I Stand Corrected (20 page)

The evolutionary-shaped fact is that it’s hard to be good. But we humans, apparently not compassionate by nature, are clever enough to realize that acts of compassion can facilitate the necessities of living together. I cannot say whether or not religion fosters compassion. China has never accepted the
Western ideal of religion, but its old people—whose hearts have been stripped of illusion and whose souls carry indelible marks of unspeakable cruelties—seem to have forgiven their fellow humans for what they have done to them. What is compassion, if not that?

B
uddhism in China is an import from India.

Chinese folklore tells of a time, two thousand years ago, when two priests, carrying Buddhist scriptures from India, were transported on a pure white horse to China. No one would claim that folklore brings with it a rational construct. But for anyone who has seen India, it is not difficult to imagine a white horse transporting two priests.

My first trip to India was the unavoidable result of being rerouted from Burma, which had denied me entry. But when I was a young girl, an Indian cultural attaché of sorts arrived on my doorstep.

He came in a huge storage truck that pulled up in front of our house several months after my father returned from a business trip to Asia. Two burly men rang the doorbell and handed my father’s secretary—who was deliberately stationed at our home that day—a voluminous file of paperwork before they opened the truck’s back doors. Tied down with the kind of thick rope used on a loading dock was a wooden crate almost the size of the truck itself. Great effort was made to unload the crate, and once it was moved out of the truck and onto the ground, crowbars were needed to pull apart its thick slatted sides.

What gradually emerged was an enormous statue protected by gauze and bulbous Bubble Wrap and standing upright in
its own gigantic straw nest. The straw was plucked away, the Bubble Wrap was methodically removed, and layers of gauze were unfurled. It felt like an eternity before the excavation was complete and the object finally emerged from its mammoth cocoon.

What riveted me in place was not distinctly male or female, but the very definition of erotic: simultaneously unsettling and alluring. Its scale added to the drama, but scale was only one of what seemed myriad elements of its power.

The statue that held me spellbound was Shiva, the cosmic dancer who symbolizes nature’s cycle of evolution.

With beauty that transcends gender, Shiva is male in name only. He has four arms. In his farthest right hand, he holds a drum, symbolizing the rhythm of creation; the open palm of the other right hand grants freedom from fear. The inner left palm, pointing to the floor, is salvation from ignorance. In the farthest left hand is held fire, symbolizing destruction. The left leg is lifted limberly in dance; the right tramples Apasmara, an ugly dwarf representing ignorance.

The powerful memory that underwrote years of my childhood imaginings lost its potency when, as an adult, I was able to place it in context. With a culture whose language was originally expressed in two thousand poems, the cities in southern India—including Madras—are dominated by some thirty thousand sanctuaries dedicated to their gods and goddesses.

Temple towns in southern India are religious complexes of enormous proportions, surrounded by fortress walls and entered by pyramidal gateways called
gopuras
. The precincts housed within are concentrically laid out in multiple walled enclosures. W. and I spent the better part of an afternoon in a temple complex, determined to locate its womb chamber, called a
garbhagriha
. The last we’d seen of anyone was in the outwardly ringed temples. With nothing but blind luck as a guide, we navigated the maze of pavilions and managed to reach the inner sanctuaries.

“It’s just a question of time before we come face to face with the Minotaur,” I joked as we threaded our way down a series of passages. We turned right at what appeared to be a juncture,
but there was no sanctuary around the corner. Instead, we were funneled into the middle of a vast, pillared hallway.

Nothing could have prepared us for what happened next.

Coming around the corner and lumbering gently toward us was an albino elephant. He belonged in a dream: white as milk and draped in silk banners, his face elaborately painted. A silent Buddhist priest walked several steps behind.

We stood aside, in an electrified trance, for the elephant to pass. He stopped and turned to face us. His marble-blue eyes studied me carefully. My own stare glazed over until I registered the sweet hay smell of his breath the moment he raised his trunk directly above us.

Fearing I was just about to be struck, I instinctively braced my arms over my face for protection.

There was no blow to the head, but a tap.

As casually as he had stopped to acknowledge us, the magical beast continued down the columned hallway before turning toward a connecting chamber.

“What just happened?” I asked in bewilderment.

“I think he’s blessed you,” W. whispered, equally nonplussed.

We watched until the elephant’s moon-white haunches—swaying as if in sync with the rhythm of time—gradually vanished.

THAT CHAIRMAN WAS a Buddhist came as no surprise to me. The atmospheric level of his wealth would have moved anyone into a Zen-like state. But creating a multibillion-dollar empire and keeping it whole in a country of constantly shifting political alliances is another thing entirely. Though Chairman carried an Australian passport, he spared no effort and expense in cultivating party connections, which resulted in
guanxi
enough for him to be driven, often with a police escort, in a van displaying Chinese military plates.

Chairman spent a billion dollars to build his Imperial Springs. That did not cover the construction of a private museum on its grounds, designed in the shape of a Shang
bronze vessel. Nor did it include the cost of the museum’s acquisitions. So vast is Chairman’s museum that my private tour, led by its curator, took an entire afternoon.

Not even the curator knew where the museum’s contents had been acquired, let alone how they were obtained or at what cost. One of some twenty thousand relics in the museum is a jewel-encrusted portable temple said to contain the cremated partial remains of Buddha. It was a gift to China from King Asoka, who ruled the better part of the Indian subcontinent in 269
B.C
.

A supreme irony within the endless array of them in China is that ancient Chinese artworks that during the Cultural Revolution would have singled out their owners as enemies of the state are now eagerly sought by Chinese collectors, and that Chinese collectors are very much admired in China. At the opening celebration for dignitaries, the deputy governor of Guangdong Province toasted Chairman, declaring that the museum—which would never be made available to the public—showed “the true love that a leader of overseas Chinese has for his own country.”

In my capacity as Chairman’s consultant, I made fortnightly trips to Guangzhou to confer on various strategic issues. My first proposal was to form a partnership between Chairman’s museum and either the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York or the British Museum in London.

What might have been an opportunity became instead a series of obstacles.

Had I thought it through in the Chinese sense of thinking it through, I would have realized that inviting Western experts to a private museum in Guangzhou built by a mysterious Chinese businessman might lead to questions concerning the authenticity of its contents. Certainly the curator of Chairman’s museum knew where my proposal would lead, and he would have sooner chewed broken glass than admit the museum’s collection was riddled with forgeries. Rather than dealing with the matter, he stopped communicating with me.

Given the repressed manner in which I was brought up, it is unlikely that I will ever give verbal vent to what I actually
feel. But my face, I am told, automatically announces a dramatic spectrum of my moods.

“Like watching an overacted four-act play in two minutes,” Candida once described my facial expressions. She also told me: “If looks could kill, you could put those who displease you six feet under the frozen earth.”

Despite my disappointment with the uncommunicative museum curator who left me in the lurch, an expression of arctic discontent did not find its way onto my face. There would have been no point, because blame is not a productive concept in China. Chinese people seem constitutionally incapable of self-correction and brook no excuses when things have been obviously mishandled.

It is helpful for a Westerner involved in any transaction in China to know that the classical character for the Chinese word “black” includes a subcharacter for the word “white.” It makes sense, then, that the Chinese believe there are many ways to be right and that they are completely comfortable in what Westerners call a gray area.

Unfortunately, the provenance of several pieces in Chairman’s museum had a black-and-white answer to the question of their authenticity, and I knew that worse than reporting facts of the matter would be Chairman’s inevitable loss of face once I named them out loud.

As I finished explaining what he must have already known but did not wish to be told, Chairman looked resolutely unmoved.

The complicated system of interpersonal relationships among the Chinese depends almost entirely upon face. Loss of face is the inescapable proof in the eyes of others that you’ve managed to do something undeniably foolish. When face is in jeopardy, the solution is not to offer meek contrition but to retain whatever face is left with a blank expression. My tendency toward frankness is almost involuntary, but this time I made a concerted effort to couch it in as much deference as the situation allowed. Not wishing to forfeit whatever face was salvageable, Chairman met my disappointing news with a bland appearance of businesslike normalcy.

Realizing that open and robust business debates in China are hampered by the dread of giving offense, I thought to include a lesson in my book on how to respectfully disagree. It was a risky enterprise, for to argue a point in China—no matter how politely—is seen as impertinent.

Expressing a difference of opinion among business colleagues in the most constructive manner possible requires one thing: an outward show of respect toward the person or people with whom you disagree
. Do not call into question a person’s opinion on an issue in a group meeting; instead, resolve your disagreement one on one. Think through the issue beforehand, and state the area of agreement first. Remember the small courtesies, and introduce your opinion politely by saying, “That’s an interesting point, but have you thought about it this way?” Communicate your opinion clearly, and allow the person to respond without interrupting. Listen to the other person’s opinion, and keep an open mind. If there seems to be confusion on the point you have made, clarify that point; however, don’t repeat the same point too often. If someone disagrees with you, it doesn’t mean they don’t understand what you are saying. End the conversation pleasantly.

Self-assertion is totally alien to every inborn idea of what is correct among Chinese people. The lesson I wrote on how to disagree was met with skepticism by my editor. He agreed to include it in the book with the understanding that a lesson on how to apologize would appear in the same chapter.

When accepting an apology, offer a reassuring smile, respond positively, and move on.
Statements like “I’m sure
you didn’t mean it” and “I know how you feel, so don’t worry, but thank you for your apology” are just right.

An apology should be short and sincere
. Most people simply want you to acknowledge that you are aware of the fact that you have shown disrespect. “I’m terribly sorry if there has been a misunderstanding” is one way of neutralizing the situation when you don’t believe you have done anything wrong but the other person obviously thinks you have. “You’re absolutely right, and I apologize” is a way of gracefully admitting you have been wrong. Regardless of how you make an apology, don’t dwell on it; say it with meaning once and move on.

Unconvinced that an apology on its own would make up for the potential disaster of being direct, the editor requested that I also include a lesson on how to offer a compliment—presumably to offset with obsequiousness an apology that would fall short.

You can pay a compliment on anything that attracts your attention: wonderful food, if someone is entertaining you; or a business achievement, if you are among colleagues in a work setting
. Your aim is to make people feel good. Offering a compliment to anyone—regardless of where or in what circumstance or country—is always flattering and always welcome. You’ll be surprised by the positive results.

Compliments should be short
. Sincere praise should be expressed in a few words. There is a fine line between complimenting someone and being too flattering. If you go overboard, your sincerity will be called into question, so don’t overdo it. One thoughtful compliment is enough.

PART NINE
The Politics of Censorship

If you walk on snow, you cannot hide your footprints.
—
Chinese proverb