Shanghai
In the world of the west, and in particular the Old America it was said often that Man came into the world as his (or her) own being. They were born equal, and the only thing that would propel them to greatness or mediocrity was their own will. Someone with strong pretensions could scale the social hierarchy and make a name, a company, secure the wealth for a thousand generations. And even their sons and daughters would have to in time prove their own mettle and establish their own fortunes and came into the world much as the store clerk or the factory hand. To the Anarchists there was no greater thing in the world than the humble equality of the peasant who tilled his soil and raised his buffalo in the blue shade of green mountains. But all of this known to many, others also know that the weight of time propels people forward. There are those with the entire weight of centuries and untold generations holding them in the fetid red mud of the yellow swamp of a dirty street while the same mass that anchors them gasping for breath elevates the dainty blue robed ones to be forever aloof. And thus is heaven's divine inspiration to all things good. And may one struggle in their own ways in their station. And after suffering in a thousand ways against your sins you will be reborn into one of the greatest.
To the Wu clan, this was particularly known.
They made it known in their car. In their dress. Always clean and scrubbed of dirt from their faces to their shoes. They showed it in their big house. They showed it in how they talked. They postured themselves as better. Found better friends. Did better business. Committed great violence, if they had to. They were a clan who walked knowing they were enlightened. And if you asked them why this was they would say they were illustrious. That their position was ordained by the will of Heaven. That they practiced daily their piety and righteous obedience to the true test. To the very course and correctness of their families history. That they had the most upright patriotism. That they were the most ardent observers of the sacred traditions. By the very test of history they managed to survive, conferring upon them the virtue that underwrote everything and gave value to their word, their name, and their chops.
They would explain further that they were a family from Jinan. That they were an ancient and venerable institution in the province of Shandong since the time of the Ming. That their family rolls went back fifteen generations, and would be more had the Japanese not destroyed it. Their family contributed happily to the Banners of the Qing and would have liberated the province from the evil and decadent rudeness of Zhang Zongchang, but his barbarians had beat them to the punch and they had to retreat south. South! And as refugees! They would say this with tears in their eyes, forgetting (or patiently and purposefully omitting) their vast fortunes that provided them a soft velvet thump in that “bastard Republic” south of Nanjing where at least they could live in peace. And as the Japanese were driven into defeat they dropped roots in Shanghai, if only temporary. Taking advantage of the war wreckage to build a humble mansion, in the French style, just across from the venerable Bund. They never left further for the north. Why would they? Shanghai had all the European amenities they loved to consume.
Now an entrenched family in the new Shanghai scene they flirted with the market. Trading in agricultural produce and limited amounts of oil futures as was their family way when they were such a same institution in Shandong, where still today they take the rents of lease farmers along their traditional holdings along the Yellow River to the delta; estimated at a value of 14.5 billion yuan. Which is a sum humbly taxed from the family at a rate of 1%, owing to the family's claim of expansive historical preservation in the northern Shandong region, an effort known locally as an open secret towards the restoration of the family estate as laundered through their charitable action.
“I don't really know why they chose him to cast for that Han Cho character,” bemoaned Wu Rou reclining back in the seat of the car. Her arms splayed haphazardly across the upholstery of said Cadillac as she leaned against the shoulder of her brother. Her slender porcelain face bore a detached drunken look, her cheeks flush with the color of roses. Playing with the sleeves of her cheongsam she turned to look up at her brother, “His nose, it was too big. It was a big nose. Do you think the actor they got was Russian? He could be Russian. I bet you his mother was fucked by a Russian. It's really not all that appropriate. They shouldn't do that. Not for someone Chinese.”
Her dress, long blue dress, tightly form fitting but barely hiding her love handles featured golden trim; highlighting the neck and the sleeves. It scrolled all over the dress's service creating scenes of birds and flowers across the crisp lapis sea of the fabric. She had purchased it from a high end merchant on Suzhou Road. The dress was advertised as being of fine hundred thread count silk, spun into a high quality sheet in southern France and exported back to China to be hand sewn into the sleek and fashionable dress she was in. Believing the merchant, like a gluttonous baby she purchased it at the hefty price tag of nine-thousand yuan, a considerable expense but not for her. She went further and bought seven: each for every evening of the week. The reality of the silk dress though was that it was not made in France and finished in China but came entirely from China. The base of which was a common middle of the road eighty thread count silk cheongsam at single ply in a single shade of blue, purchased at eight hundred yuan and then modified. The tightest weave being the golden decoration that emblazoned its sapphire fields. She wore also a three-thousand yuan perfume sold in small shot-glass sized crystal bottles marketed under the Xiangdao brand and given the enigmatic branding of “Rose Lavender Water of Lower Lorraine” as thought it were a classical French product; when in reality it was re-purposed and watered down Vietnamese incense. She wore a watch, sold as Italian but was sourced to Korea, purchased by wholesalers from Thailand to cut around bans on Japanese products and then marked up and given a face lift to fit the Italian mold. Only her shoes, blue to match the dress were an authentic French article. A hair dresser had told her the latest hair fashion in America was to wear it short and faded up the side, and demanding to be seen as one of the pretty ladies from the Beautiful Country had bought in. But such a thing was not real and she was forced to wear it as a badge of shame she dutifully fought to disguise simply by acting as though it were very true to life.
“It is not really important.” her brother said, “He wasn't an important character. If he were then he is where he belongs. Such people belong in only two positions: the villain or the supporting role. Shu Shoi-Ming was the most important man on the screen. He carried the movie. Such poise and presence! He is a star to shine clear into his future. He has a hard cold stare, as any good warrior man should have, and the way he moves his fists is an art form. The impact he makes can be felt clear through the air. He is a respectable man who made that movie possible!”
Wu Wing, the elder statesman of the children of the Wu family held himself to be and pretended as an officer. Though having joined the officer corp well after the Revolution he pretended himself to be a hero of the long liberatory war. In the end, he served only the shortest time possible as an engineer before resigning to earn his position on the board of the family estate. But as an engineer he was hardly much. His face was wide, round, dominated by a strong upper lip he hid under the overgrowth of his mustache he kept waxed in what he believed to be a premier English beard wax, but was really a Mexican petroleum jelly with some odd oils and sandalwood for fragrance. His read suit was sold as a Swiss product, but with a price tag of eight and a half thousand yuan was merely a Chinese suit made under a defunct Swiss brand, L'fard; it's long pinstripes promised the world in making a man seem taller and it was matched with a blue Italian dress shirt actually made in Indonesia. His pants, two sizes too big came from a men's store on Haining Road and were supposed to be all the fashion presently in London, though he had not left to ever see and never himself left Jiangsu except for his military service, they were black and made of a coarse thread; against the price of four-thousand yuan they were marketed at a price of one-thousand in similar Hong Kong retailers. His clothes hid a wide awkward frame, as much as he tried to hide it. But his black and white wingtips advertised as real leather but were of new artificial leather from plastic, made in Canada and not the France as advertised; these shoes could not hide the size of his feet.
“Yes, he was handsome. I love his cheekbones.” Rou swooned, “Suppose we got into a party he's at, or we got him into one of ours? I would like to meet with him. He looks like a delicious man.”
Wing, smiling: “I suppose that could be worked out.”
“Yes! And could we get Sima Hua as well? She is great.”
“I would not mind to meet Mrs. Sima. What about you, Tang?” said Wing.
Tang, seated opposite of them thought. At the age of twenty-one he was freshly graduated from his officer's training and like the rest of his family would pursue a career in the army. He was boyish, lanky, broad shouldered but promising to fill out yet like the rest of his family. His head was long and appeared to be ready to stretch back on its own and to pull away his brow. A class mate had said once of him under his breath that he looked, “monkey like” and went as far as to speculate he was a more degenerative Sun Wu Kong, if he let his hair and beard grow out. But he could not manage the beard or mustache, and besides the mustache no one in the academy or in the service would let him. Although he had seen soldiers who were deployed to the Russian border who grew their beards out and they all resembled wild men in the end. He feared them, but envied them just as much. His pudgy nose did a great deal to hold his glasses, and even appeared as though they might push them right off of his face. They were army prescription, large and awkward. Thirty yuan, mass produced in a factory in Guangzhou.
He still wore his academy uniform, even though he was on reprieve. Every where he went he wanted to be seen as a respectable officer the way his older brother wanted to have fought the Japanese. He took particular strong attention to the quality and the condition, going as far as to not eat and drink through the movie they had just seen. It was a wild film, and he craved something to eat; it had been several hours. “I suppose so.” he said weakly, lying. He barely knew who she was. He had not been to the movie theater much.
Film was one of the young Tang's least favorite subjects. For all the bombast and the visual style of the movie theater it never gripped him and he felt there was something off about the experience. Something decadent and feminine around it. Like poetry and comic books, it offended a deep part of his spirit, so much so he could not reach that far in and locate it. So whenever it came to it, he could not express why he hated cinema. He often found he could not express his distaste in a long of things. Perhaps he did not read enough novels. The most he had ever read were the cadet papers at the academy.
Wing laughed, it came deep and from the gut, “You would like to meet her and you just don't know it.” he teased, “It'll be something that would have to be worked out. When do you return to your deployment again?”
“Next week I have to return to Xinjiang.”
“What a shame. Never been to Xinjiang. But it must be an awful place. Nothing ever sounds good with a name like Xinjiang.” Wing said with a roll of contempt. But he said it with a smile, as if to try and help his brother. Tang could not help but smile, only a little.
“But what are your thoughts on Shu Shoi-Ming?” asked Wing, changing the subject back, “Do you not thing he was a wonder on screen?”
“I suppose he was.”
“You know I had heard somewhere that most of these fighting men have to train at the ballet for many years. I've not heard such a thing! It's entirely queer, I think. To learn to fight you have to dance?”
“I think it is a dance thing.” Rou said, “At least that's what a friend of mine said.”
“What do you mean? I had to learn to fight and it was nothing like dancing. Right, Tang?” Tang nodded. “You see?”
“No-no. Well, yes. But no. It's, you know. Not fighting. It's like,” she stopped to think for words, “It's all about the movement. It's all pretend, you have to know that right? When the actors playing the vampires were shot they weren't really shot. I'm sure you know that, don't know?”
Wing nodded. “I see.” he saw.
“Yes, so they have to learn it somehow. I'd know this because my friend is in the theater. She says a lot of men have to learn dance to do a stage fight. There isn't any reason for movies to not do it.”
“I see your point. Perhaps we should go to a stage show then. I wonder if there's anything like this playing on the stage? We should go to Yincheng! Tang, let's go to Yincheng, before you leave!”
“Sure.” Tang answered indifferently.
“Then it is settled.”
“I will call in on my friend then, she will help us!” Rou exclaimed.
“What is on now?” Wing asked.
“I don't know,” hesitated Rou, “But I will- I will check. Yes, I'll check.”
“Ha!” Wing clapped his hands, “Amazing! I hope there will be vampires. What a strong foe! Who would have thought. Quiet the time we live in. Tang, what did you think?”
“I think they were fine.”
“Oh they were amazing. I think cinema is moving in the direction to surpass even reality. It was stunning. The way they ate out that man's neck! Rou, you believe they ate his neck, did you?”
“It looked so real!” she exclaimed.
“It did, and it had to be the perfection of theater. What a profound new thing. Great. Excellent! China has come to match the Western Arts, someday we will even surpass. Tang, when do you think that will happ-” Wing was suddenly cut off as the car came to a screeching halt. The siblings were launched nearly from their seat, landing in a heap against the rear of the front seats with a hard bump. Their driver was already laying on the horn, swearing loudly out the driver's window at a pair of youths about Tang's age crossing the street. Tang managed to dig himself out of the pile of elbows and arms to see passed the front seats at the scene just outside.
Throwing hands up in the air and returning the driver's swears a small group dressed in tight jeans and sheep skin jackets were returning the angry tirades. Most of them wore flat caps of different colors, turned to the side. They were angry. A young woman identifiable only by the shape of her breasts from under her white blouse behind her open jacket was encouragingly pulling on the sleeve of her boyfriend trying to get him to move. The confrontation was only a few seconds, but it seemed to be a whole minute. In the end, the two parties separated with only sour looks between them and they were soon moving.
“Degenerates.” Wing moaned, leaning to look past Tang to catch one last sight of them as they went along, “The lower classes are scum. They dress like buffoons too. Why do they let their women look like men? Insane! Madness as gripped this country!”
“It must be that- must be that German science.” Rou sneered, “Why do we even accept their help.”
“They pervert us.” Wing continued.
“I agree.” Tang said, enthusiastic this time in his sentiments.
“You're right. This wouldn't happen if real men were in charge.” said Wing.
“I think about that a lot. What if there had been no Republic? They would be far more disciplined in their lives than they are now.”
“I hear you. Are the general enlisted still this bad?” Wing spoke in contempt. Tang could see in his brother's face he was hot in anger.
“They drink all day if you give them the chance, and hardly allow themselves more than a couple hours of sleep they stay up so late playing dice and mahjong.”
“Putrid. This Republican experiment is rotting at the core. Things have not changed a bit.”
“If only we had real leadership.”
Xi'an
Having no where else to be, Yu finally gav up and came to the museum. As the man had invited him to do, he found the exhibition.
Besides the stations he had been in, the museum was one of the largest buildings he had ever visited. On entering the lobby he was taken by the height of it. The coffered heights of the ceiling. The blue mosaics that festooned the coffers themselves. He looked up as looking down at him wizened figures watched down at him, each a portrait in their own large vault. He was only a few in that afternoon, and he was free to gawk. For a time he was left alone, but staff at the museum had identified him as a country fool and so approached him. “Can we help you?” they asked.
Startled, he recoiled. The man who had asked did not speak threateningly. Neither in his age was he threatening. But the suddenness of the question had made him jump. In a brief moment he recoiled to the first thing he had on his mind, “Nanjing!” he said, voice perhaps a little too loud. When the old man looked puzzled Yu shook his head, “Sorry. Qin?” he corrected, thinking back to the man on the train. The man nodded knowingly and pointed him to a small gallery off to the side.
The corridors the figurines he was lead to was much smaller than the lobby that had so impressed him. While were high they did not maintain the cosmic height that had captured his interest. But he saw in the cases the many dozens of artifacts and figurines, many of which still held the dirt and the clay from the earth in their cracks and crevices. Looking through, Yu was interested; but lacked any and all appreciation for them. They were small at first. Fragments. The half face of a man, staring up at him through dirty eyes on a soft pillow. A bow without string. A clay ear from an animal. Here was a metal crane, not much longer than his arm from wrist to elbow, but cracked and dented and petina'd by age so it looked like an ornament that had come from the family shrine. There too were the broken odds and ends of something else, a half a horse, a wheel, an umbrella. All of which bore the earthy tones of having being buried for so long. Detached, he felt as if he could have found similar in a dump. What would happen if he went through his neighbor's elderly parents garbage pile in their yard and produced a cup as an ancient artifact? Would the history men swoon and crave it? How old did junk need to be?
He stopped for a minute to consider a goose in silence. He had started to try and read the plagues, but the effort was too much for him to decipher. At first, the characters would seem out of order, or too similar. Then too similar to other words and it would take too long to make a sentence that works. And when he did, it would not tell him much. Invariably it would be “such-and-such from pit such-and-such, Qin State Era.” He wondered if he lacked passion, and maybe this would allow him to gleam some knowledge. Perhaps this is what stopped history men, archaeologist from finding enlightenment in garbage piles and trash among the cabbage leaves. Alongside him a young woman, perhaps a little older than he was studiously writing in her notebook something about the artifacts. He thought to ask her what was going on. “Excuse me?”
She stopped and looked up at him. She had a friendly face. She smiled politely, if at least between patience and impatience. “Hello.” she said.
“May I ask a, uh- a question?” Yu said.
She smiled, “You just did.”
“Er- um. Can I ask another?” Yu tried again, taken back.
The young woman smiled and nodded, “OK. Go ahead.”
“Are you an archaeologist?”
The woman laughed and closed her notebook. Holding it close to her chest she shook her head. “No, I'm not. I'm a student of history though.”
“So you're a history man, or- woman?”
She nodded, “I guess so.”
“So, what do you know about these?” he asked, gesturing to the glass cabinets with the artifacts.
Again she laughed, delicate and light. “Not much. I'm trying to figure that out. I'm just here to take notes. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Um- I was, er- here because a man on the train said I should. He invited me. I think. I'm really just here by accident. I wanted to be in Nanjing. But I somehow ended up here.”
“Well that's a terrible mistake. But welcome to Xi'an.”
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome. Is that all you wanted?”
Yu stuffed his head in his pockets and nodded. He turned from the woman, expecting things were done. For a brief second she remained, unseen, expecting things to continue and unsure if she should or not. Awkward, she herself parted her own ways.
This left Yu all the same clueless as he stayed at the artifacts. Their importance didn't dawn on him. He never figured that their presence confirmed history that had lapsed into legend. And sure, while he knew vaguely of the Great Wall, it was an even more distant relic of something far more ancient. Its relevance to him was sewn only through how his father had served and fought at the Great Wall during the Revolution, having been one of the first waves of soldiers to mount its earthly ruins and fortify them against Japanese counter-attack, as years prior to his service men now more battered and broken had taken to holding the wall against the Japanese, to try and break them and to give a venerable defense while the main army retreated south. To see the swords used in that first battle, as similar as they would be alongside the rusting hilts of the first iron swords used in China would be far more relevant in Yu's experience of China than the artifacts of the Qin at this moment; whose legacy was as distant and faded as that of the Yuan or the Ming.
He moved on, shuffling and idle more than anything. It became more an idea of there having been a spectacle. The value that there was, the value that he held because he was told it was there now fading to a dim glow rapidly receding behind storm cloud and threatening to blink out into night. He would leave, return to the train station, and ask: “I would like to go to Nanjing. The capital, Nanjing”. That is had he not heard a voice in the exhibit. “All I am saying is: it is a shame that we can't find the tomb, not yet at least.”
“Eventually, I'm sure.” someone else said, “But if he's right – and so far everything is pointing to it – it would be very dangerous. It'd be a different story if maybe it was shown to be open.”
“Yes, but then it's all lost.”
Yu realized he recognized that voice. It sounded like the man from the train. He followed the conversation as it went. “Do you suppose at this point we may have to revise the history of Sima Tan?” the other man asked.
“I would not say no, but I would think that we might learn a lot to certainly read the Records more critically.” the man from the train said, “The handiwork in many of these are astounding. I can't wait to see them back at the university so they can be properly cleaned. Xi'an is a fine city, but it lacks the international infrastructure for us to begin here and accurately catalog our finds. What we've managed is fine, I like to see the public imagination activated.”
“You should have seen the place the other day. It was full then.”
“What is the matter today? Has things burned out this fast?”
“Most people are at work. Or I hope it is work.”
Yu rounded a corner and found the pair. They were actually a part of a small group. Yu recognized his man. The other man with him was a taller and elderly gentleman, liver spots blemishing his head as he stood with a noticeable bend in his back. He seemed to lean to the side, his hands holding each other, or more the one more than the other. “Perhaps the national showing in Nanjing will be better.” mused the man Yu knew from the train.
“It will. These things are right up the alley for the Nanjing crowd. Between them and Beijing they swallow up anything ancient and national. I've heard a few wayward seminars by Hou Tsai, he's more right than those two cities try to insist: the Chinese people are incredibly provincial. I would not bet against our Xi'an showing being more because it is a local curiosity.”
“Still, I was speaking to Xu and he said there are many people who are trying to see the pits themselves. He's doing more work as a security guard and tour guide than any digging and studying. I'm grateful the city offered up their police as they did just to try and keep them away. I think the pits are the real spectacle.”
“Farmers' children in all honesty, they are bored.”
Yu drew close to them. He was able to see the case in front of them. Broken shards of some statue, hollowed out and brittle. A hand, a face, part of a torso clad in armor. One of the silent entourage must have sensed he was walking up, because before he could get to them one of the gathered younger men turned to him. “Oh, hello.” he said, a little hesitating and recoiling back. In the brief moment of seeing Yu the young urban student was taken out of his element in the moment by Yu's disheveled appearance. Having not taken a shower let alone a bath in almost a week, the young man was looking gray and greasy. “Have you been backpacking?” he asked, suddenly aware he may have been rude.
The others stopped what they were doing to look at Yu. He stopped, his chest suddenly going cold. How did he get this much attention on him? The man from the train smiled on seeing him. “Oh, so you did take up on the offer!” he said in a loud cheery voice. It put the others at ease, as they relaxed.
“Doctor Shao, you know this young man?” the elderly figure asked him. His face was long and pale. His jowls hung heavy from his face, his mustache was thin and pale. His bushy eyebrows were wound about as he considered Yu as if saying, “Why did you interrupt us?”
“I did.” the man named Shao confirmed. Stepping towards Yu, “He sat with me on the train here. He's actually on a trip. Made a bit of a mistake.”
“That's... true.” Yu admitted hesitatingly.
“I'm glad you could make it. What do you think of the exhibition?” Shao opened his arms, turning about the room, “magnificent, don't you think? Should see the pits, the wonders continue.”
Yu's response put Shao off. With a shrug the youth disarmed the professor. “They're, fine. I guess.”
“A provincial lad.” the older man said quietly.
“Oh that's a shame. Because we may be at the very start of China!” the professor exclaimed proudly. “Perchance though, what do you know of Qin Shi Huang?”
Yu shook his head. Nothing.
“Ah. A shame. But please, come over here. Please. Come, come.” Shao went on, encouraging the young man over to the case. “Do you see this?” He directed him to the shards of statuary protected by glass. Yu nodded. “These are the remains of at least several in so far many dozen warrior statues built entirely from terra cotta. Er- fired clay, you know. Yes?”
“I get the idea.” Yu said indifferently.
“Good. But these are parts of a much more impressive whole. If you- if you would follow me. I-I can show you.” Shao continued excited.
He nearly bolted off in a run and the group had to begin with a sudden start. As they went Shao went on breathlessly. “There is much we don't know about the Qin dynasty, what has been written about them came well after the fact, despite them having been able to write about themselves just as easily. But from what we understand from the Records Of The Grand Historian is that several thousand years ago they made the western most frontier of Chinese civilization, located where we are presently! During a pivotal moment of our people's history they managed to unite the Chinese nation after some seven centuries of war and strife in the country, becoming the first real and true Chinese State! Is this a story you heard before?”
Yu, drawing breath replied: “No.”
“I should I have thought so.” said Shao, despondent.
“As I said, a provincial.” the elderly man said from behind.
They finally came to a stop before a tall display, full height. Inside was an intact terra-cotta figure. Yu stopped before the darkened figure under its lone yellow light. Long shadows were stretched down over the proud figures features. Clad in armor, it looked positively medieval. And seeing it Yu could not help but remark to himself: it could come to life at any moment; it is a real man! Shao beamed with pride.
“This is the full figure.” he said delighted.
“One of potentially thousands.” the older man said. He inserted himself in the lesson, “We can't say for certain how many are buried in the field but we had to halt digging for them. We are not only searching the pits we have so far opened already. I was present for this one to be lifted out of the ground, and I tell you young man: if you are impressed at it now, you should have seen it when it was removed. Alive with color, I would say! Absolutely gorgeous. The most beautiful piece of artwork and handiwork you would ever see in your life. But as soon as this son of a bitch touched the air all that splendor peeled away and flaked into dust in the wind. This whole man was colored as though he were alive and breathing! Just frozen.”
“A remarkable turn of passion, Mr. Qi.” Shao said.
“Yes well, I've heard many people talk about how they would like to paint him. And I just want them to know he was painted.”
“It is... Scary.” Yu said. He was not wrong. It looked too similar to people he had seen. Every bit about it looked ready to move. His skin felt cold looking at it. He was stunned to see it fill Shao with so much energy. Did he not feel it cursing him?
“We have had no knowledge of the existence of such a treasure trove.” he laughed, “It's just one of those things that spring from the earth and bite all of human kind in the ass! And everything about him, from his armor and weapons and location here at Xi'an at Mount Li all points to us having found the resting place of China's first true emperor. We have a couple guesses where, but we are not confident in whether or not we should enter.”
“Why wouldn't you enter?” asked Yu.
Shao turned to him and smiled politely, “If the records of Sima Qian is to be believed, it is because the tomb would be an entirely hostile alien universe of sorts. A world that normal men would not and could not thrive in long. The emperor had built for his burial an entire scale representation of the world as the Chinese at the time understood it, complete with rivers filled with mercury. The tomb, if we were to open it would be a toxic environment. And: as my colleague Qi said: if these ancient soldiers lost their pant as fast as they have in this environment, how much damage might we do to the tomb simply be opening it? Qin Shi Huang may get to rest now for a time: because the elements are to his advantage.”
“I see, but who was he?” Yu asked.
“Our first emperor. But we have a long story to tell.”
“I have to say professor Shao, you are doing this very well.” one of the young entourage said with a smile. Turning to look at him Yu saw he had a notebook out and was already taking notes.
“Well, I was a high school teacher prior to this. Then I made the jump to tenured professor.” he said with a laugh, “But, let us begin at the beginning...”
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