The curious thing about the Melania film, curious in the way a bruise is curious when pressed, is not whether it succeeds artistically or even ethically but that it doesn’t need to. Its financial fate feels preordained not because it is good but because it is useful. This is cinema as talisman, less an act of storytelling than an object of devotion. For a certain audience, mainly MAGA loyalists and evangelical women who have long perfected the art of reconciling piety with power, it is a must-see not despite its flaws but because of them.
Let’s dispense with the obvious suspicions first. The murmurs about Bezos indirect bribery and soft-focus oligarchic indulgence hang over the film like a cheap chandelier, visible, gaudy and impossible to ignore, yet ultimately irrelevant to the experience. Even if the film were entirely self-funded and sainted by monks it would still land where it lands. Its problem is not who might have paid for it but what it reveals, almost accidentally, about the woman at its center and the political theology she represents.
Critics have not been kind and rightly so. The film is stiff, poorly paced, emotionally vacant. Scenes unfold like press releases given human form, each one designed to reassure rather than interrogate. But to focus on its technical inadequacies is to miss the deeper unease it provokes. This is not merely a bad film; it is a revealing one. In its chilliness, in its relentless emotional vacancy, it offers an inadvertent portrait of a First Lady who is not misunderstood or misrepresented but perfectly captured.
Melania Trump has always been an enigma, though not in the romantic sense that journalists once hoped. The film leans heavily into this mythology of mystery, her silence, her reserve, her supposed inner life but what it ends up portraying is not depth, only absence. The camera lingers, waiting for warmth, for contradiction, for moral tension. None arrives. Instead, we are given composure without compassion, elegance without empathy, distance elevated to virtue.
This might have been compelling if the film were self-aware. But it isn’t. It treats Melania’s emotional frost as evidence of dignity, her detachment as strength. In doing so, it unwittingly aligns her with the very qualities that define her husband’s political persona, cruelty reframed as toughness, corruption disguised as pragmatism, indifference elevated to strategy. The apple, it turns out, did not fall far from the gold-plated tree.
There is a scene, one of many, that attempts to humanize her through suffering, suggesting that she, too, is a victim of circumstance, of a husband too loud, a role too demanding. But the film never grapples with the obvious rejoinder, that power, even when reluctantly worn, is still power. Melania is not portrayed as someone trapped within a system she opposes but as someone who has made peace with it, benefiting quietly while others bear the cost noisily.
This is where the film’s appeal to its core audience becomes clear. For evangelical women in particular Melania represents a familiar archetype, the virtuous bystander, morally intact not because she resists wrongdoing but because she does not acknowledge it. Silence becomes sanctity. Endurance becomes righteousness. In this framework, one need not challenge cruelty to remain pure; one need only stand beside it gracefully.
Financially this is a brilliant calculation. The film flatters its audience by affirming what they already believe, that proximity to power absolves rather than implicates, that elegance can substitute for ethics, that a woman’s quietness is proof of her goodness. It asks nothing of the viewer except loyalty and loyalty, in this political ecosystem, is always rewarded.
Yet for viewers outside this circle, the film is chilling in a different way. Not because it shocks but because it normalizes. It presents corruption without consequence, cruelty without reflection and emotional vacancy as aspirational. In doing so, it becomes less a biography than a mirror, one that reflects a political moment in which moral emptiness is no longer a scandal, but a brand.
In the end, the Melania film succeeds not by transcending politics but by embodying them. It is cold because it means to be. It is hollow because hollowness is the point. And it will make money because it reassures its audience that nothing, neither empathy nor accountability, is truly required of those who stand close enough to power. That may not be cinema at its best but it is propaganda at its most honest
There is something profoundly revealing about the way institutions choose whom to protect. Buckingham Palace has spent decades perfecting the art of dignified silence, strategic amnesia and moral flexibility but nowhere is that craft more exposed than in its wildly different treatment of Prince Andrew and Prince Harry.
Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor became a walking reputational catastrophe, yet the Palace response was soft, slow and carefully padded. Titles were removed reluctantly, statements were massaged into bloodless neutrality and public outrage was met with the unmistakable tone of an old club protecting one of its own.
The message was clear; Andrew was a problem to be managed, not a moral failure to be confronted. Even as evidence mounted and explanations collapsed under their own absurdity, the institution bent itself backward to preserve the illusion of continuity.
Contrast that indulgence with the glacial, almost punitive posture adopted toward Prince Harry and the hypocrisy becomes impossible to ignore. Harry committed no crime, faced no credible allegations of corruption or abuse, yet he was treated as an existential threat.
His real offense was not scandal but disobedience. He spoke openly, rejected the Palace’s code of silence and prioritized personal survival over institutional image.
For a monarchy built on optics, that kind of autonomy is unforgivable. Where Andrew’s sins could be buried under protocol and ceremony, Harry’s independence threatened the entire performance.
The Palace froze him out with remarkable efficiency. Military titles stripped quickly, security withdrawn without sentiment and briefings leaked that painted him as unstable, ungrateful and reckless.
The contrast is not just unfair; it is instructive. Andrew embarrassed the Crown but obeyed its rules, while Harry challenged the structure itself by refusing to suffer quietly.
In royal logic, silence is loyalty and suffering is duty. The institution can forgive monstrous behaviour far more easily than it can forgive defiance.
This is not about family drama or personal grievances; it is about power. The monarchy survives by enforcing hierarchy and Harry broke rank in public. By leaving, speaking and refusing to play his assigned role, he exposed how conditional royal compassion truly is. Sympathy flows downward only when it reinforces the system.
Andrew, shielded and cushioned, represents the old monarchy protecting itself from consequences. Harry, cast out and condemned, represents the danger of accountability, transparency and modern expectations.
The cruelty of the Palace’s response to Harry is not accidental; it is deliberate. Institutions punish whistleblowers and rebels more harshly than abusers because the former threaten control.
When viewed side by side, the moral calculus becomes grotesque. One man allegedly exploited vulnerability and was managed with kid gloves; the other demanded boundaries and was exiled.
This is why public sympathy has shifted, despite relentless attempts to frame Harry as the villain. People recognize injustice when they see it, even beneath crowns and crests.
The Palace may believe it defended tradition but what it really revealed was fear. Fear of losing narrative control, fear of change and fear of a prince who refused to disappear quietly.
In choosing to protect Andrew and punish Harry, the monarchy made its values unmistakably clear. And once seen that imbalance cannot be unseen.
No amount of ceremony, pageantry or rehearsed dignity can fully cover the stench of that choice. History tends to be far less forgiving than palaces expect.
The real tragedy is not that Harry left, but that the institution forced the exit. A monarchy confident in its morality would not need exile to maintain order. Instead, it chose loyalty over justice, silence over truth and obedience over humanity. That decision will echo far longer than any interview, memoir or headline.
Empires and crowns do not fall because of outsiders; they erode from the inside when credibility collapses. Protecting Andrew may have bought temporary quiet but punishing Harry broadcasted rot.
The public no longer accepts the idea that birth excuses behaviour while conscience is treated as betrayal. In that sense, Harry’s greatest crime was reminding people that royalty is still accountable.
The Palace can close ranks, rewrite narratives, and wait for attention to drift. But the comparison will remain, stark and uncomfortable, etched into public memory.
In the end, this is less about two princes than about what power chooses to protect. Buckingham Palace answered that question clearly, and history is already taking notes.
The chill shown to Harry may linger as the monarchy’s most revealing legacy. Not scandal, but selective mercy, is what finally stripped the Crown of moral authority.
The loudest accusations often come wrapped in the language of purity. “Stop covering up Trump,” the cry goes, delivered with the confidence of a man scrubbing a countertop for the cameras, sleeves rolled, halo polished. The pose is familiar, I am clean, I am above it, I am merely pointing out the dirt on others. But politics and power have a way of turning that pose into theater and theater into self-parody.
The obsession with the Epstein files has become less about justice and more about weaponized innocence. It’s no longer a question of what happened, who was harmed or how accountability might actually work. Instead, it’s a loyalty test. If you mention one name, you’re brave. If you mention another, you’re accused of betrayal. Silence is guilt, speech is treason and nuance is treated like a cover-up.
This is where the “Mr. Clean” persona collapses under its own shine. The insistence on absolute innocence, repeated loudly enough and often enough, doesn’t reassure; it provokes suspicion. Real integrity doesn’t need a megaphone. It doesn’t require daily declarations of “I’m not in the files.” It simply exists, quietly and lets facts speak when they must. When someone protests too much, the public instinctively leans in closer, not out of malice but out of pattern recognition.
What makes the moment especially brittle is the selective outrage. One set of elites is framed as irredeemably corrupt, another as untouchable visionaries. Billionaires are either villains or saviors depending on their alignment, not their behavior. That’s not accountability; that’s fandom. And fandom is allergic to complexity. It demands heroes with spotless capes and enemies with no redeeming features.
Elon Musk sits at the uncomfortable center of this contradiction, not because of any single document or rumor but because he embodies the myth people want to believe and fear they might lose. The disruptive genius. The free speech absolutist. The guy who “tells it like it is.” When whispers circulate that challenge that image, the reaction isn’t calm evaluation. It’s panic. Defensiveness. Counter-accusation. Anything to keep the balloon aloft.
But balloons don’t float forever. They rise on hot air, hype repetition, and the constant injection of attention. Over time, the material stretches. Seams weaken. The higher it goes, the louder the pop when reality intervenes. The problem isn’t that people eventually fall from grace; it’s that we pretend grace was ever guaranteed.
The real betrayal here isn’t about names in files or headlines yet to come. It’s the betrayal of basic skepticism. We’re told to pick sides and shut up, to trust billionaires because they tweet like us, to dismiss uncomfortable questions as coordinated attacks. Journalism becomes cheering. Criticism becomes heresy. And suddenly, demanding consistency is treated as an act of hostility.
A truly free public sphere would allow two ideas to coexist: that the powerful deserve scrutiny, and that accusations require care. Instead, we get a gladiator arena of insinuation and denial, where every statement is performative and every silence is suspect. In that arena, “Mr. Clean” isn’t a moral position; it’s a costume, donned and discarded as needed.
The coming explosion, if it happens, won’t be caused by one revelation. It will be caused by exhaustion. People grow tired of being managed by narratives that insult their intelligence. They notice when the standards shift. They remember who demanded transparency for others while hiding behind outrage for themselves. And when the balloon finally bursts, the noise will come not from the fall, but from the sudden rush of air escaping a myth that could no longer hold.
This isn’t a call for cynicism. It’s a plea for adulthood. Stop idolizing. Stop absolving. Stop pretending that power cleans itself. Real accountability doesn’t scream. It doesn’t posture. It waits, it watches and when the moment comes, it speaks plainly. Everything else is just soap and shine, sliding down a surface that was never as spotless as advertised.
History shows that myths survive only as long as audiences agree to suspend disbelief. Once that contract breaks, the reckoning is swift and unsentimental. No amount of branding, memes, or moral grandstanding can substitute for humility and transparency. The public doesn’t need saviors; it needs systems that don’t depend on personal virtue. Until then, every self-declared paragon should expect scrutiny to follow fame like a shadow. That isn’t persecution. It’s the price of influence, and the bill always arrives. Ignore it long enough and even the loudest denials dissolve into echoes no one bothers to answer anymore.
On Januray the 15th, 2026 the current Albanian Prime Minister Edi Rama, was being interviewed by a Greek-American journalist in Abu Dhabi, during the Sustainable Development Summit. What followed was an episode which highlights how context, humor, and selective media framing can quickly escalate into diplomatic tension.
Speaking directly to the moderator, Rama remarked that Greeks tend to "underestimate others" because they believe they hold a "monopoly on philosophy" and view themselves as the "direct heirs of Plato and Aristotle—but you are not." The exchange escalated when the moderator mentioned a €1 billion investment project in Albania. Rama interjected, correcting that the figure was actually "over €1 billion," then added another jab: "You estimate like Greeks do. When you talk about your own money, you add three zeroes. When you talk about the money of others, you remove three zeroes. That’s what you do." He wrapped up the comment with sarcasm, noting that this approach is "why the European Union loves you so much."
Naturally the Greek media and social media went on fire. However, following the backlash over his remarks about the Greeks , Albania’s PM Edi Rama clarified that his comments were intended as humor, expressing surprise at the scale of the controversy. He pushed back against Greek media outlets, accusing them of a “public attack fueled by nationalist passion.” He insisted his comments were “steeped in friendly humor” and taken out of context. To reassure his critics, Rama added, “I have not the slightest doubt that Plato and Aristotle are Greek philosophers and that Ancient Greece is the cradle of European civilization.” However, he ended with a sharp retort, stating that, while he respects Greek culture and the Prime Minister, he refuses to accept that those attacking him with “nationalist fervor” are the rightful descendants of such great philosophers.
In an interview with the Greek television station Alpha, Greek Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis adopted a calm and pragmatic approach. He stated:“I have known Mr. Rama for many years. He has a particular way of expressing himself and sometimes things slip out that he should not say. This time he said something inappropriate and understood his mistake. I take into account the correction he made, and it is better to leave the issue behind us.”
Personally I think that both Mr Rama and Albania as a country, behave like individuals with inferiority complexes; yet they should not really! The "jokes" were made by the Albanian PM towards a Greek-American journalist if I may add, an American with Greek ancestry, who may not be really aware of what is going on latelly in Albania.
His Greek ancestry is not an invitation or an excuse to make jokes about Greece as a country, especially when they are unprovoked. Nothing that the journalist asked, invited the "humour" of Mr Rama. And to make matters worse, the Albanian PM in his "clarification" stated that he has no doubt that Plato and Aristotle were Greek, yet he did not exactly disputed that in his comments towards the journalist, rather that the modern Greek population has anything to do with them. Something that he expressed again when he complained about the backclash he caused, by refusing to accept that those attacking him with “nationalist fervor” are the rightful descendants of such great philosophers.
One can sense the complex and envy in his words, like for example the "joke" on why the E.U loves Greece so much, when Greeks in general and as a nation, estimate like the way we do. When we talk about our own money, we add three zeroes. When we talk about the money of others, we remove three zeroes.
Stereotypes in general are not a good thing. Mr Rama should remember the famous film "Taken", and how the villains in this movie were an Albanian mafia, trafficking girls across Europe for sexual exploitation. It is not any of us Greeks that are to be blamed for this indeed very unfair portrayal and sterotype that the Albanian people must carry. Our Balkan neighbors must do some soul searching to figure out why and how this came to be, plus find ways to undo this bad image that exists for them across Europe and the rest of the world. But this won't happen by attacking the Greek people and their history, but by proving to the rest of Europe what does Albania has to offer as a nation; and it has-a lot.
Clearly the Greek side over-reacted and unleashed scathing attacks against Rama and the Albanian people in general, which serve as nothing more rather than releasing internal anger and frustration, and as Mr Rama said a misplaced "nationalist passion". However I understand where this comes from and why my compatriots reacted in such way.
We too had to deal with unfair and misplaced stereotypes in Europe, for over a decade now since the Eurozone economic crisis. The Greeks had also to suffer humiliation, economic suffering and injustice to this day, and that made us oversensitive to any such comments and jokes like that of Mr Rama.
In addition, there are numerous social media accounts from our neighboring countries like Albania, Turkey and North Macedonia, spreading false claims, irredentism and propaganda about Greek history, borders, nationality, ethnic identity and the very "jokes" that Mr Rama made; that Greeks are not descended from our ancient ancestors. All of which are false and it has been proven that Greeks are indeed related to their famous forefathers, although understandably not exclusively. You see nationalism and its "passion" goes both ways and is not confined only within the Greek borders. Our Balkan neighbors also suffer a great deal from it.
Now, nobody I know of Greek origin, wakes up in the morning, looks himself in the mirror and boasts about his ancient heritage. We got lots of other problems to solve in our everyday lives, plus as a modern nation. But when it comes to a continuous belittlement, disputes that become toxic, humiliation by our EU partners, scorn by Western media etc, then yes we will answer back just like Mr Rama did when he found himself in hot waters after his comments, and his compatriots that rallied to support him on social media.
Greece was among the first countries, together with Italy, which opened its borders and welcomed thousands of Albanian immigrants when their country was faced with the collapse of communism, gave them work and helped them to rebuilt their lives. I worked with many of them in my youth and my experiences were largely positive. Additionally, those immigrants contributed hugely in the Greek society and economy, something that is undisputed to this day. Not that there were no problems in this new reality that both countries found themselves in.
Greek media fanned the Greek "nationalistic passion," just like today and in every country, by blaming all crimes on "foreign born" criminals. As if suddenly the Greek ones disappeared and migrants from Romania, Albania and Georgia took their place. However, Albanian criminal gangs did indeed commit lots of crimes back then, that is something that cannot be disputed; just the notion that every immigrant in Greece, especially from Albania, was enganging in such activities.
Our two nations have long history of living and working together, sometimes fighting each other or finding themselves on opposing sides. But that is true for all European nations. The difference is, that once in the EU- whose role was originally conceived as to abolish all wars and animosity among the European nations, such sentiments should fade away. A member of the block cannot engage in such demeanor towards another EU member state; especially its Prime Minister who speaks and represents the nation diplomatically abroad, and is not some internet Albanian troll with a fake account on social media, that scorns the Greek people and history in such manner.
That is why many Greeks like myself, see very favorably Albania's EU accession, when the rest of Europe is ready to take them in. It is not Greece that is sceptical about Albania's EU aspirations, rather the rest of the continent which suffers from expansion fatigue, plus each individual member state is faced with their own economic woes lately. You see Mr Rama, the EU does not "love us" more than they love Albania, rather we were only lucky to get in the club, before thigs started to feel sour in EU on expansion.
Where in EU's recent treatment of Greece you whitnessed that European leaders and media are being favorable towards us to have so much envy and an underlined complex towards our country, that in any opportunity which arises, you make "jokes" towards an American citizen of Greek ancestry? Which begs the question then, why you spoke so favorably for Italy and its Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni, to whom you even kneeled to welcome her in a recent summit in Tirana? Are the Italians true descendants of the Romans, or has Italy done more than Greece to help fleeing Albanian citizens back in the '90s, or maybe their treatment of Albanian refugees was better than how we treated those who crossed into our country en masse?
Perhaps Italy is more vocal and supportive towards the Albanian EU accession than Greece? No matter what the reasons are, such comments do not do any favors to Albania as a country, the Greek-Albanian relations that should be as close as those you got with Italy, or any EU aspirations that your country may have. It is not proper or suitable for a Prime Minister of a country to make unfortunate "jokes" towards an allied nation in NATO, hopefully an EU partner, just because and American journalist that had a Greek surname, asked you a few wrong questions. Albania deserves better than that.
Just when it seemed impossible for Andrew’s long descent into public disgrace to sink any lower, gravity found a new basement. More Epstein files, more photographs and now another woman alleging she was sent by Jeffrey Epstein to the United Kingdom for a sexual encounter with Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor at Royal Lodge in 2010. The claim is not merely salacious; it is devastating in its familiarity. The same names, the same settings of privilege, the same suffocating sense that accountability has been perpetually deferred in favour of protection, silence and royal discomfort management.
What makes these revelations particularly corrosive is not novelty but repetition. We have been here before. We have watched the photographs surface, listened to carefully layered denials, endured the now-infamous television interview that managed to combine arrogance with implausibility and observed the quiet institutional retreat that followed. Titles were trimmed, duties removed and public appearances minimized, all while the core question remained unanswered, how does someone so consistently orbiting abuse scandals continue to be cushioned from consequence?
The latest allegation fits an old and ugly pattern. A non-British woman in her twenties. Epstein as facilitator. A royal residence as the alleged setting. Whether or not this claim is ever proven in court, its existence alone further erodes any remaining credibility Andrew might claim. Patterns matter. When similar accusations emerge independently across time, geography, and circumstance, they cease to look like coincidence and begin to resemble structure.
And yet, the humiliation that follows Andrew is not solely personal. It radiates outward, staining the monarchy itself. This is the uncomfortable truth Buckingham Palace has tried desperately to contain; Andrew’s scandals are not private missteps but institutional failures. The royal family’s instinct has been to insulate rather than confront, to wait out outrage rather than meet it head-on. In doing so, they have allowed a narrative of entitlement to harden into public consensus.
There is something uniquely infuriating about watching privilege operate as a shock absorber. Ordinary people accused of far less see careers end overnight. Reputations collapse. Doors close. Andrew, by contrast, lost ceremonial roles and public favour but retained wealth, residence and protection. Royal Lodge remains his home. The gates remain closed. The silence remains funded.
Defenders often retreat to legality, reminding critics that allegations are not convictions. This is true but it is also incomplete. Public trust is not governed by criminal thresholds alone. Institutions survive on moral authority and moral authority evaporates when power appears allergic to scrutiny. The question is not only whether Andrew can be convicted of wrongdoing but whether the monarchy can survive the perception that it reflexively shields its own.
Equally telling is the role of Epstein himself, now dead and conveniently unable to testify. His shadow continues to lengthen, implicating financiers, politicians and royalty alike. Each new disclosure underscores how effectively he weaponized access and status, and how willingly some accepted both. That Andrew’s name refuses to detach from Epstein’s speaks volumes, regardless of legal outcomes.
The humiliation, then, is not tabloid cruelty; it is cumulative consequence. Every new photo, every new accuser, every resurfaced timeline chips away at the carefully polished image of royal dignity. Andrew is no longer merely an embarrassment; he is a symbol of what happens when hierarchy replaces humility and tradition is mistaken for immunity.
Perhaps the most damaging aspect of all is the message this sends to victims. Watching a powerful man repeatedly evade meaningful accountability communicates that suffering is negotiable when status intervenes. That silence is safer than speaking. That truth must wait its turn behind protocol.
The public is not asking for spectacle or vengeance. It is asking for honesty, distance, and a clear break from behaviour that undermines trust. Until that happens, every attempt to move on will feel premature, every appearance of unity performative. Andrew’s story will keep resurfacing, dragged back by documents, photographs, and voices long ignored. Not because critics enjoy scandal, but because unresolved power has a way of demanding resolution, again and again, until someone finally listens. History rarely forgets those who mistake silence for absolution forever. Publicly.
Pao-yu awoke to a racket. At first, he had no idea where he was, and couldn’t identify the source of the noise. Rubbing sleep-dulled eyes, he began to recall the rather shabby meal he had eaten with the old couple, the mat in the hut where he had fallen asleep. But no, he wasn’t in that humble hut. As his vision cleared, Pao-yu saw that he sat cross-legged on the side of a busy street. It was midday, and swift-footed men pulled carts laden with fruit and bolts of silk and rice and jars of wine past him in either direction, shouting warnings to one another and the pedestrians who braved the busy thoroughfare. Then it began to come back to him: he remembered settling down to sleep right here, against the earthen city wall in Hangchow, alone and cold and without work. Was it this morning or yesterday that he had come here? He had no sense of how long he had been sleeping on the edge of the street, but he doubted that the Watch would have let him loiter a day and a night in the same place. Thinking back he remembered clearly the last person he had seen before he fell asleep--Mu-lien.
“Ah, yes, it was me, Hsiung-ti,” came the reply to Pao-yu’s thoughts. The voice was at once soothing and vexing, and Pao-yu looked up, half hopeful and half annoyed, to find Mu-lien standing beside him, sunlight gleaming off his bald pate. His eyes smiled, but his face was arranged in solemnity.
“What in the world is going on? Why are you shadowing me? I don’t understand anything since you came to the dumpling factory. Please either help me or go away and leave me to whatever fate I can find!” Pao-yu entreated. He felt frustrated and frightened, near tears, like a child. He wanted solidity and certainty, and although he was not presently well-situated to secure these things, he had an adolescent’s confidence in his own good fortune. The monk trailed chaos and confusion, interfering and toying with Pao-yu’s life. He was not entirely of this world, and that too, made Pao-yu anxious. Pervading Fragrance had always warned him to steer clear of ghosts and others with ghostly powers. It seemed like good advice.
“Hsiung-ti, it is only good that I bring you. This you must trust.” Squatting down next to Pao-yu, he pulled five dumplings from his sleeve. They were warm and redolent of brown pepper and vinegar. Mu-lien held them out to Pao-yu, who took them in his cupped hands and began to eat.
When he had finished, Mu-lien asked Pao-yu about his meal of the preceding evening. “How did you get on, Hsiung-ti, with my friends the Lis? Did they offer you proper hospitality? Did they care for you well?”
“They were nice enough, but old. So old. Funny--you looked as old as they when you came to Hsia Lien’s, but not so much today. Anyway, they went on and on about a daughter they once had but sold, and I felt badly for them, but of course they did it, not I. Oh, and Mu-lien, thank you for the ping. Last night’s meal was filling but weak. I was hungry so I ate, but I didn’t know people had to eat like that. Even you, wandering the streets, eat better than the Lis. No tea, no rice, can you imagine? Lao-niang was sweet and kind with what she had, though, so it was good to know her. I never had a grandmother, you know, and now I am sure I wish I had one.” To his surprise, Pao-yu found that it was good to tell Mu-lien about his visit to the old couple, about how it felt to be there with them. So much so that he forgot to demand an explanation as to how he had gotten to the countryside and back in his sleep.
“You have done well Hsiung-ti. Sometimes it is very difficult to see the seed inside the fruit, but you have done well. I must be off now--I have things I need to see to--but if you will meet me right here by the wall, tonight at two hours past dusk, I will find you some food to eat.” As was his habit, Mu-lien grasped Pao-yu’s hands in his own as a gesture of parting and stepped into the street where he was narrowly missed by a pig-butcher’s cart.
Pao-yu stretched his legs and stood up; as he did, a slip of paper fluttered to the ground. What is this? he wondered, stooping to pick it up. Recognizing another verse from Mu-lien, he leant against the wall and read:
Honor your parents in Winter and Spring--
But treasure the chrysanthemum only Autumn can bring.
When High is Low and low is high--
Then will pine trees begin to flourish and grow.
More nonsense, he thought, stuffing the slip into his girdle next to the first verse. The only indication that these poems had anything to do with him was the mention of pine trees, since Pine Tree had been his milk name. The rest of it was gibberish.
The sun was already beginning her westward descent, and the time to look for work had passed. Pao-yu strolled the streets for the remainder of the afternoon in a leisurely fashion, watching people and wondering where he might end up. As dusk approached, he turned his feet toward the city wall, eagerly anticipating his meeting with Mu-lien and some dinner.
After sitting up against the wall in the dark for what seemed like several hours, Pao-yu’s confidence began to wane. He was sure that it was at least two hours since dusk; the monk was late. He walked down the street, certain that Mu-lien must have mistaken their meeting place. Not finding him, he hurried back, afraid that Mu-lien might have come and gone in his absence. Pao yu’s stomach began to sing, and the cold of the autumn night crept through his thin hemp gown. Huddled next to the wall he waited. Passersby thinned out as the night wore on until the street was empty, not even a dumpling vendor or a moon-thrown shadow to pique Pao-yu’s hope. Determined to hold out and stay awake so that he could tell Mu-lien exactly what he thought of him, Pao-yu fell into a sound sleep.
No sooner had his eyes closed than Mu-lien appeared before him. “Where have you been, Hsiung-ti?” he asked chidingly. “I have awaited you here since two hours past dusk. But don’t worry about that. There is still plenty of time to get you some food. Let’s go!” Taking Pao-yu’s hand as he had the night before, Mu-lien walked quickly up the deserted street. Soon the sounds of laughter and talking and singing became audible in the distance. As they walked on, Pao-yu could see that they were in a part of Hangchow where he had never been. The houses and streets were unfamiliar, as were the names of the shops and tea houses. At last they came upon a broad torch-lit intersection filled with people, all intent upon their own amusements. Some of the men were drunk and boisterous, en route to the next in what was obviously a lengthy string of wine restaurants, while others looked as if they were hurrying toward the pleasures of home, wives and children. Singing-girls and bondsmaids, plain and fancy, mingled with the men.
Pao-yu was again confused. He had seen such nightlife in Hangchow many times—his mother, after all, had been a singing-girl at the House of Li’s Blessing--but he hadn’t a clue as to where they were now. Looking around at the multitude of faces in the flickering light, searching for some sort of landmark, he let go of Mu-lien’s hand. He continued to make his way through the crush to the edge of the square, where the crowds thinned out, expecting to find Mu-lien waiting for him. Mu-lien was nowhere in sight. Instead, he saw a vigorous man of middle age approaching him purposefully.
“Aha!” the man said in a voice hearty enough to make Pao-yu shiver. “Here you are at last, my son! I was beginning to wonder if your nerve had failed you at the last moment, but I see that you are here and of strong heart.” He clapped Pao-yu on the shoulders in friendly greeting.
After the initial surprise, Pao-yu began to catch on. This had to be more of Mu-lien’s doing, and in all likelihood the best course of action would be the one of least resistance. “Lao-yeh,” he answered with head bowed as it should be, “I too am glad to see you and beg that you forgive my unforgivable tardiness.”
“Think nothing of it, my son. We have much pleasure in store for us tonight, so why waste time on remorse? Let us go eat and drink ale and have some fun, eh?” Pao-yu nodded his agreement and the man went on, “So where shall we begin? It is your night tonight Pao-yu, so you must pick our destination. What will it be, eh, son?”
Pao-yu, having no idea what sort of diversions this man had in mind, was in a poor position to suggest a place to find them, and so he followed a politic course. “Lao-yeh, you are so much wiser and more knowledgeable in these matters. I beg you to make the choice. It would please me very much to go where you lead.”
“Oh come! You must have some preference. Would you like to eat food from Szechwan or Hopei or Chu’u-chou? Or how about Mother Sung’s or the Pavilion of Lengthy Blessings? Or what of the House of Li’s Blessing, eh? What would suit you tonight Pao-yu?”
Relieved to learn that they were merely going to dine at a wine restaurant, Pao-yu held a respectful stance, “Oh Lao-yeh, I will enjoy any of them in your illustrious company. Please choose.”
Seconds later he was following the swirling turquoise silk of the man’s robe through the crowd at the center of the square. After many indulgences begged, they arrived at a huge arched doorway where half a smoked pig hung suspended. Around the curve of the arch was etched the restaurant’s name: Chrysanthemum Two Mountain Palace. Pao-yu tried to keep up with the man as he strode through a pandemonious foyer thick with vendors trying to sell everything from fruit to little boys, and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Here things were quieter and more orderly. Flowers and paintings of flowers--chrysanthemums of course--adorned the walls, and elaborate silk brocade chairs and carved wooden couches were set near lacquered tables at regular intervals down the length of the room. The head man was with them at once, and apparently he knew the turquoise silk gentleman. “Lao-yeh, it is a pleasure to see you tonight. And you have brought your son with you?” Here the turquoise gentleman put his arm proudly around Pao-yu’s shoulders. “Well,” continued the head man, “we will do all we can to make his evening a memorable one.”
He led them to a table in the rear, past other elegant diners and drinkers. As they picked their way amongst the tables, Pao-yu noticed that he was wearing a silken robe the color of earliest pea vines, much finer than anything he had ever worn before. He wondered with less amazement than he would have the night before just how long he had been so attired.
The head man tried to hand them menus, but Turquoise Silk waved him away. “Send the Gong Head; I am ready to order. And have him bring us properly warmed wine when he comes.”
Pao-yu barely had time to take in the room, decorated with dwarf evergreens and strung with vermillion and gold lanterns, before the waiter arrived bearing two small silver cups. Without waiting for the wine to be served, Turquoise Silk began to give their order, “We’ll start with hundred-flavors soup, of course, and then we’ll have quail eggs fried in oil and after that some iced carp broth with pickled turnip greens, and then, well, I think a plate of imitation barbecued riverdeer would be in order, a portion of milk-steamed lamb, kidneys cooked in wine and vinegar, some of your marvelous steamed bamboo and pork buns, and I think we’ll follow that with live riverprawns. Meanwhile, keep the wine coming and keep it warm! You know as I do, dear fellow, that cold wine is dangerous. Draws the heat right out of your organs. Can’t have that, can we?”
The Gong Head was gone the minute Turquoise Silk finished his soliloquy, headed to the kitchen where he would deliver the order almost verbatim.
Pao-yu waited for his host to drink, as was polite, and only after Turquoise Silk lifted his cup, saying, “Drink, boy, drink!” did he sip from the silver cup. The warm wine was scented with herbs and tasted slightly of camphor. While they drank, Turquoise Silk told Pao-yu about his day. As he talked, Pao-yu gathered that he was a rice merchant, for, like the Lis, his concern of the moment was the rice harvest. He talked of the many varieties already piling up in his warehouses beyond the city walls: new milled, yellow-eared, first quality white, lotus pink, champa, shortstalked, old, glutinous, ordinary white, ordinary yellow and on and on. Pao-yu had never even considered that rice came in so many sorts, and although his passion for it clearly did not equal his host’s, he listened attentively.
The merchant asked Pao-yu about his progress in school over hundred-flavors soup, which was served in delicate porcelain bowls and judged by both to be delicious. Pao-yu was uncertain as to how best to handle the question since he had last set foot in school some months before Pervading Frangrance’s passing. Thinking fast, he responded almost immediately with good news: all was going well at school, he was pleasing the master and learning much. This seemed to satisfy Turquoise Silk, and when the quail eggs fried in oil arrived, he was deep into a description of his business accounts. While they ate imitation barbecued river-deer, he spoke of his newly acquired fleet of barges, bringing his rice south from the paddies near the Yangtze. With each dish the merchant told Pao-yu more and more about his business.
Their wine cups were kept full and Pao-yu, who was unaccustomed to wine in such quantity became drunk. When the live river prawns were no more, the Gong Head set a final cup before them, golden with saffron and sweet with honey. It was so comforting that Pao-yu let down his guard and spoke of Pervading Fragrance and how he missed her.
The merchant hushed him, putting his hand over Pao-yu’s mouth (for he was a bit tipsy himself) and saying, “Quiet my boy! No more of that maudlin talk. I’ve just the thing to cheer you up, you know, but only after we’ve finished dining. Gong Head! Gong Head! Come here at once!”
With the waiter standing attendance, Pao-yu’s host ordered iced tangerines and litchis, sugared ping, fried Lo-yang snow pears, and White Clouds tea to drink. The notion of more food made Pao-yu’s stomach lurch and his liver flutter, but he surprised himself by eating a good deal of the Lo-yang snow pears.
When all the paraphernalia of their meal had been cleared away, Turquoise Silk patted his belly happily and called for the head man. “A splendid meal as always, my dear fellow. Please give my complements to the chef. I think though, that it is time now for our little surprise, eh? Will you see to that now, my good man?” Pao-yu thought he saw the merchant wink at the head man, and after he went about his errand, Turquoise Silk chuckled and rubbed his knuckles across his lips, as if to seal in the laughter.
Pao-yu was afraid to know what all this was about, but since the merchant seemed engrossed in private mirth, he let it pass, confident that time would reveal Turquoise Silk’s plan.
The “plan” appeared shortly. She was sheathed in a mulberry-colored silk dress embroidered with plum blossoms and her black hair was caught up in large filigreed combs of ivory and silver. She smiled at Pao-yu, curtseyed, and without a word, gestured for him to follow her.
Turquoise Silk gave Pao-yu a characteristically hearty but wholly undignified send-off: a sound whack to his backside. “Go on! Get moving, young man! You’ll thank me in the morning, eh?” Pao-yu stumbled along behind the woman, who took him to a beautifully appointed chamber behind the restaurant. She settled him on a scroll-armed k’ang and sat down opposite. “The young master has already had too much novelty this evening, I think,” she said archly. “Besides, it’s not right for your Auntie to teach you the secrets of cloud and rain. No, that is another’s job. But I must say, Hsiung-ti you have done well for yourself. Ssu-Cheh is an important man these days, someone to reckon with. And you look up-and-coming yourself,” she concluded, fingering the silk of his gown.
Pao-yu, who was really quite drunk, must have looked utterly baffled, because the woman began to scold, “Ah Hsiung-ti, it is as they say, ‘the higher the position, the worse the memory.’ Can it be that you have forgotten your Auntie Snow Duck? All the years I played with you while your cherished mother was at work? All the happy hours we spent together at Feast of Lanterns in first month making and solving conundrums? No, it isn’t possible. Do you remember me now, Hsiung-ti?”
And of course, with a little prompting, Pao-yu recognized his mother’s dearest friend Snow Duck. They embraced, shed some bittersweet tears and talked of Pervading Fragrance and happier times. It wasn’t long, though, before Pao-yu’s addled brain deserted him entirely, leaving him fast asleep on the k’ang.
* * *
The ninth month sun was unusually and unpleasantly warm, beating down steadily on Pao yu’s scalp as he awakened. This morning, it took him just a second or two to orient himself: the hectic street traffic, the cool earth behind his back told him he was again at the city wall.
As he began to think over the previous night’s strange adventure, Pao-yu felt, among other things, a pang of sorrow at having been separated from Snow Duck again. I will seek her out today, he thought, after I’ve found a place to wash. (He was disappointed to note that the pea-vine colored robe was gone and in its place, his old hemp gown, too grimy to be presentable.) She will help me get another place, his thoughts continued. What was the name of her restaurant? Ah yes! Chrysanthemum Two Mountains. Yes, he decided definitely, this afternoon he would look for Snow Duck at Chrysanthemum Two Mountains.
While he was thinking of these things, a cool shadow fell across his burning scalp, and he looked up to find Mu-lien standing over him.
“I wondered if I’d see you this morning,” said Pao-yu in a voice shaded with ambivalence.
The monk looked positively merry, as if the world could not be better or life more fun than it was today. “Hsiung-ti! Of course I am here. Don’t doubt my coming to you. See what I’ve brought!” He pulled a parcel of juicy steamed pork and scallion buns from his sleeve. “Some steamed ping, little son?”
Pao-yu was hungry despite the extravagant dinner he had enjoyed late into the night, and Mu-lien sat silently by while the boy ate. When he was finished, the monk asked, “How did you like your meal last evening? Did Ssu-Cheh treat you well?”
“Mu-lien, the restaurant was beautiful, so much more beautiful than the House of Li’s Blessings. At first I was nervous I’d do the wrong thing. And the food was, well, it was amazing. And so much of it. And so much wine, too. We drank and drank and drank. That wine was good, but too much. Best of all, I found a friend of my mother’s, my Yi-ma Snow Duck.” Glancing at Mu-lien, he went on, “I guess you know about that already. What are you up to anyway?”
Mu-lien smiled like the sun and nodded at a passing cart, piled high with dried fish, “All the fish in the sea will not fill the belly of an urchin. Tell me, though, how you liked your host Ssu Cheh, the honorable Turquoise Silk?”
“He served me a huge and expensive meal, Mu-lien, so I ought to be properly grateful, but if I were to tell you honestly, he was loud and drunk and boring. He was generous with me, it’s true, but he left the Gong Head just one string of cash. For someone as rich as he is, that was miserly. Still, there is a lot he could do for someone he liked, eh?” Pao-yu smirked over this mildly unkind mimicry.
“Again, you have done well, Hsiung-ti.” The monk patted Pao-yu’s hand and said, “It is often impossible to discern the worm in the plum, but you have done well. Tonight, I will meet you here at three hours past dusk. Don’t be late, little son.” And so saying, the monk stepped into the street and headed north, in the direction of the markets.
Pao-yu was anxious to be about the business of his day and so had already begun to inventory the possible sources of water for a wash-up when he realized that the monk had left him without a verse. It seemed silly, but he felt as if some essential element of their ritual had been neglected. He chased after Mu-lien, dodging amongst the carts and people, calling out to him, but the monk didn’t seem to hear. When, gasping, he caught up, Pao-yu pulled at the Mu-lien’s threadbare sleeve. “Hey, did you forget my verse today? Where’s the poem?”
The monk’s smile gave way to soft laughter, “Hsiung-ti, you are as clever as the t’an hua, the person who places second highest in the imperial examinations, but today there is no verse. Believe me, you will be much better off without any tell-tale doggerel in your girdle tonight.” He squeezed Pao-yu’s hand fleetingly, and set off again. Pao-yu stood in the middle of the street, patting his girdle, shaking his sleeves and stamping his feet to be certain that no slip of paper lay trapped somewhere in the folds of his gown. Finally convinced that there really was no poem, he headed off to the warehouse district, northeast of the city walls. Since he had no cash for a visit to a bathhouse, Pao-yu availed himself of the fire-proofing moats which surrounded the warehouses where merchants stored their goods. The trick was to avoid the guards, whose primary job was to protect the merchandise, but who also enjoyed defending the sanctity of the water with which it was ringed. Pao-yu chose a warehouse owned by the Empress and rented out (at what people said were exorbitant rates) to a consortium of rice merchants. The guards were eating and napping in the hot sun; it was child’s play to slip by them and into the moat for a swim.
Pao-yu spent the remainder of the day searching the streets of Hangchow for Chrysanthemum Two Mountains. He turned in alleys he’d never explored before, looked up and down the main thoroughfares and asked everyone who looked well enough turned-out to know if they could direct him there. He kept at it till well beyond sundown, hoping that he might recognize a landmark at night that had melted into the glare by day. Pao-yu had no success though, and eventually had to give up the search in order to meet Mu-lien at the appointed time.
After several such meetings, Pao-yu thought he had the routine down, and didn’t expect to encounter the monk until sleep overtook him. He was surprised, then, to find Mu-lien already sitting by the side of the street, waiting.
Mu-lien put his finger to his lips, indicating that Pao-yu was to be quiet. “Come with me, Hsiung-ti, but come silently. Tonight is different from the other nights and you must be careful.”
The monk took Pao-yu a short distance over to the Imperial Way, and then down that street to its conclusion at the Imperial Palace. They passed through the front gates, ushered in by soldiers who seemed to know them, and then wended their way through gardens of fruit trees, ponds and waterfalls to the third enclosure. Mu-lien brought Pao-yu to a door which opened onto a covered cloister and wishing the boy luck, he rapped firmly with his stick and was gone.
Pao-yu’s knees were weak with awe at being within the gates of Imperial Palace; this was not an experience he had thought to have in this lifetime. His apprehension increased as seven well-dressed young women, five or six years older than he, descended upon him in response to Mulien’s rapping.
“He’s here! He’s back,” they called to one another, relief loosening tense voices. “Where have you been, young man? What do you think you’re doing, going off like that?” they upbraided him, fussing, touching his clothes, his face, his hands.
Stuck at the center of this drama, Pao-yu did his best to ascertain the role he was playing tonight. Clearly, he was someone important beyond his wildest dreams; Mu-lien’s cautions now made sense. He would pay careful attention, and hopefully the clues would surface.
The young women swept him along, down a long gilded peristyle into an opulent set of chambers where a steaming bath, fragrant with cassia flowers, awaited him. While they bathed him (it seemed he should do nothing for himself), their reprimands continued and he gathered that whoever-he-was had missed afternoon tea with the Son of Heaven himself This put him in a pretty grim position, obviously, but it was even worse for these women, his maids. If they had “lost” him, more than jobs would be forfeit. Their relief at finding him at an outside door was genuine and not altogether altruistic.
They dressed him in a robe of pomegranate silk, worked all over with golden-fire breathing dragons, and a black hat with six red pendants. His fingers were be-ringed with gold and jade. When he was ready, a eunuch entered the chamber, kow-towed and asked Pao-yu to accompany him. Outside, some seventy court eunuchs formed an escort, and in regal silence, they walked him past urns of jasmine, orchids, cassia and pink-flowering bananas to the Hall of Everlasting Happiness where official banquets were often held.
Outside the hail, the chief eunuch, or the one Pao-yu took to be in charge, stopped the procession and sent an advance guard of ten men inside. Presumably, they announced their chief eunuch, who followed them in.
“Gentleman of the court, esteemed visitors to the seat of the Son of Heaven, I bring you Golden Dragon, Son of the Imperial Concubine!” he cried.
Pao-yu hoped that this was his cue, and proceeded into the Hall of Everlasting Happiness. A pathway to the seat he was to take had been cordoned off by lushly dressed eunuchs under the administration of the master of ceremonies. Now that he knew his rank, Pao-yu walked at what he imagined was a regal pace, head held high, looking neither left nor right at the kow-towing eunuchs.
Once seated, he could survey the hail. The walls, which were at least twenty feet high, were hung with magnificent paintings and calligraphed scrolls, some of which were masterpieces over one thousand years old, although Pao-yu couldn’t have known it. Rare and exotic flowers from the South were set in niches and along the walls, perfuming the room. There were tables and armchairs for the three or four hundred guests in attendance, but it was clear that the hail’s capacity was much greater.
Pao-yu took a moment to congratulate himself on having come this far without major error even while he cursed Mu-lien. These thoughts were cut short by the arrival of another imperial personage, one higher in rank than himself. He was followed by another and then another. These were people he should have known had he been who he was pretending to be, so it was helpful to have their names and ranks announced so clearly as they entered.
Finally, after nearly an hour of ceremonial entrances, the Emperor was heralded. A small man, he walked with surprising stature to a raised dias at the head of the hail. Here he sat by himself, attended by twenty or more eunuchs who hovered ceaselessly, like a swarm of bees around their queen.
One of the ten eunuchs assigned to serve Pao-yu throughout the meal poured a novel drink into his heavy silver cup. When he inquired, he was told that it was a beverage beloved of their guests from the lands of Chin, fermented mare’s milk. Speeches were made by the Emperor’s powerful minister, Chia Ssu-tao, and by the ambassador of the Jurchen people from the North, and toasts of kumiss and grape wine were drunk.
When the Emperor gave the signal, feasting began in earnest. Pao-yu, or Golden Dragon, as he must think of himself for the evening, was hungry and really looked forward to sampling the artistry of the Imperial kitchens and cellars. In the hands of more than a thousand servants, the food began to flow from the kitchen.
First came an overwhelming array of fruits--both fresh and preserved in sugar. Golden Dragon was displeased to discover that his retinue of servants decided which of these he would eat, and how much of each, at that. He enjoyed the autumn oranges and jujubes, but the preserved ginger was whisked past him so quickly that there was no chance of having any. He also found that when he turned to a dining companion, to his left or to his right, in order to exchange pleasantries, a phalanx of eunuchs intervened discreetly, making conversation impossible. It only had to happen a few times for the prince-in-training to realize that he was not to speak during this meal.
One course followed another, each consisting of fifteen or twenty offerings. There were foods deep-fried with honey; preserved foods like fried snake relish and fried mixed relish; preserved meats, both dried and pickled; food on skewers such as grilled pigeon and kidneys; minced dishes of lake fish, kidney and more; stir-fries of quail, frog’s legs, pigs knuckles, whitefish and the like; and texture foods--fish maw, shark fin and bird’s nest--which Golden Dragon had neither seen nor tasted before.
As with the first course, the eunuchs selected from amongst all these dishes those few that Golden Dragon would sample with his silver chopsticks, but they kept his cup full of grape wine throughout the meal. The wine was served oddly, at room temperature, and Golden Dragon decided that he liked this foreign custom little. The sweet warmth of a good rice wine (for he fancied he had become a connoisseur the night before) was far more to his taste.
Between courses--there were thirty on this particular night—musicians and jugglers provided entertainment for the guests. Golden Dragon was grateful for this diversion as he ate and drank his way through the banquet in silence. He marveled at his first taste of rubbery bird’s nest, and delighted in the excellent crab claws. With little else to do, he watched the display of dishes as they were presented and began to suspect that many of them had seen better days. Kidneys curled and dried about the edges looked as if they had been served at several imperial banquets; deflated and greasy fried sweets made Golden Dragon wonder if his servants’ selections might be preserving him from unpleasantness or worse. How incredible to find such scrimping in the house of the Son of Heaven! His tongue was loosened by drink and longed to talk of these things, but there was no one to listen, so it laid still in his mouth as he knew it should.
Eventually, the “finishing” foods were finished and the final speeches spoken. The Hall of Everlasting Happiness was emptied, with ceremony, in reverse order to its filling. With the help of his servants, Golden Dragon made his way from the hail without incident. There he was swallowed up by the larger contingent of seventy eunuchs who escorted him back to his chambers. Dulled from the hours of eating and drinking, he allowed himself to be put to bed in his black lacquer k’ang by his maids, just as a prince would, and fell promptly to sleep.
* * *
Pao-yu opened his eyes slowly. Dawn was flowering like a peony, silver-pink petals opening across the eastern sky. The night watchmen were relaying calls of “all’s well” from tower to tower throughout the city. It was a comfortingly ordinary sound, one Pao-yu had awakened to all the years of his life.
Mu-lien came on quiet feet, appearing out of the dawn without warning. Pao-yu, who had just placed himself outside the wall of the Imperial Palace and near the Heavenly Gate, smiled to see him despite last night’s treachery. He stood up, glad to be once again in the simple company of another rankless mortal. He noticed with delight that the trappings of Golden Dragon had been replaced by his own worn hemp gown.
“How are you, Hsiung-ti?”
“I am well this morning, father.”
“Let us go and find some tea.”
They walked slowly up the Imperial Way until they arrived at a market of the fifth watch where tea vendors sold their wares. Pao-yu and the monk drank cups of pungent Forest of Fragrance tea before wandering west to the parks along West Lake. There they sat on the shore to talk.
“Hsiung-ti, your mother Pervading Fragrance was well loved by you in life and in death, and she in turn loved you deeply. This we see. But she has surely passed on now and left you alone in the Red Dust to find your way. Your father, however, is an entirely different story. While it is not possible for you to know the man who brought you to life, fate has ordained that you will have a father. Today I bring you the gift and the burden of choice. Will you choose one from amongst those you have seen these last three nights to father you into manhood? Think hard, Hsiung-ti, for this is a decision to be made with great care. We are all born to parents who have chosen us; it is a rare child, and we must hope a wise one, who can choose his parents. Will you be son and support to poor old Grandfather Li? Or to the lively Merchant Ssu-Cheh? Or will you choose the most exalted of all and have the Son of Heaven for your father?” Here the monk stopped and looked with compassion and interest at the boy.
Pao-yu walked to the shore, and paced back and forth, stopping occasionally to kick pebbles angrily into the lake with his toes. The burden was a surprisingly heavy one and he was not sure he wanted to bear it.
After the sun had risen quite high in the sky he approached the monk. “Mu-lien,” he asked, “should my choice come from love or from goodness and honor?”
“From love, little brother.”
“Then I will pick you, Mu-lien, to be my father in the Red Dust. When you came to the door of the dumpling workshop, I risked dishonor for you. When my dishonor and sorrow followed, you never left me. This is how it should be, I think, between a father and his son.”
Mu-lien argued of course, claiming that he was not one of the choices, but eventually he had to agree that if love were the criterion, Pao-yu had already become his son.
So that is how Pao-yu, who had drunk the finest Imperial wines from heavy silver cups and eaten the lowliest sorghum sitting on the earth, came to wander the cities and the countryside of the Middle Kingdom with his father, the Buddhist monk Mu-lien. Together, they fared well and they never hungered. In fact, on some days they ate only rice gruel, but on other days they feasted on dew from the Silver Mountain of Heaven.
MAGA’s latest heartbreak is Bruce Springsteen, which is to say it is another episode in America’s longest-running misunderstanding, the belief that a song with a big chorus and a working-class accent must be a campaign jingle for conservatism and super-nationalism. This time the offense is the song, “Streets of Minneapolis” framed as a lament and a protest, a hymn for people ground down by policy and indifference. It names Trump. It names ICE. It does not ask permission. And for a movement that once swore Springsteen was theirs, this feels less like disagreement than betrayal.
But the betrayal is imaginary. Springsteen never crossed the aisle; the aisle was wheeled under him like a stage prop.
The anger is theatrical, social-media bonfires, caps in all-caps, the familiar demand that artists “stick to music,” as if music were a neutral mineral extracted from silence. What stings is not merely that Springsteen criticized Trump or immigration enforcement; it’s that he did so in the voice MAGA thought it owned. The denim baritone. The factory whistle of the harmonica. The righteous ache of people who work too hard for too little. How dare he speak that language and not deliver the expected verdict?
This confusion has a long paper trail. It begins canonically, in 1984, when Ronald Reagan, campaigning in New Jersey, invoked “America’s future” and nodded at “the message of hope in songs of a man so many young Americans admire, New Jersey’s own Bruce Springsteen.” The man himself nearly choked on the compliment. Reagan had mistaken a howl for a pledge. “Born in the U.S.A.” was not a victory lap; it was a wound stitched into a chant. It was a veteran’s story told loudly enough to sound like a parade. The chorus was an alarm bell mistaken for confetti.
That mistake hardened into tradition. Every few years, someone in power discovers Springsteen the way tourists discover the ocean, dazzled by the surface, baffled by the undertow. The songs are full of highways, fathers, sweat and faith in tomorrow, ingredients that read as conservative if you skim them the way you skim a menu. But stay long enough to taste and you find layoffs, broken unions, racial borders, wars that come home in pieces, the government as a landlord who never fixes the plumbing. His patriotism has always been anatomical, he loves the country the way a doctor loves a patient, which is to say he notices the disease.
So when “Streets of Minneapolis” names ICE it is not a plot twist. It is the same moral grammar he has used for decades, the insistence that policy is not abstract, that it walks on legs and knocks on doors and leaves people waiting in rooms that smell like bleach and fear. Minneapolis is not a random coordinate; it is shorthand for the American city as crucible, where history goes to be reheated and served to the living. Springsteen sings about streets because streets are where consequences take the bus.
MAGA’s outrage is therefore less ideological than romantic. It is the fury of the dumped who insists the relationship was mutual. They believed the guitar solos were vows. They believed the blue collar in his voice was a uniform. They believed that loving the country required loving its loudest men. Now he has written a song that refuses that equation and the spell breaks like glass.
There is also, hovering behind the tantrum, the unspoken rule that protest is legitimate only when it is nostalgic. You may sing about coal mines that closed in 1979, about a factory that rusted politely into history. But to sing about the present, about deportation vans, about the architecture of fear, feels like cheating. It interrupts the fantasy that injustice is a museum exhibit, safely labeled and behind velvet rope.
Springsteen’s critics ask why he can’t just entertain. The question assumes that entertainment is a form of anesthesia, not attention. It assumes that the working class exists as a mood board, flannel, grit, gravelly hope, rather than as people who bleed when policy sharpens its elbows. “Streets of Minneapolis” is not a lecture; it is an inventory of bruises. If it sounds political, that is because politics is what bruises are called when they form patterns.
The deeper irony is that MAGA’s claim to Springsteen depended on ignoring the very literacy his songs demand. They heard the drums but not the story. They wanted the flag without the footnotes. Reagan’s mistake became a tradition, the anthem without the verses, the chorus without the cause. It is a way of listening that treats art as a mirror, never a window.
Springsteen has always written from the window. He leans out, describes what he sees and trusts the listener to notice the traffic. That some listeners prefer to pull down the blinds is not his problem. “Streets of Minneapolis” does what his best songs have always done, it refuses to flatter the powerful and it refuses to confuse volume with virtue.
If MAGA feels orphaned by this, it is because it adopted a voice without asking what the voice was saying. The country is full of loud songs. It is also full of people who mistake loudness for loyalty. Springsteen, inconveniently, keeps choosing fidelity to the street over allegiance to the stage. That is not a betrayal. It is the job description.
