Pride mingles with curiosity at Tiananmen.

Byline: George Schroeder The Register-Guard

BEIJING - We are talking, sort of, communicating in broken English and scribbled words on a notepad, when the crowd closes in, watching, listening, jostling.

Yang Hua reaches for the notepad and writes the answer to my question, and the people press in closer. They read over his shoulder and then mine. They murmur words I do not understand.

We are at Tiananmen Square, Saturday at dusk. It seems everyone is waving a Chinese flag. Vendors are hawking them at every corner. We've just watched a squad of soldiers lower the national flag on the square's north end; hundreds of people had gathered to see the daily ceremony.

As the crowd disperses I meet Yang. We begin our conversation. And suddenly a bunch of very interested bystanders are standing very nearby. It never feels hostile, or unsafe, or even unpleasant, just curious. But for a few moments, because of the hubbub, there is an uneasy vibe.

Maybe you've heard how the Olympics have been marred by tragedy. Saturday in Beijing, a man stabbed two Americans - the in-laws of U.S. men's volleyball coach Hugh McCutcheon - and their Chinese guide.

Todd Bachman was killed; his wife, Barbara Bachman, was in serious condition at a local hospital. The Bachmans' daughter, former U.S. Olympian Elizabeth McCutcheon, was there but was unhurt.

This happened around noon at the Drum Tower, an ancient landmark north of the Forbidden City. Chinese authorities said the attacker, identified as 47-year-old Tang Yongming, acted alone. He was factory worker who was divorced five years ago. He quit his job and then sold his house in 2006, and no longer had a permanent home. Moments after the attack, Tang committed suicide by jumping from a 130-foot balcony on the tower.

At this point no one is sure why he did it. But the violent attack has put a damper on the Games, and made visitors here wonder whether they're safe, and what really is the mood of the Chinese toward foreigners.

That's what I'd wanted to find out, too, when I ventured on a 45-minute ride on crowded subways and popped up a block from Tiananmen Square.

When I'd tried to visit Friday, the vast square was closed; a line of police blocked access. But Saturday, once you got through the metal detectors, Tiananmen was open, teeming with life and very visible pride.

Chinese visitors posed for pictures in front of displays commemorating the Olympics, and Mao Zedong's tomb, and the Great Hall of the People. Couples and entire families strolled and talked and waved those flags, often pairing the Chinese flag with a white Olympic banner.

As the sun - a pale orange but visible through the haze - slid lower in the sky, many people gathered at the north end of the square for the daily flag ceremony. A squad of soldiers marched south from the Forbidden City across a wide avenue. They slowly lowered the flag, carefully folded it, then marched away.

Many in the crowd left, too. I stopped Yang because while many were carrying small flags, his was full-sized.

Eventually, I wrote the question in a notepad: "What does the flag mean to you?"

He thought for a moment, and then wrote back:

"I think I love my country."

He said he lives in Beijing. And when I asked if there were more flags flying than usual because of the Olympics, he said, "Yes! Yes!"

I wrote: "What does the Olympics mean to China?"

"Happy fun," he wrote back.

When we parted with smiles, the crowd around us melted away too, including a guy who seemed extremely curious. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but the earpiece gave him away.

More than 100,000 people - soldiers, police, volunteers - are patrolling Beijing during the Olympics. Get near Tiananmen and you can't turn around without bumping into a uniform. It is not surprising to realize there are others, less visible.

"Are you police?" I asked the man.

"Security," he said. "Everything is OK."

I wasn't sure what that meant. Could be, news of the earlier incident had been passed down through the ranks, and he was being extra vigilant. Or maybe he was just checking on an impromptu public gathering.

Since everything was OK, I talked to a few more people, and then a soldier approached and opened a red, leather-bound book - really, more of a binder. Inside was something that looked like a certificate of merit.

"Will you sign?" he asked. "Will you sign?"

And smiling, he handed me a pen. I signed, and thanked him. He reached deep into his pocket, pulled out a rectangular-shaped metal block and gave it to me.

Smooth and without feature, it was about a half-inch thick, and fit easily in the palm of my hand. I wasn't sure what it was. Because of the language barrier, he could not tell me.

Back at the Olympic media center, neither could the Chinese volunteers. One called another who called another who called another.

"Where did you find it?" they kept asking, and when I repeated the story for the fourth time, it was to a security official who momentarily seemed concerned.

"Maybe it is dangerous," someone said nervously.

"It's just a hunk of metal," I told him.

But it's more.

If the block's intended use is unclear, its meaning is not. I will take this piece of China home with me.

George Schroeder can be reached at [e-mail]. His regularly updated blog is at rgweb-c.registerguard.com/blogs/index.php/georges