by Y. S. Lee
She was taking another turn of the street, keeping half an eye on the tract widow, when she saw him. He was walking in her direction with swift, long strides, his head slightly lowered. His face was a good deal more battered than the last time she’d seen it: a swollen, yellow–purple eyelid and a short, wide scab across the opposite eyebrow were the most obvious injuries, but it was unmistakably Mr Ching. She halted and stared.
His chin lifted slightly and he met her eyes. He did not speak, merely held her gaze as he approached. He had nearly passed her when the words tumbled from her lips, entirely unplanned. “Who on earth could have beaten you in a fight?”
The merest suggestion of a smile. “You think I lost?” His steps slowed but he did not stop.
Mary cast a last glance at the tract widow, who remained serenely in position, and turned to walk with Mr Ching. “I suppose that’s a sloppy assumption. But I saw you fight on Saturday. Neither of the first two challengers landed a blow.”
“The last fight was against three.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Three men at the same time?”
He nodded.
“But you won the fight?”
Another nod.
Mary scrabbled for a reasonable way to introduce herself, frame her questions. She couldn’t find anything remotely conventional, so instead she simply repeated herself. “I was there.”
“You said.”
“Dressed as a boy.”
“Is that a common English pastime?”
She almost smiled, but his question was quite serious. “No. It is … inappropriate for women to attend prize-fights. I came because my father used to practise your kind of fighting.”
He scanned her face again, carefully this time. “You are not Chinese…”
“Half,” she said defensively. “My father was a Lascar.”
“And he taught you?”
“He was going to. When I was older.”
He nodded. They walked on in silence for a minute, studying each other from the corners of their eyes. Mary watched for a flicker of impatience, a sign that he wished to be left alone, but he seemed remarkably accepting of her intrusion.
“What do you call your sort of fighting?” she asked.
“Chu jiao. As you saw, it is faster than English boxing. Uses all parts of the body, not only the hands.”
He must have learned it from childhood, to fight so well. “Did you know you could beat the three men in the last match?”
He shrugged. “Some men, yes. Some no.”
She nearly laughed with shock at such fatalism. It was difficult to imagine being so indifferent to one’s safety … except, a quiet inner voice reminded her, you were once the same way. Before you cared whether you lived or died. She looked intently at Ching, trying to glimpse signs of the same desperation within this familiar stranger. His face was handsome, beneath the injuries. And young. She realized with a jolt that he was not much older than she.
“Your father is still alive?”
That question would never cease to hurt. She tried not to wince, but her voice was not quite steady. “No.” She rushed on, to cover her emotions. “You learned to fight from your father? Chu jiao?” She thought she’d managed a passable mimicry, but he smiled.
“Not ‘choo jow’; chu jiao,” he corrected her, in just her father’s tone of gentle chastisement.
She caught her breath, her carefully repressed stock of memories threatening to tumble free. “I must go. Good-day, Mr Ching.”
His chuckle stopped her mid-stride. “You are indeed more English than Chinese.” He grinned, trying not to laugh again, but failing.
“I never pretended otherwise,” she snapped. The tears were still there, just beneath the surface, and her eyes stung.
“I took my stage name from the Qing dynasty,” he explained, still too amused for her liking. “I did not expect the English to know better. But you … your father did not teach you?”
She didn’t bother to answer the question. “What’s your real name, then?” she demanded, as she turned to leave. Not that she cared, but if she knew his name, at least she’d not make the mistake of seeking him out in future.
The look he gave her was deeply patronizing. “Lang Guowei. But English people have trouble with it, so I use the name Jim Lang.”
Mary stood perfectly still. She felt distinctly queasy. As a coincidence, this was simply too monstrous. It was like a stage play, when two long-lost friends blundered across a deserted heath in the middle of the night only to run smack into each other. She’d always been scornful of such theatrical contrivances, and here she was, living one.
She shook her head to clear it. Sentimental nonsense. And she could prove it. “Lang is a common enough name,” she said, striving for indifference. “My family name was Lang.”
Sudden interest lit his eyes. “Your father’s name? What were his other names?”
She turned away. “You will probably think I pronounce them incorrectly.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. He was anxious now, turned fully towards her, leaning in slightly, searching her face for an answer. “Please.”
She swallowed. It was difficult to produce a sound, but eventually she said in a hoarse voice, “Lang Jin Hai.”
After what seemed an eternity, he asked quietly, “The same Lang Jin Hai who was in the newspapers?”
Mary was startled. “You can read English?”
He shrugged. “Some.”
“Yes. The same man who was accused of murder, and who died in prison.” She managed to say this in a tolerably even tone, and counted that as a victory.
Lang’s expression was peculiar. “And you are his daughter? Truly, his own daughter by blood?”
She nodded.
He exhaled and made a strange, helpless gesture with his hands. “Then you are – we are – cousins. Lang Jin Hai was my uncle. My mother’s twin brother.”
Mary stared at Lang Guowei for a full minute. This was precisely the sort of coincidence she’d scorned. Precisely the sort of revelation she’d longed for all her life. Her desire for a tidy fairy tale must be so transparent, so overwhelming, that she was falling into the trap of a confidence man. She’d been a fool, disclosing her father’s name. It was a notorious name, linked to a sensational tangle of events.
Her father’s killing of a young aristocrat in an East End opium den had been the scandal of the year. Then, inevitably, the gruesome event had been misreported, exaggerated, embellished and exploited to a degree that shocked even Mary’s healthy cynicism. The first theatrical retelling of the tale, The Bloody Knife, or the Opium-Mad Lascar, was about as subtle as its title. It had debuted in the West End within a month of Lang Jin Hai’s death. To Mary’s chagrin, this “yellow fever”, as the penny dreadfuls called it, showed no sign of abating. Any half-wit with the faintest interest in news, Lascars, high society, crime, scandal or Chinese people would know the name Lang Jin Hai.
Mary shook her head. “I must go,” she said. “Good-day.”
“Wait!” called Lang.
Mary walked away quickly, breathing a prayer of thanks that the tract widow was still in her place outside the prison. It was enough to be a sentimental fool; compounding that with irresponsibility and incompetence would be a true disgrace.
“Wait!” A strong hand touched her just above the elbow, but she shook it off. Lang caught her again, and this time spun her about to face him. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Then don’t walk away from me.”
“I am free to go.”
He glared at her. “And I am free to follow you.”
She stopped and scowled back. “I’m not going to give you anything.”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t asked for anything!” He looked at her as though she was mad. “Did you forget that you spoke to me first? You told me about your father. You told me his name.”
“Yes, and I regret that. Please forget our conv
ersation.”
He made a sudden, chopping gesture with his hand, and she leapt back. Instantly, he was still. “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said, quietly. “I only fight in the ring. Please. I must talk to you.”
She shook her head. “It was a mistake. I should never have spoken to you.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It was fate.”
Mary stared at him. How skilled an actor did one have to be, to manufacture that sort of intensity?
“I came to England to find my uncle,” said Lang, in a low voice. “I arrived to find his name in the newspapers. But you are the only person I’ve met who has claimed him as family.”
“I could be lying,” said Mary, softly.
“People lie for glory, or advantage, or money. Not for disgrace.” He paused. Then, with quiet insistence, he repeated, “If Lang Jin Hai was your father, we are cousins.”
Mary had no idea what to say or how to proceed. She didn’t even know what she felt, apart from fearful incredulity. The only mercy was that, judging from Lang’s expression, he shared that emotion.
“Well, cousin,” he finally said. “Did you even know I existed?”
Mary shook her head. “My father never spoke of his family. Did you know of mine?”
Lang nodded slowly. “Yes. It was one of our family tales: my mother’s twin brother, who sailed to foreign lands and settled there. We received a letter from him once, describing a foreign wife and a daughter. There was a photograph, even.” He stopped and studied Mary’s features. “You are like your father, I think.”
She shook her head. “Don’t say that. That is what a liar would say in order to buy my faith. And you are only telling me things that I have already told you.”
“Then look at me, instead,” he said. “My hairline. My mouth. The line of my jaw.”
Mary stared at him and her heart began to pound. Her father’s features had faded in her memory, but she had seen that hairline, that mouth, that jawline, much more recently. They were Lang’s, and they were also her own.
“I thought you looked familiar when I first saw you.” She didn’t know whether she could trust this stranger, what his character was like. All the same, she heard herself saying, “That is why I spoke to you.”
He nodded. “Fate.”
Mary scrambled for some sense of narrative. “You said you came here in search of him?”
He shivered. “It is a long tale. I need a hot cup of tea. Chinese tea.”
Mary noticed that his lips were blue with cold: not surprising, given that he was coatless. What had he done with his prize purse, if he couldn’t afford a third-hand coat? “There is no possibility of Chinese tea near here,” she said firmly. “Only public houses. If they will serve us.”
“You mean, if they will serve me? I think you must pass quite well, even in this city.”
She ignored his shadowy question. “This one should be all right,” she said, steering him into Mrs Bridges’ cosy pub. She took charge inside, installing Lang at a table beside the picture window, where she could keep an eye on the tract widow and the prison gates. At the bar, she ordered two large brandies and dared Mrs Bridges, with her eyes, to comment on the foreigner she’d dragged in. Mrs Bridges sucked in her cheeks but said nothing, although her eyes rested for a little longer on Mary’s features than they might normally have done. Mary squared her jaw. Mrs Bridges could draw whatever conclusions she pleased; Mary was sick of skulking and flinching and apologizing for her blood.
She waited until Lang had drunk his brandy and the cold, pinched look receded from his features. At that point, the pounding of her heart was so violent as to be intolerable and it was difficult even to frame a coherent question. “Will you tell me what you know of my father?” she asked, at last.
He hesitated, and she thought she might scream with frustration. He said, cautiously, “This is all from my mother. There might be errors.”
She nodded. “Please. Just tell me.”
“My mother and your father were twins, as I have said. Your father, Jin Hai, was the elder, the dutiful one; my mother’s name was Jin Ye, and she was rebellious from the start. They were close, much closer than most brothers and sisters. They were always so, according to my mother, even from infancy.” He looked at her curiously. “How much do you know about the Chinese?”
“Almost nothing,” she confessed.
“Most Chinese treat their sons and daughters very differently. Sons inherit, and are expected to take care of their parents in old age. Daughters are always outsiders, because they will eventually marry and become part of their husbands’ families. The Lang family – our family – is different, because we are part Hakka. The Hakka value all children equally. We do not bind our girls’ feet. Our parents both went to school for a few years. They agreed to study separate subjects, then share their learning with each other.”
Mary nodded. A shiver had rippled through her body when Lang uttered the words “our family” – a phrase she had never expected to hear with reference to herself. She swelled with pride at Lang’s description of the Hakka.
“Our grandparents are farmers. At least, they were. But there was a series of bad crops and, in our parents’ fourteenth year, an enormous fire on the property. They lost their home and also their land. Suddenly they were destitute.
“Jin Hai was tall and strong for his age. One day, he secretly went down to the harbour and signed up as a sailor on a merchant vessel. His family was distraught, especially Jin Ye. Yet Jin Hai’s solution proved successful: he earned good wages on commercial voyages and was able to send money back to his family, even after settling in England with an Irish wife and starting a family.”
Mary wasn’t surprised to hear this: it was exactly her father’s character, as she remembered him. Duty and family had been his idols. As a child, when she’d asked about his parents, he’d simply said, “They are half a world away.” Mary pushed her untouched brandy towards Lang. “Do you know what happened to my father when we were children?” she asked quickly, before her throat could close around the question. She had to know. She was terrified of knowing.
Lang twirled the glass in silence, apparently absorbed in the ripples and tremors of the amber liquid. His hands were thin and strong – deceptively attractive, thought Mary, considering the pain they routinely caused. At last he spoke. “I know some of the story. A very small part.”
“I need to know that much, at least.”
“My mother was left at home when your father went to sea, and she was lonely. Angry, too, because of her family’s poverty. After the fire her parents lived as tenant farmers, working furiously in order to make their landlords rich, and they only had enough to survive because of your father’s help. My mother was not just rebellious, but also very idealistic. When she was eighteen, she fell in with a cult.” Lang’s fingers tightened on the glass, and his breathing deepened. “It is a strange cult, and a powerful one. Its leader is a madman called Hong Xiuquan, and he claims to be the younger brother of Jesus Christ.” He glanced at her swiftly. “It is a very foolish claim, don’t you think? But Hong promises more than a better afterlife; instead, he preaches of a Heavenly Kingdom on earth, in which every citizen is safe and prosperous, there are no rich and no poor, and the corrupt are punished.
“My mother was ready for such a message. Hong and his followers took up arms to combat coastal pirates and highway bandits. They performed much of the work that should have been done by the authorities. So the people of Fujian were safer, more prosperous and profoundly grateful to Hong’s cult. My mother wanted justice for citizens. And my mother admired a man who understood the value of strong, intelligent women. Hong allows both men and women to lead in his Heavenly Army.”
Mary felt an unexpected pulse of sympathy for her aunt. It was just the kind of promise that would have secured her loyalty, too. “It all sounds quite reasonable, so far. Apart from the relationship to Jesus Christ.”
Lan
g looked queasy. “So far, yes. After some years – by your reckoning, the year 1846 – Hong promoted my mother. She became the first female colonel in the Heavenly Army. This led to a terrible quarrel with her husband, who eventually abandoned her. And me.” His voice turned hoarse on that last syllable, but he hurried on. “My mother had no regrets. She changed my name – gave me her own family name, and a new given name. ‘Guowei’ means ‘may the country be saved’, and she believed that she and I, as members of Hong’s Heavenly Army, would be part of that salvation.” He exhaled slowly and lifted his chin, fixing his unseeing gaze on the streetscape through the window. “I now come to a part of the history that I do not fully understand. About a year later – 1847, when I was twelve years old – your father appeared.”
Mary had been waiting for it, preparing herself for a revelation, but the announcement still jolted her. It was the matter-of-fact way in which Lang spoke, as though her father was a real person, and not an infamous criminal or an idealized abstraction. She reminded herself to breathe.
Lang sipped the brandy. “My mother had not written to him. Perhaps my grandparents had somehow managed to contact him. Or perhaps, as her twin brother, he sensed that something was very wrong. I have heard that twins are sometimes connected by an invisible cord, and I would certainly believe it of our parents.” His voice softened. “It was a wonderful time, when I first met your father. My mother was ecstatic: she wept for joy when they were reunited. And she had told me so many stories of their childhood that I already idolized him.” He paused. “He was a good man, your father. Intelligent and kind-hearted, the best of brothers.”
Mary felt suddenly resentful. It was enough to hear her father’s story from a stranger’s lips; she didn’t like Lang flaunting his superior knowledge of her own father’s character. “What did he think of the Heavenly Army?” she asked.
Lang shook his head. “He was long-sighted, your father, perhaps because he had been away for some years. He saw trouble and corruption within Hong’s army, and he pleaded with my mother to return home. She was furious: she thought he was envious of her success, and selfish in asking her to respect her family’s wishes rather than the common good. They had many long conversations every night after I went to bed. Your father believed that Hong’s cult would lead to civil war, to great suffering for all who followed him. My mother argued that while there were many faults within Hong’s system, they had both God and justice on their side, and that right would prevail. Your father stayed for the full month of his shore leave, but he failed to change my mother’s mind.” Lang’s focus dropped to the scarred table.