The Natural Laws of Good Luck Read Online Free PDF Page A

in a crease of the bald head so as not to be swept off the mountain into oblivion. After a while I missed the dirt below. When we came back through the tunnel, Zhong-hua was waiting.
    Waiting is a Chinese art. Just waiting in a fold of time. Travelers often find themselves waiting: waiting for a train or a bus, waitingfor breakfast or lunch to be served, or waiting on a bench, as Zhong-hua was, between the footsore Alice and Myrtle. There is no dishonor in this kind of waiting. No need to try to make something happen or fill up the emptiness. When Zhong-hua waited on a stone bench, he became stone. When he leaned his body against a tree, he became wood. Whenever possible, he combined waiting with sleeping. I learned from him how to conserve energy this way. He seemed to think that talking just to talk wasted energy. It was better to keep it inside and make no extra effort until conversation rode out clomp-clomp on the horses of intent. If the horses were relaxing, then what need for words? Perhaps it was possible to listen to another’s thoughts as horses listen to one another chewing grass.
    Zhong-hua excelled in the art of being simultaneously absent and present. He wore no expression on his face. Walking, he stared ahead and never walked farther than necessary. When a bench presented itself, he sat down. If the group lingered, he soon dozed.
    During our travels, Da Ge sometimes grunted something in his ear. Zhong-hua nodded and disappeared into the crowd, reappearing later with a cryptic message for Da Ge. They exchanged sharp, explosive words and never smiled. When he returned with packages, Da Ge tucked them in his bag, and Zhong-hua resumed gliding stoutly along with no agenda of his own while concealing an exquisite readiness for action. If Alice tripped, he righted her before anyone else knew she was falling. If Myrtle dropped her purse, he caught it before it hit the ground.
    Word quickly spread in Da Ge’s native Qufu that he had returned for a visit with American friends. A young university woman, Kong Hui, appeared at our lunch table, hoping to practice some English. Kong Hui followed me around for several days. I had only a small paper book of poetry with me, translations of Antonio Machado by Robert Bly. I read these poems to Kong Hui, and we decided to translate one of them into Chinese. Of course, it had already made one crossing from Spanish to English.
    I have never wanted fame
    Nor wanted to leave my poems
    Behind in the memory of men
    I love the subtle worlds,
    Delicate, almost without weight,
    Like soap bubbles.
    I enjoy seeing them take the color
    Of sunlight and scarlet, float
    In the blue sky, then
    Suddenly quiver and break.
    Kong Hui was uncommonly sincere and honest. When she reappeared the next day after examining the poem, her smooth oval face was troubled, her straight eyebrows furrowed.
    â€œEllen, I do not understand this poet. I believe he must be confused. I feel very sorry; you share with me, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
    â€œGo ahead, Kong Hui, tell me what you think.”
    â€œHe says he would like to see beautiful things break and die.”
    â€œKong Hui, perhaps he means that a person can appreciate beauty but need not grab it. He is accepting that all things pass away and are lost.”
    â€œThis is a very sad thing.”
    â€œHe very much loves the beauty of the world.”
    â€œHe very much enjoys watching this beauty break.”
    â€œWell, he notices that the best things cannot be fully known; they float by, and you can’t tell if they are real or reflections of something, maybe of your own eye.”
    â€œNo, I still don’t understand him. Why does it make this poet so happy to see things break and die?”
    â€œHmm. Yeah. Is that strange to you?”
    â€œVery strange. I believe this man has a terrible heart.”
    Kong Hui helped me find the red shoes to wear with the red dress for the fake wedding. Zhong-hua and I were