All that he did. He lurched to the door, and pounded upon it. Without result. “Water,” he screeched. No man answered. He stumped to the wall, sat back, and massaged his temples. He discovered a large bump on his head, named it Mount Kao, and remembered Constable Sumo. The evening fell vividly into place. He was thinking in two languages. I suppose this is home for a while, was one of his thoughts. Well, I always have my memories. They can’t take my memories away from me.
“Aw, darn,” he said aloud.
When the key sang in the lock, later that morning, Jake’s musical companion blinked without real interest. The other one had not moved and might be dead. For a time Jake had not been sure that the head was fastened to the body. The door swung open, and a bony, cold-eyed little warden looked in. A carbine stabbed at Jake: “You. Foreign prisoner. Come out.”
Jake obeyed, weaving slightly. To the others he said, “Adios, compañeros.”
In a concrete corridor Jake breathed deeply many times. “Water,” he said. “Is there water? Is there tea?”
“Move along.”
Jake moved. They passed through another doorway and Jake stepped into a police station. Anywhere in the world this was a police station. The same desk sergeant. The same plainclothesman. The same guards and off-duty coppers. Race, creed or color. The same. Flat, cold eyes and they had not smiled for a decade.
His guide gestured toward another door. Jake entered a small office. He saw a desk, a chair, a cot, old Kao, six hot dumplings, a pot of tea, chopsticks and teacups.
“Good day to you,” Kao said heartily. “Sorry to be late. Inexcusable. But nothing could be done before the banks opened. That is an absolutely classic black eye.”
“The trouble you make me!” Kao cried. “And your mother and I have tried so hard.”
“You could have brought aspirin,” Jake said bitterly.
“For a dying man you did very well with the dumplings.”
“Rats,” Jake said, “spiders, lice and centipedes.” By now they were in the public bath and extinguish-aches parlor. Jake lay back in a sunken stone tub; steam condensed on his forehead and ran merrily to the end of his nose. Kao sat naked in an alcove, an open window beside him, and contemplated his bungling assistant. Jake wondered what he looked like to Kao. A pink whale. A polar bear. “That fat one really clobbered me.”
Kao shuddered. “Rough stuff. Barbarous.”
“Who sent for them?”
“Small Change. It is one of his responsibilities.” A tiny paper sack appeared magically in Kao’s hand; he nibbled at a pickled turnip.
“And where were you?”
“Looking out for your interests,” Kao said. “It occurred to me that dressed as you were, you had no identity at all. A desirable state of affairs should you survive the evening. So I removed myself discreetly from the battlefield and absconded with your uniform, wallet and dog tags.”
“Brilliant,” Jake said. “I wish you’d absconded with me instead.”
“You were preoccupied,” Kao said, “and very likely would have ignored my earnest solicitations.”
Jake waved a friendly fist. “My head’s clearing. I never thought of the identification. Still, if they’d known who I was they would have sent me home, no?”
“Ah,” Kao said. “Indeed. The notion crossed my mind. Upon reflection I questioned the wisdom of such a course.”
Jake said, “Uh-oh.”
Kao cocked his head. “An interesting sound. What does it mean?”
“It is the noise made by those who are about to hear bad news.”
“Exactly so,” Kao said. “An expressive language, English. But my manners! A piece of turnip?”
“Not right now,” Jake said. “I suppose you’d better tell me the worst.” He lay back, resigned. The stone ceiling was beaded with moisture; a cold drop fell on his sore eye. “Bugger,” he said. “Bugger, bugger, bugger! The world is full of evil. Those buggering Americans! Buggering cops, buggering lice, buggering centipedes, buggering hangover!”
“Modern poetry,” Kao said appreciatively. “It has a more virile ring than the lacy verses of Tu Fu.”
“Bugger Tu Fu too,” Jake said.
Kao munched.
“Well, go on,” Jake said.
“The three young officers,” Kao said, “will doubtless recover. Contusions, inner bruises, injured pride. They were nevertheless officers in your own branch of service, and are surely in a position to, ah, alter the course of your career.”
Jake winced, and said, “Oy.”
Kao cocked his head again. “Another interesting sound. The meaning?”
“It is the noise made by those who acknowledge bad news.”
“Exactly so,” Kao said.
Jake grinned, and could not hold back a crowing laugh. “I really wiped them out. Did I not!”
“You wiped them out indeed. The small Frenchman was offended to a high degree. He fetched up in a corner of the balcony. No bones broken, but he was unconscious for an hour. He has several loose teeth and the side of his face looks like a skinned rabbit. He is preparing representations to your diplomatic and military authorities.” Kao paused, and nibbled.
“An error,” Jake said. “A little fellow like that. I take no pride in it.”
After an uncomfortable silence he went on warily: “All right. Let’s have it. It was that general, wasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Kao told him. “Your well-placed blow—in self-defense, I agree—knocked him not only through the archway, and not only to the railing, but off the balcony altogether.”
“Shit,” Jake said. “Into the canal.”
“I’m afraid not,” Kao said. “He landed in a honey-barge, breaking his left hip, and recovered consciousness at dawn, some twenty miles downstream, while being spread on a field of lettuce:”
Jake could think of nothing to say.
“You see,” Kao went on, “why I thought it well to remove your belongings.”
“I thank you,” Jake said. “I surely do.”
“My knowledge of your laws is limited, but I imagine there would be punishment.”
“There would be punishment,” Jake said.
“Certainly loss of rank and salary.”
“Certainly loss of rank and salary.”
“Probably a term of imprisonment.”
“Certainly a term of imprisonment.”
“Perhaps as much as ten years or so.”
“Certainly as much as ten years or so.”
“And I further imagine,” Kao said diffidently, “that in the course of the investigations, certain details of your—our—business career would come to light.”
Stunned, Jake lay silent in the steaming, scented waters.
“It occurred to me,” Kao went on, “that such a series of events would be undignified.”
“Undignified,” Jake said. Suddenly his belly ached. “Hsüü,” he said. “This worsens fast.”
Kao nodded sadly. “It is very bad. Hiding would be difficult. You are so noticeable. To smuggle you out by boat is impossible, with the ports so closely supervised. And we are surrounded by police, soldiers, informers.”
Jake felt a wee cold ripple of fear. He was only an hour out of a Chinese jail; and a Marine Corps brig would be worse. They would release him an old man, battered, gap-toothed, flat nose, cauliflower ear, hunched and shambling.
“It has occurred to me, however,” Kao said, “that you have demonstrated an aptitude for business. For languages. For travel. A man of the world, we might say.”
Jake blinked, and sagged. He drew in a deep breath; his eyes closed; he sighed a long, sad sigh.
Kao was silent. Jake waited. He raised the sponge and squeezed; warm water cascaded over his face. He shook his eyes clear and glared at Kao, who was rummaging in his little bag of pickled turnips.
“All right, spit it out,” Jake said finally. “What are you offering me?”
Kao beamed gently upon him. “Escape. Fortune. Life itself.�
��
Jake sponged his face, and sat up straighter in the stone tub. “Tell me more.”
Kao asked, “Do you think you could learn to drive a camel?”
7
Caravan Master Ch’ing was also a master of the pumpkin seed. He propped one on the tip of his tongue, cracked it, tucked away the meat and spat the hull to the floor, over and over. Jake and Kao and Ch’ing were taking their ease on the second floor of a Mongolian restaurant in the Tung An Shih-ch’ang, which being translated was the Market of Eastern Peace. Pumpkin seeds were a traditional appetizer in Peking, and they were waiting for the main course.
Ch’ing was cranky, and Jake suspected he would always be cranky. He was a small dark man who smelled of animal fats or maybe camels, and he was from Tientsin, and was part Mongol. He was cranky because it was well known that foreigners could not pull camels. He had been a camel-puller but was now a caravan master, and he had once before carried a passenger, he announced, a man of learning with eyeglasses who knew everything that had happened two thousand years ago and was not worth sheepshit on the trail.
Kao spoke of a leasing arrangement. If necessary Jake would buy a camel but leasing was more logical. Above all if two should be necessary.
“It is not unheard of,” Ch’ing said grudgingly. The waiter bustled. He built up the fire and set out platters of finely sliced meat. The fire burned in a small chimney that rose through the center of the brass pot. Around the chimney water boiled.
“I’ll work too,” Jake said.
“Work,” Ch’ing said. “Have you ever pulled a camel?”
“No. But I once broke a general’s leg.”
Ch’ing cackled suddenly and his eyes warmed. “It’s a start. What else can you do?”
“Look at me,” Jake said. “I can throw a small man ten feet.”
“We have very little occasion to throw small men.”
“He has the strength of a bull,” Kao said calmly. “That is not to be despised.”
“Do you need guards?” Jake asked.
“Guards? We are all guards. Can you fight?”
Jake shrugged.
“He is a master of arms. Please,” and Kao gestured with his chopsticks at the strips of meat. Ch’ing plucked one from the stack and dropped it into the boiling water; the others did likewise. “He was a sailor,” Kao said. “A sergeant. He is a famous marksman.”
Ch’ing nodded. “You have your own weapons?”
“None,” Jake said. “I suppose they can be bought.”
“You are a foreigner,” Ch’ing said. “What weapons can you know? Foreign weapons.”
“What weapons have you?”
“Li-en-fi-la. Eh-ma ti-i. A-li-sha-k’a and chiu-shih-chiu.”
Jake grinned around a mouthful of meat. Lee-Enfields, M-I’s, and the Japanese Arisaka and Model 99. “I know them all,” he said, “with my eyes shut.”
Ch’ing fished in the boiling water and landed a strip of beef. He slapped it into a bowl of sauces, stirred, and popped the meat into his mouth. “Mmmm,” he hummed. Jake and Kao also ate. They dropped several strips into the boiling water. It was not obligatory to retrieve your own strips. Ch’ing extracted another, sauced it, and stuffed it into a sesame bun. “What is a Nambu fourteen?”
“A common Japanese pistol,” Jake said. “Eight millimeter. There is also a baby Nambu but they are rare.”
Ch’ing refrained from eating and examined Jake. He was seeing Jake for the first time, and he did not rush the inspection. He chewed slowly and said, through his mouthful, “That is so.”
Jake and Kao ate, and waited. The food was new to Jake and he was enjoying his meal. He was not sure that he was enjoying Ch’ing, but had become hopeful.
“You have the proper papers, of course,” Ch’ing said.
Jake glanced at Kao and continued chewing.
Kao said, “Of course. He has his military identification.”
“Passport?”
“No passport,” Kao said. “Have you a passport?”
“Of course not,” Ch’ing said. “If we meet Communists?”
“Then he has no papers, like all your men. He is stateless, if you like, and he works for you.”
“If there is trouble, the camel is mine and so are the goods.”
“Well now,” Kao said easily, “he is my agent, after all. If there is trouble the camel is yours and the goods are on consignment from the House of Kao.”
Ch’ing considered. Jake ate with noisy pleasure. “What is all this?” he asked. “Beef and pork?”
“Pork!” Ch’ing was disgusted. “No pork.”
Jake looked at Kao.
“Hui-hui-ti,” Kao said, meaning Mohammedan.
“Right,” Jake said. “My apologies.”
“Two hundred,” Ch’ing said.
“Two hundred what?”
“Two hundred American dollars. Bring your own weapon. That is to Hsinkiang.” Hsinkiang was the great western province. Turkestan was the old name, and Jake liked the ring of it. “To Ku-ch’eng-tze. After Ku-ch’eng-tze you go alone.”
“That is Gurchen,” Kao said, “the great western terminus. It has another name too but we call it Ku-ch’eng-tze.”
The waiter set cruets of hot wine before them and Ch’ing said, approximately, “God be praised.”
Jake was amused. “Wine? The hui-hui-ti?”
Ch’ing cackled again. “Listen, foreign devil,” he said, “three Mohammedans are one Mohammedan, two Mohammedans are half a Mohammedan, and one Mohammedan is no Mohammedan at all.”
They all laughed together; Kao said, “It sings like poetry.”
Jake asked, “Do I ride a horse?”
“A horse!” Ch’ing fell crusty again. “We have no horses for passengers. Maybe after Pao-t’ou, a pony. To Pao-t’ou, you walk.”
“Walk!”
“Camels carry,” Kao said reasonably. “They carry goods. Goods mean money.” He poured yellow wine for them, into small light blue porcelain cups. “Kan pei.”
“Dry cup.”
“Dry cup.”
They quaffed, and Kao poured again.
“If there is a camel with a light load, you ride,” Ch’ing conceded.
“But it would be better,” Kao offered smoothly, “to do as the others do. A trader is not a passenger. And how many camels,” he asked Ch’ing, “have you?”
“From Peking only one lien. The rest are in Pao-t’ou.”
Kao said, “A lien is a file of eighteen.”
“How many altogether?” Jake asked.
“Three pa and a few.”
“A pa is two lien,” Kao said.
“That’s a lot of camels.”
“We are an old house,” Ch’ing said, “older than the dynasty that bore my name.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s safer.”
Kao sighed. “It is a high price, but doing business is difficult these days.”
“And I’ll have to buy my own weapons,” Jake said glumly.
“A pistol,” Ch’ing protested. “A pistol merely. We have rifles aplenty. And buy goggles.”
Jake did not know the word.
Kao explained.
“Oh. Sunglasses.”
“Not sunglasses,” Ch’ing said. “Heavy goggles. For sandstorms.”
“Good.”
“You eat what we eat.”
“Good.”
“Not good,” Ch’ing said. “This is good. More wine, please.”
“And what sort of camel will he have?” Kao asked.
Ch’ing considered. “A good camel. A gelding. Seven years old.”
“It will carry how much?”
“Three hundred fifty pounds,” Ch’ing said. “Four hundred in a pinch. What are your goods?”
“Miscellaneous,” Kao said. “Some binoculars, some cameras, electric cable, fine brocade, kegs of nails and spikes, hatchetheads of the best steel, several tool kits and a few minor items.”
“Kegs,” Ch’ing grumped. “They split. The
y break open.”
“Not these,” Kao assured him. “These are American surplus and are banded securely with steel ribbon. They are sealed, and they bear the mark of—who are those people?”
“Seabees,” Jake said.
“Never heard of them,” Ch’ing said.
“They are the carpenters of the American Navy,” Kao explained. “They build all manner of things. Stoves. Battleships.”
Ch’ing grunted. “All right. Remember, I permit no overloading.”
“Naturally not. I think we must have two camels.”
Jake also thought so. The goods came to six hundred pounds at least.
“Four hundred,” Ch’ing said.
Kao scoffed. “And will Ta-tze eat twice as much because he has two camels?”
Ch’ing blinked. “The Tartar?”
“My nickname,” Jake said.
“Three hundred,” Kao said firmly.
“Nonsense,” Ch’ing said. “Two camels eat twice as much. Their hoofs blister twice as much. They shed twice as much in summer and freeze twice as much in winter.”
They settled on three hundred and fifty American dollars. Ch’ing glowered. “I’ll regret this.”
“You will not,” Kao said amiably. “He is a famous fighter and a famous enemy of generals, even as you are.”
“That much is true,” Ch’ing said. “I hate dogs, bandits and generals.”
“Why dogs?”
“They make the camels nervous.”
“No watchdogs?”
“Some caravans use them. I use men. Dogs bark at every little thing: at a desert mouse, at the wind.”
“Are there still bandits?”
“There are still bandits,” Ch’ing said darkly, “and it is bad luck to speak of them. It is double bad luck when a foreigner speaks of them.”
“Now that we are working together,” Jake said carefully, “I think it would be better for the caravan if we did not make so much of my foreignness. It is probably a good topic to drop.”
Ch’ing surprised him with a true grin. “Good thinking for a Tartar! Let us gobble meat.”
They gobbled meat and drank wine for half an hour more. Now and then they wiped their mouths with hot cloths and gossiped: the Hollywood Beauty Saloon on Morrison Street was a part-time whorehouse, and Jelly-Belly the Tailor had internal troubles, evil winds. But mainly they ate, swabbing sauces from their chins in that perfect community, as Kao murmured, of good feeders thanking an inscrutable universe for a meal far above the just deserts of lowly man. When the meat had vanished the waiter brought white vegetables; they shoveled them into the simmering broth and ate a splendid soup. “If it’s like this on the road,” Jake said, “I’ll never reach Gurchen.”
The Chinese Bandit Page 6