by Lao She
The people in the street were odd too. Not a soul was walking alone – they were all in pairs. Funny. And someone or other had put a gramophone record inside Mr Ma’s head, and it was whirling round, making a constant buzz-buzz, zing-zing, buzzing in his ears.
He was still very alert, and felt very cheery. Everything he looked at struck him as funny. Even if he looked at nothing, that seemed hilarious too. He looked at the lampposts, and they sent him off into peals of laughter. When he stopped laughing, he took one of his hands from the railing, waved it in a circle, pointing ahead, and announced from the side of his mouth, ‘Home’s that a’way! Take it slowly. No hurry. What’s the hurry? Why hurry . . . ? Alexander . . . No, that’s wrong . . . Yes, Alexander – where’s he got to? Fine fellow.’ With these words, he bent his head down low, and searched all over the place.
‘Who was that speaking just now?’ He looked around him for a good few moments, then, whirling his hand up, caught himself on the nose. ‘Ah, now, here we are. That’s where the talking was coming from! Isn’t it, old fellow?’
VI
MA WEI and Mrs Wedderburn arrived home. Mrs Ely had talked so much that Mrs Wedderburn was feeling rather weary. There was no sound to be heard from inside the house as they entered, only Napoleon barking in the back garden. Without bothering to take off her hat, Mrs Wedderburn strode quickly out the back door. Napoleon was sitting under a rosebush, his forelegs straight out in front of him and his head raised, barking at the stars. Hearing his mistress’s footsteps, he scurried up to her, whirling and twisting wildly round her legs, like some frenzied ball of fluff.
‘Hello, my darling. Have you been left all on your own? What’s happened to Mary?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn.
Napoleon leapt up and yapped for all he was worth, seeking to convey the message, ‘Pick me up quickly! Mary went out, and didn’t care about me. In total I’ve caught three flies and scared off one black cat.’
Mrs Wedderburn carried her dog into the drawing room. Ma Wei was looking out through the curtains when she came in.
‘Why hasn’t my father got back yet?’ he asked.
‘And I wonder where Mary’s gallivanting about too,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, sitting down.
Napoleon still kept on jiggling round madly on his mistress’s lap, rubbing his neck against her chest.
‘Napoleon, do behave yourself a bit! I’m worn out. Go and play with Ma Wei.’
She handed Napoleon to Ma Wei, and Napoleon took the opportunity to whack her new hat with his tail in passing.
Ma Wei took the little dog, who was still wriggling like mad, not behaving himself in the slightest. Ma Wei tickled him under his chin, and after he’d done that a few times, Napoleon became much calmer, bumping his nose against Ma Wei’s chest and stretching out his neck for Ma Wei to tickle him more. As he tickled away, Ma Wei felt something wedged under the dog’s collar. He realised it was a tiny rolled-up ball of paper, tied on with two strands of red cotton. He slowly untied it while Napoleon waited, completely motionless except for the gentle wagging of the tip of his stubby tail.
Ma Wei untied the paper, and handed it to Mrs Wedderburn, who unfurled it. It was a note, which said,
Mum.
I’ve burnt all the supper, and the eggs got stuck to thepan and I can’t get them off. Washington called for me, and we’re going to have some ice-cream together. See you tonight. Napoleon’s in the backyard looking after old Ma’s roses.
Mary
Mrs Wedderburn tore it up as she finished reading it, then gave a yawn, hiding her mouth behind the back of her hand.
‘You go to bed, Mrs Wedderburn, and I’ll wait up for them,’ said Ma Wei.
‘Yes, you wait up for them. Are you going to have some coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Not just now.’
‘Come on, Napoleon.’ Mrs Wedderburn walked out carrying the little dog.
Mrs Wedderburn had taken a liking to Ma Wei, partly because he was so well behaved and polite and pleasant-spoken, and partly because Mary didn’t like him. Mrs Wedderburn, as we know, was somewhat wilful, and very fond of deliberately being contrary.
Ma Wei opened the drawing room window slightly and sat on a chair next to the table, facing the street. Whenever he heard footsteps, he glanced outside. He did this quite a number of times, but it was never his father. He took a novel down from the bookcase and turned over a few pages, but, finding himself unable to read, put it back where he’d got it from. He thought of having a tinkle on the piano, but it was probably too late in the evening for that, so he simply sat by the window, frowning. Young people of other countries are so cheery, he thought. No cares, no worries. Cigarettes to smoke, and money for the pictures, and football for relaxation, and what more do they want? But us?
His thoughts then turned to the evening past. That bloke Alexander! All that hair of Mrs Ely’s. Miss Ely. Was she speaking from the heart? Must have been. Her smile was so genuine. Isn’t she happy, either? Anyhow, she’s better off than me!
At this point in his ruminations, the image of Miss Ely appeared before him, her hair hanging on her shoulders and her lips stirring in a smile. It made him feel a bit more cheerful, and a new thought started to come to him, but he blushed before he managed to think it. Mary was so . . . but . . . she was beautiful. Who’d she gone out with? Letting someone else gaze at her face, and perhaps even enjoy her rosy lips? His eyebrows arched, and he clenched a fist and swung a couple of punches. A cool breeze wafted in through the window, and he stood up and took a deep breath of air.
A car approached, making Ma Wei’s heart give a sudden jump. He poked his head out and took a look. Presently, a taxi was at the door.
‘Here we are!’ someone in the taxi said – Mary’s voice!
The taxi door opened but instead of Mary, out leapt a policeman. Full of anxiety, Ma Wei rushed outside. Before he’d said a word, the policeman gave him a nod. He bounded to the taxi door, and, at that moment, Mary stepped out of the cab, holding her hat in her hand, her face pale and her eyes very round and wide. Despite this she didn’t look too alarmed or panic-stricken. She pointed into the taxi. ‘Your father,’ she said.
‘Dad – what’s wrong?’
Before he’d time to speak, it sprang to mind that his father must have been knocked down by a car, and injured at the very least. Then something seemed to stick in his throat. He couldn’t get any words out and his lips trembled uncontrollably.
‘Let’s lift him out,’ said the big policeman, very solid and unperturbed.
At the policeman’s words, Ma Wei ventured a look at his father. The elder Mr Ma’s head was wedged into a corner of the cab and his legs sprawled sideways, so that he looked uncannily long. One hand was placed limply on his lap, and the other lay palm upwards on the cushion of the seat. There was a blue patch on his forehead and some flecks of blood on his face, and his mouth with its scrappy moustache seemed fixed in a smile.
‘Father! Father!’ Ma Wei shouted at him.
Mr Ma’s hands were icy-cold, but there was some chilly sweat on the palms and congealed blood where one of his thumbs had been cut.
‘Cart him out. He ain’t dead. Nothing to worry about,’ said the big policeman, grinning.
Ma Wei put his hand over his father’s mouth. Sure enough, he was still breathing, and the scrap of moustache was twitching. Ma calmed down quite a bit. He glanced at the policeman, and went very red.
The policeman, Ma Wei and the taxi driver carried the sozzled Ma out. The elder Ma’s head wobbled wildly, as if about to escape from his neck. A constant glug-glug sound issued from his throat. The three of them carried him upstairs and put him on the bed. Another gurgle came from his throat, and he spat out a blob of white foam.
By now, Mary’s face had regained its ruddy hue. She brought up a jug of cold water from downstairs. Ma Wei took the jug from her but she hastily pushed back her hair and took the jug from him again.
‘I’ll give him some water,’ she said. ‘You pay the taxi d
river and send him away.’
Ma Wei felt in his pockets. He’d only got a few pence, so he hurried over and fumbled around for his father’s wallet, took out a pound, and handed it to the taxi driver. The man smiled broadly, clumped down the stairs and hurried off. Ma Wei stuffed the wallet under his father’s mattress and as he did so he noticed something hard and small in the corner of the wallet. Most likely that diamond ring, but Ma Wei didn’t feel like checking.
He promptly thanked the policeman, and offered him several cigars his father had just bought. With a smile, the policeman took one, put it in his pocket, then went over and felt Mr Ma’s forehead.
‘Nothing much,’ he announced. ‘Had a big night, eh?’ After which he looked round the room, and then left leisurely, giving a ‘Cheerio!’ as he went.
Mary poured a little of the cold water down Mr Ma’s throat, pushed her hair back again, and puffed out her cheeks in relief. Ma Wei undid the buttons of his father’s collar.
‘Miss Wedderburn,’ he said, turning to her, ‘you don’t need to say anything about this to Mrs Wedderburn.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t.’ Her cheeks were very red, and as pretty as ever.
‘How did you bump into my father?’ asked Ma Wei, but before Mary could answer Mr Ma had brought up the water he’d just swallowed.
With a glance at Mr Ma, Mary walked over to take a peek at herself in the mirror. ‘I went to Hyde Park with Washington,’ she said. ‘When the park was closed, we went walking along the path round the outside of the park, and I trod on something soft. Proper scared me, it did. I looked down, and it was him, your dad. Crawling around on the ground like some great crocodile. I kept an eye on him while Washington went to call a cab. The policeman wanted to take him to hospital, but Washington told him your dad was drunk and it’d be best if we just took him home. That was a lucky coincidence, wasn’t it? I was scared stiff. I know my lips were all trembly.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you enough, Miss Wedderburn. When you see Washington next, give him my thanks,’ said Ma Wei, leaning with one hand on the bed, looking at her. Inwardly, he hated Washington, but all the same he had to say what he did.
‘Right. I’m off to bed now.’ Mary shot Mr Ma another look, and as she reached the door, she turned her head. ‘Give him a bit more water,’ she said.
Mrs Wedderburn had heard the voices upstairs, and as soon as Mary got downstairs, she asked, ‘What’s the matter, Mary?’
‘Nothing. We all got back late. Where’s Napoleon?’
‘Well, he’s not in the garden, I don’t mind telling you!’
‘Give it a rest! See you in the morning, Mum.’
Ma Wei removed his father’s coat and covered him with a blanket. Mr Ma’s eyes opened slightly, and his lips made a small movement. His eyes immediately closed although his eyelids carried on fluttering, as if he couldn’t bear the light. Ma Wei was sitting by the bed, and seeing his father stir, he was somewhat relieved.
That bloke Washington takes Mary out every day, thought Ma Wei, frowning. But they rescued my father. She was really quite nice this evening, so maybe she’s not so bad at heart. But what about my father? What a debacle! What if he’d got run over by a car? That Alexander! Right – tomorrow I’ll go and see Miss Ely.
As he was caught up in his roaming thoughts he noticed his father’s hand moving under the blanket, as if he wanted to turn over. Then Mr Ma’s lips parted, and he uttered two croaks.
‘No more drink for me, Ma Wei!’ he said in blurred tones. And his head slipped back onto the pillow, and he said no more.
VII
SOME TIME after three a.m., Mr Ma came round. He raised a hand and felt the blue spot on his forehead. It was now swollen, blue in the middle and red all round the edge, like a duck’s-egg yolk going bad. He seemed to have a pile of dry tinder burning in his chest, blazing up and threatening to crack his throat, like a newly lit fire roaring up an old chimney. His hands were rather stiff, and one of his thumbs hurt. His head, resting on the pillow, felt suspended in mid-air, wobbling all over the place without any support. His mouth was as parched as his throat, his tongue stuck to the bottom like some bone-dry wooden bung. He opened his mouth, gulped some fresh air and felt much better. But a searing acidity rose in his mouth from deep inside him, making him wonder if he’d got a sour jube in there.
‘Ma Wei! I’m thirsty! Ma Wei, where are you?’
Ma Wei was dozing on the chair, his head floating around as if he were dreaming, though it was no dream. As he heard his father call, his head dropped, then suddenly jerked up, and he opened his eyes. The light was still on. He rubbed his eyes.
‘Are you a bit better now, Dad?’
Mr Ma shut his eyes again, and rubbed his chest with his hand. ‘Thirsty!’
Ma Wei handed him a cup of water. Mr Ma shook his head, and, through parched lips, squeezed out the word, ‘Tea!’
‘There’s nowhere to boil the water, Father.’
For a long time Mr Ma said nothing, resolved to endure his sufferings. But his throat was burning terribly, and he couldn’t hold out. ‘Water’ll do!’
Ma Wei held the cup for him, and Mr Ma bent his body slightly upwards. Eyes staring fixedly ahead, he drank all the water in one draught. Then he licked his lips, and let his head loll back against the pillow.
There was a short pause.
‘Pass me the jug of water, Ma Wei.’
Mr Ma poured three fifths of the jug of water down his throat, until bubbles were popping from his mouth and drops of water were forcing their way out of his nose. His stomach emitted gurgling noises, and he placed his hands back in the middle of his chest. Haah! He sucked in a deep breath.
‘Ma Wei, I won’t die, will I?’ Mr Ma grimly twisted his lips under the scrap of moustache. ‘Pass me the mirror,’ he said in strangled tones.
He looked in the mirror and nodded. It wasn’t too bad except for his eyes, which were in poor shape: bleary, with fine streaks of blood across the eyeballs, and large yellowish smudges underneath them. The bad duck’s-egg yolk on his forehead was of no account; a superficial wound. Yes, a superficial wound. But his eyes certainly did tell a tale.
‘Ma Wei, I’m not going to die, am I?’
‘Of course not!’ Ma Wei was on the point of saying something else, but felt it wouldn’t be quite appropriate.
Mr Ma put the mirror down, then picked it up again and stuck out his tongue for examination. It gave him no help in deciding whether or not he would die.
‘Ma Wei, how did I — When did I get back?’ Mr Ma could still vaguely recall Alexander, the pub and the park, but he couldn’t recall how on earth he’d got from the park back home.
‘Miss Wedderburn brought you back in a taxi.’
‘Ah!’ was all that Mr Ma said.
He felt rather inclined to reprove himself inwardly, but saw no need for him to make a public confession. Anyway, a father had no business apologising to his son. As the saying went, ‘When old, one should be impulsive and wild. Youth’s the time for steadiness.’ It was quite in order for an old man to get drunk. Anyhow, he hadn’t done any harm, had he? By this stage, he was feeling much easier in his mind. He put on a deliberate air of concern and generosity.
‘You go to bed, Ma Wei,’ he said. ‘I . . . won’t die.’
‘I’m not tired yet,’ said Ma Wei.
‘Off with you!’
It delighted Mr Ma to see that his son refused to leave him and go to bed, but he felt duty-bound to address him in such a way. Excellent – ‘a kindly father and a loving son’, and no mistake.
Ma Wei pulled the blanket across his father again, wrapped another blanket round himself and sat down on the chair.
Mr Ma went off once more into a fitful doze, and when he woke, he ached terribly. Of course his thumb and forehead ached – that was to be expected – but the back of his knees, his elbows and his back all hurt too, with a twisting, wrenching pain. He felt himself all over, expecting to find some broken and splintered
bones. There were none. No injuries anywhere; only the pain. He knew Ma Wei was in the room, so he was reluctant to groan. But it was no good – he just had to groan. And groaning with his parched throat felt singularly disagreeable. When he had a headache or fever, his groaning was usually as melodious as if he were reciting poetry. But not today, oh no. Each time he stretched his legs, he groaned before he’d had time to get in tune. But once he had groaned, he felt much better. That was all that mattered; never mind whether he was in tune today!
After one series of groans, he filled in the interval by contemplating death. People always groan when they’re about to die. The one thing he mustn’t do was die. Our Father who art in Heaven! Lord God above! Having never enjoyed good fortune in his life, it would be too unjust were he to die like this . . . He mustn’t drink so much next time. It was no fun. But if you were with someone, you couldn’t avoid keeping pace with them. It was a matter of social etiquette – as long as he didn’t die, that’s all. Don’t groan, groaning’s a bad sign. He drew his head back down into the pillow, and slowly drifted off to sleep again.
The dew-moist air was warmed by the rosy breath of the sun. London began to busy itself for the day. The milkmen and greengrocers hurried round, clattering their trolleys and barrows. Workmen came bobbing along, little pipes in their mouths, pack after pack on their way to work.