Speaking of old friends who may or may not be dead...
A number of years ago I lived in China. My wife, an artist, had been invited to come by the Chinese government in order to study Chinese painting techniques. I had studied Chinese history and philosophy, so I encouraged her to accept the offer.
They put us in a run-down structure with the other international residents. It was an amazing place in three respects. First, they had added an extra story to the top of it (with a slate roof!) without making any consideration for the load-bearing design. As a result, there was a giant crack in the concrete up one side of the building. It honestly seemed as if it might fall in at any moment.
Second, because the water in HangZhou is not drinkable, on every floor there were giant water tanks designed to provide drinking water. These were filled with the regular non-drinkable swill from the pipes, but twice a day they would vent live steam into the tanks in order to sterilize the water. (This did nothing for the poisonous heavy metals, which were not filtered out: as a consequence, I lived on Chinese beer instead.) The steam would boil out of the tanks through valves when the internal pressure got too high. Steam rises, of course, so the entire top floor would be floor-to-ceiling invisible twice a day. As you came down levels, somewhat more of the hallway would be visible: the third floor would be three-quarters filled with steam, the second floor half covered, and so forth.
The third thing that was notable was the remarkable incidence of disease. There were two old women who were employed to clean the place, which they did once a day with cold water and no soap. There was no such thing as bleach. We had people from all over the world, and lots of folks from sub-Saharan Africa as China is making big diplomatic moves there. One of these is to invite many of Africa's top students to study at Chinese universities. (This is a wise idea, by the way; one of the ways in which the GWOT has been flawed is that it has cut down on foreign students at American universities.)
Chinese medical care is an iffy proposition, although they did require a full physical of everyone admitted. Still, we had residents coming down with foreign diseases and dying; and most everyone was sick all the time. I myself caught tuberculosis, although apparently I defeated it with the aid of the aforementioned Chinese beer.
One of my fellows there was a giant of a man from Western Australia, a fine fellow who carried a big brass lock in lieu of brass knuckles. He was a complete scoundrel: a former professional gambler, who was currently making his living by conning the Australian government into believing that he was mentally ill and in need of a full pension.
Aside from him, my wife and I were the only native English speakers in the building. Many people spoke no English at all; French was more common, among the Africans, which meant that I could communicate with them with some difficulty. So could the Australian, who spoke a number of languages in a vague way -- but when he was in serious pain, as one night he was, English was the only language he could manage.
This was shortly after we arrived. I had not met the man, though I had once before seen him around the building. He came knocking on the door, though, and I answered it.
He was in such pain as to be unable to move, except with the greatest difficulty. He had managed to lumber down the hall to where our room was -- it was only a single room, and very tiny and drafty, without bathroom facilities or anything of the sort -- and he almost begged for me to go out into the Chinese night and find him some pain medication.
My Chinese at that stage could only with charity be called "broken," but all the same I promised to do my best. As I was leaving, he stopped me.
"I have to tell you something important," he said. I nodded.
"I believe very strongly," he said, "in giving your best shot, and then taking what comes. Go forth to the first place you can find, and do your best. If you cannot find the medicine there, come back. It will be all right."
I nodded again, and left; but I had no intention of doing what he asked. He had his beliefs, and I have my own. He had taken his one shot, and spent it on asking me for help. My belief is that when you undertake a quest, you see it through to its conclusion. As a result, I must have gone to ten places trying to find someone with whom I could communicate well enough to explain what I needed and get it.
When I got back, I found the poor Aussie leaning sadly against a wall. "What is it?" he said when he saw me. "You've come to tell me that that you couldn't find anything. Well, that's all right."
"No," I answered. "I've come to bring you this." I gave him the medicine, and he went on his way.
The next day he said that the stuff hadn't kicked in for almost two hours after he'd taken it, and he had been planning to murder me in my sleep with a meat axe. However, once it finally started to work, he found himself able to drift off to blissful sleep. He and I have exchanged letters for half a decade now; I never know if there will be another one, and I suppose in truth he never knows either.
That seems to me an illustration of what I was trying to say earlier, but to be honest, I'm not sure why it seems so. The reader may try to sort it out.
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