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replaced dust and knobby grass, it resembles a playground, and the warrior's shoulders bunch ever so imperceptibly with outrage. This is not authenticity, he thinks. This is a sham, this is misrepresentation, this is erasure. If he was a less curious man, he would have fled right then and there, but he has trod on continents, burrowed into uncharted caverns, scoured countrysides at night, breathed death. He must experience even this. So he pays the 10-dollar entrance fee. Nearby the chirpy young female guide explains history: Over here is the spot where the famous Master Lau sat in meditation, and the warrior restrains himself from adding, Close, but he actually sat ten paces closer to the east door for his daily snort of wine. The guide has already leaped forward a few decades, reflecting on the times  |
of civil war and crisis, the forbears of the modern era, and as if applauding politely, gunfire crackles in the far distance. The armies are fighting about ten miles outside town, and he has heard talk that the area will be razed within the week, but among the visitors is no concern, no panic, for they cling to routine as if they would cling to life itself, and the guide goes on about the traditional teahouse that has been erected next to the east wing, where the servers will be happy to pour you a refreshing cup of pu-erh tea, for this region is famous for the leaves which produce pu-erh. The warrior has already separated himself from the tour group, and the guide calls after him with hurried formality, My apologies, sir, but the rules state that all visitors here must be accompanied by museum personnel. Terribly sorry for the  |
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