Li Bai and the very demanding task
In which the Tang-dynasty poet is braver than his creator
The interior of Li Bai’s hut. A trail of bottles lies on the floor, which has not been washed in some time. In an interior doorway lies a dirty pile of linen. Du Yu enters cautiously, picking up his feet when they stick to wine stains. He makes his way to the pile of linen, reaches out a hand and touches it.
Du Yu: Li Bai!
The pile shifts. Du Yu shakes harder.
DY: Li Bai!
Li Bai’s hand slumps on to the floor.
Li Bai: You…. Water.
Du Yu brings out a small bottle. Li Bai grabs it and tries to drink. A rivulet pours down his chin.
DY shaking a scroll from his sleeve: I bring great news! Li Bai moans. The Heavenly Office of Calligraphy and Confucian Virtue has offered you a distinguished position! Li Bai moans. The salary is 200 shi. You will have an office! The duties are minor! In his enthusiasm he treads in a dish of half-eaten food. A little teaching. Some administration. Washing his foot off with the water bottle. You will spend the majority of your time writing. At last the recognition you deserve!
Li Bai sits up and leans over, clasping his head in his hands.
LB: I know.
DY: You have been celebrating! This is a shameful display. And the expense! He picks up a bottle. The finest vintage of the province…. I hope you will find it easy to get an advance on your salary.
LB: The village chief told me yesterday evening.
DY: When do you begin? I can’t help feeling a little jealous… but I knew your talent would be rewarded….
LB pulls himself up by the lintel, and shuffles back, vanishing into the inner room. After a brief interval, we hear the sound of vomiting. A further brief interval.
LB: I turned it down.
DY: What?
We hear LB gargling water.
LB: I turned it down.
DY: Li Bai… why? He looks ready to weep. This would have been a salary, security, and end to your travails… a house instead of this miserable hut….
Li Bai reenters, pale and clutching his temples.
LB: Du Yu, my head, my head….
DY clasping him to himself: My poor brother!
LB: … my poor head is so heavy! And so very, very incapable! And the task is so difficult!
DY: It would be a triviality! Some ridiculous forms to fill in every week! To teach the sons of middle-ranking prefects!
Li Bai looks up sharply.
LB: The other task was referred to.
DY: The other? — Ah.
LB: The other task is very, very difficult. So difficult that it requires 100 percent of this most incapable head. Not 50 per cent nor yet 80 or 90 or 99 percent. Furthermore. Furthermore. While the creation of empty verbiage to satisfy one’s superiors, and the lacing of the sandals of local officials’ very mediocre offspring, can be done well or casually, or indeed with blank-faced indifference — the other task cannot, I sadly fear, be performed in a second rate way. It can only be done in a first rate way. Or not at all.
DY nods sagely: Interesting! Tell me, Li Bai the Workaholic, to which percentage does the drinking of riced wine mixed with… he holds up a stone jug… the local shepherds’ hooch belong?
LB: That is different.
DY: Doubtless.
LB: The poet seeks inspiration.
A sound is heard from within the inner room. Du Yu raises an eyebrow.
DY: It seems that the poet in his inspiration has been visited by a supernatural being. Perhaps a fox spirit?
LB: Perhaps….
Another moan.
Du Yu tucks the scroll within Li Bai’s clothing. He retreats gracefully, bowing as he steps backwards over discarded wine bottles, food and clothing. He exits the hut.
A silence falls.
Outside, the sun is its own width above the pines.
Li Bai sighs.
He pulls himself upright and makes his way to a small desk where a bowl of rice is half-eaten. Chewing absent-mindedly, with chopsticks in one hand, he roots for brush and paper and begins to write.
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