The Storyteller

Kan Sung-yun is a professional storyteller, one of those who, troubadour-like, spin wondrous yarns for China's listeners. At Nanking's tea houses, sipping tea and cracking melon seeds, Kan unfolded a repertory that ranged from ancient sagas of Homeric scope to the modern story of a nude, female ghost that would have done credit to Thome ("Topper") Smith. But spectacled "Dim-Eyed Kan" was too bright for his own good.

During the Japanese occupation, his ready wit landed him in prison for telling tales from history wherein overbearing conquerors came to naught. After the Japanese moved out, Kan poked fun at the Nationalists, who sternly reprimanded him. Then the Communists took over. At first the Reds hailed Kan as an authentic "artist of the people." He reciprocated by giving the new regime a plug or two in his tales. But when his listeners showed signs of boredom, Kan promptly reverted to his old style.

He told one story of a rascally old warlord who gave his favorites land belonging to others, slyly called it the first "land reform" movement. His listeners grinned delightedly. After a few more such stories, Kan mysteriously disappeared.

Six months later, Kan reappeared in Nanking explaining limply that he had been "re-educated by the magnanimous people's government." He went back to his storytelling, but somehow his heart did not seem to be in it. Then one day he told his fans the story of a legendary outlaw who had killed a tiger by slamming it against a rock. "That mountain cat was tough," grinned Kan, "but no match for that rock." His audience rocked and rolled with laughter, for in Chinese the word for cat sounds very much like Mao (as in Mao Tse-tung) and the word for rock is shek, as in Chiang Kaishek. The old storyteller was plainly back in form again. But the tiger of Peking was not amused.

Last week, Peking announced that Kan had been executed for "spreading rumors and disturbing the peace."

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