Work In Progress

Two Chinese fellows approached me in a London suburb.         They were eager for talk.         "Karl Marx's tomb," they implored, "directions to the tomb,         please." They were pronouncing "tomb" as if it rhymed with home.         Suited up in their Mao jackets and identically dressed         without hint to rank or station, they struck me as strangely         odd even on the thoroughfares of a metropolitan city. I had         noticed they wore no green armband common to other         Communist dignitaries.         The smaller of the two became insistent.         I nodded and smiled at the mention of Marx's name for it         was Highgate and, yes, he was interred in the rambling         cemetery near by. Yes, I had visited the grave but was no         means clear it was a grave they had come all this way to         visit.         They were shy but puzzled at my redirection of their query.         I pointed out there was no "home" as they were         pronouncing it, but, only a "grave".         It was then that their enunciation and the silent murder of         the letter "T" came back to me. Like the Cockney unable         to say "h" in elocution class, their confusion was furthered         by knowing only one word for "final resting place." My         own use of grave was causing them grave concern.         They were looking curiously at one another. I doubt if they         had ever heard North American accented English. I might         have been their first authentic "American," short of a         simulated war games exercise. Certainly, though all cities         are polyglots, I had never seen two so authentically attired         citizens of "The People's Republic."         It was an amusing moment, life with the sang-froid         of the unspoken.         I gave them their dues. They had their directions. They         pranced off smartly and melted into the morning traffic.         And I thought of trying to explain that Marx, at least         in unofficial circles here, is not considered with their same         deference.         "I'm sorry if this jars with what you've been told, Wu."         "And no, this is not counter-revolutionary lies. The truth is,         Mr. Han, Marx was    ...    a chiseler. He died owing nearly         every wage earner in The Village."         Talk of irony and final verdicts. How one who numbers         among the age's savants could so brazenly ignore such hard         economic fact seemed incredible to me. Skulduggery aside,         such a thing, even if only partially true, would be scant         tribute to the fabled man. I thought of the British         Museum's collection of his writings, then remembered it         mentioned nothing of this fact. Glowing tributes, of course,         but no unofficial flack.         And I thought of the possibility of a third world war being,         in part, based on this development. Marx's embitterment,         that is his inability to pay even the most modest debt         through his writing. And should there ever come another         global catastrophe, I imagined how Marx would extend his         wrath.         At the doctrine of dialectic materialism's doorstep. Between         the incompatibility of work and her governing classes.         Exportable revolution. The decadent bourgeoisie struggling         to maintain their stranglehold on comfort. The Gospel         completely according to Karl.         That would be without considering the question of Marx's         alleged incest with his daughter. But, then, most everything         in the Marx story is "alleged." The alleged politics of         confrontation. The alleged incompatibility of those who toil         with their rulers. The alleged inertia of labourers even to         the degree of their exploitation. And, yes, the alleged         superiority of any one system over another.         Of course reference would be made to the irony of Marx         being buried and remaining interred throughout the years in         one of the most class conscious nations on earth.         Where every accent and syllable decrees one's station in         life.         Where every utterance labels the speaker according to rank         and social standing by rigid calling.         I thought of myself discussing such things with the         perturbed, yet unmovable ideologues of the People's         Democratic Republic of China.         Did they know Marx's friend and colleague, Engels, kept a         mistress? Did they care that Marx disapproved?         Imagine using the word "grave" in the same breath as         "grave offence" to discuss incest. Glib moralizing, the         trumpet of the bourgeoisie! I seem to remember Lenin's         disdainful "no omelettes with first cracking the eggs."         Perhaps all communication is claptrap.         All these fellows wanted were directions.         Their minds were made up.         They were attending a secular church, walking in         the footsteps of an earthbound saint. No amount of revisionist         thinking could deflect, in their eyes, Marxian achievement.         And you had to give Marx certain dues. That before people         are capable of aspiring to work, they must first be fed. And         all contacts, within life, must inevitably come through and         be restricted by, how one has chosen to make that daily         bread. Or, in Marx's words, how one is prevented from         advancing by artificial class barriers. Precisely.         Poles apart. Worlds away.         The two Chinese chaps and I were living proof of that.         I wondered if they would have been interested in seeing the         Dicken's plaque nearby. The novelist, too, had stayed only         a street away. Little Dorritt would have been pleased even         if the jury is still out on which thinker alerted the world         most to the evils of uncontrolled profit.         I for one, care little for the revolutionary proletariat or         repudiated communist dogma but I do like to eat. Marx         made his point.