excruciating su-ta garb consists of a complicated multiplicity of separate items. There are a number of white tubes that you wear underneath, two black tubes for your feet, then a pair of grey trousers and a thin underjacket with countless buttons. The underjacket (I think they call it a shia-te) you stuff into your trousers. This shia-te jacket has a collar that is uncomfortable enough, but they make matters worse by tying round it a strip of cloth, the function of which is a complete mystery. The cloth strip has to hang down over your chest a prescribed length. Many men wear these cloth strips, indeed, I have to confess that at the moment they are the only means I have of identifying men as men, since women seem not to wear them.

These cloth strips come in several different colours. The one Mr Shi-shmi has given me is red, he himself wears a blue one. Tying this cloth strip is incredibly complicated; I can’t manage it myself yet, Mr Shi-shmi always has to help me. Since the cloth strips seem to perform no practical function, I assume they must be insignia of rank. I only hope that a red strip corresponds more or less to my position as a mandarin of the fourth-highest grade and Prefect of the Nine-and-twenty Moss-grown Crags Guild of Poets. And does the blue strip Mr Shi-shmi always ties round his collar denote a low rank? I find it confusing that I do not know the order of precedence here, and therefore cannot tell precisely how I should conduct myself towards other people. I have not yet got so far in the local language to ask about such a complex matter. I don’t think Mr Shi-shmi has a higher rank than I do, and he always returns my bow with exactly the same bow, but I would like to know for sure. I hope his rank is not too far below mine. But, I remind myself, he has helped me so much, without him I would have had no idea what to do, so that even if he were a court official of the 18th grade who had failed the Academy’s literary examination for the seventh and last time I would still respect and love him. The situation I find myself in at present inclines me to the view that rank and success in the literary examination are not the most important criteria in judging human beings.

But my description of their clothing, the su-ta, is far from finished. Over trousers, underjacket and strip of rank you wear a thicker jacket. Your feet you place in little, laced boxes made out of horribly hard leather which makes walking almost impossible. Sometimes, when the evenings are cooler, which is often the case here, even in summer, you wear on top a somewhat longer, equally grey jacket, which is presumably their version of a cloak. Once you have the whole lot on, you feel like a babe in swaddling clothes and can hardly move. It is, for example, impossible to put your hands up your sleeves, as we are used to doing. People here put their hands in their pockets, of which there are many attached to the clothes in the most surprising places. Even more numerous, however, are the buttons, of which there are a ridiculous number on the su-ta. There is a row of little ones directly over your genitals. That suggests to me that all this superstition is part of a fertility ritual.

And that is what I wear when I am out of doors. I accept it because, since I want to observe, I do not want to have people staring in wonderment at me all the time. Even in the su-ta I still attract enough attention.

Now I must return to telling you what happened to me on the day of my arrival, but first I must thank you for your kind, if rather short, letter. I found it safe and sound at the contact point, though the silver shoe you mention was not in it. It seems that only our special time-travel-paper can survive the journey of a thousand years. Do not bother with the silver bars in future — isn’t it remarkable how I can refer to something so far back in the past as the ‘future’? — I don’t need them. So far I have only spent one of the fifty I brought with me. Mr Shi-shmi changed it into the local currency for me. (In monetary matters I have complete trust in him.) With the money he bought a su-ta and masses of other things for me and, if I have interpreted his gestures correctly, there is still a lot left over. What I will soon be needing is time-travel-paper. My letters to you have turned out to be fairly long and my supply is diminishing rapidly. Next time you write, please include a packet of blank paper. I was glad to hear that my darling Shiao-shiao is well. I feel flattered that she misses me so. I miss her too. I would have liked to bring her with me on my journey through time, but it’s better the way it is. The world ‘here’ is no place for such a sensitive soul.

But now I will continue with my report: I was woken in my prison cell by a surly, but not vicious warder opening the door and bringing me breakfast on a tray that was almost grotesque in its plainness. After I had eaten a little of the dark-brown substance, that clearly consisted of some badly baked and extremely salty dough (to be on the safe side, I did not touch the liquid on the tray, which was very hot and smelt more than strange), the warder returned. He motioned to me with his bunch of keys, so I arranged my clothes and followed him. He led me down long, noisy, grubby corridors, where it would have been impossible to stay for any length of time because of the rancid smell. People here, however, are not bothered by smells. I could write a whole letter about that alone. Even Mr Shi-shmi has clearly never heard of the invention of joss sticks.

I was taken into a somewhat larger room, and sitting in it was a man, no, a human being, yes, a human being, although his face (if you can call it that) was that of the giant crabs who now inhabit this region. His eyes were different from those of the other giants. I immediately guessed, and guessed right, that he must be a senior mandarin and one of the judges. At first he too seemed not to know what to do with me. I mean, if a man from, let us say, the age of the Shang dynasty* were to come to us — that is, to the reign of our Glorious And Gracious Emperor And Son Of Heaven — then he would not seem more foreign or peculiar to us than a visitor from the distant western provinces, where they have a slightly different language from ours and some rather odd habits. But here I am as strange as a rare animal, no, as a peculiar stone. We know the emperors and poets of our most distant past; the people here know nothing of us. It seems to me that not only are they not familiar with their past, they do not even know they have one. I simply do not understand how in the thousand years such an insurmountable gap can have opened up between us. Perhaps these people really do belong to a foreign race, perhaps they are invaders, conquerors who have ousted our descendants and exterminated them. Or did we make some error in our calculations when we set up the journey? Have I journeyed ten thousand years into the future instead of one thousand? That would explain a great deal.