The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  ‘He has certainly upset Mr Harriman and the board of the Union Pacific Railroad Company,’ said Airton. ‘But, as you say, it is a wild, new country. I would hope that the Peking–Mukden Railway when it is extended to these parts will face no such problem, and we will have nothing to fear from the likes of Iron Man Wang and his band.’

  A twitch of displeasure disturbed the Mandarin’s composed features, like a ripple of wind across a smooth pond.

  ‘I wonder, dear Daifu, why you are continually fascinated by the so-called Iron Man Wang. I have told you on many occasions that such a man—if he exists—is merely one of a rabble of petty criminals who dwell in caves and provide minor annoyance to some of our merchants, if they are foolish enough to wander the roads at night. You have nothing to fear from such a creature.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt, Da Ren. I only mention his name again because there is talk of him in the town, among the servants, some no doubt overblown stories…’

  ‘Exaggerations of whining merchants who invent bandits’ deprivations as an excuse to hide their profits from my tax collectors,’ said the Mandarin.

  ‘No doubt,’ said the doctor carefully. ‘But all of us were very pleased, nevertheless—our railway engineers, my friend Mr Delamere…’

  ‘The soap merchant?’

  ‘Alkali, Da Ren. He manufactures alkali crystals. All of us were very pleased to hear that Major Lin will soon be departing with his troops for what we were told would be an expedition against the bandits in the Black Hills.’

  ‘Major Lin conducts all manner of training exercises for our Imperial soldiers. Occasionally this takes the form of marches into the Black Hills. If Major Lin and his troops were to stumble on felons in their path I am sure that they would do their duty and arrest them—but there is no question of an expedition against a bandit. I would only authorise such a thing if there was a bandit problem, which, as I have told you, we do not have.’

  ‘The attack on Mr Delamere’s mule train in April—’

  ‘Was very unfortunate. An act of hooliganism and thievery, which embarrasses me. I caused the matter to be investigated and some criminal villagers were discovered and punished.’

  ‘There was a beheading, yes.’

  ‘And justice was accomplished. This was not the work of a mythical Iron Man Wang.’

  The Mandarin’s hooded eyes shifted and his mouth shaped itself into a wide smile. Dr Airton busied himself with his pipe. The Mandarin laughed and leaned forward to pat the doctor gently on the thigh. ‘Do not worry, my dear Daifu. You and your friends are my guests, and guests of the Emperor and the great Empress Dowager. No more talk of bandits and train robbers. Tell me, what news do you bring me about the railway itself? Is the work progressing well?’

  Airton felt the weight of the fat hand resting on the inside of his thigh, the coolness of a jade ring through the cloth of his trousers. He was not perturbed. He recognised physical contact as a Chinese gesture of intimacy, the mark of one gentleman’s friendship with another. He thought of Lin’s fierce soldiers holding hands as they walked down the street off duty, and sometimes on duty. Some of Airton’s missionary colleagues were quick to condemn the most innocent display of affection as incipient lasciviousness. Not for the first time he thought that the true faith might be better transmitted if its practitioners were not so unbending. He did not believe that he was an overly sensuous man but he liked to think of himself as a tolerant humanitarian. As a physician he had sympathy with the frailty of the flesh and was disinclined to judge others harshly for their peccadilloes or habits. On the other hand, as a Scotsman, he would have preferred it if the Mandarin had kept his hands off his leg. Having treated several of the Mandarin’s concubines in his professional capacity, he had an unworthy vision of some plumper and certainly more attractive thighs that this same hand might recently have squeezed. With an effort he brought himself back to the subject.

  ‘The railway, Da Ren? Indeed. You will, of course, get a fuller report from Mr Fischer at the camp, but when I rode over to the site a few days ago it all seemed to be a hive of activity. The foundations of the bridge are being pounded into the riverbed as we speak, and I believe that one of the survey teams is examining the best location for a tunnel through the Black Hills.’

  ‘So when will the link with the main line to Tientsin be completed?’

  ‘Within a few months. Mr Fischer told me he is grateful for your help, and he has had very little trouble with the peasants whose fields are to be purchased for the line. I trust that they have received due compensation?’

  ‘Your company has been very generous,’ said the Mandarin.

  ‘I’m gratified to hear it,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m told that peasants can sometimes be rather superstitious about aspects of all this progress we’re bringing them. You know, whistling, huffing, smoking fire-wagons and strange hummings on the tracks. Evil spirits being brought in by us foreign devils. Am I not right, Da Ren?’

  The Mandarin laughed—a curiously shrill cackle from a man so bulky. He removed his hand from the doctor’s leg, and fanned his face.

  ‘First bandits, now ghosts! Poor Daifu, what a perilous world you live in! My dear doctor, do we really care what nonsense the ignorant populace believes? Drink some tea. Think of the wealth and prosperity that the wonders of your civilisation will bring.’

  The doctor laughed with the Mandarin.

  ‘Excuse me, Da Ren, but I do worry from time to time. It’s the gossip. You must excuse us. We are strangers in a strange land so we are concerned when we hear of—’

  ‘Bandits and ghosts!’

  ‘Indeed, bandits and ghosts—but also gatherings of martial artists among the villages, secret societies, Da Ren, stirring up the superstitions of the uneducated. All nonsense, I am sure, but there have been riots in which foreigners were killed. Those nuns in Tientsin…’

  ‘Twenty years ago.’ The Mandarin was no longer laughing. ‘And Minister Li Hung-chang and our government made reparations to your powers.’ The doctor caught an uncharacteristic tone of sarcasm in the last word.

  ‘Not everybody is as enlightened as you, Da Ren,’ he said, lamely, ‘and I fear that we foreigners are not always welcome in this country.’

  The Mandarin leaned back on his cushion. ‘Daifu, I am not one to hide the truth behind a veil of comforting platitude. These are difficult times for my country, and there are some among us who are uneasy about what the foreigners bring in their wake. You talk of superstitious fear. Even among my colleagues in the Mandarinate there are those who dislike the activities of your missionaries. I have known you for many years and I recognise you for a physician, who only has a care for my people. There are other missionaries—we have one in this town—whose motives are not so clear. The common people fear it when your missions take our children—’

  ‘Girls who would otherwise be abandoned.’

  ‘The abandonment of unwanted female children is an ancient custom, not a good one but our way, Daifu. I realise that your motive for gathering up these creatures is charitable, but our peasants hear stories that they are introduced into strange rites of your religion. There is talk of the eating of human flesh—’

  ‘That is nonsense.’

  ‘Of course it is nonsense—but you yourself are one who pays attention to rumours and stories from the uneducated. Were we not talking of bandits and ghosts? I know nothing of secret societies. Would I allow them to exist if I did? I would not. On the contrary, I have always welcomed the foreigner among us. You, Daifu, and Mr Fischer, the engineer, and even the fat soap-trader, Delamere, have many things to teach us. The Great Ch’ing Empire is weak in the face of your technology. You gave it to the barbarian dwarfs from over the sea, and five years ago they declared war on us and took our territory when they had destroyed our navy. Yes, I am talking about the Japanese. And now other foreign vultures come here to claw concessions, as you call them. The Russians in the west and the north, the Germans in Shantung, and you Britis
h everywhere. A port here. An island or a tract of earth there. There are many in our government, even at the Imperial Court, who ask, “When will this stop?” They would drive the foreign vultures away.

  ‘Not I. I do not wish you to leave. I welcome you. If our empire is weak, then we must strengthen it. We must learn what makes a modern nation strong. It is weaponry in part. I myself fought against the foreign armies. I watched the Summer Palace of our emperors burn. That was when I was a boy. We were brave enough, and skilful with the lance and the bow—but you had better guns. Major Lin is now always asking, “Give me guns!” But it is not only guns. You have wealth. And you have technology and inventions. You have modern medicines, Daifu. You can cure as well as kill. If China is to be strong again, and if the Emperor is to sit comfortably on his throne, then we must know what you know.

  ‘So I welcome you, Daifu, and I cast my protection over you.’

  The Mandarin was laughing again, and Airton felt the hand back on his thigh.

  ‘I will protect you from bandits, and ghosts, and secret societies.’

  The Mandarin leaned forward so that Airton was looking straight into his hooded eyes. He lowered his voice to a murmur: ‘And that is why I enjoy our little conversations, Daifu. They teach me what I wish to know.’ Again, the high cackle of laughter, a brisk tap on his knee, and with fluid agility the Mandarin had risen to his feet and was shaking the half-rising doctor briskly by both hands. ‘Until we next meet. It is always a pleasure talking to you, Daifu. Bandits and ghosts! Ha! Ha!’

  The audience was over. The Mandarin, with genial courtesy, handed the doctor his hat and his cane, then ushered him to the door with an arm around his shoulder. ‘I will come to the railway works one day soon to observe its progress,’ said the Mandarin. ‘You will pass on my regards to Mr Fischer and his crew.’

  ‘I certainly will, Da Ren. You know that he will soon be joined by an assistant, an Englishman?’

  ‘So I have been informed,’ said the Mandarin. ‘He is welcome. You are all welcome in Shishan.’

  Jin Zhijian, the elderly chamberlain, was waiting by the stone lions at the bottom of the steps leading to the Mandarin’s study. His hands were folded in the sleeves of his faded blue gown and he was wearing the conical white hat of a minor official. His rheumy eyes smiled, wrinkling his ascetic features.

  ‘Jin Lao will accompany you to the gate,’ said the Mandarin. ‘I look forward to our next meeting.’

  ‘Goodbye, Da Ren, and health to your family. The Lady Fan is taking her medicine, I trust?’

  ‘Her stomach pains no longer trouble her. I thank you.’

  * * *

  The Mandarin watched as the doctor followed the tall figure of Jin Lao across the courtyard and through the red doors to the outer precincts of the yamen. What strange, heavy clothes these foreigners put on in the heat of summer. He could not imagine why they considered black tail-coats and shiny top hats the appropriate dress for an interview with a magistrate. For a moment the Mandarin luxuriated in the cool silk of his own pyjamas. His eyes lingered on the green leaves of his ginkgo tree, the black shadows of its branches creating calligraphic patterns on the white, sun-drenched flagstones. He stretched his arms till his shoulders ached and drew in deep breaths of the humid, fragrant air. From the balcony of the living quarters to the side he could hear the faint murmurs of his household. A flurry of high-pitched voices. Quarrels again? No, a squeal of laughter and the soft ripple of a musical instrument. He smiled at the memory of his little Moth, her playful white fingers emerging from the red brocade, the sharp nails lingering on his stomach, her eyes daring him to laugh as the hand moved lower …

  What did he make of the doctor’s questions? Astute, as usual. Well-informed, but also naïve. It continually surprised him that the foreigners, with their knowledge, their learning and their extraordinary practical skills, could at the same time be so inept at understanding the basic politics of life. They were like clever children at their first Lantern Festival, crowing with delight when they penetrated the first riddle in a poem, without comprehending that the poet had hidden other layers of meaning beneath the obvious puns. Did the doctor have a subtext in his talk of Iron Man Wang and secret societies? Did he suspect the Mandarin’s involvement in hidden conspiracies? He doubted it. It was a curious phenomenon—and one confusing to many of his countrymen and consequently the cause of much misunderstanding—that foreigners usually spoke only what was uppermost in their minds. He who searched for subtlety in a barbarian’s conversation would tie himself in a web of his own imagining. The doctor had undoubtedly heard some rumours—there were always rumours, and rumours were to be encouraged because they could obfuscate as well as reveal—but he could not know of the movements of the patriotic societies; he could not hear the silent crawling of the woodworm in the palace eaves, the stirrings of maggots in peasant dunghills; he could not know that the Mandate of Heaven was about to pass to a new dynasty. There were aspects of China that no foreigner would ever comprehend for all their mastery of the physical world. Yet the Mandarin would have to be more vigilant. It was dangerous that a foreign barbarian could identify the threads, even if he was unable to see the pattern of the great brocade.

  He had told the doctor that he had witnessed the burning of the Summer Palace. Had that been too revealing? He did not think so. The doctor would appreciate the confession as another mark of the personal intimacy he seemed to value so highly. Yet he had been sincere when he told the doctor that he had been impressed by the power of the West. He recalled to this day the futile charge his banner had made on the French lines. He saw again the pennants flying, the crimson and bronze of the armour, the sunlight flashing on the ten thousand spears of their invincible army. It had not been his first battle. He had earned his horsetail a few years before, with General Tseng Kuo-fan and his Hunan Braves against the rabble of the Taipings—but this was the first time he was fighting the ocean barbarians. He smelt again the dust of the Northern Plain, the rank odour of horse, the sweet scent of sweat and fear. The enemy were entrenched on a riverbed. It would be an easy charge over the trampled millet fields. As his nervous pony twitched at the reins and the harness jingled and the line of bannermen waited for the command, he had been confident that it would be over quickly. And it was. It all ended in what seemed to him now like a moment fixed in eternity. He could not recall the noise of it today, but there must have been a deafening thunder of guns. He could not recall today that he had even moved, let alone charged and had his horse shot under him. He did remember standing still while the Chinese army died around him, horses and riders rearing and tumbling, flying earth and limbs erupting, and fires exploding in the air in a long, endless fall. And in that moment he had felt a sense of wonder and elation and invincibility that he had survived what he knew was a turning point for his country. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  He felt no animosity towards the foreign soldiers. They were men like others. He had killed one in his escape that night to the north, a young soldier looting the house in which he had been hiding. The boy had died noisily, whimpering and gurgling through a slashed throat. He had taken his rifle and his cartridges, feeling the power and beauty of the efficient weapon in his hand. He had felt no anger when, later, he hid in a thicket across the lake from the burning palace and saw the symbols of the Manchu dynasty blaze. If anything it had increased his elation. The Mandate had been withdrawn and a new power was in the land, and he determined that he would be part of it.

  In the hard days after the war, the vision had faded, but it had not entirely gone away. He had continued as a soldier, attaching himself to the rising new General Li Hung-chang. He had taken part in further expeditions against the Taipings and the Nien rebels, and had risen to General Li’s attention. It was General Li who had arranged for him to take the imperial examinations. He had proved an efficient magistrate, an effective hatchet man for General Li, who later went on to carve a career for himself in politics at the Imperial Cour
t. He continued to benefit by the connection. Now, in his later years, he was the sole ruler of a city and county. He had enriched himself and he was feared—but to his surprise the Ch’ing dynasty still tottered on its throne. He knew it was only a matter of time before it would be replaced. He knew that the Ch’ing had lost their Mandate on that day when their armies disintegrated on the plains of Chih-li. The foreigners were part of the process that would hasten the inevitable fall. They would snip away territories but they would never rule the Middle Kingdom. Meanwhile he who was equipped with their knowledge would benefit when the Great Ch’ing collapsed. Chaos inevitably followed collapse, and he who was powerful in his own domain would survive.

  He sighed and yawned. With a last look at the ginkgo tree, he moved into the shadowy study and sat down at his table where a blank piece of paper awaited his brush strokes.

  * * *

  Jin Lao’s smile seemed chiselled into his rice-paper features as he led the barbarian doctor into the outer courtyard. Guards and servants shuffled to their feet as they passed but Jin Lao’s erect figure looked straight ahead. He did not know why Liu Da Ren spent long hours closeted in conversation with this small, whiskered, mouselike foreigner, who had the surprising ability to speak the Chinese language, but he assumed that the Mandarin had subtle reasons for doing so. Jin Lao had spent more than twenty years in the Mandarin’s service and had learned not to question his wisdom. He had profited considerably from his master’s generosity by keeping his silence.

  The doorkeeper pushed open the great brass-studded wooden gates. Jin Lao turned to his charge and bowed. The doctor bowed back. ‘Thank you, Jin Lao, as always,’ he said. ‘Your health? I trust that it is improving?’

  ‘Sadly I am still troubled by my head pains.’ A long white hand extended from its sleeve and moved upwards languidly to rub the the shaven temple. ‘No doubt it is age.’

  ‘I am grieved to hear it,’ said the doctor. ‘Perhaps these pills would be of help?’