A woman came forward to touch Head Beggar’s shoulder.
Burnham was sweating. He wondered what time it was. The question was senseless. Time did not exist here; it ran forward as usual but was not marked in any usual manner. How old was human beggary? When would it end? Had it begun with a big bang or was it a steady state?
“And that is all?” Head Beggar asked.
“It seems enough,” Burnham said.
Head Beggar sniffed, frowned and showed palm to the others. A gravelly voice rose, flinging words angrily; it was street slang and beyond Burnham. Another speaker interrupted. Soon they were all jabbering. Head Beggar spoke sharply; they shut up.
“And what do you offer?” Head Beggar asked.
“There is always money. But I do not believe you want me to offer money.”
“Such a prince! Such delicacy! The last mandarin!” But the kai-t’ou smiled. “Ideals, is that it? Justice?” In the lamplight his tumor glowed, rich as burgundy.
“No. You would only reproach me for that.” Burnham smiled back. “Well, I have come a long way, and I have been rapped on the noggin, and there are others, perhaps less deserving, who also seek Kanamori. I offer you only the need of an honest workman.”
“Hsü, what talk!” Head Beggar spoke again to the others; they answered, chattered, fell silent. Head Beggar paced. He rubbed his hands. He snorted. He spoke to his friends: “Go away.”
They protested.
Head Beggar waved angrily. “Go away. Leave us.”
Slowly the others filed out, glancing back. A woman called, “Narrow heart!”
“Nonsense!” Head Beggar cried. “Be careful of what? If he budges I will slice him!” His hands made a dazzling pass; a knife flashed and disappeared. He grinned at Burnham; his tumor trembled. “Odd, odd,” he said when the room was empty but for the two of them. “Except to beg I have never before exchanged speech with a foreign devil. The Japanese are, after all, not so foreign. But you—you are the first big nose, and I confess that you seem to me a man of understanding. I have taken a liking to you, young fellow.”
“‘Old friends are better than new, but new are not bad,’” Burnham said.
“Well said. But the Kanamoris of my world are, in a way, old friends.” Head Beggar squinted. Burnham met his gaze, forcing himself not to see the tumor. “What you have just told us—well, we knew and we did not know. It makes no difference.”
Burnham returned to the stone bed and sat. He heaved a sad sigh.
“You are unwell?”
“I need a drink. Never mind.”
“But of course,” Head Beggar said, every inch the embarrassed host. He scooted to the small table. “Whiskey?”
“A miracle.”
Head Beggar filled two earthen bowls.
“Whoa,” Burnham said.
“Wo?”
“That is English for ‘too much exhilaration by wine and even the emperor pees on his shoes.’”
“An economical language,” Head Beggar said. “Well then, sip slowly.”
They touched bowls.
“This is good stuff,” Burnham said.
“Swiped it from the Six Nations Hotel,” Head Beggar said proudly. “A crazy foreign bottle with dimples. We refilled it and sold it.”
“Refilled it with what?”
“Urine and shellac.”
They laughed like cronies and drank off a mouthful. Head Beggar slumped to a bench and exhaled briskly. “Strong spirits. Now listen. In the spring of ’45 two beggars went out to dinner—downtown, of course, as downtown is more fashionable. They proceeded to the south garbage dump off Whore Street. They beat the dogs away and found the usual chicken bones, fish heads and assorted tripe. They therefore concocted the customary picnic. While snacking they noticed that the dogs had congregated elsewhere and were worrying a heap of possibly meat. They investigated. The dogs were gnawing at a human body. This was in itself not novel, but the dogs were also licking at fresh blood. Humanitarian as only beggars know how to be, our two friends drove the dogs off once more, and determined that the human body was still alive. It was a naked man who bore welts and stripes, the marks of scourging. The man was skinny. Now, a skinny man who has been badly beaten may well be a beggar. Moved by the three primary virtues—”
“Human-heartedness, sympathy and affection.”
Head Beggar beamed. “The sheer joy of civilized converse! Precisely. They brought him here.”
“Not to the Beggars’ Hospital?”
“The Beggars’ Hospital did not exist then. At any rate, we cleaned him up and applied ointments, and he did not die. He raved. He said, ‘Sergeant Kanamori’ and ‘Lieutenant Kanamori’ and ‘Major Kanamori’ and he would wail his name: Kanamori Shoichi. All this was translated by one of my colleagues, an eminent bathhouse specialist since deceased, who would catch you as you arrived—afterwards he would be merely a disgusting contamination, but beforehand the sight of him induced such relief that you were about to become clean …” Head Beggar clucked. “The man was brilliant with dirt. Ashes, simulated scabs around the eyes and corners of the mouth. Ah, well. At any rate our guest seemed to be one Kanamori, and we soon enough found out who he had been.”
“And you did not mind.”
Head Beggar’s brows floated in soft surprise. “But we have discussed all that. He also spoke Chinese quite well. A mystery.”
“I can solve that one for you. Kanamori’s mother was Chinese. What did he say?”
“‘The last mandarin.’ He kept saying that. ‘Dead and buried. The last mandarin.’ Does that mean something to you?”
“Nothing. Did he say more?”
“No. In time he recovered his forces, but he was addled. Once fully conscious he never spoke. He smiled much. He did odd jobs. Later he begged. He was scrupulous, and never held back on his daily take. He accepted cold and hunger well. He was excessively polite to women. More than polite.” Head Beggar’s tone was reflective, puzzled. “He seemed to worship women, but not as a man adores them, not to flatter and please and touch. He was himself sexless. A ghost. A man of perhaps thirty-five, but a phantom.
“And like any phantom, he disappeared one day. About a year ago. He was one of us. We missed him.” Head Beggar brooded briefly. “We beggars scarcely exist, but this was as close to nonexistence as any man I have ever known. He was an example for some philosopher: non-being within being. I believe Lao-tzu speaks of such matters.”
“Disappeared.” Burnham’s disappointment was a true pang; his belly ached. “Yet you would lie to me if it suited you.”
Head Beggar’s eyes were opaque. “Another bowl of whiskey.” He poured; the gurgle was familiar, and comforted Burnham. “Yes, I would lie,” Head Beggar said. “And even when I tell you I would lie I may be lying. Perhaps Lao-tzu speaks of that also.”
Burnham accepted the bowl; they nodded a brief toast and drank.
“You are an odd fish,” said Head Beggar. “An engaging sort of whale.” He was grumbling, complaining, in the tone of a man about to make a grudging concession. Burnham took heart. Head Beggar went on: “I find myself thinking, After all, I am Chinese. Imagine! I am acquiring a nationality.”
“Perhaps it is the presence of a foreigner.”
“Yet not so foreign.”
Burnham acknowledged the compliment, saluting with his bowl.
“Here we sit like diplomats,” Head Beggar said, “toying with others’ lives. Drinking strong waters and negotiating.”
“I have nothing to offer.”
“You offer good bones and a steady eye.”
“I too could be lying.”
“No. Shall I tell you why I trust you?”
“Tell me.”
Head Beggar grinned a villainous grin, and his tumor stretched, expanding and shining in the lamplight, and he patted it. “Because you did not ignore my little companion—this unfortunate blemish!—and gaze in all eight directions and make polite mumble. And also because when you woke up you ch
ecked your pistol and your knife”—again the grin was impish—“but not your money. This argued virtue.”
Burnham laughed, “‘In practicing the rules of propriety, a natural ease is to be prized.’”
“More talk out of old books,” Head Beggar scoffed. “Listen, even I do not understand all things. Change is upon us, as you know. Signs and portents. The crust shatters, bubbles rise, dark matters come to light. Well, well, why not?”
Burnham held his breath, but after a moment sipped.
“What would you do with this Kanamori?”
“This evening I cannot tell,” Burnham said softly. “Yesterday my way was clear: take him back and see him hanged. But …”
Head Beggar’s gaze hardened. “The truth, now.”
“Yes.” Burnham downed another mouthful. “The truth is,” he said weakly, “that I have met a woman, and nothing else seems important.”
“Oh, women,” said Head Beggar morosely. “I loved a girl long ago. She belonged to another man, so I had her only once. I suppose I should thank the gods for small blessings, but I miss her.”
Burnham was moved. A tug at the heart. This freak—grotesque, deformed, outcast—had shown him a soul like that of other men. The true humanity, the common misery, love and its tangles, crossings, impossibilities, cruel revenges. A glimpse of the human condition.
“I still love her,” said Head Beggar.
They drank in silence, bereaved, friends.
Head Beggar heaved an enormous sigh; his tumor bobbled. “Your Kanamori works at the Beggars’ Hospital. He wears women’s clothes and is mute. He is a receiver of washed babies, which he buries in the Cemetery of the Hereditary Wardens of the Thirteen Gates.”
Head Beggar returned Burnham’s pistol and knife and escorted him to the west mouth of Arrow-Maker’s Road.
“No blindfold?”
“I have already trusted you beyond such minor matters. But you will forget this place.”
“I have already forgotten. But not the kindness, nor the truth.”
They had come to the Street of the Female Flutist, and it was like a new world: a few lights, a policeman, a porter pushing a two-wheeled cart, a drunk across the street warbling softly.
Head Beggar shouted for a ricksha; one approached. It was not Feng; Burnham felt cheated.
Head Beggar clapped Burnham on the shoulder. “Listen, my friend. Kanammori is no butcher now, nor even a man. You will follow your heart, and kneel to no princes.”
“I will. But I must first listen to my heart,” Burnham told him. “Well, I cannot say ‘See you again’ but I can wish you luck. May the lord of all under heaven grant you ease, warmth and a full belly.”
“Some luck is indeed due,” said Head Beggar, “and the same to you.” Then, his face closing like a gate, he said, “Go home. Let the dead bury the dead.”
Their eyes locked for a dark moment before Burnham hopped into the pedicab and the kai-t’ou vanished into the night.
“Not by Ch’ien Men,” the driver protested before Burnham could speak. “There is shooting in T’ien An Men Square, and a curfew is declared. We have but a few minutes. The police will beat me.”
“A fine way to drum up trade,” Burnham grumbled. “Then I will go only to Stone Buddha Alley, and I will make it worth your while. I have just been bludgeoned and am in a good humor.”
The man made a sour face and took him home. Burnham pondered Kanamori and Sung Yun and Yen. Then he surrendered and thought of Hao-lan. For an hour he had not truly thought of her. He had been doing his job, and he felt cleaner and purer and stronger, and less full of spices and spirits and rare meats. Still, he wished dolefully that Hao-lan’s face would cease rising before him; he had come to a moment of decision and wanted at least the illusion of keen judgment uninfluenced by youthful emotion. It was time now to sharpen the knife and breathe fire, and half of him was sniffing peonies and murmuring ancient poetry. He groaned. “Oh Christ,” he said aloud. “What a hell of a time to fall in love.” Probably at his age there was no good time. He tried to say, “Oh, women,” like the kai-t’ou, but there was no harshness left in him. He decided to concentrate on Hao-lan’s imperfections, but for the moment failed to find one. He tried to evoke the faces of previous loves, and like all lovers decided that he had never truly loved before.
He recognized this for a lie, and heard Hao-lan’s mocking laugh, and that eased the moment. He grinned at his own foolishness. Well, say it: why not take your woman home? I know where you can get a flying machine and all.
Halfway down Stone Buddha Alley the pedicab braked; the driver said, “There is a car, and no room to pass.”
“Then leave me by the car.” Burnham overtipped as usual. The car was Yen’s rickety Packard.
“Some landlord!” Yen said. He perched on Burnham’s chair, his manner jaunty but his face unhappy in the reluctant lamplight.
Burnham sprawled back on his bed. Her bed. “Your foreign spirit-cart is blocking the alley.” Was Yen friend or foe?
The inspector shrugged. “Curfew soon. You know?”
“I heard.”
“If you need to move about, I can drive you here and there.”
“Thank you, but no. Have you any news?”
“Nothing. I came to ask you that.”
“Who is the last mandarin?” Burnham asked.
“Why, I never heard of the fellow,” Yen said.
“Then I am a tourist. I have seen picturesque sights, met natives virtuous and vicious, and sampled the tonier noodle shops. What was that about my landlord?”
Yen clucked. “Well, it was apparent even yesterday that he knew I was a cop and that I knew he was a crook, so by tonight we were old friends. He asked me if my medal was for desertion or killing civilians.”
“That bit of color in your lapel?”
“Yes.”
“Which medal is it?”
“The Paoting. The Precious Tripod. ‘For meritorious service in time of war against foreign aggression or internal rebellion.’”
“Doubtless hard earned.”
“Thank you for ‘earned,’” Yen said dryly. “I got it for arresting students.”
Burnham remained cordial: “My landlord is a Sea Hammer.”
“I might have known. Well, I will not hold it against him.”
“How goes the war?”
“It does not go; it comes closer.” Yen sighed. “I imagine they will take away my button and feather.”
That was what the Manchus had done to cashiered officials; Burnham warmed to this show of style. “I hope not. All societies require policemen.”
“True. Well, this is a pleasant chat but we are a long way from Kanamori. What do you propose to do?”
“Quit,” Burnham said. “Give up. The rumors were of interest. We have made an honest effort.”
“You surprise me. By the way, you met Sung Yun?”
“I spoke with him today.”
“And?”
“Nothing. He offered full cooperation, but we cannot make ice without water. I cannot say that I liked him.”
“He is not likable. You told him you would quit?”
“No. I decided later.” Burnham’s head throbbed.
“And the beggars? The hospital?”
“Nothing,” Burnham said. “Cold trails and empty warrens. Kanamori may be dead. If alive he may be anywhere in Peking, or, by now, Tientsin or Mukden or Harbin or back in Japan. It would take a dozen men ten years.”
“Ah well.” Yen sighed again. “Shall we mourn together in a restaurant?”
“Thank you,” Burnham said, “but I cannot. I have yet one call to make.”
“Then you fill me with regret,” Yen said. “To know you has been interesting.”
“In other times …”
“Yes. Other times.” Yen rose. “I am now and then overcome by sadness.”
Burnham too rose, and their eyes met, and Burnham knew that Yen had not believed him.
“You will leave?�
�
“Perhaps tomorrow.”
“If you will allow me to drive you to the airport …”
“When I know, I’ll call you. There remain personal matters.”
“Ah. Personal matters. The women of China. Another sort of imperialism.”
“That’s unfair,” Burnham said.
“It is, and I withdraw the remark.” Small, cool, ill-dressed, his face tight, Yen offered a hand, Western style; Burnham grasped it. “Please call me. In any case, good luck.”
“Thank you,” Burnham said. “See you again.”
“What an odd idiom, for the circumstances,” Yen said.
“True,” Burnham said with a wry smile. “‘The future lies beyond the waters of oblivion.’ Yet after a long swim, who knows?”
“Who knows? Therefore, see you again.”
Burnham bolted the door behind him and packed. Upon reflection, he did not pack the pistol or knife. Upon further reflection, he did pack his small kit of smokers’ requisites. Laotian yen was not easily come by, nor to be casually discarded.
Outside his room he paused and called into the silence, “Sea Hammer!”
Sea Hammer padded stoutly toward him, bearing a lamp. “The cop has shown heels?”
“Yes. He says you walk crooked ways.”
Sea Hammer shrugged. “I fence stolen goods.”
“Goods must move,” Burnham approved.
“Commerce is the sinew of the nation.” Sea Hammer noted the bag. “Yi! So soon?”
“Once again the sadness of parting.”
The Last Mandarin Page 16