Governor Lee – A Moral Man (Part 2)

II

The details of the hearing are well documented and known, but the trial is just one piece of a much larger and more sinister puzzle. It is a tale written by those who would conspire against the state’s war on crime: a tale of corruption and deception, and a tale which ended tragically for Mrs Lee in the barren borderlands of the state in the small town where her husband, the governor – David Lee was born 47 years ago.

His parents were government officials – middle-class folk with a strong faith in the party and education. Governor Lee was a smart teenager, and followed his sister to study abroad. Impressive grades won him admission to the most prestigious University in the country, where he graduated with first class honours in political science. After graduating he returned home and married his high school sweetheart May, and a year later their first child and only son, Hugh, was born.

From an early age Mr and Mrs Lee were always impassioned party activists. In their high school and university years they campaigned tirelessly to raise money and awareness for the rights of migrant workers, the poor, victims of crime and those affected by natural disasters; they were particularly affected by graphic videos of “The Night of the Black Dust.” They wrote emails, held fundraisers and made forceful speeches at their local party meetings as they ascended quickly through the party’s ranks with the support of the charities and people they had worked so hard for.

But unknown to them, both the charities they worked with had sharp edges. The southwestern branch of one – “The Faith Project,” was linked to corruption trials in the area; and three other charities for which they were prominent spokesmen were later banned for their links to organized crime. Mr and Mrs Lee were both exonerated by the state investigation of any involvement or knowledge of these activities but it was an incredibly distressing and turbulent time in the young couple’s life together. A time which firmly cemented the view in Mr Lee’s mind that new legislation against crime and corruption were of the utmost importance if the party and the nation as a whole were to achieve their long term goals of peace and prosperity.

“Criminals are deterred by higher penalties. Just as higher arrest and conviction rates deter crime, so stronger legislation was needed to reinforce our law enforcement agencies excellent work which had so often been undermined by weak legislation that seemed to favour the criminal rather than law-abiding citizens. That was clearly wrong and seeing these people cheating those who were far less well-off economically and receiving only light prison sentences made legislative change even more imperative – in my mind at least.”

The following year, a resounding victory in the state election for governor marked a turning point in David Lee’s life and political career. It was a turn which would eventually lead the two elements of his life to converge into one with tragic consequences years later, but that day as he stood on the victor’s podium with his beautiful wife May beaming with pride, everything seemed possible.

“Yes, it did. I finally had the chance to implement the changes which this state had needed for so long. The measures were drastic but necessary. I knew they would meet some resistance,” he says, eyes looking downwards, “but I had no idea to the lengths that they would go to…”

The first taste of the force he was facing came only three months into his term as governor.

“I remember it clearly,” Governor Lee says, nodding, “it was early morning and I was in my kitchen eating breakfast when the doorbell rang. The last people I expected to see were two federal agents.”

They had come to question him about papers they had received anonymously. Papers which outlined the purchase of a leisure club by Governor Lee near his weekend home by the river.

“I wasn’t sure why they wanted to question me about this at all, but of course went with them willingly.”

Upon arrival at the bureau, the agents led Governor Lee to an interview room and proceeded to question him about what the club was used for.

“A strange question, and one which I didn’t understand. I had bought the club from an old friend and party member several years before. It was and is simply a club for party members to relax at the weekend and offers all the services any normal spa and leisure facility offer, nothing less and certainly nothing more as I believe they were implying.”

The agents didn’t believe Governor Lee’s explanation and produced several explicit polaroids taken by the anonymous informant of activities they had seen taking place whilst visiting the club. Governor Lee’s face hardens.

“It was then that it became clear what was happening. Only two weeks before a new law had been passed requiring all citizens to provide clear and accountable records of their earnings in order to stop the laundering of criminal or illegal earnings through banks. This was no coincidence, and I told the agents so.”

“The club was and is fully licensed and the purchase of it was done according to the letter of the law. The photographs were clearly fake and had come from a mole placed in my office by the organised crime fraternity.”

Governor Lee’s eyes steel. He answers the question before it’s asked.

“Yes, I believe, in fact I now know that it was Lou King.”

The agents released Governor Lee without charge and, after enjoying a peaceful and relaxing weekend at the club with the party members and their wives, they concluded that there were no illegal activities of any kind taking place at the club and the investigation was dropped.

“I wouldn’t say I was relieved, no, I saw these pathetic attempts to discredit me as a clear justification of what the party and I were trying to do. All it did was to make me more determined to carry out these plans, to have just thought about my own family’s well being and indeed safety would have been wrong. In fact May and the family urged me to continue, even when the gutter press rounded on me…”

And how. Scurrilous and salacious rumors based on documents leaked to the gutter press appeared in the weeks that followed. He sighs wearily, still disgusted by the attacks on his character.

“I refused to comment at the time because to have even begun to dignify their lies with a word of reproach would have just been playing in to their hands. Instead I carried on with what I had to do, emboldened by the security of the knowledge that my wife, children and the party were behind me – 1000%. These people were nothing but scum.”

In the weeks to come the press were made to rue their words.

“For too long reporters had been able to hide behind words in print as they spun them this way and that. They used them to hide behind and point the finger vaguely, hoping that the alleged mud would stick. Well no longer…”

An inquiry was immediately set up, and all media was examined with the scrutiny with which they examined others. The findings were damning.

“Bribes, pay-offs to police officers and criminals, cover-ups of criminal activity by reporters, private diaries, field notes posted on the internet and countless hard drives full of sensitive information obtained illegally. A literal cesspit of corruption.”

The worst offender, 21^st Century Times, was closed immediately along with other small gossip-based publications, while others were heavily fined and offending reporters charged according to the new media and information legislation brought in with immediate effect by Governor Lee’s administration.

“It was vital that we acted quickly in order to stop this cancer from spreading. The treatment I had received was not isolated and was not the reason I acted.”

“Their malevolent influence had been the reason why, for example, state policy on detentions was changed previously. Their biased and wrongly informed reporting of the care of criminals in police custody had not only forced a change in the law, but more importantly humiliated local law enforcement agents and agencies thus hindering them in their fight against crime. This simply couldn’t continue. There was terror everywhere, and there were lies everywhere. It was not in the public’s interests, not at all.”

New legislation was passed and the state’s media department now listed stories pertaining to criminal investigations which were not be published in order to assist the law enforcement agencies in their work. If these rules were breached then it would be considered a breach of state security and was and is rightly punished as such.

Nowadays these lists contain few subjects, but then they stretched to 25 or more items, giving a clear indication of how serious lawlessness and criminal activity was and how much things have improved since these laws were passed.

These days, having clearly seen the positive effects of new legislation, no editor would even think of disobeying such laws or even attempt to, and the role of newspapers has become far more positive and beneficial in the unrelenting war against crime.

However these groundbreaking legislative changes; positive for so many, put an incredible amount of pressure and stress on Governor Lee and his family as once again the criminal fraternity responded in typically aggressive fashion.

Governor Lee nods, then leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and is quiet. After a minute or so he opens them again.

“Yes…” he says slowly and sadly, “that was when things really started to get too much for all of us, especially May…” he stops and the room is silent.

Several minutes later the stillness is disturbed by a knock on the door. It is his son – Hugh. Colour returns to Governor Lee’s face and he rushes over to hug and pick up his son. They laugh and play fight with each other. It is a touching scene. He puts him down and rustles his hair with his hand.

“I’ll see you at six son, and remember…study hard at school, ok?”

“Yes Dad” Hugh beams and walks towards the door.

“Good boy. See you later Hugh. Love you.”

“Love you too Dad,” and with that the young boy is gone, but not his presence.

“That is why I never gave up, and why I can never give up,” says Governor Lee, the energy back in his face for the first time in our interview, “family – it is all we have and they – the children are the future of that family. We can not let this evil win. We cannot sacrifice their future by being weak. We must be strong and win this war, not for us, but for them so that our nation’s family will walk into a bright new dawn where all their dreams are possible. We can’t stop now…”

He stands and paces the room. The flow back in his limbs.

“No, we can’t stop. No matter the cost…”

A lone tear falls for his wife. He brushes it bravely away and continues.

“I say that now and I said that then to May.”

“She was incredibly tired, stressed and emotional from the incessant demands put on me by this infernal war which in turn put our marriage under the most incredible strain, not from lack of communication or love, but from the erosion of our time together by the long meetings – day and night with my party colleagues as we thrashed out our strategies for the campaign, meetings which would often take us away to consult either at the club or to other cities when we needed advice or support from elder party members.

May understood all this but she was scared, scared of the threat I had sent security guards to protect the family and her from, scared of the silence I would keep about the many threats and calls I had received, and scared of losing me as I was of losing her…”

He stops and looks in the mirror on the wall.

“Little did I know that the real threat was already among us…”

Behind Temple Walls – J H Martin

Behind Temple Walls

Arhats fall
from caves
through beads
that spit and chew
on cobblestones
carrying
scars and stumps
scavenging
by temple gates.

The corner
stands by me
turning
with the afternoon
towards the shade
of chairs sleeping
in alleyways
bored of crowds.

Tea pours
weathered hands
over tables
behind
these temple walls
where the dead
buy money
for the afterlife.

Red eyes
pull cigarettes
swallowing fingers
as the past’s screen
disappears from me
and the penny
shed by the dream
finally drops.

In this space I’m lost.

J. H. Martin

Governor Lee – A Moral Man (Part 1)

Governor Lee – A Moral Man

I

On a hot summer morning 19 months ago, a team of four from the local law enforcement agency – two officers and two forensic experts – rolled into a small dusty town 50 miles south of the state’s capital. They had come to examine a potential crime scene: a shallow, bloodstained grave, reported by an anonymous caller the day before.

At the town police station they were shown out to the site in a clearing in the nearby woods, where later that day they unearthed the decomposed and dismembered remains of a middle-aged woman.

This horrific and grisly case was finally laid to rest thousands of miles from that small town in a courtroom in the nation’s capital. The woman’s name was May Lee, the state governor’s wife and mother of three. She was drugged and shot, after which she was driven to the clearing where her corpse was butchered and buried. Seventeen months later the killer – Lou King – a single, 42 year old employee of Mrs Lee, was finally arrested and bundled onto an agency jet and flown to the capital where he was tried and convicted of murder and sentenced to death by lethal injection.

The successful prosecution is the last twist in one of the most sinister episodes of the state’s “war on crime.” At its heart is the foreign-educated David Lee – state governor, often declared – “the nation’s future leader,” – a moral man, a loving father and now a grieving widower of a devoted wife and mother who was senselessly slain by an agent of the evil he has done so much over the years to combat.

“I can and never will forget what happened to May.”

Sitting in his plush but minimal office, he looks exhausted and gaunt, far different from the effervescent orator we know so well. He picks up a photo of May and their children from his desk. His large brown eyes dull and glaze.

“He robbed my world of its light and our children of a wonderful, wonderful mother. She was our everything…”

His words trail off into the now empty void of the present.

Mrs Lee was last seen in this country over two years ago. She left to pursue her and her husband’s business interests abroad, during which time photographs were released by her husband to the inquiring nation’s press and were published in their pages. She was dubbed the “First Lady of Business,” an iconic figure of our country’s burgeoning economic success.

Yet these well-known and loved photographs, along with the details of her stay abroad, were unbelievably at issue in the trial and incredulously formed the basis for King’s defense.

Lee’s brows furrow.

“Yes, it was, as you say, incredulous. It was absolutely disgusting.”

“I didn’t attend the trial. I couldn’t bear to see the man who had committed this atrocity. I couldn’t put the children through that…again,” he shakes his head. His eyes return to the photograph of his family in his hands; shaking perceptibly with an unresolved and justified rage, “I don’t know what I would have done…”

King pleaded not guilty, insisting he had never owned a gun and that he would never have even thought of killing the woman he worked for and who, he claimed, he loved. His lawyers claimed the prosecution’s “dramatic” version of the killing was untrue. They claimed that Mrs Lee had in fact never left the country at all and that the prosecution of King was a cover up by the state authorities of King’s – ridiculed and rejected – allegations of an affair between Mrs Lee and himself in an attempt to protect her real killer’s identity. (An accusation with no grounds whatsoever which King repeated endlessly during the trial, even going so far as to fire his lawyers during the first week of proceedings due to their alleged “state background.”)

“I don’t want to discuss that evil and malicious slur,” Governor Lee spits, shifting uneasily in his chair, “especially after all we, and especially May, had done for him.”

Unbelievably King’s lawyers claimed that the photographs were faked. They pointed to the fact that in all of them Mrs Lee’s face was never clearly visible as she always wearing sunglasses and a white headscarf. A fact dispelled by the prosecution, to much amusement in the courthouse, as being proof of nothing but – “a beautiful woman protecting her skin.”

To dismiss this scandalous and malicious suggestion entirely and in order to protect Mr Lee and his family’s good name, a state imaging expert was called by the prosecution and testified that the photographs were beyond any reasonable doubt genuine and indeed of Mrs Lee. The prosecution then proceeded to decimate King’s attempts at misdirection by producing the receipts for the outward and inward bound flight tickets from the state owned travel agency, along with airport records and sworn testimony from border control agents who had seen Mrs Lee on both her departure from and return to the country.

A sad smile breaks across Governor’s Lee face as he remembers better days.

“She was so proud, you know? She knew that she was representing all of the good people of this nation when she was away. When she returned she just wanted it to be a private family affair, no press, as she had missed the children terribly just as they had missed her terribly too… and still do…”

The defense’s desultory and torrid attempts to establish some kind of a relationship between Mrs Lee and Mr King were equally unsuccessful. King’s lawyers claimed that they had begun a relationship some three years previously whilst working long days together while her husband was away. A fact dismissed by the court as nothing but hearsay – “A fantasy concocted in the mind of the accused and with no grounding in reality. A perverted fantasy which grew into a dangerous and violent obsession and finally – the savage murder of Mrs Lee.”

“We gave that butcher everything – a job, promotion, hell, we treated him as part of the family…” His knuckles whiten on the arms of the chair, “…and he…he…betrayed…that trust, faith and love by…by…”

The sentence remains unfinished as Governor Lee breaks down, unable to hold back his overwhelming grief. His secretary politely escorts us outside.

“He is such a brave man, always putting his responsibilities first both as a father and governor,” she says, “It has been horrific ordeal for him. It was only when that beast was finally convicted that he has at last been able to begin to mourn.”

A conviction secured in spite of the attempts from the defense lawyers, acting on their client’s often deranged and manic instruction to mislead the jury. None of these lurid and hysterical conceits however could do anything against the overwhelming testimony and forensic and physical evidence against King – the meat cleaver and gun found in the trunk of his car, the bloodstained clothing found in his apartment, and the fingerprints, DNA, tissue, hair and blood samples found at the scene of the crime, on the body, on the weapons and on the clothing.

It was an open and shut case, but throughout the stormy and impassioned proceedings, King refused to accept the reality of the position he found himself in or the evidence against him. He continuously interrupted the judge and the prosecution, rebuked his own lawyers for not submitting so-called “evidence,” and made consistent and increasingly crazed appeals to the packed courthouse to listen to his “story,” all of which led to him being repeatedly and forcibly restrained by the law enforcement officers in the courtroom. “I am boycotting this trial,” he declared self-righteously on the last Thursday of the hearing. “I am innocent of all the charges and I can prove it, but I will not do it in this court.”

These would be his last words in the proceedings and his final vainglorious attempt to delay and scupper the trial as he was ejected from the courtroom for obstruction. Judge Long ruled against him being allowed back into the courtroom and the jury returned a unanimous guilty verdict in King’s absence and he was sentenced to death by lethal injection.

The details of the hearing are well documented and known, but the trial is just one piece of a much larger and more sinister puzzle. A puzzle which has only become clearer in the last few weeks.

Tomorrow we examine these pieces and their effects in detail, in the second part of our exclusive interview with Governor Lee – A Moral Man.

Today, Tomorrow – J H Martin

Today, Tomorrow

The gutters bend
the sky in half.
White roses wilt
by plaster cracks.

Today, tomorrow,
no, no one knows,

not you,
not me;

teeth full of stains,
nose full of blood;
filling these shoes
with the guts of rain;

seeping through
pores of hours
watching cities
turn to craters,

when
the levee
breaks beaks
from branches
of
buildings burning
in a woman’s eyes
who passes me;

drunk on roses,
cracked rain and plaster,
stuck in a ditch
outside of mind.

J. H. Martin

Good Company

“Do you like?” he says, elbowing me in the ribs. His fingers touch his thumb, forming on O, while he jabs the index finger of the other hand into the space between in a universally recognised sign. I smile wryly. There’s not much else I can do.

“So what do you boys want to eat then? The finest we have to offer? How about that lobster roast in tea leaves – that’s one of the most expensive dishes here. Waitress!” he roars, as she comes scurrying over, notepad at the ready, “That lobster tea thing – make it a large portion too, these lads are starving!”

He chuckles. “You’ll have the usual too, I suppose – steak, spuds and smoked salmon, yeah? That’s just the sort of stuff you’d get at home, I bet!” He roars for the waitress once more, but she is already behind him, scribbling furiously. “And some drinks too – Beer!” he shouts after her as she heads into the kitchen.

“Yeah, these strapping fine fellows didn’t get that way eating nothing but vegetables and grass like rabbits! Me, I can’t stand that foreign food, but God damn it do they know how to cook a slab of meat to a turn! Between us, I prefer my meat, eh, a little more lively, know what I mean, eh?”

Peals of laughter erupt from his ample girth. “Hah! That’s for dessert though! Now where’s that booze – you lads shouldn’t eat on an empty stomach, that’s straight from an ancient folk remedy, I tell you! Waitress!”

She comes back with a single bottle of local beer. “What? What the —” he exclaims, in mock disapproval. “There’s four of us; three esteemed guests, and you come back with one bottle? What the hell are you thinking, you silly cow? Oh, that’s right – you don’t think! Now go back out there and bring back a crate right now; the good stuff, not that pish. And make it snappy!”

The poor girl’s face turns bright red and she disappears back into the kitchen.

“Dumb b…” he swears, “Women, useless entirely, except for one thing, but they look hot, and that’s what counts. I’d employ waiters instead, but it wouldn’t be good for business, see? Anyways, there’s nothing you can’t teach a woman with a little bit of this,” he says, raising his hand, signet rings on the fingers, in a threatening gesture, “and a bit of this,” he guffaws as he grabs his crotch and starts humping the table.

The waiting staff, all pretty girls, stare at the floor. The customers at the neighbouring tables try their best to ignore the loud obscenities coming from our table, except for the guests at one table who look over, shocked and disgusted. They don’t know who he is. And we say nothing but continue smiling awkwardly and wait for the food and drink.

No one is going to say anything; that’s for sure. They know who he is. And he is there to remind them. He is the boss. That’s right, the big boss. And we’re having dinner with him.

The waitress struggles back under the weight of a crate of beer. There are a dozen big bottles in there, and I know we won’t be leaving until they have all been emptied.

“Here!” he says, spilling beer all over the table, the glasses foaming over with the lukewarm liquid. “A toast to my good friends! Cheers!”

Glasses clink all around. We stand up and drink. Many, many times. Luckily, the food is prepared quickly, and we are spared having to drink half the crate before taking a bite.

A plate of peppered beef sits before us, the aroma wafting around in the awkward atmosphere. “That’s the stuff, isn’t it? I know just how you feel, far away from home and the kind of food you’re used to – I hope this makes you feel better. A taste of home. You wouldn’t believe the muck I had to eat when I was away– Heavens! Not to mention the drink! Oh man alive – wasn’t I lucky I was able to get a good friend to ship over a container of decent food and drink. But I tell you, the few weeks in between… Hell… Luckily there were other distractions…” he winks, as he repeats the crude gesture.

His wife isn’t here this time, but even if she was, it wouldn’t have changed much of the tone of the one-way conversation.

He knocks back more beer, recounts more disparaging anecdotes and wildly ill-conceived notions about his recent trip abroad, and encourages us to eat more of the ridiculously priced food. It’s delicious, I must admit, but boy is it expensive. None of that matters though as we’re not going to have to pay for a thing: his treat. Good food, endless streams of drink, fancy restaurant, but absolutely execrable company.

“Isn’t that what it’s all about? – Good food, plenty to drink, and most of all – good company?” he proclaims, unexpectedly sitting up straight at the table. “When times are good, you have to make the most of it, otherwise what’s the point? Now that I have money I can eat all I want; shark fin, abalone – you name it. Drink, it’s the same. Special reserve this or that – whatever. Food and drink is soon forgotten, I can tell you,” he spouts, thumping the table in a sudden pique of annoyance, “but I won’t forget how we only used to have sweet corn and cabbage when I was growing up!”

Another swig of beer and the smile returns to his face. “I can tell you another thing: in hard times, it’s not the food that matters the most, whatever you might think – it’s your friends, that’s what. That’s how I got here today, because I had good friends in times of need; I helped them and they helped me. That’s how. Out of all the good things in life,” he says staggering to his feet, “friends are the most important.” He raises his glass yet again: “To good company!” he toasts, and we have to agree.

A waitress comes over with the salmon. She is quite attractive, and quite obviously new here. He looks her up and down and stares down her shirt as she puts the plate on the table. She blushes and walks away quickly. “A bit of alright, eh?” he nods in her direction, loud enough for her to hear. “Useless at work, the women, but what would we do, eh?” He smirks lasciviously. “I only have men in the kitchen, there’s a reason men are the best chefs: men are better than women, that’s all. Did you ever see a woman on those cookery programs? No. Maybe just for show. All the best are men. Same for the best restaurants; they only keep the girls out front, and wouldn’t let them near a pan. If you ask me, I’d have them all locked in a brothel – the only thing they’re good for!”

My companions pick sheepishly at the salmon; it seems to be stuck to a block of ice, and is seasoned with a spicy wasabi sauce.

“I went fishing somewhere over there a few times and we caught tons of fish. You just hop out on a boat, toss a grenade into the water, duck, and wait to scoop them in by the bucketload. We shot a few big ones too, that was fun. Just like back in the army.”

More bellowing laughter ad nauseam. Shooting fish…

Our host had been in the army, and not just in any capacity; he had been in a special forces unit. Like many uneducated country boys, he had signed up because it was the only way out, and had become good at what that entailed: asking no questions and carrying out orders unflinchingly. Being good at that sort of thing was sure to get you noticed, and he rose quickly; but not through the ranks; having been officially discharged and assigned the kind of tasks that are more commonly referred to as ‘black ops.’

We never found out precisely what that meant, and so much the better; a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing after all. Whatever it was, he had made an obscene amount of money somehow, and was determined to get rid of it in the most flamboyant, tasteless and grossly indecent way possible.

I look out of the large bay windows at the flashing neon signs and the headlights of cars speeding down the main avenue. We’re on the top floor of a tall building. He owns all of it. “I paid ten million for the view,” he sighs, looking out into the empty blackness beyond the ring road, “and now they’re going to build some bloody skyscraper over there next year!”

The view has little to commend itself: by day, a flat post-industrial cityscape as far as the motorway circling the city, waste ground beyond that; by night, the sky lit up by searchlights and neon glow; futuristic after a fashion. Aliens could land here any moment, you’d think. They’d probably be on the menu within hours though…

Another waitress, perhaps more used to the task, brings over a plate of some sort of parsnip. “Have some of this; it’s a kind of medicine, good for your manly organ, and male energy! Too much you-know-what with the ladies makes you weaker – this is the stuff that will let you go at it like hammer and tongs all night – Yeah!” We are treated to a repeat of the table-humping act. The waitress doesn’t bat an eyelid – she’s seen it all before, no doubt. The parsnips aren’t bad; a bit bland, but palatable. They would need to be fairly potent though, with all the alcohol that’s been consumed at this stage…

There’s a childish grin on his face and a glint in his eyes; it’s very easy to dislike the man, for all his obnoxiousness and disgraceful behaviour, but could you be sure it’s for real and not just an obscene act put on for show? A test of your own reactions? And it’s even harder to condemn one man, and not the kind of society that has allowed his like to prosper and become the social élite.

The place is huge, palatial almost. A minimal décor avoids most of the tasteless interiors usually found in such places and gives it an airy feel. The location is far from the city centre, the food over-priced, but nice, yes, and yet there is still something amiss: there’s hardly anybody in the place. In fact, the restaurant is not a restaurant in that its primary function is not to provide a culinary service for the clientele and make money for its owner, but designed instead to lose money. The mechanics of money-laundering are complicated but it seems that this is indeed the case, and why the prices are sky-high; high enough to dissuade most sensible people from going there. Making money is one thing; knowing how to lose it is another entirely.

You have to hand it to the man; he may not come across as being particularly smart, but there’s a ruthless animal cunning about him that’s not immediately apparent. There has to be in order to survive in this environment. The first time we met by chance, his face was scratched and bruised and he had a black eye – a run in, someone else later revealed, with some gangsters who didn’t want to pay the bill – didn’t he know who they were? The problem was that they didn’t know who he was – and they were never heard from again. I often wonder what meat dishes were on the menu that day, but it doesn’t bear thinking about…

Yes, he’s made it – and made it big time. And now he’s giving it back: who else around these parts would have come up with the idea of spending their money on building hospitals and water treatment plants in war-torn parts of the globe? You can read whatever you like into that, but as long as some good comes of it, it doesn’t matter where the money comes from.

The meal is over, the last bottle empty, and it’s going to be time to leave. We decline repeated offers of “after hours entertainment,” “special massages,” and cruder still. His duty as host is not over yet though. “Now I know you appreciate our traditional culture, so I want to give you all a small gift as a token of my friendship.” He hands around a bunch of small boxes. Tea. I know what it is: very rare and very expensive. “I want you to enjoy this, and remember – there’s plenty more where that came from: one of my good friends gave me a tonne of it – that’s right – a whole tonne, so come over any time you like, and we can drink some, and ahem, maybe have a relaxing time together in good company, know what I mean eh?” His hollow laughter echoes round the empty hall.

We stand outside the fancy façade and wait for a cab. He shakes our hands energetically; “You guys must come again soon, it’s such a pleasure to eat and talk with intelligent people who enjoy good food – and who can drink too!” He stands next to his car, a spanking new BMW of the latest model – painted black with tinted windows as is standard for a man of his position – and offers us a lift back. The smart thing is to politely but firmly refuse; he’s drank way too much, and ‘untouchable’ license plate or not, it’s best to avoid head-on collisions with large unmoving objects, such as brick walls or cranes, that couldn’t care less.

Mercifully, a taxi pulls up just then and we start to get in; stumbling over each other in a drunken rush. Somehow in the mêlée, I’m last to get in, and as I’m about to step into the back of the car, he calls out:

“Hey, do you like?” his finger sliding in and out of his closed fist; the same impish grin on his face, his lonely laughter fading as we head out of earshot and disappear from view into the blackness.

One Square Metre – J H Martin

One Square Metre

Praised be
the scene
in
one square
metre
of mopeds,
baskets
posts and signs
drifting through
this evening’s eyes.

All
beautiful
but
empty
phenomena
that hide
forever
reclining
in
one breath
in
this one moment
in
one square metre
of
this eternal mile.

J. H. Martin

Thick Face, Black Heart – Thick Black Theory

In the West, Machiavelli’s book The Prince is probably the best known work on simulation and dissimulation. In Chinese culture however there is a rich and deep seam of literature on strategy and deception. Sun Zi’s Art of War is the most famous, but the more recent book, Thick Black Theory (厚黑学 – Hou Hei Xue), written by Li Zongwu (李宗吾) in 1912, is possibly the most important when it comes to trying to understand the Chinese strategies of today.

Li Zongwu was a social philosopher and critic and his purpose in writing Thick Black Theory was to describe the symptoms of an illness, or, to be more precise, to bring into the light the cultural shadow which is known to all in Chinese society as “Thick face, black heart.”

The description “thick face, black heart” is used to describe what many, but by no means all, in Chinese society, whether they say so publicly or not, perceive to be the “must have” quality of Chinese people if they want to be successful, whether that be in society, business or politics.

“Thick face” is in essence a shield to protect a person from the criticism and negative opinions of others, thus preserving and thickening their own “face,” both in their own eyes and in the eyes of others, by refusing to accept the limitations or criticism that others have tried to impose or force upon them.

“Black heart” is the sword used to do battle with others as well as oneself. The black-hearted practitioner focuses their attention purely on their goals and ignores the possible cost to themselves or others. Together with this well-defined and honed killer instinct, the cutting edge of a practitioner’s sword is dispassion – to do battle without or, in spite of fear, and to be able to detach themselves completely from their own and others’ emotions so that their presence does not thwart or hinder them from achieving their ultimate goals.

In Thick Black Theory, the methods by which people use the idea of “thick face, black heart” to obtain and hold on to money, status and power, and how they use these to preserve their position and accumulate more are described in detail.

Li Zongwu’s original intention was to publish Thick Black Theory in a series of three articles in The Chengdu Daily in 1912. However, the official outrage and violent reaction caused after the first article was published led to a cancellation of the series. This series of three articles was later published several times between 1934 and 1936 in a single volume in Beijing by friends of Li Zongwu. Despite the controversial image of Chinese society that it portrayed, each edition sold out immediately before being banned by the government – a deliciously ironic fact given that in 1989; when the ban on the book was lifted, it was published by the Central Party School in Beijing. The book is now a consistent bestseller throughout mainland China, has been published in multiple editions and has spawned a whole sub-genre of “self-help” books, as well as in-depth studies of historical events and characters following the “thick black” premise.

It is important to remember that Li Zongwu’s work is purely an observation and study of “thick face, black heart,” and was never intended to be an endorsement of the amoral practices when mastered (which many non-practitioners would consider to be immoral) that the book describes. The irony that it is now used and reinterpreted as a manual for succeeding in business and society, only goes to show how prescient these observations were, both then and now, and how little has actually changed.

In the coming weeks we will be presenting further articles on Thick Black Theory, and selected extracts from the works of Li Zongwu.

Crossing The Bridge – J H Martin

Crossing The Bridge

Power
stations
fade in
from the haze,
as snakes
of barges
full of coal
slide slowly by
the new century
on the other side.

There is
no dawn
or
early morning,
no
new beginnings there,
only
the scent
of fake jade tears
that
masquerade as joy.

I
shake
my head
and say goodbye
to the country’s peace
left far behind
as my thoughts disrobe
and
roll by the tumble
of approaching wheels.

J. H. Martin

The Painted Lady (Part 3)

Part 3

 

A week later King’s son returned to the village and made his way to the temple to thank the priest for avenging his father’s death. The son implored him with tears in his eyes to help him bring his father back from the dead.

 

“No, I am sorry, but I can’t do that,” he replied, but the son flung himself at his feet and begged his assistance. The priest shook his head sadly.

 

“I am sorry my son, but there is nothing I can do. My power is not equal to the task. I myself cannot raise the dead; but I can direct you to someone who can, and if you ask him correctly and show him due respect then you will succeed in your wish.”

 

In the village there was a madman who passed his time grovelling in the dirt. It was to this man that the priest directed the son. The son stood looking at him lying on his back in the gutter chewing on a discarded bone.

 

“Prostrate yourself before him and beg for his assistance. Whatever insults he throws at you, show no sign of anger.”

 

The son remembering these words approached the raving and destitute creature and bowed down before him.

 

The madman leered at him and drooled.

 

“Look at the pretty boy, look at the pretty boy, do you love me pretty boy? Do you love me?”

 

“Yes, yes, I do,” replied the son, not knowing what else to say.

 

“Idiot! Idiot!” screamed the maniac, grabbing his staff and thrashing him soundly. The insane creature cackled long and loud and left the son bleeding in the dust and bounded off up the road to his pit of a hovel in the hills outside town. The son followed him there when he had recovered from the vicious beating and begged the mad one to help him bring back his father from the dead.

 

“It’s very strange pretty boy, yes, very strange,” he sneered, “people come to me to raise their dead as if I was king of the infernal regions! Fools, the lot of ‘em! Fools!”

 

The wild-eyed long-haired savage then grabbed his staff and pounded the son into the ground again. The son lay there coughing blood but just as he was about to pass out he smelled the foetid breath of this beast upon his face, and felt his long nails dragging his jaw open and then tasted something foul and round drip from the madman’s mouth into his. The son felt this foul-tasting sphere slipping down into his stomach as he passed into the darkness.

 

The next day when the son awoke, the maniac was gone and was nowhere to be found neither there nor in the town. So the son made his way back to the temple, his heart filled with a furious rage at the mad one and all that had transpired. He refused the priest’s offer of tea and sympathy and made his way into the graveyard where his father’s body lay waiting to be burned upon the pyre.

 

He looked down upon its stiffened form and felt sick to his very soul about all that had happened to his poor father as he stared upon the cavity where his father’s heart once beat. As he did so he felt a lump rising in his throat, which by and by came out with a pop and fell into the dead man’s wound.

 

The son was dumbfounded and looked down to see it was a human heart; and then it began as it were to throb, emitting a warm and fragrant smoke.

 

“I don’t believe it…” gasped the son in awe.

 

He didn’t stop to admire this any further though, and much excited, grabbed the skin from around the wound and held it down over the beating heart with all his might, and when vapours began escaping from the crevices around the wound, the son tore a strip of silk from his shirt and bound it tightly around the body. There the son remained throughout the day, massaging the body in a bid to bring back the circulation.

 

When the moon appeared through the pines which peered over the graveyard the son was amazed to feel breath coming from his father’s nose; and by the next morning his father was alive again, though clearly disturbed and feeling a great pain in his chest.

 

“Son…” he mumbled almost inaudibly, his hand upon his chest.

 

“Yes, father?” the son replied through tears of joy, leaning closer to catch his words.

 

“Where is she?” he asked, his eyes flickering open between here and there.

 

“Who father?”

 

“The woman who stole my heart.”

 

 

 

Editor’s note – The spirits of the Chinese “Inferno” are allowed under the strict conditions of time and good conduct to appropriate to themselves the vitality of some human being, who, as it were, exchanges places with the “demon” or “devil”. The creature, unlike the one is this story, usually does not take the place of the mortal whose life it has possessed, but is merely born again into this world; the idea being that the amount of life on earth is a fixed quantity per individual and cannot be increased or diminished, thus enabling the old man to be brought back from the dead.

Red Rock Jewel – J H Martin

Red Rock Jewel

Mist drifts
down hanging corridors,
rainbows
crash on black ink stone,
I lose myself
in the fog of red cliffs,
to the west of bamboo seas.

I walk
out over clouds,
across
the sky shaking bridge.
There I find
a small and damp cave
hidden by dripping trees.

This lonely
secluded place
is a place
pleasing to the Buddhas,
a place where
accomplished beings dwelled.

Now
only white cranes glide by
this red rock jewel,
intoxicated by the fragrance
of Milarepa’s  song.

J. H. Martin