What I read last week: the Number Ten Ox edition

When I was back in Virginia, my mom seized the opportunity to have me go through the boxes I'd thoughtfully left with her some ten years ago. ("So your daughter lives 3000 miles to the west? Perhaps you'll feel better if you look at some of the stuff she didn't want to move!") Many of the boxes went straight to the trash -- I tossed trophies ("Josten's Journalism Award 1988: Lisa Sceheimsr") and plaques and other purported memorabilia.

Then we found a box of books. "I was wondering where my copy of Farmer Boy was!" I squealed delightedly. "And, Just the Beginning! I have missed this book! And look, it's From Rockaway! That's first book I ever bought after reading a book review! I was a high school freshman ..."

My mom was amused that I could blithely toss old corsages and photos, but go misty over a paperback. But it wasn't until I found Barry Hughart's Bridge of Birds at the bottom of the box that I went into full-on madeleine mode.

I read this book in college during a finals week. And while I didn't remember too much about the book specifically -- finals week, remember? -- I did remember the circumstances around the book. It was spring, when Virginia bursts into leaf after far too many barren brown months. I had a bottle of Malibu rum smuggled home in my towels, since at age 20, I was obviously sophisticated enough to enjoy the occasional Diet-Coke-and-rum nightcap. (Obviously.) I had the usual two jobs waiting for me when I got home, but -- and this is key -- I would not have an organic chemistry class, so as far as I was concerned, I was heading toward three months of freedom.

Once I snapped out of my reverie, survived the yard sale and came back home, I began re-reading Bridge of Birds. It's ... well, do any of y'all watch Deadwood? You know how, for the first episode or two when you were watching, you'd be listening to the speech patterns and the following would go through your head:

1. I wouldn't diagram these sentences on a dare.
2. What the ham fat are they saying, anyway?
3. Oh, hey -- I get it! I think.

And then, by about episode three, the minute the theme music started, your brain began to shift gears so you could follow along with the baroque dialogue?

Well, Bridge of Birds is a little like that. Consider one of the early introductory passages:

Until recently we also took great pride in two gentlemen who were such perfect specimens that people used to come from miles around just to stare at them, so perhaps I should begin a description of my village with a couple of classics.

When Pawnbroker Fang approached Ma the Grub with the idea of joining forces he opened negotiations by presenting Ma's wife with the picture of a small fish drawn upon a cheap piece of paper. Ma's wife accepted the magnificent gift, and in return she extended her right hand and made a circle with the thumb and forefinger. At that point, the door crashed open and Ma the Grub charged inside and screamed: "Woman, would you ruin me? Half of a pie would have been enough!"

That may not literally be true, but the abbot of our monastery always said that fable has strong shoulders that carry far more truth than fact can.

Humble peasant and narrator Number Ten Ox recounts absurdly hilarious scenes in a delightful, descriptive deadpan. This narrative style also allows the author to tell a story studded with heart and wonder, and that's where Bridge of Birds shines. It's funny, horrifying and heart-rending. I wept my way through "A Prayer to Ah Chen," a chapter which deftly blends pathos, Chinese history and redemption.

Well. After a book that makes one laugh helplessly, sob athletically, then bounce around in exultation at the ending, upon re-reading, what else is there to do but see what else the author has written?

This is where the real wailing and rending of garments begins. Hughart only wrote two more books -- The Story of the Stone and Eight Skilled Gentlemen. Then he decided to stop writing. As he told Jerry Kuntz in an interview:

The Master Li books were a tightrope act and hard to write, but not, alas, very remunerative. Still, I would have continued as originally planned if I'd had a supportive publisher: seven novels ending with my heroes' deaths in the battle with the Great White Serpent, and their elevation to the Great River of Stars as minor deities guaranteed to cause the August Personage of Jade almost as much trouble as the Stone Monkey. Unfortunately I had St. Martins, which didn't even bother to send a postcard when I won the World Fantasy Award; Ballantine, which was dandy until my powerhouse editor dropped dead and her successors forgot my existence; and Doubleday, which released The Story of the Stone three months before the pub date, guaranteeing that not one copy would still be on the shelves when reviews came out, published the hardcover and the paperback of Eight Skilled Gentlemen simultaneously, and then informed me they would bring out further volumes in paperback only, meriting, of course, a considerably reduced advance.

So: four books about Number Ten Ox and his boss, Master Li, that will never be written. Can you imagine what it would have been like if the Harry Potter books had only been slightly successful, and J.K. Rowling stopped after Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban? Crazy-making for her, for sure, but moderately frustrating for the reader as well.

Despite knowing that I was setting myself up for heartache, I bought The Story of the Stone and Eight Skilled Gentlemen. Two days ago, I finished The Story of the Stone. I now have no more new Barry Hughart left to read.

All of Hughart's books follow a basic formula: the old sage Master Li, who has a slight flaw in his character, and the young, innocent Number Ten Ox have to unravel a supernatural mystery, weather a betrayal by a trusted friend who has been misdirecting them, then humbly submit to a divine judgment at the end of their quest.

Despite being set in one specific period (around 650 A.D.) and drawing from great Chinese literature, the books apparently defy genre (check out other people's reviews of Bridge of Birds for a lot of caveats about whether the book's fantasy or not), a judgment I find amusing considering how neatly the different plot developments fit in folklore's classification system, the Aarne-Thompson index.

I can see where people who prefer to market or buy books that are clearly "mystery" or "fantasy" or "historical fiction" would be confused by something that's merely a wonderfully-written story with a lot of historical precedent. Let's hear it for the triumph of publishing over stories! This way, we don't have to be confused by books that bring us such keen and lovely passages as this one from The Story of the Stone:

"Ox, at the risk of sounding like a character from the tales of Granny Shu, I will point out that a noise some people hear and others don't isn't speaking to the ears. It's speaking to the heart, and you have a hole in your heart. All young people do. It's there to catch the wonderful things of the world, and later on it gets filled up with broken things."

I consider myself lucky to have caught Hughart's books. I can't help but wish that someday, he will return and finish the broken series.

Comments

[Steph]

Wow. I read these books back in--what?--1992, maybe? And loved them immensely. I devoured them and then was so sad that there weren't more. Now I'm even sadder that there could have been.

I had such a crush on Number Ten Ox. Thanks for letting me share in your madeline and reminding me of how badly I need to find these and re-read them.

[Annie]

I, too, loved Bridge of Birds, and maybe the Story of the Stone even more. I bet that Bridge of Birds would make an incredible film--like a cross between Jerry Bruckheimer and Ang Lee.

[Lisa]

Steph -- the thing that gets me about Number Ten Ox is how he retains his fundamental innocence and purity, even through each book. He gets slightly wiser, but he's still "innocent as an apricot."

Annie, I hadn't even THOUGHT about movies, but you're right. I actually think Eight Skilled Gentlemen would make a fantastic movie. Although, Bridge of Birds would be a perfect Terry Gilliam-esque vehicle. The part with the alchemist kills me every time.