The Real Story of Ah-Q by Lu Xun Page A

somewhere must have once rattled humorously on with
yi
and
ji
and the nickname stuck. ‘
Another
scar, Kong Yiji?’ the assembled company would laugh the moment he arrived in the tavern. ‘Two bowls of wine, warm, and a plate of aniseed beans,’ he would order, ignoring his hecklers and lining nine coppers up on the bar. The provocatively raucous chorus would begin once more: ‘Stealing
again
?’ ‘Groundless calumny… unimpeachable virtue.’ Kong Yiji’s eyes would bulge with outrage. ‘Well, that’s funny, because just the day before yesterday I saw you getting strung up and beaten for stealing a book from the Hos.’ Kong’s face would flush scarlet, the veins on his forehead throbbing in the heat of discomfort. ‘Stealing books is no crime! Is scholarship theft?’ he would argue back, illustrating his point with a perplexing smatter of archaisms: ‘poverty and learning, oft twixt by jowl’, etcetera, etcetera. At which everyone inside (and outside) the tavern would collapse with mirth. Kong Yiji truly brought with him the gift of laughter.
    Somewhere in the distant past, the story went, Kong Yiji had received a classical education, but it had never got him past even the lowest grade of the imperial civil service examination. Since he had no head for any other kind of business, he grew steadily poorer until he was on the point of having to beg for food. Fortunately, he had a good writing hand – he could have scraped by, copying out books. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the temperament for this, or indeed any work, preferring drinking to all other occupations. And after a few days at any one job, he would simply vanish – along with the books, paper, brush and ink. Once this had happened a few times, the copying work dried up, forcing Kong Yiji to fall back on periodic acts of theft as his only means of livelihood. All the same, his standing in the tavern was better than most – he never fell seriously into debt. Though occasionally he might turn up without ready money, his name would generally be wiped from the credit slate within a month.
    After half a bowl of wine, the flush had usually receded from Kong Yiji’s face, inviting bystanders to try something else: ‘Can you really read, Kong Yiji?’ A look of scorn from their victim. Next: ‘How come you never managed to pass an exam?’ This tended to hit home: his face would turn a defeated grey, as he launched into another incomprehensibly classical splutter. At which universal merriment would again prevail.
    I could join in the fun without fear of rebuke from the manager. In fact, whenever Kong Yiji turned up, the manager was often the one doing the asking, just to raise a laugh. Recognizing that he’d never get the better of them, Kong Yiji concentrated his conversational efforts on any minors he encountered about the premises. ‘Ever been to school?’ he once asked me. I gave a slight nod. ‘Hmmm… here’s a quick test. How do you write “aniseed”?’ What right did he – a beggar – have to test
me
, I thought. I turned away, ignoring him. ‘You don’t know?’ Kong Yiji persevered, after a long pause. ‘I’ll show you. Don’t forget it! When you get to be manager of this place, you’ll need it for your accounts.’ Personally, I thought I was a long way off becoming a manager; and anyway, the present incumbent never included aniseed beans in the accounts. The whole thing was ridiculous. ‘Keep your characters to yourself,’ I retorted sulkily. ‘Anyway, it’s just
hui
, the
hui
for “return”, with the grass radical on top, isn’t it?’ Kong Yiji euphorically tapped his overextended fingernails on the bar. ‘Just so, just so!’ he nodded. ‘Now, d’you know all four ways of writing
hui
?’ I walked off, scowling. Kong Yiji sighed – his fingernail already dipped in wine, ready to scrawl the characters across the bar – at my lamentable absence of academic zeal.
    Sometimes, hearing the sound of laughter, the