Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

  His approach was simple: to resist his spiritual depression by means of physical labour. First thing in the morning, he’d get up and go for a run around the park, and sometimes he’d also do half an hour or so of rowing. The first time he rowed, he almost knocked himself flat on the bottom of the boat with all the exertion. Wind or rain, he’d go out running, and after three weeks of it, his cheeks had acquired a ruddy glow. On coming back from his run, he’d take a cold-water bath (Mrs Wedderburn had now granted them permission to use her bath) and rub himself bright red all over, till he looked like a fresh lobster in a fishmonger’s. After the bath, he’d go down to breakfast. Mary would look at him, and he would look at Mary. When Mary spoke, he would reply with a smile. He knew that she was beautiful, so he decided to regard her as some beautiful little ragdoll.

  You look down on me, but I scorn you even more, he told himself. You’re beautiful, but I’m seeking glory and the fulfilment of my duty. Beauty can scarcely balance glory and duty on heaven’s scales. Ha!

  Noting the ruddiness of Ma Wei’s cheeks, how his wrists grew daily thicker and more muscular, and the remarkable sparkle of his eyes, Mary now made deliberate excuses to engage him in conversation. Foreign girls do like tough young lads. Ma Wei deliberately ate quickly, and as soon as he’d finished his breakfast, he would go upstairs, three steps at a time, to do some studying. When he met Mary in the street, he’d just lift his hand and hurry on past like a gust of wind.

  Ha! Good fun, this. Seem to have worked that lot out of my system! thought Ma Wei.

  If you can see the funny side of things, life’s much more enjoyable.

  After a few hours study, Ma Wei would go out and run all the way to the shop. He put all Li Tzu-jung’s suggestions into effect, one after the other. The goods that Wang Ming-ch’uan had obtained for them reached London just before Christmas, and he and Li Tzu-jung set to work with a vengeance, decorating the shopfront, pricing things, printing the catalogue . . . Each day without fail, he’d put in seven hours’ work.

  The wares weren’t all antiques, but included Chinese embroideries, trinkets and old embroidered garments. When elderly ladies in search of something Chinese for their relatives and friends came to hear of the Mas’ shop, they found many things to choose from. One day they’d buy a small purse, and the next a circular fan. Sometimes as they picked up such gifts, they’d also buy something expensive in passing.

  As soon as Li and Ma Wei got all the goods sorted out, Li Tzu-jung called Lord Simon in to take his pick of the best. Head cocked to one side, Lord Simon wandered round the room for a good half of the day. In addition to the porcelain that he wanted for himself, he bought an old embroidered Chinese skirt costing twenty-five pounds as a Christmas present for Lady Simon. On that occasion alone, he bought a hundred and fifty pounds’ worth of goods.

  ‘It’s worked, Ma, old lad!’ said Li Tzu-jung, raking his hair.

  ‘Yes, it’s worked, old Li!’ Ma Wei was already smiling so much that those were the only words he could manage.

  The two of them then got into a long discussion of how to attract the attention of passers-by to their shop. Li Tzu-jung proposed putting flashing lights at the end of the street, a red light alternating with a green one, shining out the message BUY CHINESE ANTIQUES, followed by GIVE THEM SOMETHING CHINESE AS A PRESENT.

  Young people move quickly, and three days after this discussion, the lights were installed in position.

  As the Mas’ shop trade got busier, the manager of the antiques shop next door grew rather worried. He’d always known that the elder Ma was a useless layabout, and was just biding his time, fully expecting Ma to declare that he was giving up the business, so that he himself might take over the Mas’ shop. Seeing the two young men now making such a wonderful go of things, he decided that he’d have to take action. If he waited until the Mas’ shop was really going great guns, the matter wouldn’t be so easy to pull off. Hatless, his bald head shining and his hands clasped round his ample belly, he secretly invited Li Tzu-jung out for a meal and had a little word with him, tête-à-tête.

  ‘Go and buy yourself a bottle of hair-restorer,’ Li Tzu-jung told him smiling, ‘and when you’ve grown some hair, we’ll talk again!’ The old manager stroked his bald pate, burst out laughing – the English do have their good points – and said nothing more on the subject.

  Mr Ma dropped by a number of times, pretending that it was to help them, but in reality it was only to get a couple of delicate little trinkets for Mrs Wedderburn. On one occasion he paced around the shop, posture upright, steps measured, looking at this, looking at that, feeling this and shifting that.

  He snatched a furtive glance at Ma Wei. Ma Wei’s eyes were riveted on him. He gave a couple of feeble coughs, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, and moved off on his rounds once more with his erect posture and measured tread. A customer came in, and the elder Ma gave him a deep bow. He intended at the conclusion of his bow to advance and begin his sales pitch, and thereby demonstrate his talents. But by the time he’d straightened up, Ma Wei had already led the customer past him. Well, then!

  ‘He’s got the drive. The boy’s certainly got what it takes. But don’t you forget that I’m your dad,’ Mr Ma muttered to himself.

  When Christmas was only a few days off, business grew even busier. Of the things they sold, eighty or ninety per cent had to be packed up and delivered to the customers. Sometimes, Ma Wei and Li Tzu-jung would be wrapping up parcels till ten o’clock at night. Some they took to the post office, but other more fragile things they had to deliver themselves. Li Tzu-jung volunteered to undertake this difficult mission, and went to the bicycle shop to hire a wonky bike, upon which he hared round for all he was worth, delivering parcels around town. When Mr Ma saw Li Tzu-jung on the battered old bike, squeezing his way through the traffic, he shut his eyes and prayed to God on his behalf.

  ‘Tell that Li Tzu-jung,’ said Mr Ma to Ma Wei, ‘not to hurtle round at such a speed! It’s no game going round like that, pushing his way in and out of gaps in the traffic. Tcha! He shouldn’t try to do a Washington. He’ll be thrown off and killed sooner or later.’

  Ma Wei communicated his father’s well-meant advice to Li Tzu-jung, who burst out laughing.

  ‘Thank Mr Ma for his kind advice. But it doesn’t matter – I’m insured. So if I get run over and killed, the insurance company’ll give my mother five hundred pounds. You know, Ma, old lad, it’s a marvellous feeling edging between two big vehicles. And if I wasn’t carrying the goods, I’d be able to move even faster. Last night I was having a proper race with a crowd of boys and girls on bikes, when suddenly I noticed that I was hurtling towards the back of a car. What do you think I did? Don’t know how I managed it, but I brought the bike up sharp, so that its wheel rammed against the car while I jumped off. The whole crowd of youngsters raised their heads and gave me three cheers, they did!’

  Ma Wei told his father about this, and the elder Mr Ma said nothing, just nodded his head and gave a couple of sighs.

  Seeing Ma Wei so busy gave Mr Ma pause for thought. One day, after finishing his evening meal, the elder Ma went back to the shop.

  ‘Ma Wei,’ he said as he entered, ‘I absolutely must do something. I may be no good at the business side of things, but you can’t tell me I’m not capable of wrapping up parcels, can you now? I insist on giving you a hand!’ With these words, he placed his tobacco pouch and pipe on the table, and picked up a few sheets of paper. ‘Give me some of the easier things to pack,’ he said.

  Ma Wei gave his father some things. Mr Ma stuck his pipe in his mouth, screwed his nose up a bit, surveyed the size of the paper, then examined the articles. He wrapped away for ages, but for all his efforts, he couldn’t manage to wrap them up neatly. He stole a glance at Li Tzu-jung. Li Tzu-jung had already wrapped quite a number of things into tidy parcels. Actually, all he was doing was putting one hand on the object, to hold it in place, then, it seemed, chopping at the paper with his other hand.
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  Hmm, don’t know how on earth the paper obeys him like that. In one movement it was all wrapped neatly and evenly round the articles. Mr Ma, too, chopped with his hand, and hastily tied up his parcel with string. Remarkably, the string tied itself into one great tangled knot, and the ends of the paper curled up out of the parcel, as wildly as Mrs Ely’s hair.

  ‘“The mason spake: is it even or nay? All we need now is one handful of clay.” There we are!’ Having somehow or other managed to wrap an object, Mr Ma weighed it in both hands. Then he took a look at the other two. Both were smiling.

  ‘Don’t you laugh! When you get old, you’ll understand. You’re young and strong, nimble-fingered and agile. Whereas me . . . well, I’m getting on in years.’

  He proceeded to walk round in a circle, clutching the parcel in both hands, not knowing where to put it. Li Tzu-jung dashed over, took it from him, and told Ma Wei to stick on the address label and write the name on it. Ma Wei took it and placed it to one side.

  ‘Now, where’s my tobacco pouch?’ asked Mr Ma.

  ‘Haven’t seen it. Under the paper perhaps?’ they said, by complete coincidence in perfect unison.

  Mr Ma lifted up the paper, sheet by sheet, but his tobacco pouch wasn’t there. ‘Don’t bother about me. I can look for it. I’m always losing my tobacco pouch.’

  He hunted all over the room, but couldn’t find it.

  ‘Odd! The busier you are, the more mishaps occur. Why, bl—!’ The parcel that he’d just wrapped caught his eye. Without a word, he opened up the parcel and took out his tobacco pouch.

  ‘Ma Wei, I’m going home. Don’t stay up too late, either of you.’

  The instant he’d left, Li Tzu-jung leapt high into the air and laughed himself hoarse. Ma Wei laughed too, so much that he knocked the ink bottle over.

  ‘Shall I tell you something, old Li? Those things I handed my father didn’t need to be wrapped anyway. Nobody’d bought them! I knew full well the old man wouldn’t be able to wrap them properly.’

  ‘Buy our stuff . . . ha ha! . . . and you get a free gift . . . ha! A tobacco pouch! Ha ha!’

  The two young men laughed for a good quarter of an hour. Or maybe more.

  III

  ON CHRISTMAS Eve, London was astir with great excitement. Male and female, young and old, all went into town. It was as though the things in the shops were being handed out free, in big bunches and little parcels, carted away on backs and clutched under arms, for you couldn’t see anybody in town walking along empty-handed, except for the policemen. Buses and trams came past all the time, but, even so, old ladies couldn’t push their way onto them, and in the process of trying to, would send things from their baskets tumbling all over the street.

  None of the postmen were using their bags now – they all had another man to push a trolley for them, as they went door to door delivering parcels. Some of the citizens of London had already dispatched their presents and taken a trip to the countryside to spend Christmas there. At the same time, country people came into London for a few days’ celebration and entertainment. So the main roads to the countryside were crammed with traffic.

  The weather was very dull, and a cold east wind was blowing. But nobody noticed the dullness of the weather or the coldness of the wind. All the shops in town had put up their coloured lights, which lit up the goods with sparkle and vivid colour, radiating good cheer. Father Christmases hung everywhere, wearing big red hoods and carrying magic sacks filled with presents. So preoccupied were people with looking at the shops that they were oblivious to the gloominess of the sky. And once you’d pushed your way through the crowds, you’d be covered in sweat, so nobody even noticed how cold the wind was.

  People forgot about everything: politics, society, court cases, sorrows, opinions . . . all fell by the wayside. People suddenly turned into little children, eager to give their friends something novel, and at the same time hoping they’d receive some nice trinket themselves. Everyone’s faces seemed open and generous, completely free of worries and cares, and their only concern was to eat and drink well. Those with surplus wealth even gave a little of it to the poor. That evening it was indeed as if the redeemer of humankind was about to be born on earth, as if the world was about to know a great peace, with all people living in harmony with one another.

  The shops didn’t close till midnight, and the buses and trams were still running in town right until dawn, all crammed with passengers. The side streets were as bright as the main streets, every shop adorned with a Christmas tree and at least a few coloured balls. Poor children were singing Christmas carols, going from door to door asking for money, while the children of the better-off were still awake at midnight, waiting for Father Christmas to come and bring them some nice presents. There’s a gap between rich and poor, but on this day both the haves and the have-nots might receive a gift to render their hearts as joyous as a newborn Jesus. The sounds of bells and carols from the churches rang out in the air all around, and even those not religiously minded were filled with a sense of solemnity and beauteous concord.

  Mr Ma had already sent off his presents ten days earlier, because, once he’d bought them, it would have nagged on his mind to have them around. Only those for Mrs Wedderburn and her daughter remained in his study. Mrs Wedderburn had told him that they weren’t to be brought out until Christmas Day. After he’d sent off the rest of the presents, he waited eagerly for people to send him presents in return. As soon as the postman knocked, Mr Ma would have a race with Napoleon to see who could be first to the door.

  In the two days before Christmas, presents kept coming. From the Reverend Ely he got a bible, from Mrs Ely a book of hymns, from Miss Ely a handkerchief and from Master Ely no more than a Christmas card, although Mr Ma had given Paul a box of cigars. It’s English custom to exchange presents, but Paul, utterly despising the Chinese, had made a special point of not giving Mr Ma a present. Mr Ma’s first thought was to send the bible, hymnbook and Christmas card back again. But he thought better of it. For Miss Ely’s sake, I won’t do that.

  These last few days, he hadn’t been to the shop at all, there being nothing much for him to do there. When customers came, all he could do was open the door for them, bow, and see them out. Although a good many old women remarked, ‘What a well-mannered old man! So nice!’, Mr Ma felt differently about the matter.

  Do you imagine all a manager’s here for is opening the door for people? he grumbled to himself. I know you’re doing fine, but don’t forget I’m your father. Fancy making your own dad open the door and bow to people! Feeling put out, he’d ceased going to the shop.

  Strolling idly round town, he looked at the men and women, young and old, all so bustling and busy, and he felt a bit dismal inside. Ah, it’d be so nice if I were in China. Just the sort of bustle and excitement we have at New Year. No matter how much others are enjoying themselves, I can’t get into the spirit of things, celebrating a festival abroad. I only hope I can make a fortune. Then I’ll go back to China and celebrate the festivals there.

  Watching others rush around made him feel more and more inclined to go home. And the more his thoughts turned to home, the more people kept treading on his toes.

  Let’s get back. Go home and see Mrs Wedderburn. Give her a helping hand. Leisurely he sauntered back.

  Mrs Wedderburn was in such a hustle she was run off her little feet, the veins of her temples were throbbing and the delicate tip of her nose was bright red. She beat the carpets, polished the tables, and wherever there was anything brass, she gave it a rub – from oven door to doorknocker. Above the pictures in every room she hung a twig of holly, and she bought a bunch of chrysanthemums, which she set reverently before her husband’s photograph. And from the light in the drawing room she hung two sprigs of mistletoe.

  Having no small children, she couldn’t very well have a Christmas tree, but she insisted all the same on having some decorations in every room. In some places it was a string of coloured balls, in others a couple of pa
per lanterns. The whole house took on a festive air. In the oven she was steaming a Christmas pudding and baking mince pies, and every now and then she took a peep at them. So, what with one thing and another, she was flying round in a flurry, up the stairs and down the stairs, like a little swallow. In the evening, after rushing around the whole day long, she had to write Christmas cards and wrap the Christmas presents, and she was in such a flap and fluster that she didn’t even have time to dab any powder on her nose.

  As Miss Wedderburn’s shop was extra busy with the seasonal trade, young Mary went out early and came home late, and couldn’t give her mother any help at all. Napoleon kept running madly up and down the stairs, barking at the coloured balls, and then giving another few barks at the little lanterns. And when his mistress was elsewhere engaged, he’d seize the opportunity to go into the kitchen and steal one or two of the shelled walnuts to eat.

  ‘Mrs Wedderburn!’ called Mr Ma as soon as he came in, ‘Mrs Wedderburn! I’ll come and give you a hand, shall I?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ma!’ said Mrs Wedderburn, wiping her tiny red nose. ‘Take Napoleon out to have a play first, will you? He’s doing nothing but giving me trouble here.’

  ‘All right, Mrs Wedderburn. Napoleon! Here!’

  Mr Ma took the dog out for a stroll. Luckily no children played any pranks on him, as they were all celebrating Christmas and had no spare time for mischief-making. He brought the dog back, and, just as he reached the door, Alexander appeared in the street. He was carrying lots of things in his arms, parcel upon parcel piled right up to his big red nose.