Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing
The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi
A Saiyan Among the Korud-Jin
X.
Na Hui Tok'uxi : The Ideal Man
The entrance examination administered by the Young Men's School of Greater Urmon was scheduled for the ninth day of the second month of the year 740. In the year following the death of Attin-Remdo, I had worked tirelessly to perfect my penmanship and diction. My handwriting had begun to develop a unique character, made elegant by my careful attention to every tiny curve, stroke and coil. I copied passages from any and every book I could find, borrowing from the neighbors when I had exhausted every title in the patriarch's collection. While the other boys competing for admission were confident in their knowledge of Korud'go, I struggled to hide all evidence of my still- limited understanding.
While a passing score on the exam would spare my back and my hands from years of difficult labor, I would have been pleased to follow in the patriarch's footsteps instead. As the heir to a moderately sized estate, I had only to be able to read the tax codes and write letters to manage the family's enterprise effectively. In retrospect, however, I am grateful that the patriarch and Jann-Run pressured me to do otherwise. While decisiveness and a large measure of self-confidence were vital to the patriarch's role, I had grown into a hesitant and somewhat sycophantic young man. Although I would eventually become more assertive, I am still, as ever, unsuited to fulfill my obligation as Jann-Run's immediate successor.
The school, on the other hand, aims to produce a submissive and wholly pliant individual. A good student becomes a contributor to the prestige of his family by deferring to the knowledge of his teachers, and later to the instructions of the superiors in his chosen profession. While all Korud-jin were born into the hierarchy of their respective clans, the employee simultaneously occupied a place in the greater social order. Even as late as the 750's it was common to address school administrators formally as Bihuu, my father, and teachers as Iku,my elder brother. These same titles were conferred upon chief surgeons, judges, master architects, head newspaper editors, high government officials and other experts by their devoted underlings.
Jann-Run, who had passed the entrance examination twenty-nine years earlier, did his best to help me prepare for the trial ahead. The residual panic from his own experience suddenly resurfaced the evening before the test. While going straight to bed after dinner would have been a wiser strategy, I was obliged to review Jann-Run's beloved Principles for Young Philosophers one last time.
Who is the ideal man? He channels his ambition towards the advancement of his family, and does not seek to glorify himself. He is in a constant state of action, performing his duties without complaint, and does not find happiness in money or petty self-indulgences. He faces hardship with determination, and is willing to lay down his life to protect those in his care. The walls of his home are transparent; He hides nothing from his neighbors. He does not allow the displeasure of others to dampen his spirits. He is faithful to his wife, loyal to his friends, and sets a fine example for his children.
After copying this passage several times, I began to wonder whether it was at all possible to strive for greatness without self-interest. Perhaps the terrible secret of the ideal man was that he could not exist. Jann-Run and the Patriarch were the best men I had ever known, but even they were lacking beside the illusive ideal.
The man who embodies these qualities is worthy of the highest honor.
Jann-Run dipped the tip of his pen into red ink and circled an incorrect group of characters. I had written he entangles instead of who embodies. "There are some small errors here and there," Jann-Run observed. " When you are asked to write down a passage that the examiner reads aloud, you must be careful to check twice at every pause. "
" Do you think that I'll pass? " I asked.
"I think that you could earn the top score," he replied. "So long as you don't daydream until the clock runs out."
On the morning of the examination, Mama and Jann-Run came to wake me at half past four. In the kitchen, thumb-sized pork sausages called Juzinn so-Tsagra, the rich man's fingers,crackled in a pan. Although the Urmonaxi clan was well off in comparison to many others in the region, we consumed red meat only on special occasions. The sight of a sausage in our kitchen was rare indeed. Here, where only birds were bred for slaughter, hares and small wild pigs were most often found on the tables of the wealthy. On ordinary days, meals were eaten with the entire household in attendance, and all partook in an abundance of fresh-caught fish and roasted fowl.
Strangely, the smell of cooked flesh had become repulsive to me. The awful hissing of the fat in the pan and the grotesque shrinking of the rich man's fingers as they browned and blistered recalled the day the royal compound was burned to the ground. I imagined the little pig, squirming and squealing, as Attin-Remdo's three long-snouted dogs tore it limb from limb, their gray-speckled muzzles matted and bloodstained. Unbeknownst to Mama, who had only the best intentions, this celebratory meal had been laced with the memory of death. I did not want to insult her, so I quickly ate two sausages, barely chewing.
Jann-Run watched as sugar cube dissolved in his teacup. " I wonder how many applicants are competing this year," he muttered. "Two, maybe three hundred?"
Mama yawned. Without cosmetics, she gave the impression of an oversized porcelain doll, her child-like roundness accentuated by her colorless cheeks and thin eyebrows. "Little bird," she said, " You must be polite to all of the examinees and the teachers. They'll all think I haven't taught you to be respectful if you don't bow when you greet them." While a child's intellectual development is entirely the father's domain, one's mother invariably reinforces good manners and social propriety.
I washed my face and hands at the kitchen faucet, scrubbing under my nails twice. I ran a comb through my hair, taming a few wayward curls. Although I didn't have any new clothes, I looked the part of a respectable young student in my freshly–polished winter boots and a crisp, white tunic borrowed from Kalis-Peis.
" It's time to leave, son, " whispered Jann-Run. "It's a half-hour to the main road at least."
At the door, Mama kissed both cheeks and brushed a straying curl away from my eyes. Two years earlier, she could lean over and kiss the top of my head. Now, we stood nose to nose. At the bottom of the hill, I turned back, and she was still there, shivering in the doorway, arms crossed. Thirty years ago, few women had ever set foot on a school campus. While fathers proudly escorted their sons to the examination as part of the yearly ritual, the boys' mothers waited patiently at home, hoping.
The Young Men's School of Greater Urmon was located in the town of Three Crossings, more than ten kilometers away from the east bank of the Dindala River. In the early years of this century, students living at the river's edge walked for two hours in the dark in order to arrive in time for their classes. Although the sight of a vehicle on the muddy side roads was uncommon, students could travel part of the way on a delivery truck, or pay a driver to take them along the main route to the town. If a flood or an early freeze made the network of unpaved roads impassable, a parade of young men would trudge loyally towards Three Crossings, their precious notebooks clutched in hand.
A truck bounced to a stop at the intersection. The driver, a thick-necked boar of a man, emerged from behind the wheel. His thinning hair was damp with perspiration, and his hot breath condensed and lingered in the chilly air.
" Jann-Run!" the burly driver shouted, revealing a mouth full of crooked, gold-capped teeth. "Gods, you were only half-grown the last time I came to visit. Is this the boy?"
"Kilomela, this is Uncle Haira. He's an old friend of my father's." Jann-Run avoided the driver's beady gaze, choosing to divert his attention towards a loose thread on his sleeve.
" Bidu, sir." I said, remembering Mama's instructions. I thought to bow, but the patriarch's friend seized the collar of my tunic first.
" No need for formalities," said Uncle Haira." We're like family, your grandfather and I. He's quite a fellow, your grandfather. Quite a fellow." He released me, and nearly sent me tumbling into the ditch running along the side of the road.
"And how is business?" asked Jann-Run, acidly.
"Better than usual. Spirits are a good trade when times are bad. The poorer my customers get, the drunker they want to be. If the economy finally tanks, I'll be richer than King Korudo." His bloated face twisted into an expression of appalling glee. "Of course, I owe my enduring success to your father and his generosity."
Several enameled rings already adorned Uncle Haira's fat fingers, an indication that grain prices had taken a plunge in the past season. Although the patriarch, and more recently, Talarin, had developed a deep affection for van'am, it seemed implausible that the Urmonaxi clan had cultivated a friendship with such a boorish character.
Uncle Haira offered us a place among the casks and crates that were destined for the market in town. As the truck bounced along the road, we were jolted about mercilessly, and I wondered whether traveling on foot would have been worth the effort. At least, I surmised, we could walk home afterwards.
The motor stopped. " This is as far as we go," said Uncle Haira. " I make a delivery every morning in Three Corners. If you need a ride, I pass the intersection at six sharp." He winked, and jingled the keys to his vehicle." I hope to see you at the start of the planting season."
As the truck rolled away along the main street, I looked out onto the shops with bright awnings and the row of red-brick townhouses with wrought iron gates and wooden window shutters. Although Jann-Run had received his graduate certificate long ago, he still remembered the route to the school. As he led me down the street, he stopped every few paces to gaze wistfully into the darkened display windows and through the garden fences, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of old friends.
At the end of the main street, we joined the assembly of fathers and sons that had begun to cluster around the front doors of the Young Men's School of Greater Urmon. A swarm of youthful faces, some contemplative, some terrified, surrounded me, and I knew that I was not alone in my uncertainties. The boys' fathers, on the contrary, eyed one another viciously.
A voice called out above the chattering of the crowd. "Order! Order!" A lanky senior student with a clipboard stood on the concrete stairs at the entrance to the school, shouting fruitlessly. "Order! Order!" He scowled for a moment and then bellowed. "The next person who speaks will be disqualified!" Immediately, there was silence.
The student cleared his throat. " Bidu, all, and good morning. If you will all listen carefully, I have a complete list of the examinees and the rooms you have all been assigned to.You be given pens and ink when you receive the test document, so please refrain from asking for them ahead of time." The student looked down at his clipboard, and scratched his nose. " Furthermore, the new headmaster asks that all guardians behave in a civilized manner, so that the sort of incident that occurred last year can be avoided."
Several members of the crowd snickered audibly.
"The following examinees are assigned to room seven: Yaxi, Yajisi, Aakagisi, Anivrisi." A line began to form. "Kuurenxi, Kravatsi, Kraxisi."
The school building, with its thick, stone walls and narrow windows seemed increasingly sinister as each examinee was called in turn. While Jann-Run anticipated the sound of our family name with pride, I wanted only to run down the road towards home, where Talarin, Tsi , Kalis and Apuru were enjoying their breakfast without me.
The senior student, thoroughly annoyed, began to read the second page of names.
"The following examinees are assigned to room twenty: Utusi, Uharsi, Ubratanisi Ukrixi, Urtixi, Urmonaxi, Tikisi, Tamittisi, Tagisi, Tarsi, Togonansi, Tsadasi, Tsillasi, Thenxi, Thansi, and Thaksi."
I looked back at Jann-Run as I took my place in line. In the early morning light, he appeared as he had in the light of the bright gas lantern more than two years before. I scanned the panorama of faces in the crowd, twisted with anxiety and dread. Jann-Run stood apart, beaming, as if he alone knew the outcome would be in my favor.
In room twenty, four rows of four thick books with blue tape binding sat waiting on each of four long tables. For each book, there were two pens and one small bottle of black ink. Between every two places, there was a pot of white paint and a brush to correct mistakes. The examinees took their places and fell into four neat rows, forming a square four heads across and four wide. In the dim stillness of room twenty, the creaking of the old ceiling and the rapid breathing of the boy sitting beside me seemed unnaturally loud, the crinkling of paper almost deafening.
A well-meaning amateur calligrapher had pinned a banner above the chalkboard. "Ra'ak u Rek! Have courage!" it shouted in jubilant strokes of vermilion red. "Have courage!"
At five minutes before eight, a sullen young teacher arrived with a pocketwatch. He counted us, first by twos, and then one at a time. His blue tunic was spattered with chalk dust, and his fair hair, in desperate need of trimming, fell over his perpetually squinting eyes. He spread a dark smudge of ink across his forehead as he attempted to brush away the offending strands. Even his facial tattoos seemed somehow lopsided, an illusion reinforced by an irregular nose and a crooked left eyebrow.
The boys at the front of the room stood up, and those seated behind them followed hesitantly.We all were eager to impress the examiner with our decorum, only to discover that our practiced bows were out of unison and our respectful greeting hardly resonant. "Bidu, sir," I mumbled. The benches clattered against the table legs as the examinees returned to their places.
The teacher faced the examinees, and produced a thin booklet stamped with the school's insignia. "It is now time for the examination to begin," he explained. "You will have one half-hour to transcribe the passages I will dictate to you, and three hours to answer the written questions posed by the panel. You will be ranked relative to the performance of the other applicants, and then notified of your status before the beginning of the planting season." He dabbed at the ink smudge with his thumb. " Are there any questions? "
A sniffle. The tap of a pen nib against the bottom of the ink bottle. A sigh. The squeak of a boot sole against the tile floor. A cough. The rustle of sixteen cover pages turning. The final tick of a second hand.
The teacher began to read, slowly.
The young philosopher asks his father, "Who is the ideal man?"
The pen kissed the paper, steady, even, and pure. In every stroke of ink was a sharpened arrow, a clothesline, and the spreading branches of a tree. In every curve was the graceful turn of the river, the bottom of a fishing boat and the looming shadow of the mountains at sunset. In every angle was the folded corner of a letter, a broken tile and a doorframe. In every spot was a planet, a freckle and a water-worn pebble. In every circle was a rubber tire, a halo and the iris of an eye.
"Who is the ideal man?" repeated the teacher.
I thought of Jann-Run, my father, waiting patiently on the steps for my triumphant emergence. I knew then that the answer did not matter.