“Wang! Which Wang?”
“Sung Yun,” Burnham told him. “His name was Wang Hsi-lin, and he was a great collaborator down Nanking way. I thought I heard the Wu accent but did not trust my ears.”
“Worse and worse! You sell a villain to a villain and call it justice. Do you not understand, man? This touches your warrior’s honor! What are the sun and the moon to a man of no bones? What is long life with shameful regrets? What is love to a coward?”
“Coward! And who but a coward would leave a woman in villain’s hands?”
“Hsüü,” Sea Hammer crooned. “You have another hard bone, you fool—namely, the head. Who speaks of leaving her? You grow old. Where is the archer I knew? Listen, you poor sad fornicator: you will take them both out.”
And leave you with the goods, Burnham thought, almost laughing. The man was breathtaking. Once a Sea Hammer always a Sea Hammer. The graveyard snapped into focus: bunkers and tombs, the muddy slush, the low mortared wall, streaked and mottled. “If we fail I will have your gizzard.”
Sea Hammer mocked him. The tiny brown eyes sparkled, embedded in the fat face like shiny currants in steamed dough. “What a squad we are! One lovelorn foreigner, one fat restaurateur, one ricksha man and one loony monkey.”
“Huuu,” Kanamori said, and pointed, but they were already on the move when the black sedan nosed through the west gate. Instinct prevailed: soldier’s for Burnham and Kanamori; guerrilla’s for Hai; assassin’s and car hater’s for Feng. They scattered and dove for cover.
Later, after Burnham had been shot and gone pleasantly woozy, he grew muddled, and for the rest of his life the precise order of events during the next few minutes escaped him. He drew his pistol behind a tomb and mindlessly, out of inertia, frustration and heartache, was preparing to squeeze off a round at the windshield when he heard Feng shout, “My lady! My lady!” He heard Ming’s voice at about the same time—“Burnham!”—and heard doors slam. Slush trickled into his left sleeve. Without looking he knew that Hai was cutting a circle.
Burnham eased around the corner of the tomb, chin in the mud—take your peek at ground level, they’ll be watching for you up above. He saw the black sedan. He did not see Hao-lan. Nor could he see Ming, but he assumed that the sedan was cover.
The first shots were fired by no human agency but by Yen’s lemon, which came barking in, popping and backfiring like a whole platoon. The Packard swerved toward Burnham in a slithering rush as if terrified by the oversize sedan. It plowed into a patch of mud. Wheels spun, tires whined and possibly some buried babies were ground to hash. Yen hopped out brandishing a pistol, and all of a sudden everybody was firing at everybody else. With half China out for midmorning target practice, Hao-lan chose her moment: she slipped out of the sedan and dashed toward Yen’s car in a low skimming crouch, until she bogged down.
And Burnham found himself smiling. By God, there she is!
He could not have said who was shooting at what. Ming and Liao were careless about cover in their excitement, and he saw them both. They could have been firing at him or Yen or the scuttling Hao-lan, or even Kanamori—but where was Kanamori? Yen could have been blasting away at Hao-lan or Ming or Liao or all three. There seemed to be considerable shooting on general principles.
Burnham took temporary leave of his senses. He regretted this later—he would always regret it when he remembered Sea Hammer—but he applauded it too. It was fitting. He had lost his heart; why not his head? Waving the pistol like some demented pirate, he charged toward Hao-lan.
As soon as Yen swerved away from the sedan he knew that he was losing traction, and he quickly realized that he was only digging himself deeper—into his grave perhaps. He hopped out of the car and came up shooting—or almost: the woman was in his line of fire. Hsü, to die for a whore! He held fire, adjusted his aim, recalled disappointing hours at the pistol range, and scored a near miss on Liao. He had no idea why anyone was firing, or at whom. Perhaps it was simply more useful than not firing, or more bracing to the temperament. Perplexed, he paused and glanced about. He saw a fat man surge up out of the ground some yards away. He saw Ming peer in all eight directions, hopping about like a marionette. He fired at Ming—it seemed reasonable—and missed. The woman was lurching and flailing on the soft slippery ground.
Burnham, too, was skating through the slush like a runner in a dream, but he saw only Hao-lan. He was aware of the skirmish, but it lacked importance and even reality. He seemed to be running in slow motion. Possibly he was committing a cosmic blunder, but that too seemed irrelevant, and also unlikely. It was the most Oriental moment of his life. The upshot of all this was ordained. The universe and its two powers, three principles and manifold events were truly in the hands of the gods, and man was but a derisory and powerless speck.
It was also his purest moment. He had no name, age or nationality; for those few seconds Hao-lan was his whole existence.
Hai had dived for a bunker, vaulted heavily into what he thought was a slit trench, and landed hard on concrete, paining both feet severely. By some magic, his pistol had leaped into his hand. This pleased him. Three years had passed, and while the warrior may pretend to long for peace and rest, there lingers always the heady memory of real life—that is, life at risk. The paradox had long troubled Hai. Presumably life was to be lived in normal ways: namely, in filling the belly, pursuing jolly sport with agreeable females, playing cards, cursing the government and gossiping. But all that was life lived unawares. Life fizzed and sparkled and the blood hummed like hot wine only when rivers rose, arrows thrummed and war horses whickered, when danger flushed the spleen, when mind, heart and hand were one, and death’s cold breath raised the hackles.
So when he saw Hao-lan break for freedom he glowed with the first true happiness he had known for years. He was young and slim and deadly again, and death’s cold breath cut shrewdly and roused him from a long sleep. To risk death for a whore, and another man’s whore at that! Now there is style, by the gods!
He was scouting for a suitable target when he saw Burnham gallop forth.
He shouted, “Down, you fool!” but it was useless, and before he knew it he had leaped from his trench and was sprinting toward the sedan, firing as he ran, knowing that at this distance it was luck and not skill that aimed the weapon, but knowing too that any diversion favored the moving targets—Burnham, the whore and himself. His feet still hurt. He frowned fiercely. He flew, exulting, and heard himself cry “Haaa!” like the warriors of old, and felt his heart thunder.
Then the mud sucked at his cloth shoes and the thunder of his heart dulled to a painful hammering. The cry died in his throat as he labored for breath. He plunged on, but the world had slowed, and death’s cold breath no longer animated him but rendered him sluggish. O gods! I am an old man and fat! Panting, he veered toward Yen’s car. He saw the nasty young fellow in sunglasses firing at him. Hai Lang-t’ou returned the fire, but his vision was clouded and his hand unsteady.
Yen ceased fire and quickly checked the fat man, who had altered course. He recognized Sea Hammer, and tried to cover him by firing wildly in the direction of Ming and the sedan. The woman was half in and half out of his line of fire now. He was cursing her under his breath when he heard Sea Hammer grunt.
Hai was hit, and knew it: a hammerblow high in the gut. His mass, and the remains of his exhilaration, carried him some steps farther. The woman was nearing the car. He had hoped for a close look at her, to see what nature of woman could reclaim a weasel like the foreigner from flowered and willow-lined lanes. Curse the foreigner! I am dying and it is his fault! And curse his whore too!
He touched cold metal, clutched at the car’s frame and dropped his pistol. He slipped down, scrabbled at the mud, knew that he had fallen beneath the car, heard a great rushing wind, saw the world spin and darken, and had just time to savor the last spark of hot pride.
Yen watched the fat man fall beside him, and turned quickly back to the fight. The uniformed policeman, he saw, was
ranging on him, and it seemed to Yen that he saw the bullet leave the muzzle and fly toward him. He felt a flash of fire and slumped sideways into the slush. He did not beleive that he was dead, but he was suddenly quite tired. He had earned a rest. He slept. Even in his sleep he heard gunfire.
Hao-lan too saw Hai fall. She was sobbing, slipping, fighting her way toward Yen’s car. Each shot refreshed her terror. She saw Yen fall. Burnham was somewhere; she had seen him. Her legs betrayed her, frozen and enfeebled by fear. Exhausted, she ran blindly. It seemed an hour since she had bolted; it was perhaps ten seconds. She hurdled Yen and lurched against the car, wailing Burnham’s name. Hai had slumped beneath the car. Hao-lan stopped wailing, stooped swiftly, groped for a trailing wrist and felt for a pulse. None. Her vision blurred by tears, she wrenched open the door and tumbled into the driver’s seat. The steering wheel was on the wrong side. She slammed the door, saw a key and turned it. She trod the accelerator: nothing. She saw Burnham hit and saw him fall, and her heart died within her. Then she saw him struggle to his feet. She jabbed at a button: the siren shrieked.
Ming drew down again on the struggling Burnham, drew down carefully and with deep satisfaction, but at the wail of the siren jumped a foot so that his shot went wild. Liao too was startled. They leaped back behind the sedan and crouched.
The bullet had torn into Burnham’s forearm like a spear and spun him half around. He dropped his pistol, fell, groped for the weapon with his left hand and hauled himself erect to see Ming and the cop hoping to finish him off. He hit the deck rolling as the siren wailed. Ming and the cop scurried out of sight. Burnham shouted Hao-lan’s name. He heard a motor catch and chug.
Feng and Kanamori crouched behind a bunker. Feng’s knife was out and he was praying. A few yards off stood his pedicab with the two bags. All was at sevens and eights, the heavens had fallen, and Feng did not know what to do. He crouched beside Kanamori. All this was Kanamori’s fault. His tenth Japanese, perhaps. If worse came to worst …
Hao-lan shifted gears; the car bucked backward. She shifted again; the wheels spun. Snow in Devonshire, and the Honourable’s Humber; she remembered, and rocked Yen’s Packard. At the third swing forward the rear wheels found traction and the car pounced ahead. Grinding in first gear, she set her course for Burnham, who was up and firing. She skidded and slithered toward him, and swung the car at the last moment to put the rear end between them and the enemy. Burnham tugged the door open and flung himself on the seat beside her. “Go!” They roared forward. “Hai is dead!” she cried. She cut behind a bunker and almost ran down Feng and Kanamori. Burnham shouted “Stop!” and she kicked at the brake pedal. “In, in, in!” Burnham shouted. Kanamori tugged at a rear door. “Oh Christ, locked!” Burnham said. “I can’t! My arm!” Hao-lan dived for the rear door and loosed the lock. Kanamori scrambled aboard, wild-eyed. “Feng!” Burnham cried. “God damn it, Feng!”
Feng came racing. He tossed the two bags into the back seat and cried, “Go now, my gentleman! Hurry!”
“Inside!” Burnham roared.
“Here, the money.” Feng held forth Burnham’s fifty dollars.
“I am shot and cannot take you by the throat,” Burnham said, “but if you are not inside and the door shut within two seconds—”
Kanamori reached out to grasp Feng’s wrist, shifted his weight slightly and twisted. Feng cried “Yai!” and sailed aboard.
“Now go!” Burnham told Hao-lan. They plunged ahead. “Feng! The door!” Feng hung out over the mud, caught the door and slammed it shut. As they jerked and skidded north, Burnham caught a last glimpse of the mass grave, the baby cart, Kanamori’s bunker, and then they were through the gate.
“For God’s sake, shift!” Burnham said.
“I don’t know how! I found reverse and first but not second. It’s an American car.”
“Clutch,” he said. She clutched. With his left hand he shifted into second. “Again,” they were in high, and on an avenue, and Burnham said, “Don’t stop for anything,” and punched at the siren—rree-ee! rree-ee!—and all the cosmopolitan traffic of a Chinese street parted like the Red Sea. They might yet see the promised land. “Go like the wind,” he said.
“You’re hurt.”
“Right arm won’t work. I’ll live.”
“The hospital.”
“Hospital, hell. The airport, madam, and step on it.” He craned to scout behind. “Kanamori, can you still fire a pistol?”
“I should not. Oh, I should not!”
“Defile it!” Burnham said. “In time of need you will. Ah, Hai! They killed Hai! Feng, are you all right?”
“I am unhurt, but you must set me down.”
“Set you down?”
“My san-luerh,” Feng said. “It will be stolen.”
Burnham ached all over; his arm was on fire and he noticed that Hao-lan was tear-streaked. “By the gods, what is a san-luerh now?”
“The gentleman is surely right,” Feng said, “but it had a brand-new tire.”
Inspector Yen struggled to a sitting position and felt his head. His hand came away bloody and matted with hair. He seemed to be alone. Shakily he came to his feet. The graveyard was deserted and silent: tombs and bunkers, a two-wheeled cart, forlorn. Yen took an unsteady step, stumbled, almost fell, broke the fall with his hand and felt flesh. The fat man lay on his face in the mud. Across his back the tread of a tire stood out like a pattern in the cloth of his gray gown.
My car! Yen shook himself awake. They have stolen my car! They have stolen the car of a police inspector! They have stolen a car that will not even start!
He gathered up his pistol, saw Sea Hammer’s and took that too, and wondered why there was all this fuss over a whore. She was surely a woman. She was not, for example, Kanamori in disguise.
Kanamori! All these connivers and marksmen must know something! Inspector Yen ran.
38
For some minutes no one spoke while Hao-lan dodged through traffic. It was not ordinary traffic. Today the hum of the city was a din, an irregular chorus of whoops and outcries and occasional gunfire. Squads of troops and police seemed to be out for late-morning sprints and drill. Here and there a shopfront gaped, splintered. “Disorder, not true chaos,” Hao-lan said. “Greed and small revenges.”
They were breathing normally now and Burnham had knotted a bandanna above the wound. “I need a doctor.”
“I suppose it will always be like this,” she said. “I never planned to marry a juvenile delinquent.”
“And I never planned to marry a doctor,” Burnham said. “I suppose the phone will ring all night. Cheer up. Things will quiet down after the honeymoon. Keep to the right, for the love of Christ!”
“Of course. That’s what it is. A honeymoon. In my whole life I have never driven on the right.”
“Haven’t driven since merry old England?”
“Not once.”
“No speed limits here, you know. How’s the gas?”
“Petrol. It reads empty.”
“God almighty. Probably broken.” Burnham was in high spirits. He recognized the onset of delirium. “Damn these bicycles!”
“The siren.”
Burnham obliged. Indignant faces bloomed and faded. Peking raced by. Hai was dead. Sea Hammer. Burnham saw the old Sea Hammer, slim and hard, saw the white teeth flash in joy at a good explosion. “I like explosions,” Hai had once said, “and twice-cooked pork, and women too are amusing. I do not like clerks, policemen and foreigners.”
Nothing behind them yet, and a straight run to the airport. But Ming knew where they must go; would he also know a shortcut?
Inspector Yen had hailed a bus, and now stood, feeling cracked, leaky and slightly nauseated, holding his pistol to the head of an indignant bus driver.
“This bus does not go to the West Gate,” the driver insisted. “This is a number seven bus and goes from the Altar of the Earth in the north to the Altar of Heaven in the south.”
“Hsi Chih Men,” Yen repeated. �
�I am a policeman and this is official business.”
“Some policeman,” a passenger hooted. “In foreign dress. Policemen wear uniforms.”
A general grumbling arose. The streets were crowded with demonstrators, students, left-wingers. Tentative looting had begun. Here and there a shop was fired, and the Communists were not even in sight, so why were the police gallivanting about on buses? It was not as if they purchased tickets.
“Nevertheless,” Yen said. They were rattling westward. Yen had not much hope of answers—he scarcely knew how to state the riddles—but a poetically just rendezvous at the airport, where he had first met Burnham, was as likely as anything else. He thought almost longingly of the Communists, who would know how to run a police department. Of course there would be questions about his previous affiliations, but he was, after all, a man accustomed to—devoted to—upholding the established order. Did it really matter who established it?
“I am doing this because I must,” the driver said, “but I call upon these witnesses: I do it under coercion.”
“I will descend along Hsi-nei,” a passenger said emphatically, “by the Horses of Heaven Porcelain Shop.”
“And me?” another called. “I am to select and purchase four hundred feet of eight-inch stovepipe at Mu’s in Feng-t’ai. In winter stovepipe cannot wait.”
“You will all be liberated at the West Gate Police Barracks,” Yen said. He was faint. Perhaps he would pass out and be torn limb from limb by these irate citizens. “Make speed,” he told the driver.
“Speed! Look about you, man. This is a Ming Dynasty omnibus.”
“Nevertheless,” Yen repeated. It seemed to him that all his life he had been saying “Nevertheless.” Perhaps that was how matters were ordered in China: all was accomplished “nevertheless.”
Burnham was still mourning Hai Lang-t’ou, a scoundrel and a rogue, a cutthroat of the first chop but one who stood fast, and who now had died for him. Not to rescue Hao-lan and not to snare Kanamori, but because Burnham had failed him. Yet there was some deeper success in this.
The Last Mandarin Page 25