Warrior Gentlemen

Men and Mallards

David the Beloved blossomed into manhood in the spring of his second year abroad. Though he never made so much as a peep, his lover knew he felt wretched as a poor copyist dependent on a strange man. Women's papers, with their moans of 'female subjection', put a wet towel on the houseboy's domestic bliss.

Clapton's family dined at seven-thirty. The new tenants were given between eight to nine-thirty to use the kitchen. Supping there at nine, the elder Fujiwara noticed his junior's downward gaze, dramatic sighs, and general moroseness in spite of the increasing quality of food. Geese, oysters, and chicken failed to put the fire back in those coal-black eyes. So, extraordinary measures had to be taken.

On a fine foggy day, Adam returned to their warm nest and dropped a stack of foreign books on the table.

"My Confucius is dog. Take this."

The pile of paper comprised the Analects, the Lotus Sutra, and the complete works of Chuang Tzu.

"I can't do this...My English...."

Adam rolled his eyes and explained. Herr Lehmann's Chinese translator sailed back to America on a family emergency. The publisher was now offering to print Mr Fujiwara's work under the American Sinologist's name.

"Do it."

Lehmann can't read the original anyway. If the teenage translator fools one German, he'll fool all England. Determined to break free of his unseemly bondage, the boy took a deep breath and nodded. Translation would pay more than copying and give him some independence as a man. That night, he dove into the Analects, each word and phrase a puzzle to be deciphered and reproduced in English.

Nights turned into days and days into nights as Dave Kyung pored over the familiar text, checking words against English dictionaries, and striving for accuracy in his translations over style. Adam, ever-present by his side, offered no guidance, trusting his pet's ability to chew on his childhood texts. As the deadline approached, their shared desk was littered with drafts and revisions, each page testifying to a scholar's pride. With a sigh of relief, Davie slipped his complete English version of 'The Analects' into a brown envelope, knowing he'd given his best.

"I can't write Chinese in front of Confucius

But I can write English in front of a German."

Thus did he reconcile himself with the imperfections of his work. The Analects was but the first. Eager to prove himself, the boy took on more and more work. Tireless, relentless, fearless, he soldiered on, making a hash of some chapters, making poetry of others. In the evenings, drained from his efforts, he'd accompany his elder brother to the park.

There was a public green a ten-minute walk from where they lived. Victoria Park, like any English green, had a duck pond and rolling lawns for park-goers to lounge on. A wood in a town of soot, it provided a welcome respite from London Lungs. Sunshine and clean air had been bestowed on the people of East End in 1845, upon a mass petition to the Queen. Hence the name. Adam used this free space for sketching men, women, small animals, and children. Jingyeong – said his younger friend viewing his everyday landscapes. People in his country do it too. Jingyeong artists go to Mount Geumgang to paint her. Thinking along the same lines, he chose to leave a snug home for a strange city. No jagged mountains did he find here, only the sharp rhetorics of men.

On the central lawn, the boy would flit from group to group, browsing for free the arguments of socialists, anarchists, Methodists, Mormons, Malthusians, Quakers, atheists, and emerging from each group more undecided than before. In the Speaker's Corner, he plugged into the electricity of Liberal rallies, though the subject of such rallies eluded him. At last, bombarded and confused, he felt satisfied at having a little of what was called 'the West'. 

Spent, the youth headed for the Fairy Pavilion – he named it thus, being reminded of children's picture books by its whimsical design. From its water fountain, he'd take a refreshing drink. One gulp, two gulps, and a contented sigh. Hydrated, he could rejoin his friend at the duck pond. Seated on a foldable stool, bent over his drawing board, Adam might not see him right away. The easel, he carried on his back, the stool, his junior did. Both items were bought second-hand, but in good condition. Reclining nearby, nose in a book, Dave made a game of guessing how long it'd take for the artist to notice him. The record was fifteen minutes. Noticing him, Adam liked to spit platitudes taken from some book or other. For example:

"The real is all things."

Says he, though he picks and chooses his pictures in a prejudiced manner. No Fairy Pavilion or election rally made it onto his sketchbook; the realist hones in on more mundane objects, desiring to project onto them his troubled heart. Victoria's duck pond was a subject he liked to depict in spring. A new year meant mild weather, fresh wildflowers, and feisty drakes aboil with Venusian heat. Adam has seen a pack of drakes chase a comrade into the water. Four drakes pounced on one, using their beaks to drown the poor ducky. The victim of this onslaught survived. Having near-drowned their friend, the four relented and waddled off like it was nothing.

That was a situation with only drakes. If there were females around, the spring fever got nasty. Females couldn't waddle anywhere without being hounded by a male or seven. Sometimes, a female had a mate and he would defend her from other males. An unholy row ensues, affronting the sensibilities of a gentle youth.

One morning, as Adam was shading in the greens of the pond weeds, Dave wandered close to the water's edge. The mallards were particularly lively that day, their iridescent feathers gleaming in the sunlight. Two males were swimming peacefully, stopping now and then to dip their beaks for a quick nibble. Charmed by their plumage, an observer sighed and stretched his arms. Glancing to the side, he spied a trio of male ducks on land of less placid temper. The three greenbacks were cornering a solitary female. Relentless, they nipped and chased as the female tried desperately to escape. At once, a human waded into the skirmish. Waving his arms and hollering, he shooed the bullying males towards the water. Thus relieved, the female duck fled into the nearest wood.

From his easel, Adam looked up, his bemused smirk tinged with disapproval.

"Stop it. Male ducks are just....nasty fucks."

"What?"

The boy's old tutor, Shin, did not teach him this kind of vocabulary. Chuckling, his new tutor felt sorry for using crass language in his presence. 'Nasty Fucks' – kid was too young to know what that meant. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed with outrage at the cruelty of soulless beasts, he was simply...darling.

"Forgive me, I've not understood you."

The boy said:

Everything has reason, even nature. Ri – principle – is not limited to humans. The male ducks are against the Ri. Their behavior is unnatural and will injure the females.

English was his second language. The duck chaser stuttered in his frantic attempts to justify himself. Nonetheless, his companion knew what was meant. Sighing, Adam instructed his friend to sit for a portrait by the duck pond. There were no benches to sit on but a model could sit on his arse with his legs stretched in front of him. Not stretched all the way, though, that would be crass.

"I've painted enough women. A pensive youth would be a change."

The 'pensive youth' read a book while posing: a copy of the Analects gotten from Lehmann. Pondering on his childhood classic, David went quiet and still. Perfect. Picking up pen and paper, his painter began to sketch. As a rule, he sketches before painting to minimise mistakes.

When Adam finally set down his pen, the result was a striking portrait of a youth caught between East and West, surrounded by a world tranquil yet deceivingly complex. Reading an old book, he gazes far beyond at the horizon of a crystalline duck pond.

The artist paused to appreciate his work, satisfied with capturing not just the physical form but the thoughtful essence of his young friend.

"Thinking by the Lake of Heaven"

That was to be the title of this picture. Dave set down his book, took a look, and suggested adding some ducks in the background. Considering the possibility, Adam gathered his art materials. The gray clouds above them were getting heavier and he wished to be home before they broke.