两毛，载之一车而后世以为明珠文犀

Eighteenth of June, ten in the morning, Luo on the telephone. First question: which household in Korla? I don't know. Then I'll go and ask. I said not to rush. It is urgent. Hard. In three days this can't be established at all. Why three? Because in three days that deal is settled. Go and ask a man who has settled and he'll tell you he lost nothing — and he will be saying it knowing that he did. Why won't he admit it? Because admitting it means admitting he was frightened off by a line out of a book. Nobody will admit that.

He was in Korla the next afternoon and found the household by asking around. Wushu'er, forty-odd, six houses. Deal closed on the fourteenth. Twelve hundred jin. Negotiated at ¥15.20, closed at ¥15.00. Twenty fen on twelve hundred jin: ¥240. How it went: the buyer, a man named Zhou out of Ürümqi, looked at the goods, then found photographs on his phone — one page of the thirteen — and handed the phone across. Wushu'er cannot read Chinese characters, so Zhou read it out to him: late — brittle; crumb at the bottom of the bag when packing. Then he took a handful from the bottom of a sack, opened his palm, and there was crumb. "This lot came down late." — "It did not come down late." — "It's written in the book."

Ma Yuan came at nine that night. Sixty or so, very tall, the red-black face that wind makes, campaign clothes worn white. He did not sit. He looked at the copy of Two Ends on the table. What was in that cart of yours? Sir. Ma Yuan.

The cart: I campaigned some years in Jiaozhi. The miasmas in the south are heavy and men fall ill. There is a thing there called yiyi. Job's tears. The southern seed is larger than ours. I ate it daily and my body stayed light. When the army came back I brought a cartful. A cart of Job's tears? For seed. I wanted to grow it in the north. And: that cart came the whole way back. A great many people along the road saw it.

Did anyone ask? No. I was in favour at the time. Nobody dared ask and nobody dared say anything. And: what they thought was — a cartload brought back from the south; it must be something good. Afterwards? I died. Flatly. With the army. After I died a man memorialised against me, saying what was in that cart had been bright pearls and patterned rhinoceros horn. Did anyone speak for you? No. Of my guests and old friends, none dared come and mourn. And: my family did not dare take the coffin back to the family graves. They bought a few mu west of the city and buried me meanly.

What became of the seed? I don't know. Eaten, probably; or planted; or thrown out. And, and I pushed the book an inch towards him: what matters is that the cart is gone. And: the man accusing me says pearls. My family says Job's tears. The cart is not there. Both sides have nothing but a mouth.

Then: I did one very clever thing in my life. Which? I heaped up rice in front of the Emperor. And: we were to attack Wei Xiao. In the hall I built the country out of rice — here is the mountain, here the valley, this road comes through here — and when I had finished he said: the rebels are now within my eye. I said that is a good method. It is a good method. A pause. So when I brought that cart back, why did I not heap the rice once? And, four times into the book: when nobody was asking, I couldn't be bothered to say. By the time somebody asked, I was no longer there.

Last question: if you had heaped the rice, would they still have accused you? He thought about it — the only time all evening he thought about anything. They would. And: the man who accused me was not unaware it was Job's tears. What he wanted was for me to fall. Then what use is the rice? It doesn't stop the accuser. And: it puts something in the hand of the man who speaks for you. And: Zhu Bo submitted six memorials, most piteously written. He had nothing in his hand but a mouth. And, on his way out: it took six before they let them bury me. — M.

Memo to file. Chengdu / Korla, 18–21 June 2031. The book, fourteen days out, used against a grower.

1. The facts, established by Luo in one afternoon. Buyer (Zhou, Ürümqi) shows photographs of one page on a phone to a grower who cannot read Chinese, reads the line aloud, takes a handful from the bottom of the sack, displays crumb, concludes the lot came down late. Grower denies it. "It's written in the book." 15.20 → 15.00 on 1,200 jin. ¥240.

2. Luo's timing rule, which I would have got wrong. I said don't rush. "In three days this can't be established at all — the deal will be settled, and a man who has settled will tell you he lost nothing, while knowing he did." And why: admitting it means admitting he was frightened by a sentence out of a book.

3. What I added, and it is deliberately not a disclaimer. I drafted a denial and tore it up after three lines; the register of a denial is "you have used it wrongly," which is worth nothing to the man holding it. In its place, a page headed 这本怎么用 — How To Use This: — (i) Both outer columns describe faults. The middle is blank because "good" cannot be written down. — (ii) The two columns are for the producer to check himself against while working — to see which way he is drifting. — (iii) They cannot be used to inspect goods. Crumb at the bottom of a sack may mean it came down late, or was shaken in transit, or was dropped while loading. Nothing in this book distinguishes those. Under (iii): "Anyone who uses a line from this book to prove a lot defective is expressing his own opinion, not this book's." Read three times, known to stop nobody, printed anyway.

4. The ¥240, and why I am not paying it. My instinct was to reimburse. Luo: "Under what name?" I hadn't decided. "Then don't. Pay today, and tomorrow he tells people the Chengdu man paid him two hundred and forty. That travels as: the book does harm and the author has admitted it." And the substantive objection: "That line is mine. That line is true. Coming down late does make crumb. What's wrong is that the man used it as a scale. Pay compensation and you're saying the sentence should never have been said."

5. What we did instead — and the third item is the only one that matters. (i) tell Wushu'er whose sentence it is; (ii) tell him nothing in the book can prove a lot defective; (iii) give him a copy. Luo: "Next time Zhou reads it out, he'll have one too." He can't read Chinese. "He can get somebody to read it to him." And: "When a man has twenty fen knocked off him because somebody read him a line from a book, the twenty fen is not the worst part. The worst part is not knowing what the book says."

6. Ma Yuan's case, which is the reason for doing any of this within seventy-two hours rather than later. A cart of medicinal seed carried openly the whole way home past everybody; nobody asked, because he was in favour; after his death it was reported as pearls and rhinoceros horn; his family buried him meanly west of the city and no friend dared attend; and it took six memorials from one man before he could be buried properly. His own verdict is not about slander: when nobody was asking, I couldn't be bothered to say. By the time somebody asked, I was no longer there. And the corrective, which he supplied himself: he had once heaped rice into mountains and valleys in front of an emperor until an entire campaign was visible at a glance. He knew exactly how to make a thing legible. He simply never did it for the cart, because at the time nobody required it of him. And, asked whether the rice would have saved him: no — the accuser knew perfectly well it was Job's tears; what he wanted was my fall. It does not stop the accuser. It puts something in the hand of the man who speaks for you.

7. Chang Bin's objection, to which I have no answer. "And if somebody holds up this page and says: he has written himself that it can't be used to inspect goods, so the book is worthless?" Then that is his opinion too. "Your page blocks neither side." No. "Then what is the use of writing it clearly?" None — except that when there is someone willing to speak for me, he will have something in his hand.

8. Luo, late on the 21st: a photograph of Wushu'er's hands holding the book, and five lines. — Book delivered. His nephew read it through; at the line on page three he laughed at himself. — He says the sentence is right. He says that lot did come down a day late. — "He says: a day late should be ten fen off, not twenty." — "He says: he can't read, so he didn't know how much it should be." The line was true, the buyer was right about the fault, and the grower was still cheated — by exactly ten fen, which is the price of not being able to read the thing being read at you. — And, with nothing after it: "Xiao Ma, I've finished this one. But I'm not going to Korla next year."

"When nobody was asking, I couldn't be bothered to say. By the time somebody asked, I was no longer there."
He had campaigned for years in the far south, where the fevers killed more men than the fighting, and had kept himself well on a local grain — Job's tears, which grows larger there than in the north. Wanting to sow it at home, he loaded a cart of the seed and brought it back with the army, in the open, the whole way, past everybody.
Nobody asked what was in it. He was in favour at the time, and, as he put it, nobody dared ask and nobody dared say anything — while privately assuming that a cartload brought back from the south must be something remarkable.
He died on campaign. Afterwards a memorial alleged that the cart had held bright pearls and patterned rhinoceros horn; others joined it. His family, frightened, did not dare take the coffin to the ancestral graves and buried him on a few mu west of the city; of his guests and old friends, none dared come to mourn. It took six petitions from a single old friend before the funeral could be held.
Asked what became of the seed, he did not know — eaten, or planted, or thrown out — and said that this was precisely the point.
What matters is that the cart is gone. The man accusing me says pearls. My family says Job's tears. The cart is not there. Both sides have nothing but a mouth.
The bitter part is that he had known, decades earlier, exactly how to make a thing undeniable. Explaining a campaign to his emperor, he had heaped up rice into mountains and valleys, pointing out the lie of the ground and the roads the armies should take, until the emperor said the rebels were now inside his eye.
He could build a country out of rice on a palace floor. He never built one of his own cart, because at the time nobody made him.
And asked, finally, whether the model would have saved him, he refused the comfortable answer. It would not. The man who accused me was not unaware it was Job's tears; what he wanted was my fall. What a model does is narrower, and slower, and it works on somebody else's behalf entirely:
It does not stop the accuser. It puts something in the hand of the man who speaks for you.