I watched the discoverer of the vaults that hold the army of 8,000 terra cotta soldiers. Today, he sits in the shop of the museum and signs his name hundreds, perhaps thousands of times per day for the visitors who buy the book about Emperor Qinshihuang's tomb. He hates photographs taken of him, and holds a fan up to obstruct his face from a lens. A bronze sign sits before him that in Mandarin and in English says NO PHOTOS. I noted that he concentrated on his task at hand every time he put his pen to the book, but then he tossed the book back at the visitor as soon as he finished signing it. Fame can become tedious and make one grumpy. He stood up, finally exhausted, and walked away. I watched him then, too, then reached into my bag for a pencil. I handed it to him. He looked at it curiously. Then he raised it in my direction, gave me a big smile, and extended his hand. I shook his soft hand hard, smiled back, then left him. I hoped, and still do this morning, that his smile remains for a while.
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