Changing Faces

I wonder how old he is. From his face I’d have guessed at least ninety. It looks like a face carved out of wood, with the cracks where nature forced rainwater and wind between the splinters left in. They spread out from his eyes like wings. He looks completely in place at the old temple, supposedly the oldest in Chengdu, his features just as weathered as the pillars that hold up the overhanging roof. He gives me a gap-toothed grin. Some of his teeth look as if they will fall out if he keeps his mouth open too long, crowding over each other like the people at the supermarket elbowing their way to the scales. His blue shirt and trousers hang loosely around him despite that it’s mid-November, making him look even frailer beside the row of tourists, dressed up in wooly hats and puffy coats. Yet according to our tour guide, this man is the strongest man in Chengdu.
He holds out a hand and beckons with another grin. For a moment he reminds me of the big fifth grader at school daring the younger kids to try and take him on, knowing he can easily hold them back with one well-placed hand. He has already worked his way through a row of them. They now watch with folded arms on the side and scrutinize the old man to discover his secret. He motions for me to try and push him, stepping back. Right there, like this. He takes my hands and places them on his stomach. Now push. He bends his knees slightly and nods, as if confirming it’s ok.
I shove him.
Under my fingertips something moves. His stomach bloats up and rearranges itself under my hands, slithering from under the pressure. Before I can wrap my head around it I stumble to the side, mowing my arms for balance until the tour guide catches me. The man’s face breaks into a laugh, and his eyes blend in with the rest of the gorges time carved. He hasn’t moved. Not a foot.
“How?” one of the boys demands, trying to copy the old man’s stance.
The man straightens and says something we can’t understand, motioning to his feet. “You cannot push over the tree if the roots are deep in the ground,” the tour guide translates. “It will sway, but it will not break.” Their mouths form little o’s, as if this clearly explains everything. The old man smiles again, folding his hands to form a sort of ying and yang with his fingers and bowing slightly. It’s a smile that has seen the skyscrapers rise behind the temple, the Cultural Revolution, maybe even the rise of Mao himself, each carving its own feature into the lines around it.