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Work In Progress
By Paul Cameron Brown
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.
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