Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

  ‘A diamond. Not bad. A woman’s ring,’ said Mr Ma, nodding his head and smacking his lips in a sign of appreciation. As he spoke, he thrust the ring into his pocket.

  Li Tzu-jung opened his mouth, but a glance from Ma Wei made him bite back his words.

  There was a short pause. Then Li Tzu-jung brought out the safe keys and a string of other little keys, and handed them to Mr Ma. ‘These are the keys of the shop. You look after them, Mr Ma.’

  ‘Tcha! You look after them. It’ll be simpler,’ said Mr Ma, still fingering the ring in his pocket.

  ‘Mr Ma, we ought to get matters straight. Are you going to keep me on?’ asked Li Tzu-jung, still holding the keys.

  Ma Wei nodded to prompt his father.

  ‘I’ve told you to take the keys,’ said Mr Ma. ‘So I must be employing you, mustn’t I?’

  ‘Right. Thank you. When your brother was alive, I used to come in at ten in the morning and leave at four in the afternoon, and he gave me two pounds a week. My job was to attend to the customers and arrange the wares. When he fell ill, I came in at ten as usual, but worked until six o’clock, so he gave me three pounds a week. Now, I’d be glad if you’d tell me my wages, the nature of my job and my hours of work. It doesn’t matter if I work a bit less, as I have to keep some time for my studies.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a student, too?’ Mr Ma had never for a moment pictured Li Tzu-jung as a studying person. Such a vulgar chap studying! he said to himself. You’d never guess it from the looks of him. That’s not how students look in China.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I really am, a student,’ said Li Tzu-jung. ‘Do you —’

  ‘Ma Wei!’ Mr Ma, devoid of ideas, looked at Ma Wei, his eyes seeming to say, ‘You suggest something.’

  ‘I think the best thing would be if I talked it over with Mr Li, and then we can get everything fixed later on. How about that?’ said Ma Wei.

  ‘Let us do that then.’ Mr Ma stood up. It was decidedly chilly in the room, and his knees felt a bit stiff. ‘Take me home, then come back and discuss things with shop assistant Li. And you can look through the accounts while you’re at it. Not that it matters whether you look through them or not.’

  With these words, he slowly walked towards the front door. Reaching the display shelves in the outer room, he stopped and stood still again, looking at them for a long time. Then he turned to Li Tzu-jung and said, ‘Shop assistant Li, pass me down that small white teapot.’

  Li Tzu-jung gently brought down the teapot, and handed it to Mr Ma. Mr Ma pulled out his handkerchief, wrapped the teapot in it and handed it to Ma Wei to carry.

  ‘Wait for me. We’ll have a meal together,’ said Ma Wei to Li Tzu-jung. ‘See you in a bit.’

  XI

  FATHER AND son walked out of the antiques shop. After a few paces Mr Ma halted, and peered hard at the exterior of the shop once more. This time he noticed the long sign behind a sheet of glass above the window, with its gold lettering on a black background.

  ‘What vulgar lack of taste,’ he said, shaking his head, while leaning back and surveying the repair-shop sign on the next floor. Then he turned around and looked at the walls across the road.

  ‘That chimney’s right opposite our window. The feng shui of our shop doesn’t seem very good.’

  Paying no attention to what his father was saying, Ma Wei was looking up towards the dome of St Paul’s. The more he looked the more beautiful he found it. ‘There’s a nice place for you to go and worship some day, Dad,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, the church isn’t bad. But its spire’s robbed us of all the geomantic advantages. We won’t be able to get any.’

  Mr Ma seemed quite oblivious to the fact that he was a Christian, and grumbled away about the poor feng shui. He was still shaking his head and grumbling as they left the little street. Ma Wei caught sight of a bus going to Oxford Street, and, as there was a stop right by St Paul’s, didn’t consult his father about boarding it, but pulled him along and jumped onto the bus with him. As Mr Ma registered his surroundings, the bus moved off again. Ma Wei bought their tickets.

  ‘Don’t call Li Tzu-jung “shop assistant”,’ he told his father. ‘Just look how the people on this bus say thank you to the conductor, even though all they’re doing is paying for their ticket. And Li’s a proper godsend in the shop, we can’t lose him. You’ll upset him if you call him shop assistant. What’s more —’

  ‘What do you imagine I ought to call him then? I’m the shop manager. Are you trying to tell me that the shop manager should address the shop assistant as “boss”?’

  As he spoke, Mr Ma shot out a hand, took the little teapot that Ma Wei was holding, removed the handkerchief and closely scrutinised the seal-script calligraphy on the bottom. To tell the truth, our good gentleman was decidedly limited in his ability to read seal script, and what with the bus swaying wildly about, the characters were all the more difficult for him to read. He inwardly reproved Ma Wei for having boarded a bus without consulting him.

  ‘Call him “Mr Li”. You won’t be lowering yourself.’ Ma Wei frowned, but had no intention of starting a row with his father.

  The bus passed under an iron bridge, and the train rumbling across the bridge was so noisy overhead that Mr Ma heard nothing of Ma Wei’s words at that point. The bus suddenly shot to the left and Mr Ma slipped violently forwards, almost letting go of the little teapot. He muttered several swearwords, but, in the confused hubbub of the traffic, Ma Wei didn’t hear him either.

  ‘Do you want to keep Li on or not then?’ Ma Wei asked his father, seizing his chance while the bus was idling at a stop.

  ‘What else? I have to employ him, don’t I? He knows how to run a shop. I don’t.’ Mr Ma’s cheeks reddened and he made to move, as if he would leap off the bus were Ma Wei to pursue his questioning. But he stuck his leg out too forcefully and almost trod on the dainty toes of the old lady sitting opposite. Hastily withdrawing his foot, he abandoned any notion of jumping off the bus.

  Ma Wei knew there was nothing to be gained by questioning him. All it came back to, anyway, was, ‘Are you going to keep him on?’ – ‘How could I do otherwise?’, and ‘Why not address him as “Mr”?’ – ‘I’m the manager. If I call him “Mr”, what’s he going to call me!’ No point going round in circles. Ma Wei turned away, and concentrated on observing the street names, afraid they might go past their stop. Although the conductor was calling out the was one that would take Ma Wei more than a couple of days to get used to.

  Reaching Oxford Street, they both got off, and Ma Wei led his father homewards. They’d not gone far when Mr Ma stopped, snorted, and lifted up the little teapot to inspect it again. He was in the habit of coming to a sudden halt, forcing people behind him to hastily dodge to the right or left if they hoped to avoid bumping into him and piling up in an ever-mounting heap. He would stop whenever the mood took him. Ma Wei was helpless to do anything except slowly trail after him, following in his footsteps, making father and son look like loach fish in a bowl, the first moving steadily before abruptly stopping, sending the other fish darting in sudden confusion.

  At long last, they arrived home. Mr Ma stood outside the door and wiped the little teapot all over with the cuff of his sleeve. Then, teapot in hand, he unlocked the door.

  Mrs Wedderburn had long since finished her lunch and was resting in the drawing room. She saw them return, but didn’t call out hello.

  The moment Mr Ma stepped in through the front door, he exclaimed, ‘Mrs Wedderburn!’

  ‘Here, Mr Ma!’ she said from the drawing room, ‘Come in.’

  Mr Ma went in, followed by Ma Wei. Napoleon, in the middle of his siesta, heard them arrive but didn’t open his eyes, just snuffled two nasal grunts.

  ‘Look, Mrs Wedderburn!’ Mr Ma raised the teapot aloft, his face wreathed in smiles, and his voice unusually soft and tender, as if he felt an imminent return to youth.

  Having just finished her meal, Mrs Wedderburn was finding herself hard put to stay awake. The
powder had worn off her nose, leaving her petite nose-tip exposed like a half-ripe hawthorn berry. In Mr Ma’s eyes, there was some inexpressible beauty about that nose.

  She was on the point of getting up when Mr Ma forestalled her by placing the little teapot right before her eyes. He still remembered how, when he’d been playing with Napoleon, her hair had almost brushed against his jacket, and he was now beginning a concerted campaign to win her heart. Love was a step-by-step advance. Only by moving forwards could one hope to attain a kiss. And without a kiss, what chance for love?

  In all other matters, Mr Ma retreated. Only with women did he advocate advancing. And his technique in this respect was not without its strong points. Indeed, we must admit that in this field Mr Ma was something of a genius.

  Mrs Wedderburn leant forwards, took the little teapot from him, cocked her head to one side and examined the object closely. Mr Ma watched her, his face as bright as a little red balloon.

  ‘How pretty! Oh, lovely! It’s real china, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Wedderburn, pointing at the red cockscomb flowers and the two little chickens on the teapot.

  Hearing her praise Chinese porcelain tickled Mr Ma pink. ‘I bought it for you, Mrs Wedderburn.’

  ‘For me? Really, Mr Ma?’

  Her eyes shone big and round, her lips formed an O and what little of her décolletage was visible turned a gentle pink. ‘How many pounds would this little teapot be worth?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Mr Ma, and pointed at the vase on the table. ‘I knew you were fond of Chinese porcelain. That little vase is Chinese, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, what sharp eyes you’ve got. You do notice things! I bought that vase from a soldier. Napoleon, why don’t you get up and thank Mr Ma!’

  She picked Napoleon up, and pressed down the dog’s head with one hand to make it perform two nods in Mr Ma’s direction. Very sleepy, Napoleon never opened his eyes. Even when she’d made Napoleon thank Mr Ma, Mrs Wedderburn still felt guilty about taking the little teapot.

  ‘Mr Ma, we’ll do a swap. I do love your teapot. If you’ll let me have it, you can take my vase and sell that. Though it probably isn’t worth that much. I paid . . . How much did I pay for it now? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘A swap? Now then, don’t make any fuss,’ said Mr Ma with a smile.

  Ma Wei was standing by the window, his eyes riveted on his father, his fingers crossed that his father’s next move wouldn’t be to give her that ring. Mr Ma was indeed fingering the ring in his pocket, but didn’t bring it out.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Ma: how much is this little teapot worth? Just so that I can tell people when they ask me.’Mrs Wedderburn clasped the teapot to her breast, like a little girl clutching a doll she’s just been bought. ‘How much is it worth?’

  Mr Ma pushed his spectacles upwards and turned to Ma Wei. ‘How much would you say it’s worth?’ he asked him.

  ‘How should I know?’ said Ma Wei. ‘Take a look to see if there’s a price inside the lid.’

  ‘Ah yes. Here, give it to me and I’ll have a look,’ Mr Ma said melodiously.

  ‘No, let me look,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, anxious to show that she could do something, and gently removed the lid of the teapot. ‘Goodness! Five pounds ten shillings! Five pounds ten shillings!’

  Twisting his neck, Mr Ma leant closer so that he could see. ‘Why, so it is. How much is that in Chinese money?’ He paused. ‘Sixty yuan. That’s a bit steep! Paying sixty yuan for a teapot! Why, if you paid one yuan twenty at the Tung-an Market you’d get a bigger one!’

  Listening to all this, Ma Wei found it less and less to his liking. He grabbed his hat. ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘I have to head off to meet Li Tzu-jung. He’s waiting for me to have lunch with him.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Ma. You haven’t eaten lunch yet, have you?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn. ‘I still have a slice of cold veal. It’s very tasty. Would you like it?’

  Ma Wei was already out in the street, and through the curtain he could see his father’s lips in motion as he chatted away still.

  XII

  MA WEI went back to the antiques shop to see Li Tzu-jung. ‘Sorry, Mr Li. You must be starving. Where shall we eat?’ asked Ma Wei.

  ‘Call me Li. Don’t worry about the Mr,’ said Li Tzu-jung, grinning. By now, he’d finished tidying and cleaning the display shelves. He’d also washed his face, which made his brown cheeks even shinier. ‘There’s a cafe round the corner where we can get a bite to eat.’ As he said this, he locked up the shop and led Ma Wei off to lunch.

  The cafe was across the way from St Paul’s, and through the windows the front of the cathedral and the statues outside it were clearly in view. A crowd of old women and small children were standing round the statues, feeding the pigeons with grain and bread.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ asked Li Tzu-jung. ‘I usually have a cup of tea, with a couple of slices of bread and a piece of cake. This is about as basic a cafe as you can find in London, and if you want a posh meal, you won’t get it here. I can’t afford posh meals though.’

  ‘Whatever you feel like, order the same for me.’ Ma Wei had no idea what to ask for.

  Li Tzu-jung ordered his usual tea and bread, but got some fried sausages extra for Ma Wei.

  All the small cafe’s tables had marble tops and iron legs, the surfaces polished to a gleaming sheen. Big mirrors hung on the walls, which gave the room a bright and cheery interior and a strong impression of being crowded and busy with custom. The cakes, bread and so forth were displayed in a cabinet just inside the door, and regardless of whether the food was tasty or not, it at least looked good. The waitresses were all young girls, and very pretty too. Each wore a trim short skirt and a white pleated mop-cap. They shot to and fro like shuttles as they served the tea and food, their cheeks as shiny and rosy as the red apples in the display cabinet.

  The customers were practically all from nearby shops. Everyone held an evening paper in their hands – the London evening papers come onto the streets not long after nine o’clock in the morning – and was absorbed in the horseracing or dogracing news. All you could hear in the room was the swishing sound of the girls running back and forth and the rattle of knives and forks. Hardly anybody was talking. As long as the English have got a newspaper to read, they don’t feel any need to converse. Ma Wei watched closely to see what everyone was eating. By and large, they took a cup of tea with some bread and butter, and there was hardly anyone eating a meal with any vegetables in it.

  ‘So this is regarded as the lowest class of restaurant?’ asked Ma Wei.

  ‘Doesn’t it look like it?’ replied Li Tzu-jung, keeping his voice down.

  ‘It’s very clean,’ mumbled Ma Wei, recalling to himself the lower grade of cafes in Peking, and the black muck of the long tables with the big bowls on them.

  ‘Oh yes, the English spend more time on presenting their food than they do eating it. Anyone here with a sense of decency prefers eating a bit less to having to put up with a dirty restaurant. We Chinese are real eaters, and we don’t bother about the state of the place where we’re eating. Net result: the ones who eat a bit less in a clean place are healthy and strong, while those who eat smoked chicken and roast duck in a filthy hole get thinner and thinner the more they eat —’

  Before he’d finished, a girl brought them their food. As they ate, they conversed in subdued tones.

  ‘Li, old fellow, this morning my father spoke rather —’ began Ma Wei very earnestly.

  ‘Forget it,’ interrupted Li Tzu-jung. ‘Aren’t all old people like that?’

  ‘Are you still willing to help my father out?’

  ‘Without me, you’d never manage. And from my point of view, I’ve got to earn some money. So don’t worry – we’ve a long and fruitful partnership yet!’

  Not thinking, Li Tzu-jung laughed rather loudly, and the old men eating opposite shot him a glare. He hastily lowered his head and chewed a mouthful of bread.

  ‘Are you still studying, then?’ Ma Wei asked.

/>   ‘You can’t get by without studying.’As he said this, Li Tzu-jung nearly laughed again. He was so convinced of his own wit that no matter what others thought he’d always beat them to the laugh. ‘Look here; eat up quick, and we’ll go back and have a talk in the shop. There’s a lot to be said, and you can’t enjoy yourself here. The old blokes are doing nothing but glaring at me.’

  The two of them hurriedly finished their meal and drank up their tea, then Li Tzu-jung stood up and asked a girl for their bill. As he took it, he pointed to Ma Wei.

  ‘Don’t you think he’s handsome?’ he said. ‘He just told me he thought you were a right looker!’

  ‘Get away with you!’ said the young girl with a smile. Then she glanced at Ma Wei, clearly flattered that someone had found her attractive.

  Ma Wei smiled back. From the way Li Tzu-jung spoke to her, it seemed obvious that they knew each other quite well, probably because he was a regular customer. Li Tzu-jung fished out two pennies and carefully placed them under the plate as a tip. He settled the bill for their meal, but asked Ma Wei for ten pence for his share. Ma Wei paid on the spot.

  ‘That’s the English way. No standing on ceremony with one another,’ said Li Tzu-jung, smiling and taking the money.

  They both returned to the shop, where fortunately there were no customers waiting. As if the floodgates had suddenly been released, Li Tzu-jung’s speech flowed forth in mighty rivers.

  ‘Look here, I’ll give you a tip: when you’re drinking tea, keep the noise down. Just now when you were drinking, didn’t you notice those old blokes glaring away at you? When the English blow their noses, they put all their force into it, but when they drink, they don’t make a sound. It’s just a custom of theirs – right and wrong doesn’t come into it. But if you don’t toe the line, you’re a barbarian. And they look down on us Chinese enough even without that!

  ‘Don’t scratch your head or clean your nails or belch when in the presence of others. I know – so many rules of etiquette! Some of our famous gentlemen-scholars who study abroad just completely ignore these things. But since the foreigners already turn up their noses at us, I don’t see the point of doing one’s best to make them dislike us all the more.