The Five Brothers' Dream

Before his father, Ma Lide had always been a man of few words.
When Ma Cunhui spoke one sentence, he nodded. When his mother, Zhao Youlan, gave two words of instruction, he answered quietly. Sometimes his brothers laughed and said he was “the one most like an old-fashioned filial son.” He did not argue. He merely smiled faintly and adjusted his glasses. Yet those who truly knew him understood that Lide was not without opinions, still less was he weak. He merely understood that some words did not have to be disputed at home, and some sharpness did not have to be revealed before one’s own family.
Among the five brothers, Lide was the tallest. He stood a little over one meter eighty, broad-shouldered and long-legged, with proper features, a straight nose, and a gentle smile. When he did not smile, there was in him a quiet authority. During university, in the law department of Wuhan University, he had already been outstanding. Wearing a clean white shirt and carrying books beneath Luojia Mountain, he was often jokingly called “Judge Ma” by his classmates. After he entered the Intermediate People’s Court of Ruizhou, that nickname slowly began to come true like a prophecy.
At first, he served as a clerk in the criminal court, and later also as an assistant judge. When he first entered the court, many young people were eager to show themselves. In meetings, they rushed to speak; when writing reports, they loved grand words; when facing leaders, they hurried to declare their positions. Lide was different. He worked with extreme care. His courtroom records were never disorderly by even one word. Case files were bound neatly. First drafts of judgments were clean and precise. His citations of legal provisions were never vague. When leaders asked for his opinion, he did not rush to a conclusion. He first spoke of facts, then of evidence, and only at the end would lightly add, “Judging by the materials presently available, it would seem this may be handled in such a way.”
One “seem,” one “may”—on the surface, humble; in truth, leaving room for himself and leaving a step for his superiors.
The old presiding judge of the criminal court soon noticed him.
The old judge was surnamed Zou. He had handled cases for several decades, and his eyes were sharp. Once, after a hearing, he called Lide into his office, lit a cigarette, and asked, “Little Ma, you have things in your heart, yet your mouth is not in a hurry. Were you born this way, or did you train yourself into it?”
Lide stood with his hands lowered and smiled. “Presiding Judge, my father speaks very little. I grew up listening to him.”
Judge Zou laughed. “Speaking little is not rare. What is rare is knowing when not to speak.”
From then on, Judge Zou often gave him important case files to read first. Lide did not make a display of himself, yet he read every file thoroughly. He knew that the greatest danger in criminal cases was roughness. If one link was missing in the chain of evidence, an innocent man might be wrongfully executed. If a confession carried even a little too much coercion, it could plant a future calamity. He also knew that a court was not a study. Beyond legal provisions, there were leadership opinions, social effects, media winds, local relationships, and the pressures of human feeling. If one only knew how to recite statutes, reality would smash one’s head bloody. If one only knew how to read faces, the law would be kneaded into a ball of mud.
Between these two, Lide slowly trained in himself a balance that was almost cold.
He treated people with great measure. Toward leaders, he was respectful but not fawning. His reports were concise, his materials complete, and he never caused a superior to lose face over details. Toward colleagues, he was gentle but not intimate. If someone’s family had trouble, he would help; if someone gossiped behind his back, he only smiled. He did not take sides too early, and he did not make enemies lightly. Toward the families of parties in cases, he neither put on an official tone nor allowed anyone to cross the line. When someone offered cigarettes, wine, or red envelopes, he always pushed them back lightly.
“The case is the case, and goodwill is goodwill. I accept the goodwill, but I cannot accept the things.”
When he said this, there was still a smile on his face, but behind that smile stood a hard wall.
Some said he was aloof. Some said he knew how to put on an act. Others said that Little Ma would surely become formidable in the future; at such a young age he already had the manner of an official. This so-called official manner was not a swollen belly and ordering others about. It was that when he stood there, people felt he had a scale in his heart, mist upon his face, and doors within his words.
Yet Lide was not content merely to be a diligent young court cadre.
In private, he read widely and miscellaneously. Besides criminal law, criminal procedure, and evidence law, he read Zizhi Tongjian, Han Feizi, and Essentials of Government of the Zhenguan Era. He also read Zeng Guofan’s family letters, notes on officialdom, and even books his classmates half-jokingly called “the study of thick blackness.” He never discussed these things before others, but in the margins of his books his annotations were dense: where to employ people, where to restrain and balance, where to delay, where to borrow momentum, where to step back one pace in order to advance three.
He did not think this was sinister.
In Lide’s eyes, power had never been clean water. It was a great river wrapped in silt. If you did not understand the nature of water, you would drown. If you coveted only the silt, you would sink to the bottom. A truly useful person had to understand both rules and the human heart; had to guard a bottom line, yet also know flexibility; had to make superiors feel at ease, and subordinates accept him.
Once, Yide passed through Ruizhou on his way back to Canton and specially went to see him. The two brothers ate at a small restaurant near the court. At that time, Yide’s business was flourishing, and in his speech he already had something of a merchant’s bearing. He asked Lide, “Third Brother, you officials—how exactly do you look at us people who do business?”
Lide picked up a chopstick of greens and said calmly, “Businessmen look at money. Officials look at power. Money moves quickly; power moves slowly. Money is exposed on the outside; power is hidden behind people. Both can accomplish things, and both can ruin things.”
Yide laughed. “You speak like a judgment.”
Lide looked at him. “Second Brother, now that you have money, you must understand politics even more. If money does not understand politics, it can only do small business. If money gets too close to politics, it easily invites disaster. The best way is to understand the rules, borrow the great momentum, and not touch the red line. Do not think every banquet can be attended, and do not think every relationship can be bought.”
Yide was startled by what he heard.
“And you?” he asked. “You are in the court. Do you not need money?”
Lide smiled. “Officialdom does not mean one has no use for money. It means one cannot be led around by money. Money can buy banquets, favors, and convenience, but it cannot buy a true position. What does position depend on? On the trust of leaders, on colleagues not hating you, on handling matters without error, and on someone remembering you at the crucial moment.”
Yide was silent for a moment. “You think more deeply than I imagined.”
Lide said softly, “It is only that our roads are different. You see human nature in the marketplace. I see human nature in case files. In the market, people reveal their true faces for money. In case files, people reveal their true faces for life itself. After one has seen enough, one knows that the human heart cannot be divided only by the words good and evil.”
In the court, he grew steadier and steadier.
During one major criminal trial, the clerk suddenly fell ill, and the materials were numerous and chaotic. Lide took over at the critical moment. The hearing lasted from morning until evening. His record was clear, his reminders timely, and not once did he miss the page number of key evidence. After the hearing, Presiding Judge Zou said in front of several leaders, “This Little Ma can bear weight.”
Once those words spread, they carried more weight than any praise.
Later, a vice president of the court came down to inspect young cadres and asked Lide, “What do you think is the most important quality for a court cadre?”
Everyone thought he would answer with standard phrases such as fairness, incorruptibility, or serving the people. Lide answered instead, “First is reverence. Reverence for the law, reverence for facts, reverence for the fact that the power in one’s hand can change another person’s fate. Without reverence, intelligence becomes dangerous.”
The vice president looked at him for a long time, then nodded and said, “You young man—you have something interesting in you.”
After Lide returned to his dormitory, he was not excited. He closed the door, opened Zizhi Tongjian, and wrote a small line beside one page:
Power cannot be unused, yet must not be used to the limit; money cannot be unknown, yet must not come too close to the body.
After writing this, he closed the book and stood beside the window, looking at Ruizhou’s night. Inside the court compound, the streetlights were dim yellow. In the distance were factory chimneys and newly built buildings. The wind of reform and opening blew across the Pearl River Delta. Merchants became rich first, and cadres too stood at the mouth of the age’s wind. Some borrowed the wind and rose to blue clouds. Some had their waists broken by the wind. Lide understood in his heart that the road before him might not be easier than those of his brothers.
Rende had to guard the lives of patients. Yide had to guard against the desire of money. Zhide had to guard his original heart in the distance. Xinde had to guard against thought becoming empty. And he, Ma Lide, had to guard that little bit of clarity beside power.
Before his father, he remained gentle and obedient. When he returned home, he still answered “Yes” in a low voice, still helped his mother carry dishes, and still listened to his father speak of the old family tradition. But in the corridors of the Ruizhou court, he had slowly grown into another shape: steady, tall, handsome, deep in mind, sharp-edged, and possessing a bottom line he would not easily show to others.
He knew that an official career was like a chessboard: once a piece was placed, there was no regret.
And he was willing to become a man who knew how to play chess, but he was not willing to become a man with only chess skills left.