The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  ‘So think how our earnest missionaries go down. In we come, all smug and holier-than-thou, doling out our translations of the Bible. We know that what we’re offering is the ultimate salvation. To the Chinaman, it’s another book, and a rather queer one at that. Remember, this is topsy-turvy land. Black’s white. Left’s right. They don’t think as we do. And they look in the Bible and read about the Dragon Satan. A dragon for them’s a symbol of virtue. It’s the emblem of the Emperor. Are we telling them the Emperor’s evil? And then there are all the references to sheep and shepherds. Half the people in this country have never seen a sheep; the ones who have think a herdsman’s the scum of society. And we say to them, “Come like lambs to the Good Shepherd and He’ll forgive your sins”. They don’t even have a concept of sin: if something bad happens to them it’s some god’s fault not theirs.

  ‘And then in the same breath we tell them to stop worshipping their ancestors, as if filial piety’s a crime, and turn their backs on graven images because it’s idolatrous. The upshot is that Christian families don’t pay the temple dues any more. That’s fine, as far as it goes, but in this society that’s how villages fund their communal activities. So Christians immediately become antisocial elements. Others have to foot the bill for the travelling opera troupes, and what-have-you. So there’s resentment against the converts. At best they’re dog-in-the-manger, at worst they’re seditious. Come a drought or a famine, as we have in various parts of Shantung and Chih-li, it’s not surprising stories start spreading that it’s Christians poisoning the wells, or it’s doctors in the missions like me cutting out people’s hearts for magic ceremonies, or it’s telegraph wires bringing evil spirits. Resentments breed superstitions, and superstitions breed resentments. It all comes from going about things the wrong way.’

  ‘Is that what’s behind the Boxer movement? You’re painting a depressing picture, Doctor.’

  ‘Well, my view’s a minority one. Most of the Protestant missionaries believe they’re doing fine work and are enthused that the trickle of conversions will one day break the dam, and bring millions of souls to Jesus. It doesn’t seem to worry most of them that they don’t understand the first thing about the society they’ve come to. They don’t realise how offensive their good intentions really are. They’re blindly doing the Lord’s work, and He will provide. End of story. Well, I believe we’ve got to be a bit more subtle about it. It isn’t good enough to bludgeon the Chinese with the Bible, in bad Chinese to boot. We’re not going to get anywhere till we get the Mandarin class on our side, and we won’t do that by patronising them or criticising their customs. That’s why I think it’s better to open hospitals and build railways. If we can show them the advantages of our way of life, then Christianity will follow in the baggage car.’

  What a splendid discussion, thought the doctor, although, now he came to think of it, he had been doing more of the talking than she. They were just about to leave the opium ward to go to the chapel when his major-domo, Zhang Erhao, brought in the messenger from the yamen, and the doctor’s day fell apart.

  To the Estimable Ai Dun Daifu, [the letter read] On behalf of His Excellency the Mandarin Liu Daguang. Please be informed that the bandits Zhang Nankai, Xu Boren and Zhang Hongna, having confessed to the murder of the foreign youth, Hailun Meilewude, in the Black Hills, have been sentenced by the yamen and will be executed this afternoon in penalty for this crime and others involving banditry and robbery and sundry murders. There can be no issue of compensation because the three culprits, despite their previous record of robberies and larcenies, were discovered to be intestate and without possessions at the time of their apprehension. We trust that this satisfies your enquiries on this subject and we authorise you to inform the relatives of the murdered victim of the justice which has been meted on their behalf.

  It was stamped with the official yamen chop.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Dr Airton?’ Helen Frances cried.

  The doctor weakly waved out the yamen messenger and Zhang Erhao, and slumped onto one of the beds in the ward, tears welling in his eyes. ‘The poor, poor boy,’ he murmured. ‘It’s everything I feared. What shall I tell his parents?’

  And then the curt callousness of the official letter hit him. ‘Monstrous,’ he cried. ‘It’s monstrous. “We trust that this satisfies your enquiries.” They’re writing to me as if I’d made a complaint about lost property to the municipal council. What compensation can there be for a human life? And why wasn’t I informed of the trial? This is monstrous. They’re nothing but a race of savages.’

  Helen Frances, the doctor’s lecture on the sophistication of Chinese culture fresh in her ears, evidently knew when to keep silent.

  There was no help for it. He had to go to the Millwards immediately to break the news. He offered to escort Helen Frances back to her hotel first, but she asked if she could accompany him to the Millwards. He thanked her. This was an interview he dreaded and he was glad of her companionship. So the two of them walked down the rural path leading from the mission to the south gate, down the main street and into the poorer section in the northwest of the town where the Millwards lived.

  The doctor was afraid that Helen Frances would be shocked by the squalor of the Millwards’ compound. If she was she did not show it, beyond pressing a small handkerchief to her nose when stepping over the open sewer that ran outside their gate. He kept a grip on the stout stick he had brought with him, but the mongrels scavenging on the rubbish tip at the other end of the lane kept their distance. He used it now to bang on the peeling wooden door. A surly child, one of the waifs whom the Millwards had ‘saved’, wearing ragged pyjama bottoms and no top, the prettiness of her face obscured by the dirt that caked it, opened the door. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said the doctor quietly, as he entered, fumbling at the same time in his pocket for a coin to give her. She tucked it listlessly into her waistband, and led them through the courtyard.

  The Millwards were eating lunch. They were seated in a semicircle round a charcoal stove. The bowls of gruel they were holding contained more water than millet. The hopeless poverty of it all depressed Airton, and the shadowed eyes in the pale, starved faces of the children seemed to glare at him accusingly. He asked if he could speak to Septimus and Laetitia alone, but Septimus, not rising from his stool, told him to say what he had to say. So the doctor told him about the letter. Laetitia gasped and covered her face with her hands. Septimus bowed his head. The children continued to stare blankly at him, eating their gruel. A dog barked outside in the yard.

  ‘Of course I will go to the yamen and find out more,’ stumbled Airton. ‘This isn’t satisfactory. The Legations in Peking should be informed. There must be procedures, an investigation. If there is anything I can do…’

  Septimus raised his head. The blue eyes behind his spectacles were brilliant in the shaft of sunlight that came through a hole in the roof. ‘My son is not dead, Doctor,’ he said.

  ‘Of course not. Of course not,’ muttered Airton. ‘He is in a happier land. That must be our comfort. Yes. Eternal life is now his. Of course.’

  The blue eyes did not waver. ‘He has not left this world, Doctor. He still lives among men.’

  ‘His soul. Yes. Forever. In our memories. Always.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, Doctor. I know that my son was not murdered. The Devil has deceived you with a tissue of lies.’

  Airton cleared his throat. ‘But the letter?’

  ‘Words, Doctor, words. What are the words of men in the face of the truth of God? I know that my son is alive and well. I have seen him.’

  ‘You’ve seen him? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yesterday, Doctor. The Lord revealed Hiram to me in a vision. He spoke to me, saying unto me, “Father, forgive me for the anguish I have brought upon you. Know that there is a purpose to all things. And I will come to you when it is time. As the Prodigal returned so will I. And there will be joy where there was sorrow.”’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ said Laeti
tia, echoed by her children somewhat mutedly.

  ‘But—but where is he, then?’ said Airton.

  ‘That the Lord did not reveal.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Airton.

  Septimus stood up and put his arm round the doctor’s shoulders. ‘You are a good man, Doctor, and I thank you for coming to me with this important news. I know now what I must do.’

  ‘Mr Millward. Septimus. I know how much you wish to believe that this tragedy could have been prevented—’

  ‘It is to prevent a tragedy that the Lord is now calling me, and through your good graces, Doctor. There are innocent men to be saved and there is little time. Leave us, for we must pray.’

  The doctor felt a strong arm turning him and propelling him towards the door. ‘Mr Millward, I must—’

  ‘There is little time,’ said Septimus. ‘Go now. The Lord is calling me.’

  And Airton and Helen Frances found themselves in the courtyard, the door closed in their faces.

  ‘He’s mad, my dear,’ said Airton.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Helen Frances.

  ‘The tragedy’s quite unhinged him. The pity of it. What are we to do?’

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Airton. ‘Perhaps this madness is a godsend. The poor, poor family. I’ll—I’ll call again tomorrow to see how they are.’

  They turned to leave. A rat ran the length of the yard. From behind them they could hear the murmur of prayers.

  It was as they were walking down the main street on the way to Helen Frances’s hotel that they were overtaken by the crowd hurrying to the execution. Young and old, shopkeepers and artisans, men and women, fathers carrying their sons on their shoulders, an old lady hobbling with a stick, the glee and anticipation on their faces disgusted him. They might have been rushing to the circus or a carnival. At the same time a sense of guilt and shame overpowered him. How ineffective he had been—what protection for that poor innocent boy, or succour for his sad, misguided parents had he been able to provide? For all his well-intentioned efforts, was he, as Nellie had said, only a foolish busybody? How blind he had been to trust in his friendship with the Mandarin and Chinese justice.

  Here was Chinese justice about to be demonstrated. Three heads would hang in cages that evening on the city gates, and the city would go about its business as if nothing had happened. A note in the yamen records. Murder and summary execution. A pronouncement in the morning and three heads rolling in the afternoon. Harmony restored. The tragedy of Hiram and the execution of his murderers had become an afternoon’s entertainment for the mob.

  He wanted to rail against the pity of it and the waste, the lightness with which the Chinese disposed of human life—even these wretched peasants. Presumably they were guilty of the terrible crime for which they had been condemned. But why the hurry to dispense with these witnesses of Hiram’s final hours? Why had the doctor not been told about their trial? Since Hiram was a foreign child, did not the laws of extraterritoriality apply? He realised, with shame, that one of the main reasons for his anger was that the Mandarin had not informed him of what was happening. He felt in some way that his friendship had been betrayed. As the dust of the procession settled, and as he raised his fist impotently after the stragglers running to catch the show, he saw in his mind the calm, cruel features of the Mandarin, who even now would be presiding over the barbarities taking place in the square. The sardonic smile seemed to be mocking him and everything he was attempting to achieve.

  He was started from his gloomy reverie by a well-spoken voice above his left ear. ‘Dr Airton. Miss Delamere. How interesting to find you here. Are you on your way to the execution or coming away from it? I hope that I’m not too late.’

  He looked up and saw, silhouetted against the blaze of the afternoon sun, Henry Manners on his horse. He was neatly dressed in tweeds and bowler hat, and the brown leather of his boots and saddlery gleamed with soldierly perfection. His grey mare was snorting and jerking its head, but Manners held the frisky animal effortlessly in position with a tight rein.

  ‘The doctor is taking me home, Mr Manners,’ said Helen Frances. ‘He says this is not a place for a young lady to be.’

  ‘Assuredly not,’ said Manners. ‘Very grubby affairs, executions. I was afraid, for a moment, that after your experience in Fuxin you were developing most unladylike tastes.’

  ‘Then you needn’t be concerned. One horror was quite enough,’ she replied, ‘but please do not let us keep you from your own entertainments.’ Airton was amazed that she was using the same bantering tone as Manners. They might have been flirting in a salon. And there was the same strange gleam in her eye that he had noticed when the procession of condemned men had passed by.

  ‘Alas, no entertainment for me. All work, I’m afraid,’ said Manners. ‘Unpleasant circumstances, no doubt, but I think I might find the person I want to meet there. Executions are something in the way of being social occasions, are they not, Doctor? In a barbarous land, I suppose we must learn to adopt the heathen customs.’

  ‘I don’t understand you young people,’ said Airton. ‘If you must attend such a spectacle, then I suppose I can’t stop you. But, Miss Delamere, I do have a responsibility to your father, and I insist we be going.’

  ‘It was a pleasure, Doctor, no less for being so brief,’ said Manners. ‘A splendid dinner too last night, by the way. My thanks. And I look forward to our first tour together, Miss Delamere. Tomorrow, I believe? I’ll be at your hotel at two.’

  Putting his crop to the brim of his hat in salute, he spurred his horse into an easy trot, and within seconds had disappeared behind the pailou to the square, his erect figure melting into the dust and the crowd, which they could see dimly in the distance. As the doctor and Helen Frances turned to leave, they noticed that the murmur of voices had stilled to an ominous silence.

  ‘Oh, goodness, they’re reading the pronouncements before the sentences are carried out,’ said Airton. ‘Please, please, can we go now?’

  * * *

  The Mandarin was seated on a simple wooden platform set up close to the entrance of the temple in the market square. A servant was holding an umbrella above his head and he was sipping tea while he conversed with Major Lin. In front of them Jin Lao was reciting from a scroll to the now silent crowd, his naturally high-pitched voice wavering with literary emotion. The Mandarin doubted whether half of the mob could understand a word of what he was saying. He was certain that the three wretches suffering their last moments on earth, their faces pressed into the dust by Lin’s soldiers, would not be appreciating the finer flourishes.

  His eyes moved lazily over the townsmen listening to the proclamation. There was an atmosphere of tense expectation as their faces fastened with hungry attention on Jin Lao, or fixed with a furtive fascination on the miserable felons about to be executed. What brought these peaceful shopkeepers to this butcher’s yard? he wondered idly. Curiosity? Blood lust? It was a crowd like this that had exploded into riot in Fuxin. He would have to pay attention that none of this Boxer madness took root here.

  At the back of the crowd he noticed a foreigner on a horse. A well built, soldierly looking young man, who sat well in his saddle. He had not seen him before. It was strange that a foreigner should come to witness an execution. It was difficult to make out the man’s expression at this distance, but he thought he could detect an amused smile. The man was looking in the direction of the Mandarin. It was as if he had detected the Mandarin’s attention upon him, because he suddenly and deliberately raised his hat in a salute, all the time staring with the insolent eyes. For the second time that afternoon, the Mandarin was intrigued, but he allowed no change of expression on his bland features. Instead he inclined his head towards Major Lin. ‘What was Iron Man Wang’s answer? Has he made the contacts?’ he asked. It was the first time that he had had a chance to talk to Major Lin since the troop had returned from the Black Hills.

  ‘Lieutenant Li received further
assurances, but he was not given any date for a shipment.’ Major Lin’s voice was languid but his body was at half attention, and he was watchful of the crowd.

  ‘Is there going to be a shipment at all?’ asked the Mandarin scornfully. ‘I’ve paid enough for promises. When am I to see my guns?’

  ‘Lieutenant Li was told that the guns are still at the depot near Baikal. Iron Man Wang claims that there is a new commandant at the depot who requires payment.’

  ‘Lieutenant Li was under instructions to refuse any further demands for payment until the shipment arrives.’

  ‘Those were his original instructions, but then he had to negotiate the acquisition of these criminals according to your new instructions, and that complicated matters. It gave Iron Man Wang a lever to bargain with.’

  ‘New instructions?’

  ‘The instructions transmitted by Chamberlain Jin, Da Ren. Iron Man Wang struck a hard bargain because of them.’

  ‘I see. In future, take your instructions directly from me. It’s a pity that you did not lead the troop yourself.’

  ‘I was ill, Da Ren.’

  ‘You were besotted by that courtesan.’

  Major Lin reddened, stiffened. Then, seeing the Mandarin was smiling, grinned too. ‘You remind me how honoured I am by your gift, Da Ren.’

  ‘She pleases you?’

  ‘More than I can say.’

  ‘Well, don’t let her take your mind off your work. Or I’ll take her away from you. Give her to someone else. Perhaps I should take her to my own quarters. I’ve heard she’s comely.’ The Mandarin glanced up at his subordinate, noticing the red flush of anger. He laughed. ‘Jealousy, Major? Of a whore? Come, come. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, get me my guns and I’ll buy her out of that brothel for you for good. Then you can marry her if you’re so infatuated.’