The author, haranguing a trade delegation from Lower Slobovia
During my morning constitutional I like to amble down Center Street in downtown Provo, to take the pulse, so to speak, of this Western town's febrile economy. The Rent-a-Center store is always filled to the gunwales with improvident dreamers, signing articles of indenture in exchange for a Samsung 65-inch QLED or a solid rosewood dinning ensemble by Ethan Allan. Further along I worm my way through the bustling crowd in front of Hruska's Kolaches, where the enticing aroma of baking einkorn flour pastries stuffed with an assortment of savories and sweets makes my tongue loll out, and my wallet shrink with modesty. Royal Nails advertises that 'Walk-ins are Welcome' and Pioneer Used Books retains its usual somnolent air as absentminded scholars brush snuff off their weskits while they peruse a yellowing tract advocating polygamy by B.H. Roberts or thumb through The Complete Guide to Making Wooden Clocks, Second Edition.
Then I come to an empty storefront, where the inquisitive stroller can press his nose up against the plate glass window to see the remnants of secluded booths and tattered red paper lanterns in a forlorn jumble. Several Chinese eateries have inhabited this spot over the years; each one, in turn, opening with an oriental flourish worthy of the Ming dynasty, and then drifting mysteriously away without explanation like a mystical verse from Li Bai. This derelict space provides plenty of food for thought, if not for lunch, to a wandering boulevardier such as myself. How to explain the seeming intransigence of the Chinese? And when I return home to my fashionable digs on the Rue de Solecism for dejeuner I am further intrigued by a blurb in today's Wall Street Journal, as follows:
For their part, U.S. officials say they are going into the meeting looking to see whether their Chinese counterparts are willing to pick up negotiations from where they broke off. According to U.S. and Chinese officials, the two nations were close to a trade deal in April when, in the U.S. view, China reneged on provisions. It is up to Beijing, U.S. officials feel, to get the talks back on track.
I am forced to shake my head at this evidence of the age-old misunderstanding and conflict between East and West. If only the Trump administration would let an old China Hand take the helm, these trade disputes would dissipate instanter. Someone such as myself, who managed to squeeze in two full years of Mandarin Chinese while matriculating at Marshall-University High School in Minneapolis a long half century ago . . .
The big brains down at the Minneapolis School Board decided in their infinite whimsy to offer elective courses at Marshall-U during my tenure there as a student. By some sleight-of-hand they managed to inveigle University of Minnesota students from Taiwan to come explain the mysteries of Mandarin Chinese to us, as an elective course. My only other choice being machine shop class with Mr. Bukowskikov, who kept losing fingertips to the gear shaper on a regular basis, I elected Chinese. My fellow students in the class were most of the Chess Club and a smattering of girls enmeshed in braces; their smiles resembled a display of chicken wire in a hardware store.
Our first teacher, a Mr. Chow, was a stocky peasant type who earnestly wished us to know that Taiwan was in no way, shape, or form, affiliated with or in any way similar to Mainland China. The fact of the matter is he never got around to teaching us a single syllable of Mandarin -- he was too worked up about the iniquity of Red China, lecturing us about how noble and brave Chiang Kai-shek was in protecting the island from the depredations of the bloodthirsty Mao on the mainland. His neglect of his teaching duties was okay by me; I could sit in the back of the classroom, feigning attention, while contemplating the latest profundities in MAD Magazine.
Mr. Chow disappeared midway through the school year, when the Generalissimo in Taiwan started dragooning overseas Taiwanese university students back into the army for one last attempt to invade and reconquer the mainland. When Chow learned he was going to be drafted he hightailed it up to Canada to escape all such military honors, and for all I know is still hanging around Moose Jaw badmouthing Xi Jinping. And not teaching anybody Mandarin Chinese.
We hit the jackpot, to my way of thinking, for the rest of that year, since with the dearth of male Taiwanese students at the U of M we got several attractive native lady teachers instead. I don't suppose any of them were past the age of twenty-three. They, too, hated Mao with all their liver and lights, but had the good sense to keep their mouths shut so the Generalissimo never got the idea of drafting them for cannon fodder. There were three of them, as I recall, and they alternated days with us, since they apparently had very heavy class schedules at the university. Their names escape me, but I do remember they actually taught us a modicum of Mandarin, along with introducing us to salted duck eggs and brewing oolong right in the classroom in a clandestine electric tea kettle. I fell deeply in love with each one of them in turn, but when I tried to press my suit they merely tittered and batted me away with silk parasols.
During my second year of Mandarin Chinese the proposed annexation of mainland China by Taiwan had been postponed indefinitely, and so we got another male teacher. And once again his name was Mr. Chow. He was much thinner than the first Mr. Chow, exhibiting a flare for educating adolescent ne'er do wells like myself by presenting the requisite vocabulary and grammar to order drinks in a bar and chat up the opposite sex. Now THAT was useful information.
He also brought in parchment, brushes, and black ink blocks, encouraging us to experiment with calligraphy. But with my usual panache I put the kibosh on that by using the brush and ink to ornament my pimply face with a Groucho mustache and eyebrows. How was I to know the ink was indelible? Took me three days to get it all scrubbed off, and in the meantime Mr. Chow was called on the carpet by the principal for allowing such high jinks in his class. Chastened, Mr. Chow took away our calligraphy tools and began teaching us by rote -- repeating words and phrases after him for most of the hour. That made me as popular with my fellow classmates as garlic bread at a Transylvanian buffet . . .
So you see, it only makes sense to have someone as schooled as I am in the Chinese culture and language handling our trade affairs for the administration. Just say the word, Mr. President, and I can pack my grip and be on the next slow boat to China. And all I ask in return is a bag of caramel-covered silkworms dusted with sea salt.
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I'm going for dim sum.
