Frog Legs

Frog Legs follows a trail from Yangshuo’s misty river bends to a secret farmhouse, where a duck-carrying stranger and Hey Guevara reveal the hidden philosophy behind R.E.I.N.

Following Mr. Yellow’s lead, I took a train from Shanghai to the Chinese countryside and followed the trail to a place called Yangshuo. A rented bicycle brought me to an arched stone bridge, which served as a point of deliberation at the fork of a river. Covered by the shade of rainbow umbrellas, lulled along by the gentle waves and the river-man’s rafting pole, bamboo rafts went up and down the Li River with sedated ease.

It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect to find a terrorist in hiding, but they say Afghanistan also has its charms. I suddenly felt someone next to me. I snapped out of my trance and wheeled around with my hands ready to intercept a dagger only to find a gap-toothed smile and a photography book being shoved in my face. There was a sprightly little woman wearing a rice hat and a black and neon tracksuit. Her eyes told me she was old, but her chestnut skin beamed with a glow of health that seemed typical of the locals there.

I could see why she had the audacity to approach me, the lone sucker at the bridge, just soaking it all in. It was like the 100 Famous Views of Edo, only this book bore the title Four Seasons of Yangshuo. Clearly a collection put together expressly for the momentarily enraptured, the existentially fearful, or the pinesexual, those who are sexually aroused by scenic views of mountains.

“Sorry lady; I don’t jerk off to trees,” I said with a wave of my hand at the view before us. She was not easily discouraged, however, nor did she have other customers to ply her trade. It became awkward rather quickly, as she continued to follow my line of sight with the book, flipping through the pages to some of the more dramatic scenes where the river is covered by a fine autumn mist. I tried to walk off, but she popped up in front of me again, this time throwing a wooden duck on the book as a deal-sealer. I shook my head. Now she threw on two ducks! Buy now and we’ll throw in two wooden ducks for free! Double happiness!

Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m looking for terrorists, not souvenirs.

I started to walk away, and then I felt a Wushu grip on my sleeve, and in a voice that almost sounded as if she was from Brooklyn, she said, “Look at the damn quackers, or else you’re gonna sleep at the bottom of the Li.”

I turned to her in shock and saw that same gap-toothed smile as she held the photography book with the two ducks sitting on top of it.

“What did you say?” I stammered, but she knew she had me. She wouldn’t repeat it again.

I took one of the wooden ducks and flipped it upside down. Written on the bottom of the first duck were the words, “Follow me.” On the bottom of its eternal mate were the words, “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” I read out loud.

Duck lady smiled her gap-tooth smile and replied, “Follow me.”

She mounted her moped and let the engine purr, waiting for me to grab my bicycle. Like the duck said, I followed her, knowing this would lead me to the leader of R.E.I.N. “Who are you?” asked the duck. So I followed, hoping the wooden duck would be the one to tell me.

The water was jade, the mountains were emerald, and as the sun reached the midpoint of its descent, the scene was covered in a soft white shroud. The limestone formations carved by thousands of years of rain and wind rolled like echoes across the landscape, reflecting the perfection of Taoist symmetry against the placid streams. It felt as if we had entered a time-warp, into a secret grove that could only be found by riding off the beaten path into another classical Chinese painting with raft men silhouetted in the sunset and herons flying through the mist. I almost expected to look up in the upper-right-hand corner to see Chinese characters dripping down in faded black ink.

At this point, duck lady killed the engine on her moped and waited a little farther back as I dismounted my bicycle and walked up to the riverbank. The bearded man floating in the river noticed me watching and slowly swam landward, rising up from the water like a Baptist. He walked right past me as if I wasn’t there and began to towel off beside a sparkling chrome motorcycle I could only assume was his. I politely stared into the blinding refractions as he got dressed in jeans, an undershirt, and dusty leather sandals. He mounted his motorcycle and shook his shoulder-length brown hair, tying it up in a topknot as his blue eyes blazed at me with an intensity I couldn’t quite read. I was expecting him to make the introduction, but instead, all he did was give me a little nod and put the key into the ignition to take off.

“Hey!” I cried in something more like a yelp than a greeting.

Much to my surprise, he freaked out, looking wild and paranoid, glancing over his shoulders and around his back before shooting me a look of pure murder. He revved his motorcycle and came right up to me in a burst of speed that left his front wheel firmly beneath my crotch.

“Don’t say my name!” he hissed viciously, still looking as if he wanted to run me over. “Follow me. I have a safe place where we can talk.”

He sped off down the dirt road faster than we could possibly keep up with, but duck lady seemed to know the way. We rode down the back roads deeper into the woods and came to a farm situated in a valley surrounded by mountains and golden fields. Three boys, ranging from 10 to teen, lazed around playing cards, relaxing barefoot against the open frame of the old barn. They sat up upon seeing me, but relaxed as duck lady called out to them in Mandarin. The oldest one ran off to bring us tea. We sat at a picnic table in the untamed garden, the scene almost surreal with country charm. Puppies wrestled each other on the dirt, chickens pecked their seed, and a woman passed by with laundry on her head and kittens at her heels. After slaking my thirst, duck lady smiled and gestured for me to go to the back of the barn.

I walked to the back of the barn and saw the man’s motorcycle leaning on its kickstand under an apple tree. He was sitting on a bale of hay nursing a baby goat with a milk bottle, looking almost like Jesus with his little lambs.

“Hey!” I called out, forgetting the warning issued previously.

Big mistake. He shot me a look of death and leapt to his feet, throwing the nimble goat onto the ground to spring away.

“Damn you!”

“What?”

“Are you trying to get me killed? Who sent you?” he said narrowing his eyes.

“I came because of this,” I said reaching into my pocket, showing him the white stone. “Your calling card, I presume?”

“A rock?”

“It’s a sign. . . a rock from the banks of the Li River. . .” I spluttered in frustration. “From Mr. Yellow?”

Both of us glared at each other with suspicion, somehow on the same page, yet completely bewildered by each other’s presence.

“Are you American or Chinese?” he demanded.

“Consider me a free agent,” I said, offering my open palms. “I’m sure we have common goals, even if our goals are nothing alike. One hand washes the other, as they say.”

He nodded his head in contemplation and turned his eyes to the open sky.

“You were sent by Providence. A paradox unto itself, since the universe is uncaring. But perhaps it loves you enough to guide you towards that understanding so that you can stop searching, and embrace your fate. You’ve suffered. Anyone can see that. You’ve struggled to understand why it is you are here. You were approached because you wanted to be found. She led you to me because you want to know who you are, and why you are here.”

“Yes,” I whispered against myself.

“I am Hey Guevara,” he said, gripping my hand, his blue eyes aflame, “leader of R.E.I.N. (Revolution Evolution Infinite Nihilism). It means ‘pure’ in German. It also sounds like the English word ‘rain.’ Sort of like ‘pure rain.’ Get it?”

“Sounds fascist.”

“Ha! Don’t let the German fool you. We are anything but. We represent everyone, and are represented by everyone, with independent cells on five different continents, all moving towards Point Omega.”

“Point Omega?” I echoed, my scrotum tightening.

“The final revolution which will bring forth our ultimate purpose, the only purpose there ever was for having existed at all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Consider the frog,” Hey said, stopping beside a stream in the rice paddies. “He knows not from where he received his legs, but at one time he was nothing more than another fish in the ocean. There was a revolution that happened, a terrible event in the eyes of those stuck in the prison of time. He was different, outcast, ostracized, and forced to seek shelter elsewhere. He was forced to live on his own in the mud, a strange and hostile new environment where many of his mutated brethren died. A terrible tragedy, eh? But we know the happy ending.”

As if on cue, the frog hopped away.

“Man is no different. Society is no different. We evolve, only by chaos. From chaos comes order, from order comes progress, from progress comes decadence, and from decadence comes revolution.

“Since the dawn of mankind, Man has sought the answer. He has wandered from continent to continent, mainland to archipelago following the stars across deserts of wind and sea. He has followed his heart with the pure hope that beyond the point on the next horizon, some answer to his question lies, the question that lays deep in the heart of his darkest fears and wonders: ‘Why am I here?’ ‘Why am I alive?’ That is why you have come to me, is it not? To seek this truth?

“We are all just accidents,” Hey continued and turned to me with a confidently arched eyebrow. “A collection of stardust and molecules, smashed together in a super collider we call the universe. But even accidents can be used for a higher purpose.”

“What’s my purpose?” I asked as if hypnotized.

“You know as well as I do.”

“Tell me.”

Hey’s face grew dark, his eyes filled with shadow and conspiracy, starkly different from the enlightened impression that they had had a moment before. Maybe it was the angle of the sun.

“You’re here to kill me.”

There was a rooster crowing, not unlike Peter’s cock. I smiled and spread my arms, inviting him to search me.

“You’ve got me all wrong, Hey. I’m not the one you should be worried about. If you had done your homework, you’d know that Jack plays for both sides. He’s working you to get the goods on R.E.I.N. Two paychecks; double happiness. Get me?”

I saw a flash of fear in Hey’s eyes. I pressed harder.

“The Chinese are closing in on you. They’re watching you as we speak. The only reason you don’t have a bullet in your head right now is because I’m here to make you a deal. I can help you with your operation. I have skills beyond what your own people possess. I can offer my services, for the right price. If you want to take out the Dalai Lama, you’ll need more than a ragtag group of Tibetans to help you do the job. What do you say?”

“No thanks. I can’t trust a comrade who drinks Starbucks. The Chinese aren’t interested in ideology. Not anymore. The slogan used to be ‘Religion is the opiate of the masses.’ Now selling opiates is the new religion. And by that I mean the opiate of ‘wealth,’ the opiate of ‘technology,’ the opiate of ‘entertainment,’ and of course, just plain old opiates. The Age of Decadence has come upon China once again, and you know what comes after decadence. The Tibetans have already planted the seeds of revolution in anticipation of the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama. R.E.I.N. plans to speed up that process, to time it before the Chinese have a chance to produce their own puppet king.”

“The Americans invented Starbucks, not the Chinese,” I point out. “All the Tibetans have is yak butter tea. Choices are limited, and so endlessly the same. That’s the irony, isn’t it? The communists ship a few megatons of cocaine to fight a war against the capitalists. The capitalists ship a few megatons of cocaine to fight the communists. In the end, it makes no difference. Both sides are in sore need of a good night’s sleep. But there are winners and losers, Hey. You can still walk away from this thing with your life, a new identity, enough money to live on. Hell, the Chinese can give you a new face if you want. It’s as good a deal as you’re going to get. You just have to tell me when and where, and I’ll finish the job. Check my stats. 100 percent satisfaction.”

Hey looked at me with amusement, and then his countenance changed and his eyes filled with pity.

“You don’t even know who you are,” Hey said, shaking his head, his voice so soft and sincere a shiver ran through me. “You don’t know where you came from. You don’t know who made you. But Jack does, and he knows even more than that. He knows more about you than you do. You can’t help me do anything except sign up for hard labor in Mongolia.”

I fought the instinct to strangle him with my dental floss until he confessed all that Jack’s told him about me. His words hit an old mark, hidden away beneath the layers of all the identities I’ve assumed in my career. That bottomless pit inside me gaped open, laughing.

You don’t even know who you are.

I pretended to laugh in scorn.

“So I guess it’s a bullet in your head and a botched job by the Tibetans. How many are there? They can’t all be with you on this.”

“It’s a tightly-knit group,” Hey shrugged. “But like you said, one hand washes the other, right?”

We reached the barn. The sun was setting.

“Whether or not Jack decides to betray us, it matters little. Point Omega will happen, and when it does, there’ll be no more religion, no more borders, no more reasons for war. We can finally be what we were made to be. Anything else is just a construct keeping us from absolute freedom.”

He started to go inside, then paused at the door.

“If you’d like to stay for dinner, you’re more than welcome. I’ve never been rude to a guest, even one that’s come to kill me. Stay awhile and we’ll chat. If Nixon and Mao could have dinner together, why can’t we?”

He picked up the cute little goat he had been milking earlier and handed it to me. The goat nuzzled my nose.

“What are we having?” I asked him.

Hey Guevara smiled.

“Frog legs.”

That final invitation to dinner is the quiet punchline of Frog Legs — a Yangshuo mysterious encounter where even enemies can share a meal before the revolution comes. If this resonated, you might also like Mr. Yellow, the story that set this whole trail in motion.