Someone who could have been an ancient idol suddenly appeared. He wore a half smile. “Trash accumulates. Get rid of the trash... Actually, I don’t remember, but I liked seeing them beg. The greatest artists rot and die in obscurity, and it is my role in the world to bring them justice. My name is Jiao-liang. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And equally yours; I am Pedro.”
Jiao-Liang was 6 foot 1, shirtless and muscular. The blue dragon tattoo on his back looked like a character on a Yuan Dynasty vase, but Pedro knew better. It marked him as a member of the 14K Triad gang. Drug smugglers. Gambling. Worse. Long grey-black hair framed his head, and contact lenses made his eyes electric blue. He looked hungry for fresh meat, like someone who had always been caged spying a new prison guard.
When Jiao-liang flipped a page of the book, it released an odor of bitter almonds. “Cyanide?” Pedro agonized.
Jiao-liang pointed to the corpse calmly. “He was reading a poem by Li Bai. Shall I translate?”
“Yes, please,” Pedro managed. He didn’t know what else to say. Should he appease this strange figure? Did he mean him harm?
“From the Chinese, for you, in Portuguese, then.” The figure quoted: “As a young child, I had no idea what the moon was, and I called it a white jade plate. Then I wondered if it was a mirror at the Jasper Terrace that flew away and landed on top of green clouds.” (3)
“Li Bai was a legendary artist, but also a life-long drunk,” Jiao-Liang explained. “When the Tang Emperor Daizong sent a servant to offer him a commission, the poet had already been dead for a year. No one even knew when he died, but people clung to a myth that he died in a boat, trying to embrace the moon.
However, his friend Du Fu wrote the truth about him. He said, ’The capital is full of gorgeous carriages and gowns, but you are alone gaunt and sallow, despite your gift. Who is to say that the way of heaven is always fair? At your old age you can’t stay clear of harm. Your fame that’s to last ten thousand years will become a quiet affair after you are gone.’ “ (4)
Why is a man like Jiao-liang in a library?’ Pedro wondered, but instead he said, “The librarian told me everyone who entered here got lost.”
Jiao-liang shrugged. “In a way, yes. They get lost in the wrong ideas. All these skeletons are sycophants from the Macau Museum’s Chinese Linguist Society. They think Chinese history is only 10,000 years old. The great Dr. Chang... my father... died because of them.”
The idol-man’s voice softened momentarily, then recovered its dictatorial air. He waved his hand, and, before Pedro’s eyes, a bookshelf transformed. It had now become a window. Through it he saw a field of stars embroidered upon a night sky. He squinted at the sudden appearance of starlight.
Jiao-liang noticed a baby dove, whose wing had been caught in the window frame. With the gentleness of a child who knew only love, he opened the window and cradled the baby in his hand. When he saw it was well, he gave it a soft push out the window, and it flew away.
What was happening? Pedro didn’t understand. He had come to Macau to rid superficiality from his world, and now he was stuck in a library with a psychopath who could recite Tang poetry and cradle doves? What would be next? Total annihilation? ‘Sarcasm would not help,” he thought, “Observation is my only way out. Focus!”
Aloud he asked, “You are the librarian’s son?”
“You told my mother that you wanted to know the secrets of Hongshan jade carving, so you can identify real from fake.” said his guide.
“Yes,” Pedro nodded. “I will share my research, if you will be a regular member of my temple.”
Jiao-liang smiled. Was the smile cruel, or welcoming?
“What temple?”
It didn’t matter. Jiao-liang affixed his gaze, and Pedro froze, soldier-like, in obedience.
“The book in Portuguese is wrong. Hongshan Culture began 3 million years ago. There is a lot of evidence that human-like creatures lived on Earth during this time.” A hand emerged from the sleeve of Jiao-liang’s black leather jacket. A disembodied hand. But Pedro was becoming used to strange things. “Do you see this?” Jiaoliang commanded. One of the fingers touched a picture in Pedro’s book. “That jade is an alien, but experts at the museum dare not say it, so they call it a sun god.”
Pedro slowly looked up from the finger. “I thought it was shamanic, because the Hongshan emerged at the dawn of agriculture.”
“No!” screamed Jiao-liang. Then he breathed in to compose himself. “No,” he said quietly.
“Look at my bracelet of Hongshan beads. Look at the carving. The cross-haired design on the wings and body of the bird is so narrow, even a needle couldn’t have made it. It has a U shape.”
Pedro observed intently. “Yes, I see. You are opening my eyes. Thank you.”
Would agreeing with Jiao-liang get him out of this skeleton-scattered, poetry-filled death trap?
“This alien figure is made of crystal,” Jiao-liang said with the weight one displays when making a grave pronouncement. He pulled a small figure from his pants’ pocket. “The material is over 100 million years old. Can you see the U-shaped carvings above the eyes and on the knees?”
“Yes! I can!” Pedro wished, with all his being, to convince Jiao-liang of his sincerity. And yes, he could see the carvings.
“It was polished with diamond dust. The piece is as unblemished as the day it was made,” Jiao-liang proclaimed.
“I see.” But what Pedro could also see was his life flashing before his eyes. This man was going to kill him. He didn’t know how yet. He just wished he had told his mother that he loved her before he left Portugal.
“These aliens came to Earth to create life,” Jiao-liang continued, impervious to everyone but himself. “One hundred million years ago the aliens killed all the dinosaurs because they had made a mistake: the dinosaurs were too big. So they killed them off and restarted life again with humans. A meteorite couldn’t have killed all the dinosaurs in the world. Obviously all the animals we have now are the second generation of creation.” Jiao-liang brushed a hand through his hair.
“Really. Now that you have clarified this, I see your point,” Pedro answered, nodding his head in assent. His eyes were wide open. Any mention of space aliens made Pedro fidget. He had seen some movie about Martians eating tomatoes when he was a boy, and the fear of that absurdity had never left him.
“The temple next door is where I preach the truth about the Hongshan. Services are Fridays after sundown. You will attend?” Jiao-liang asked, as if Pedro had a choice.
“Most definitely,” proclaimed Pedro. “I couldn’t think of a more elegant way to understand how science connects with history.”
“Excellent. Did you notice that the skeleton was pointing to the left? It’s telling you how to get out. Go down this hallway, and you will reach the exit. Don’t forget to take your book!”
Pedro picked up his book and followed Jiao-liang’s instructions.
Indeed, the exit door was right there. Pushing the door open, he found himself in an alley behind a liquor store. He stepped out and breathed fresh air, crying aloud, “I’m alive! I’m breathing oxygen!”
The sounds of Macau’s night life filled his ears. Around the corner, he bought a bottle of port; then walked back to his hotel.
The familiarity of the streets conquered the toxicity of those library hallways. When he entered his hotel room, he drank half the bottle and fell on the bed, trying to figure out what had just happened to him. He had just met a man who wasn’t afraid of the evil within him.
He could see it clearly: Jiao-liang enjoyed the triumph of dominance — getting through people’s resistance, making them obey, and winning their surrender. Every debate to him was a power struggle. Each conquest, Pedro was sure, made him darker. However, behind the bravado and explosive need for attention, Pedro sensed a frightened, broken, abandoned little boy, whose natural talents had been ignored. He wondered if Jiao-liang’s heart had gone. Or, perhaps loss and self-loathing had finished ripping it out long ago?
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