The Chinese Bandit

by Stephen Becker

  When these men had food, they ate for weeks to come. It was no doubt the same when they had women. Jake observed them stupidly. They ate. They ate. They drank. They rested and smoked and called the waiter again. Hao-k’an left and returned. They sprawled and made animated talk. Ugly sliced a Kansu melon with two quick strokes of his long knife; he took up a quarter of it and sucked the sweet juices. The air grew hazier.

  Jake raised his head at the sound of music, and from the rear of the wineshop, passing close by him, a stocky girl in a light cotton side-slit gown emerged, carrying a mandolin. She pattered stage center, where Jake could look her squarely in the behind, and bowed like a schoolgirl. The customers roared welcome. Hao, hao. Hao-k’an stood up and semaphored, leering and screeching. The girl plinked; her voice quavered.

  Silence fell, except for the girl’s whine. Men halted in mid-chew, or cut short a swig. She sang a sad song, a song of borders and partings; groans of approval urged her on. The Tibetans swung their heads in unison, keeping time; the men of Kashgar, dark and leathery, with sharper noses, pounded softly on their table with flat hands.

  The music died, floated off on a last ripple of breath; after a beat of dead silence, a lusty roar rose. Coins flew. Shouts also: requests, Jake supposed, and some calling for a dance.

  A second girl skipped from the kitchen, stood beside the first, and bowed. The racket doubled.

  Through the thin cotton, against the dim light behind them, Jake saw legs, the inner curve of a thigh. He did not want to be seen staring, so he lowered his head; yet he ogled from the shadows, and the hankering rose in him like a bloat.

  Now one sang and both danced. They danced slowly, gravely, and little by little showed flesh: a leg rising through the side-slit, a sleeve falling back. The light was smoky and mysterious; the music soft, caressing.

  The men were silent again, intent, breathless, still. Mouse was in another world, and smiled benevolently. Ugly’s face showed sorrow, ancient grief.

  Jake’s mouth fell open as he watched. Brutish, he squinted out of the darkness at the waving legs, the rolling buttocks, at the muddy yellow lamplight oozing through the secret places. Heat rose between his legs. Unknowing and uncaring, he drooled: a strand of spittle fell from his mouth and oscillated, like a spider’s first thread. From his chest, deep down, he croaked with each breath. His head sank lower, but his eyes glittered and stung.

  One of the Tibetans, drunk, tried to follow the women out during the rowdy uproar after the show. Laughing and shrieking, making their way over the tables and benches like tumblers, his companions came clowning after him—to go with him, or to hold him back, who could tell? But the Tibetan found more fun on the way, and stopped suddenly; he spread his arms to hold his friends off, and spoke swiftly in a language Jake had never heard.

  They goggled down at him, and behind them the noise and jollity died.

  Jake tried to wipe his mouth on his shoulder. He blinked rapidly and made ferocious faces, waking himself. He drew in his legs and hitched his way up the post, tugging the looped rope higher with each hitch.

  The Tibetan called out, and one of his men turned back to fetch a lamp. The Tibetan took it and thrust it suddenly at Jake, who stood impassive. The Tibetan laughed, and looked him over.

  Jake shot a glance at Ugly, who was watching with mild interest. Momo was doing what he did best; even in the low, drunken light of the wineshop, his teeth shone. Hao-k’an seemed indifferent but Jake saw him swivel into a more attentive position, and nudge the dozing Mouse.

  The Tibetan was not a big man, nor clean: he was rancid, and Jake thought of yak butter. Maybe these people smeared the body with it. This one wore a small pointed beard but was otherwise clean-shaven. In the lamplight Jake saw a bridge of blackheads over the man’s cheeks and nose.

  The Tibetan handed the lamp to one of his friends, and drew a short knife. Jake’s mouth dried.

  He saw Ugly speak, and Momo move. The Japanese slipped away from the table and strolled toward Jake. It seemed right. Jake almost shook in gratitude. Momo would dump this drunken son of a bitch on his ass.

  Meanwhile the Tibetan was clacking a fat tongue against bad teeth and waving the knife. Suddenly he slit Jake’s shirt front.

  “Ah for Christ’s sake,” Jake panted.

  The Tibetan showed surprise, and spoke. His companions laughed. They were small men and in their round hats they looked like bellhops. Jake was drunk or crazy, or scared foolish: knives and bellhops and he had spoken English. Whatever happened he hoped it would be fast. Momo was coming to him. No. Behind him. He felt the tug at his wrists, another, and his hands were free. Momo grinned at the Tibetans and went back to his bench.

  “Bugger your mother,” Jake snarled after him.

  The whole room watched Jake. The lean men from Kashgar sat back like experts; one munched a scallion, Jake saw, and poured kumiss from a jug. Kumiss was fermented mare’s milk, and it did not seem now that Jake would ever sample it. His mind raced, his eyes saw everybody and everything.

  With a second swift stroke the Tibetan slit the shirt crosswise. He exclaimed at the hairy chest, pointing and gibbering, laughing and strutting. Jake flexed his fists and rolled his shoulders. There was no place to go but he must move fast. Behind the Tibetan stood more Tibetans. Behind Jake was the kitchen, or the living quarters, or the cribs, but he would never make it. He glared at Ugly. This was not right. There was a breach of trust here. Cowardice from men who had not seemed cowards.

  Jake had begun to sweat. He concentrated on the knife. The tip of it moved like a point of light. He knew there was a blade behind it, and behind the blade a hand, and a man, and behind the man more men, but the tip of the blade was all that mattered. It floated in a halo.

  It struck at him like a snake, and cut a line of fire down his chest. The Tibetans shouted happily. Jake felt; his hand came away bloody. The pain vanished. He made teeth at the Tibetan.

  But the Tibetan had turned away, and was laughing and crowing to his mates, over his shoulder. He began to turn back, bubbling giggles like a loony, his arm up for a backhand slash across Jake’s nipples.

  Jake saw Ugly move, and a streaking shaft of silver split the smoke between them. Jake felt the breeze at his right ear as he flinched away from the thudding smack. His hand was up and clutching even as he flinched. The Tibetan’s blade caught lamplight, and started down; the Tibetan had not really looked at Jake, not really turned, and was still chuckling. Jake grasped the haft of Ugly’s long knife, wrenched it free, lunged and slashed all in one motion.

  He felt the blade split flesh, and sink in; felt it strike backbone, and quiver.

  The Tibetan’s grin faded. His eyes grew round and serious. He was puzzled. He seemed to be saying, This is not proper.

  Jake’s heart swelled. He drew a huge breath, embraced the Tibetan, and ripped upward.

  He had spent twelve years of his life qualifying for that moment, and the surge of exhilaration dizzied him. Pure joy, flooding through him like liquor or yen. These others would kill him now, but there had been that moment.

  The knife was free. Jake was almost smiling. The Tibetans closed cautiously. Jake waved the wet blade at them and called, “Aha! Aha!” He was sopping but blessed, swelling with an insane rapture, Jacob Alvin Dodds, God’s fool, a long way from home and maybe only a short way to go now but he would not go alone. Then he saw Ugly and Momo moving, and hope struck him like lightning: maybe he would not have to go at all.

  Momo fired as the Tibetans moved in. He sent a bellhop’s hat spinning, and stopped the show.

  No one moved then but Ugly, who padded up behind the Tibetans and spoke.

  Ying the landlord came from the rooms behind Jake and said, “What is this disturbance?”

  “Merely a quarrel,” Ugly said. “These travelers will tell you it is true.”

  One of the Tibetans spoke. The landlord jabbered back. Ugly joined in. Their voices rose. Jake crouched, his lips stretched tight.

  At a
loud slam from the other end of the room they fell silent, and Ugly sidled, to keep an eye on the Tibetans but deal with this interruption. Jake saw that Hao-k’an and Mouse had the room covered. Their faces were innocent and attentive, like little boys at a puppet show.

  One of the Kashgaris was on his feet. “We watched it all,” he announced in Chinese, and then in the border tongue. “It was ill done by the Tibetan and well done by the Russian.” He spoke with an air of great ceremony, and translated sentence by sentence. “And that is the end of it. And now we want to drink and see the women. And this arguing is incorrect and not just. And it works a hardship on travelers of good bones who dislike unseemly noise and commotion. And that is what I have to say, landlord, and we expect action.” His companions thumped the table and congratulated him. He accepted their compliments like a politician, graciously, but it was no surprise to him that he was an orator and logician of historical importance.

  Jake’s knees wobbled. He was dizzy and wanted to throw his arms around Ugly.

  Ugly spoke. He used his hands and spoke gently and persuasively. The landlord nodded, frowning at the Tibetans. Grudgingly, the Tibetans agreed to something. Then they protested again. Ugly shrugged and made an offer. Good enough, they seemed to say, good enough; and after a moment they dragged their dead friend back to their table.

  “No more,” the landlord said.

  “It was not of our doing,” Ugly said. He scowled at Jake. “Should have shot you first thing. Give me my knife.” He stood, burly, and glowered at Jake. After a time he said, “It was indeed well done. Come and drink.”

  On Jake’s chest the sweat ran mingling with blood; his hair and the shreds of his shirt were matted pink. “More kumiss,” he said. Horse-teat wine, the Chinese called it.

  “You forget yourself,” Ugly said.

  “You won’t kill me tonight,” Jake said. He sat between a drunken Hao-k’an and a drifting Mouse. Ugly and Momo sat angled at either end of the table, and no man’s back was to a stranger.

  Ugly poured with a grudging flourish.

  Jake said, “Dry cup,” and raised his drink. It sloshed and spattered. He was still trembling like the aspen in autumn.

  “A hero,” Momo said. “A giant. A duke.”

  Jake tightened his grip on the cup and stared hard at its chattering brim. “It is not the same,” he said in a rasping whisper, “as with the rifle, or the bayonet.” Waves of fire and ice raced through him, and his vision blurred. Beyond the brim of his cup, across the room, the shadowy figures of Tibetans and Kashgaris gobbled and gabbled. Jake’s shakes subsided. “That’s better. It was because you tied me so tight.”

  Momo said, “It was having the oysters tickled by the point of a knife.”

  “It was the imminence,” Ugly said absently.

  “The what?”

  “The soon-to-be of it. Death, his or yours.”

  “His,” Jake said fervently.

  “It is a moment of rare clarity. But afterward the humors and sinews go spongy and limp.”

  “Why did you bother?” Jake asked.

  “You are my property,” Ugly said.

  “And if they had killed me?”

  “We would have killed them. That, or slink out of town.” Ugly spoke inattentively, heeding Jake little; his eyes roved the shadowed room constantly, and Momo’s too. Like savages in a dusky forest. Now Ugly turned to examine Jake, not hostile nor friendly nor even interested, just looking.

  Jake gazed back, and for some seconds they read each other; Jake felt older, wiser and stronger. “Look at them,” Ugly said softly. “All these revelers, men of great strength and good cheer, in clothes of many cuts and hues. Smell the spices in the air, and the hot wine, and the perfume of women that still hangs. Feel the cup in your hand, and the bench against your hams. Remember the sun and the taste of fresh water, and the feel of a rifle’s well-oiled stock. Then suppose you were that Tibetan, and all was cold and dark, and the hand of old man God lay heavy on your nose and mouth and eyes and ears. Tell me, American, do you think of such matters?”

  “No,” Jake said. It was the first time in months that he had spoken a simple truth, that he had not tried to be someone else, a camel-puller or a foreigner or a swaggerer. “I think of escaping.”

  Utly nodded. “A good man makes plans. Only the slave does not dream. Well,” and his scars creased, “Would you prefer hot wine now? At my expense.”

  “Bugger,” Jake said. “With my gold.”

  “You mistake. For some days now it has been my gold. No, Momo. We will not raise our hand against him tonight. Wine or kumiss?”

  “Hot wine, then.”

  “Waiter.” Ugly clapped. “A cruet of yellow wine for this warrior.”

  “Why were those Tibetans blowing the mustache?”

  “They wanted reparations.” Ugly’s eyes roved again. A lizard scuttled across the ceiling and vanished into the dark. Ugly gestured after it. “You saw?”

  Jake nodded. “A salamander.”

  “Never let one piss on you.”

  Jake drained his cup of kumiss. “What happens?”

  “His spirit enters you. You cringe and scuttle.”

  “Hu-hu,” Jake said. “Like the tiger’s spirit.”

  “Be careful,” Ugly said.

  “You really are that one, aren’t you? The one they talk about.”

  “Be careful,” Ugly said. “We will not beat you here in front of all these strangers, but tomorrow Momo will scramble your brains.”

  Jake was still for a while. He remembered his questions about old Kao and old Tu, but he refrained. “What did you tell the Tibetans?”

  “It was their man’s doing,” Ugly said. “That was agreed. But because this is not your country, we pay for their wine tonight.”

  “Not his country, either,” Jake said.

  “At least his eyes are the right shape. Here is your wine. And will you look at the waiter!”

  The waiter wore a long slit gown and an ornate headdress, and was heavily painted, face white, lips bright red, black brows arched like tents. She might have been any age, and there was no telling what she looked like really.

  Jake reddened. This might be a man, or a boy.

  The waiter bowed, and placed the cruet on the table.

  “Come here,” Ugly said, and the creature pattered to his end of the table. Ugly stroked its face. It knelt. Ugly laid a heavy hand on its sleek head. Their eyes spoke.

  Jake drank his cruet of wine and then another, and was permitted to sleep under a bench, against the wall. In the first faint light of dawn he was awakened by rhythmic nudges, and slowly he made out the huge bulk of Ugly’s back; and then, looming at him over Ugly’s shoulder, the waiter’s milk-white face, and the smudged red lips, and the gleeful brows; and Jake could not have said if it was man or woman, laughing or weeping, alive or dead.

  26

  It was a contemptible village of no name; K’uang sat his haughty camel and condemned the elder with one heavy-lidded glance. A barren village of sickly peasants, Qazaq mongrels! In winter they huddled together, half underground, and copulated with their livestock.

  While they stood before him, lousy and ragged, he looked beyond them at their hovels of yellow earth. He recognized their trough: oil drums. A foreign trough. If not for the war they would drink from stagnant wells. An oil drum was a fortune to them, a new way of life.

  These, my people! He hawked up a weighty gob, and spat. Sometimes he had visions of a new China, its population halved and all of them clean-limbed, bright-eyed, willing workers, patriots.

  “The bandits who came this way,” he said. “Describe them.”

  The villagers hung their heads and did not speak. A woman not yet past her youth was going bald: her hair struggled in tufts.

  “Describe the bandits,” K’uang ordered, louder.

  The elder moaned. “No bandits. No strangers these many months.”

  K’uang drew his pistol. “Describe them.”

&
nbsp; “By the lord of all under heaven. No bandits.” He was wrinkled, white-haired, dull of eye.

  K’uang shot him dead, through the heart.

  Even Sergeant Shih, who knew this major well, blinked.

  The old man sagged like a sack of leeks, and sprawled.

  “Who now speaks?”

  No one moved. A small child wailed.

  “Four,” a woman’s voice said. “With a servant, a foreign devil, yellow-haired. We only want to live.”

  “Ah,” K’uang said. “And their goods?” He felt sudden excitement, but kept it from his face.

  After a silence the woman said, “Arms, and saddlebags, and packs. Short of feed, they were, and without water.”

  “And they watered here.”

  “They watered here.”

  “Kegs,” K’uang said. “Do you know what a keg is? A small barrel. Four of them.”

  “No kegs,” the woman said. “By the lord of all under heaven.”

  “You lie,” K’uang said.

  “What is there to lie about?” The woman looked him in the eye. “In such kegs what would they carry? There were no kegs.”

  The woman was telling the truth. It made no sense. But he could not question further before his men, could not betray what he knew. Any one of them would desert, even kill him. For one of those kegs. Even Sergeant Shih. Even stiff, obedient Sergeant Shih. These are my men! These are the sons of Han!

  Suppose he were to say it? Suppose he said, In those kegs is a lifetime of money. They would shoot him in the back, and squabble then, and shoot each other in the back until only one was left, and that one, a brute, would wonder then where he should go and what he should do. Kegs, he would say. Now where does one look for kegs? And he would wander the desert asking about kegs.

  “So you fed them, and gave them water.”

  “There was no other way,” the woman said. “We only want to live.”

  K’uang jerked his head at Sergeant Shih, who sidled his camel closer.