Mr. King walked to work as he had for the past year, with an assured step and a sense of his own importance. Here he was, at age 36, second in command of a small school within a big college. He was in charge of production and he had been successful enough at his young age that continuance in his position was assured. After all, nothing had happened on his watch; this was because he believed in smoothness and harmony. Balance was what was important and as long as nothing happened balance was maintained. Mr. King even prided himself at the balance in his own life.
Mr. King did not think about why the morning was so enjoyable. It was, in fact, no more enjoyable or wonderful or enjoined as it was any other day. As per usual, nature was without consideration of Mr. King. So, Mr. King was imbuing the day with his own perception of himself, as men have done since time immemorial; however, this is different from projection, being more akin to the Queen’s magic mirror, for nature cannot answer back, so man gives it voice for his own pleasure.
Mr. King was so pleased with the world because he was so pleased with himself. He had been up into the wee hours of the morning, the deep shadows filling his office, slithering stealthily along walls and floor and ceiling until he was alone by himself in a pool of metallic light until a wrinkled smile broke up his face and he sighed through his tired teeth. He had solved his problem. He had figured out how to get rid of an irritant, an unwonted burden thrust upon him by necessity. And this very morning he struck. The simplicity of the solution brought another crooked smile to his bovine face. Foreigners always thought themselves superior, so ingratiatingly superior, but, in reality, they were ignorant arrogants—which was why it was so terribly easy to fix this one’s wagon. He was Mr. King. He was Dean. He could do it. So, he did it. Mr. King terminated the foreigner’s priveleges based on executive decision based on rules and regulations that could be bent and adjusted when and where necessary. This was the traditional way. It was making sure nothing happened. By the time the ugly foreigner—ugly being a sign of degeneration and decadence—discovered that he’d been invalidated, it would be too late. Satisfaction was so easy to come by sometimes.
And so, the morning was fine and blown full of confidence. But Mr. King did not think of the connection between his self-righteous victory and the nature, which was, inreality, indifferent to him. Because he did not think so deeply was not a symptom of a wanting or weakness in intellectual ability. No. Mr. King was one of those liberals who has an open heart and curtained windows and closed shutters—he kept his best rooms empty awaiting guests he didn’t have to put up.
As he was crossing a side street, without looking as was his wont, something untoward occurred. That is, something that was not supposed to happen. Mr. King was hit by a racing electric bike, spun around and had his pants leg torn. He called after the driver but what could he do? Nothing. As he was uninjured, it was nothing serious and so he continued on his way. Mr. King would telephone Mrs. King and have her bring another pair of pants to the office.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Call my wife and have her bring me another pair, would you?” said Mr. King to his secretary and disappeared into his office.
Mr. King never shut his door when he was in the office. It was more amenable and inviting to have it open. To close his door would be closing other people out and Mr. King did not wish to give that impression. No. If he had private business with a subordinate, Mr. King went elsewhere and shut the door there. But, it must be said in all fairness that Mr. King never invited anyone into his office because no one ever came by. Other than his secretary.
Shortly after Mr. King had made himself at home in his nice leather chair, there was a loud crack outside his window and a large branch from the great big tree there plummeted to the ground, shearing off scads of smaller branches in passing and carrying telephone and electrical wiring with it. These lines snapped, the electric lines writhing around like angry snakes and spitting fire. The building went dark. Nothing worked. All activity ceased. Even at 10 AM, without lights it was dark and eerie. There was no background hum. Nothing.
“What was that!?” shouted the secretary.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see a thing.”
“What do you think we ought to do?”
“Nothing. Someone will fix whatever it is.”
As the cracking and popping continued outside, the secretary went to the window, opened it and leaned out. A crowd had gathered across the street. They were watching the dying spasms of the electrical line and the small fire the sparks had ignited in the dry leaves. It wasn’t a big fire but a bit more than a smoulder. The secretary looked hard—no one was doing anything. It wasn’t often they got to see a fire in broad daylight, so they were perhaps enjoying the spectacle.
“Mr. King?”
“Yes?”
“People are doing nothing out there.”
“And we’re doing nothing up here.”
“But there’s a fire out there.”
Mr. King grudgingly rose from his seat, went to the window, opened it and looked out. “Sure enough,” he said, “there is.”
“What should we do?” The secretary squealed, seeing the first flames erupt from the smoulder.
“There’s nothing we can do. Besides, the appropriate responsible parties will arrive soon.”
Mr. King sat back down. The gentle crackling and popping from outside the window lulled him into a half-sleeping stupor, so that he did not wake to the shouts of the people until the blaze was a virtual bonfire and his curtains were melting and curling round the edges. There was nothing he could do. But suddenly he wanted to do something. He wanted to do something in the worst pssible way and ran around the office shouting, “Do something! Do something! Somebody do something!”
No one ever found out just what it was that happened. There was a fire, a conflagation, yes. This was readily agreed to. In fact, it could not be denied. Too many people had seen it. But, then, well, an explanation was in order so that throughout the university there was a frenzied activity. People who had not been known to have move, other than for nature, food and going home, shuffled furiously from office to office, sometimes muttering under their breaths, sometimes shaking handsful of paper. Once self-assured, smooth telephone voices mutated into strident, pinched acute angles sharp and hard enough to cut diamonds.
It could not be the Fire Department’s fault, if for no other reason than the firehouse was too far away to have had any effect if it had known. But, of course, it was not called and by the time the billowing smoke came to the firemen’s attention, it was too late. The clouds did look like storm clouds—at least to begin with. And it was the rainy season. Such billowing dark clouds were a common occurrence and protented rain. Who could know that they would bring a bonfire?
The campus police were about their first priority and most important business: directing traffic. There was a rather middling serious accident down at the major intersection and traffic had to be rerouted amidst the bloody murder shouting drivers and the ineffectual amelioration of the campus police on the scene. City police were also involved in the melee, so their hands were full too—so many people to police. By the time they were free to acknowledge the greater world around them, it was too late and they had another problem on their hands: keeping the crowds away from the blaze.
And the administration across the street. . .well, they were busy shuffling paperwork concerning human affirs—as they were after the fact—to have the time to look out their smoked-glass privy-windows and through the heavy foliage of the trees at the workings of the world. Everyone must, after all, be responsible for carrying out his duty else the machinery of life will not function smoothly and efficiently, albeit somewhat slowly.
Teachers being the dedicated and responsible lot they are, the school was sure they were concentrating on carrying out their jobs instructing students on the most efficatious and appropriate way to think. So that a great many students were similarly engaged in their life’s work: making the grade. There could be no fault here.
There were those students, staff and visitors who were not otherwise engaged to consider. They watched in dumb horror, it is true, but the innocence of the passer-by cannot be questioned. They were not there by design, chance being what it is. Though, of course, not all passers-by are equal. That is, some are entirely different. The school found this to be notably notable and a good lead to be investigated fully and, so, they began examining the evidence. Sure enough, an oddity exhibited itself, as oddities are wont to do. It was observed, after seemingly endless interviews, that, off to one side of the crowd, a foreigner had been seen sculking about. With blackened face and hands. And, oh yes—singeing to his shirt. Definitely a him. Definitely foreign, judging from his nose and his blond hair. All of the locals were blackheads.
Here was the culprit. The fault had been found and explanations and excuses could be laid aside and an easy breath drawn.
But when he was sought after, no one could find him. True, he had enough time to abscond, as the fault-finding investigation had taken six weeks due to the care and consideration required in such a sensitive situation. It was decided then to accept, in the name of saving face and assuring a continuance of parental and alumni giving, as well as maintenance of enrollment, that circumspection was the better part of valor and the incident was ascribed to a freak of nature, much as this went against the controlling interests of the school officials. But, after all, no foreigner, no problem.
A page 17 story later appeared in one of the city’s rags about the heroic efforts of some foreigner in saving someone from some burning building, a story gotten from some secretary or other. It was a story that died a quick death.
Tags: fire, foreigners, secor, sun yat-sen university, wang
