The Message

by Mai Jia

  How was that going to work? By now Su-the-Arsehole was rich and powerful; he wasn’t going to be taking orders from any little brats! ‘Dream on! You might want to kick me out, but I am determined to stay – if you’ve got the balls, you can try and force me out!’

  Eldest Brother had the balls, but having thought through the matter carefully, he decided that he didn’t dare touch him. Second Brother was useless; there was no point even asking him. Third Brother was hopeless too, an effeminate little creature, pale and delicate, and so cowardly that he didn’t even dare kill a chicken. That was how Eldest Brother saw it: of his two brothers, one was little better than a dunce and the other might as well have been a girl. The family’s economic situation was going from bad to worse and they didn’t have money to waste on trying to recruit supporters. Eldest Brother had schooled himself in patience and learnt how to swallow humiliation, so even when he was faced with a bastard like Su-the-Arsehole, he rarely showed his true feelings.

  Nobody was expecting that Third Brother would grit his teeth, flush bright red and announce to Eldest Brother, ‘We’ve got to get rid of him!’

  3

  Third Brother wasn’t like the rest of the Tan family. He was cut from different cloth. A changeling.

  According to my information, Third Brother was born immediately after an elder sister had fallen sick and died at only three years old. Everyone agreed that the two of them were very much alike; they were both very small and sickly, and, strangely, they both seemed much closer to the servants, with whom they spent all their time, than to any members of their own family. The little girl died because she’d been infected by a consumptive servant. Third Brother couldn’t even take milk from his own mother’s breast. It made him sick, it might as well have been poison to him, and very nearly killed him.

  Having no other choice, the family had to find him a wet nurse, and this was another odd thing: once he started being fed by the nurse, he wouldn’t stop. They simply couldn’t wean him – they tried smearing chilli oil on her nipples, so hot that his pale little face went bright red and his tongue swelled up, but he still hung on. They drew horrible images on her breasts, shocking enough to make him scream and give him nightmares, but in the end when he got hungry enough, he would latch on. It seemed as if he would pay any price to stay on the breast. When they weaned him forcibly, he would respond by getting terribly sick, to the point that they worried he might die: he would be running a high temperature, covered in ulcers, and vomiting bile. Since this happened time and time again, he was still breastfeeding at the age of seven. By that time he was too big to be held in his wet nurse’s arms, so he had to stand up to feed. His nurse’s pale breasts had been tugged on until they hung down like limp sacks. Those who saw him at it just wanted to laugh. At eight he was sent to a school in the city, but he ran away because he couldn’t cope without his nurse.

  He had almost no primary schooling, but later on he did go to middle school, where his grades were consistently appalling. However, when it came to painting (which was not part of the regular curriculum), he did remarkably well. Everyone who saw his art agreed that he had an amazing natural talent, so he was sent to the Academy of Fine Arts. His father was still alive then and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the prospect of his own son becoming a painter. He treated Third Brother more or less as if he were a girl and held out no particular hopes of him ever achieving much. The money he’d spent on his upbringing had clearly been wasted, but it didn’t really matter.

  Since he’d been almost entirely brought up by his wet nurse, Third Brother wasn’t particularly close to the other members of his family, and even the servants saw no reason to respect him. Otherwise, why did everyone call him Third Brother, when they ought to have been calling him Third Young Master? There was a reason for that, too. When his parents were killed and the rest of the household were all weeping and wailing, he – then aged sixteen – was the only one who didn’t shed a tear; he seemed more like a world-weary sixty-year-old than a teenager. At first, everyone said that he hated his parents for having treated him so badly, but then he decided to let his hair grow, apparently as a mark of respect, as if he really missed his parents. Nobody understood what he was trying to do. He’d always been quite effeminate-looking and with his longer hair he seemed more girlish than ever, until it got to the point where they started to worry. However, what he really most resembled was one of the new breed of art student, with his long hair swishing about his face, his starry-eyed expression, and a portfolio under his arm. He attracted a lot of attention from modern young girls with progressive ideas.

  Eldest Brother didn’t enjoy the sight of his arty sibling. It annoyed him every time they saw each other; it was quite stomach-churning to look at him. He often muttered to himself as he looked at his two younger brothers, just as he did whenever he thought about having to deal with that bastard Su-the-Arsehole, but what could he do? When a tiger loses its claws, it is helpless. He just had to accept that he was out of luck. However, Third Brother refused to accept anything of the kind; he wanted to call time on Su-the-Arsehole and get rid of him, and he began to act as if it were a revolver he held in his hand and not a portfolio of drawings.

  Eldest Brother found his attitude quite laughable. He glared at him and stomped off. What was the point in talking to him? It would just be a waste of breath.

  Third Brother launched himself forward and said through gritted teeth, ‘We’ve got to get rid of him!’

  Eldest Brother did his very best to suppress his irritation and said lightly, ‘How? Are you planning to draw a tiger that’ll make him run away?’

  ‘I’m going to join the army,’ Third Brother said.

  Eldest Brother looked at him with his shoulder-length hair blowing in the wind and suddenly found it impossible to contain his rage. ‘Just stop annoying me, why don’t you!’ And he walked off without another word.

  Eldest Brother didn’t see Third Brother again until a couple of evenings later, and it gave him a terrible shock, as if he’d seen a ghost. Third Brother had indeed gone and joined the army, and the long jet-black hair he’d been growing out as a sign of mourning had all been shaved off. He was now wearing a peaked cap and an army uniform – and he looked quite dreadful in it. Even in that garb he managed to look effeminate! On the one hand, with his close-cropped head, he looked like a thug, and on the other, with his eyes swimming in tears, he looked like a poor wretch. Even worse, perhaps because of the inordinately long time he’d spent on the breast as a child, he had particularly fair skin, which made him look like a bookworm, a weakling, a coward.

  Seeing someone like that with two revolvers strapped to his waist did not comfort Eldest Brother one bit. He was furious, he was red with rage, he could not have been angrier! Over the last few years, the family had sold off their remaining bits and bobs to see Third Brother through his studies, and he was now nearly ready to graduate. Eldest Brother had already gone to the trouble of making representations on his behalf and spending money to see him placed in a good position. He’d thought that at long last he was about to get Third Brother off his hands. And now he’d gone and done this…

  ‘You must be off your head! How could you do something like this! You’re sending us all to rack and ruin!’ Overcome with rage, Eldest Brother slapped Third Brother across the face and cursed. ‘From now on, I wash my hands of you!’ This scream echoed through the night, as if someone had died.

  4

  I should perhaps explain that, as a soldier, Third Brother received a salary from the state, and his basic needs were taken care of. But he had cut Eldest Brother to the quick and embarrassed the Tan family in front of everyone. How could a Tan become a common soldier?

  In fact, there was no need to be so concerned. Third Brother was soon promoted to platoon commander, serving under Qian Huyi in the Zhejiang Garrison of the Nationalist Party’s National Revolutionary Army. A platoon commander wasn’t very important, but at least he was an officer, and it
was a stepping stone.

  In the past, if he’d wanted to move on up the ranks, to become a company, battalion or regimental commander, a gold bar or two would have been all that was required. His father, after all, had bought himself the position of Chief Inspector (which would be equivalent to Chief of Police nowadays). But that was then and this was now. Third Brother had no such means for securing his promotion, so in the end he came up with a particularly low ploy – he got the young niece of the family’s loyal head butler to sleep with Division Commander Qian Huyi and that got him a position as a company commander.

  No matter how you looked at it, Third Brother’s behaviour was an embarrassment, and it certainly confirmed the general impression that the Tan family was on its last legs. But his actions had made Su-the-Arsehole uneasy, and he began to worry that he might actually have to give up his tenancy.

  Sure enough, one afternoon, Third Brother turned up at the teahouse, barged his way into Su-the-Arsehole’s room upstairs, and without mincing his words revoked the tenancy. Su-the-Arsehole had by that stage put quite a bit of effort into getting Qian Huyi on his side, so was he likely to be scared of some company commander? In a scornful tone he said, ‘If you want a bit of money to piss off, you can have it, but you’re not getting this teahouse back. If you don’t believe me, you can go and ask my pal Qian Huyi. Hey, you only gave him one woman, but I gave him twelve – buxom and skinny, pale and dark, all kinds – so what do you think he’s going to say when you try and get rid of me?’

  If Su-the-Arsehole thought that would be the end of it, he was wrong, because Third Brother now reached for his knife. It was a throwing knife with a very short blade, quite thick and shaped like an enlarged protruding thumb. He’d been carrying it under his uniform belt.

  Third Brother began flipping the knife backwards and forwards in his hands. It was as if the knife were alive: the blade glinted with a cold light, its point trained on Su-the-Arsehole.

  Su-the-Arsehole leapt back, shocked. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled.

  ‘I only want what’s fair,’ Third Brother said coolly. ‘Give us our property back.’

  ‘Give it back?’ Su-the-Arsehole was trying to be polite. ‘I never stole it! I’m just renting the place from you, and when the tenancy is over, of course you’ll get it back.’

  ‘I want it back now,’ Third Brother said.

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  Third Brother waved his knife. ‘Then I’ll just have to make you give it back.’

  Su-the-Arsehole quickly picked up a chair to defend himself with, and Third Brother burst out laughing.

  ‘What are you so scared of? You’re a pal of Division Commander Qian – I’d get cashiered if I hurt you. Anyway—’ here, he patted his holster ‘—if I wanted to hurt you, a gun would be a lot easier.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ With the mention of Qian Huyi, Su-the-Arsehole had calmed down slightly.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t. Or rather, it’s not that I wouldn’t dare but that it wouldn’t be worth it.’ Third Brother gave Su-the-Arsehole an appraising look. ‘If I shot you dead, I’d be a murderer and then I’d be up in front of a firing squad. Why should I have to risk my life to bring you down? It’s a fairly petty disagreement after all, and there’s no reason we should both have to die to resolve it. That really would be a waste.’

  Third Brother moved across to a nearby table, held out his left hand and playfully clenched all his fingers bar the little one. Narrowing his eyes, he said. ‘This little finger is nothing, but it is mine and not yours.’ He raised his knife then lowered its curved blade to the top joint and held it there, pinning the finger to the edge of the table as if he were about to slice a bamboo shoot. It really was a terrible sight.

  Su-the-Arsehole was not a clever man, but he got the message. Third Brother was acknowledging that Su-the-Arsehole was more important than he was; he had more money than he did; and even his little finger was worth more than that of Third Brother’s. It would be nothing for Su-the-Arsehole to return the estate to Third Brother.

  All this while, Third Brother’s little finger was sticking up, all by itself, against the edge of the table.

  With a single sharp snapping sound, Third Brother sliced off its top joint.

  The fingertip didn’t twitch in the way stories would have you believe; it just lay there resembling a bamboo shoot, motionless, and there was very little blood. Third Brother seemed a bit disappointed. He stared at it in disgust, then with the tip of his knife he flicked it at Su-the-Arsehole, as one might flip a cigarette butt.

  Su-the-Arsehole was quite short and he managed to duck it. But his face had turned a sickly green, his voice was shaking and he began to scream like a fishwife who’d just been groped. ‘Help! Help!’

  A servant came thudding up the stairs, but Third Brother got in first and, showing him his bloodied little finger, shouted loudly, ‘Bring wine!’

  The servant quickly rushed away to find some.

  Third Brother dipped the stump in the alcohol and felt a stab of pain as if it were being fried in oil. Sweat immediately beaded his forehead, but other than that, he didn’t react at all; he didn’t grit his teeth, or moan, or furrow his brow or close his eyes. In fact, he joked with the servant, ‘Mr Su and I are going to seal our agreement by swearing an oath in blood.’

  The servant congratulated his boss, which annoyed Su-the-Arsehole mightily, so all he got for his pains was a command to bugger off. The servant picked up his feet and removed himself.

  Third Brother let the servant leave, but he stopped his master from going anywhere. ‘If you just walk out, I’ll have cut off my finger for nothing. Do you really think I’m going to allow that?’

  Su-the-Arsehole didn’t pay the blindest bit of notice, just tried to dodge past him. Third Brother whipped out his pistol, pointed it at the back of his head and said, ‘If you set foot outside this room, I’ll shoot your nasty little legs out from under you, and then I’ll gouge out both your eyes. I’ll make sure that the rest of your life is a misery. If you don’t believe me, then give it a go!’

  Of course he wasn’t going to give it a go. The man was a lunatic, far more frightening than even a rabid dog, and Su-the-Arsehole was scared witless. He tried to get Third Brother to put his gun down, to see if they could discuss the matter in a civilized fashion.

  Third Brother did put his gun down, but somehow it wasn’t so easy to discuss the matter in a civilized fashion. He decided to get the whole thing over and done with as quickly as possible. ‘If you aren’t out of this teahouse by the end of today, I will kill you!’

  At that time, Third Brother was still only eighteen years old. He was slight and thin and he had a reputation for never raising his voice, never getting angry. His eyes always seemed to be swimming in tears and he looked like an innocent child – how could he be this unpleasant? It seemed impossible, absolutely impossible. But as Su-the-Arsehole stared down the black barrel of Third Brother’s gun, it was as if the young man’s father had come back to life.

  A bastard may not care in the slightest what other people say about him, but he is liable to be very concerned about his own survival. When Third Brother cut off his own finger, it was to show that from then on Su-the-Arsehole’s life would be on the line, and he was scared just thinking about it. That evening he collected his ill-gotten gains, did a lot of cursing and took himself off in humiliation. He went to find his pal, Division Commander Qian Huyi, but the latter refused to even see him. The fact was that Su-the-Arsehole was just a cheap and nasty criminal like everyone said, and nobody was prepared to give him the time of day. Besides which, the Division Commander had the niece of the old head butler at the Tan Estate with him, and she’d already put a word in.

  This all took place in the February of 1937, just after Chinese New Year, when the winter-flowering plum trees that stood proudly on the slopes behind the rear courtyard of the Tan Estate were giving off a delicious perfume, heralding the arrival of sprin
g. It seemed that even they were delighted to finally see the back of Su-the-Arsehole. That time of year is always a quiet period for the flesh trade, so on the Tan Estate they focused on preparations for their reopening of the teahouse. By the time the spring flowers began to bloom, everything was ready: the front courtyard was once again wreathed in lights and busy with the pouring of wine. At first, business wasn’t as brisk as it had been under Su-the-Arsehole, but it got better night after night, and by the summer it was pretty much back to normal.

  If this state of affairs had continued, the Tan Estate would have gradually become financially more stable. But the good times didn’t last long. In August, the Japanese started their bombing campaign, and when people are being blown to bits left, right and centre, who has time to go to a brothel? You’re too busy trying to survive! By the end of the year, the Japanese devils had occupied Hangzhou and requisitioned the Tan Estate. So Third Brother had cut off his finger, but all he got was a couple of months of good times and an awful lot of humiliation. He was abused and ridiculed – there was nothing he could do. As the old saying has it, when luck is against you, even a hero will find himself helpless.

  Third Brother had cut his finger off for nothing.

  5

  After the Japanese devils occupied the Tan Estate, outside the front door and up on the roof there hung the usual baboon-arse red flags, and yellow-uniformed sentries guarded the entrance. But this huge estate wasn’t taken over by a division of the Imperial Japanese Army in need of suitable accommodation, and nor did an important official move in. Instead, a very respectable-looking Japanese couple came to live there, with just a handful of servants. There were less than ten members of the household, and even with the guards, that barely brought it up to two dozen.

  Once they’d taken up residence, the couple had very little to do with the outside world, but occasionally they would stroll to some of West Lake’s most scenic spots, taking in its sweeping willows and shady pavilions, its arched stone bridges and yellow irises. The master of the household was in his thirties, bespectacled and always carrying a fan, quite handsome, and elegantly dressed. He was extremely polite and refined in his manners, and he seemed very knowledgeable about both poetry and painting. He would often pause to look at hanging scrolls, seemingly lost in admiration for the work of art or calligraphy in question. Sometimes he appeared overwhelmed by the beauty of the scenery and he would stand gazing out at West Lake, reciting a snatch of verse, standing tall with his robe billowing in the wind. He seemed highly civilized, in a way deserving of respect.