cried. It made Ping sick.
But he refused to be downhearted.
“So let’s assume it’s between me and Gao,” he said. “How do I give myself the edge over the pretty poser? How do I convince the rangers to pick me?”
“There’s more to life than being pretty,” said Hui. “Once, when I was flying past a school assembly in New Orleans, I heard the most beautiful sound drifting out of a window. It was a little girl playing the violin. That was when I learned that being talented was far more important.”
“So you think I should learn to play a musical instrument?”
“Possibly,” said the bird.
“Have you ever heard of an instrument called a piano?” asked the cub. “Do you think we could make one of those?”
“Pianos are rather large,” said Hui practically. “If you’re going to learn an instrument, it’ll have to be one that we can make out of bamboo.”
They sat in silence for the next ten minutes while they tried to think of one, but their combined minds drew a blank.
“How are you at dancing?” asked Hui. “I think we should forget music and explore the possibility that dancing might give you the edge.”
“Dancing’s a bit energetic for pandas,” admitted Ping. “Unless I could dance sitting down.”
Hui shook his head.
“I could recite some poetry.”
“Do you know any?”
“Not really, but I could write some.” Ping stood up and placed his paw across his chest in a strikingly theatrical pose.
“There’s nothing I like more
Than a stick of old bamboo.
It gets the juices flowing
More than chewing on a shoe.”
He looked to Hui for approval.
“What else can you do?” asked the wise bird.
They spent the next hour trying to identify those talents Ping possessed that might capture the imagination of the people who ran London Zoo. Would they choose a panda who could scratch his own back, or fold bamboo leaves into interesting shapes, or one that could wash his own toes by walking through a river? Maybe they would favour a whistling panda, or a cloud-counting panda, or a clever panda that knew sixty-three words for bamboo.
Eventually, Ping and Hui had to give in and admit that they did not know the first thing about London Zoo or what would appeal to the people in charge.
“They’ll go for the pretty one, won’t they,” said Ping with a sigh of resignation. “We might as well give up now. They’ll choose Gao, I know they will.”
Suddenly, Hui jumped into the air and flapped his wings in a flurry of excitement.
“I’ve got it!” he cried. “A letter! A letter!”
“Which one?” asked Ping. “I know lots of them. A? B? M? T? U? V?”
“No. You write them a letter.”
“Me? Write a letter? To whom?”
“The pandas who live at London Zoo. You write to them and ask them what life is like there. And when they write back and tell you, you’ll know what it is you have to do to become the perfect panda for the exchange.”
It was a glorious plan and one that Ping could not keep to himself for a moment longer. He ran to his mother, Mao Mao, and blurted it out. He even begged her to help him compose the letter, but to his surprise she refused.
“Help,” she explained, “is the thief of self-knowledge.”
Ping scratched his head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“A dragonfly tastes sweeter to a frog when snaffled by its own tongue.”
“Why can’t you ever speak normally?” he squeaked. “Will you help me write the letter or not?”
“It is better to travel alone, Ping, for only then will you know when you have arrived.”
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