Last night, as I carried a basin of hot water out to my balcony to wash my feet, I caught sight of a reflection of the moon on its surface, and I wondered whether I should count it as a friend.
When I first heard young men in the city declaring each other ‘iron brothers’ – a phrase snatched from the mouths of the rough, upright heroes of martial arts epics – I misinterpreted it as an evocation of an industrial process. Friends joined together as firmly as iron welded to iron. I would still like to think of friends composed of iron, but joined together by magnetism instead – their every plate, rivet, screw and fitting charged, so that they can be summoned to your side, or you to theirs, from any corner of our mortal world. There are bonds that can be broken, and there are bonds that are harder to break, but magnetism brings things together again.
I had many friends during my youth in the village. Even now, although I have forgotten his name, and although he has been dead twenty years, I think sometimes of the boy that was willing to bounce the ball across the court to me, inviting me to play with him, even though everyone else thought I was too short. After that act of kindness, we were inseparable. But after a few years we parted ways over mulberries. We had gone together to gather the fruit, agreeing that we would divide the berries equally between us. When I got up to wash my hands, he had devoured his own half, then ate half of my half. We were poor back then, and getting enough food was all that mattered. When people met, the usual greeting of the countryside – ‘Have you eaten yet?’ – was meant in earnest. I don’t hear that phrase exchanged between people that live in the city.
I made a fair number of friends in the years after I became a writer. In those years, when I was fighting for fame and wealth, I realized that friends changed like the seasons. Friends came and then went. If my friends were seated before me on a row of benches, there might always be someone to occupy each spot, but the faces would change from day-to-day. I have tried to add up in my head all the friends I have made over the years – friends that protected me when I was in trouble, friends that bailed me out when I was broke, friends that helped me alleviate minor irritations, friends that first hauled me out of the mud and then pushed me back down, friends that tarnished my name with false accusations, friends consumed with envy, who caused me no end of troubles by spreading tales of my personal affairs . . . Alongside those that have treated me well, I count among my friends those that have done me wrong.
Some of my friendships have ended because the other person decided that it was no longer worth talking to me. Sometimes, I grew weary of the other person, and broke things off myself. It is much harder to deal with troubling friendships that drag on. I am thinking of those friends that have done me a good turn, and then come back to demand my help. When you owe someone a debt of gratitude, it makes it difficult to turn down their requests.
The actual number of people in this world does not particularly matter, since we will encounter comparatively few of them in our lifetimes. We come into contact mostly with people who share a few square miles, and in the end, your friends are your world. The story of a struggle for fame and wealth is a story of good and bad friends.
Someone once told me that I’m quite good at making friends, even if I don’t realize it. Everywhere I go, my ‘iron brothers’ are all around me. They freely make use of me. I become like a fish delivered on a platter to their banquet table: while one of my fast friends is spearing my belly meat with chopsticks, another is digging out my fillet with a spoon, and I am left completely stripped, just a set of naked bones.
While sitting alone on the toilet, enjoying my solitude, I sometimes think how fine it would be to be confined to a prison cell, so long as I was free from the company of other inmates. But then again, I only lasted twenty-seven days alone in a private hospital room. I was admitted under a false name, and the masked doctors and nurses knew me only as the number on my bed. I had intended to spend a month in confinement, but unable to stand it I vaulted the wall, and raced home to call my friends.
Someone else once told me that my greatest misfortune is that I’m not particularly good at making friends. If that is true, I’m not convinced it is a misfortune. Some of my friends have caused me great pain, after all. But more of them have made me happy and proud. I will tell you a story that happened in this city a while back . . . A man fell ill and went in search of a doctor. On his street were two clinics. He noticed that some ghosts had gathered in front of each of them. In the doorway of one of the clinics, there were only two or three ghosts, and in the other doorway, there were dozens. The man decided that the doctor at the second clinic must have caused many unhappy deaths, either through negligence or incompetence, so he chose the first clinic. When his condition did not improve, the man’s neighbor recommended that he go to the haunted clinic. He said: ‘That doctor has treated countless patients, but the doctor you went to see has only treated a handful.’ I’m afraid I am more like the doctor who has seen many patients: the friends I have made over the years are innumerable, and it is natural that I am haunted by more of them than someone who has only had a few friends.
My temperament, occupation, status and environment mean that I have made friends that belong to one of two categories: the first type has rendered material support, and the second spiritual aid. In the first category are those that rushed out to buy charcoal bricks for my stove, and even carried them up to my room. These are friends that I could call on to arrange a car to send a sick relative to the hospital. This type of friend includes those that helped me secure spots in better schools for my children. I pay these friends back for their favors, of course. I might give them a piece of my calligraphy to gift to their superiors, or a painting to press on a loan officer to speed up the approval of a mortgage. If they ask, I might even put in an appearance at an aging relative’s birthday banquet. We don’t bother keeping accounts of who profits or loses more from these friendships. Regardless of who benefits more, we can remain fast friends for a long time. The second category of friend provides support that is more intangible and harder to name. This sort of friend gives me someone to chatter away at. Perhaps I admire their talent, or they admire mine. They are friends to talk about books to over tea.
For a long time, I took my friendships very seriously, sometimes to the point that I neglected my own family. Occasionally I placed my friendships above even my parents, my wife and my daughters. Little by little, I came to realize that one’s own affairs are something we can only deal with, and fully grasp, ourselves. The friends that provided material support may have known me well enough to describe the moles on my back, but they may have never comprehended what was in my heart. The friends that rendered spiritual support may have known my mind without appreciating my desires. When the good times come, it is I alone who can appreciate them fully. When the days are long and hard, it is I alone who suffers the most. I still make friends, though. The more friends you have the better. Our souls might one day float free and unencumbered through the world, but in this life, we remain trapped in our human vessels. We cannot get by without friends. When we step out the door, the road is muddy. There are wild dogs barking in the trees and lingering around each corner.
Thinking of friends, my thoughts turn to the Spaniard Picasso. He was a man of great talent and had a great number of friends. Some of his companions seemed to have been born into this world simply to provide for the great master. Still, he went through friends, and also women, quite quickly. His is not a good example to follow. There is a line attributed to him, something to the effect of it being better to lose friends than to make them. I sometimes reflect bitterly on friends that I have lost. In some cases, I broke things off with them, and in others we drifted apart. I realize now that I grew to hate them because I identified too closely with them, or treated them as family. In the end, they were merely friends, and friends are like spring flowers, they wilt when the cold winter winds blow. Your friends might never know you intimately. There are those that will know you intimately but never be your friend. Perhaps nobody will ever know you intimately. They will take from you, consume you, and destroy you. But what does that really count for? The emperor can support a nation, but to how many people can I spread benefits? When I think that way, I abandon my bitterness, and I begin to recall instead the good things those friends have done for me.
I made a new one today. He arrived this morning to appeal for a sheet of my calligraphy. He said that his wife’s firm had assigned her a post in a distant suburb, while he was forced to remain in the city center. Ten years had gone by. His family was separated. If I wrote some calligraphy for him, he explained, he might present it as a gift to the head of human resources at his wife’s firm. He could request that his wife be transferred back to the city. I immediately took out my brush and set to work. In exchange for this favor, he gave me a can of green tea and a carton of fine cigarettes. When he left, I called a few friends to come and enjoy them with me. As I waited for them to drive over, I selfishly decided to brew myself a cup of tea and try one of the cigarettes. At that moment, I suddenly realized that true friendship is about sacrifice. I set down the tea and stubbed out the cigarette, and awaited the arrival of my friends.
Standing in the doorway, I looked up at the sky and laughed.
Image © The Cleveland Museum of Art
