Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

  ‘You’re an intelligent person, Elder Sister, and fond of us, so please try to think of some good suggestions, will you?’

  There were two aged Masson pines ahead of them, with a few shabby pine cones hanging on their twigs. The grey clouds thinned, and sunbeams of a most delicate beauty turned the pine branches a faint golden yellow.

  As Ma Wei finished speaking, he stared at the pine cones on the trees. Catherine pulled at the fox fur on her shoulders to loosen it, and in so doing a warm fragrance floated up from her bosom.

  ‘Isn’t Mary engaged to Washington now?’ she asked slowly.

  ‘Yes. How did you know that, Elder Sister?’ He carried on staring at the pine cones.

  ‘I know him.’ Catherine’s face grew set. After a long pause, she smiled again, but very unnaturally. ‘If she already belongs to someone else, why keep on thinking about her, Ma Wei?’

  ‘That’s precisely what’s not so easy to solve!’ Ma Wei’s tone was mildly mocking.

  ‘No, it’s not easy to solve. Not easy at all.’

  It was as if she were talking to herself. She was nodding her head, sending the brim of her hat gently quivering up and down. ‘Ah, love! Love’s something nobody really understands.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any good suggestions, then, Elder Sister?’ Ma Wei looked a bit impatient.

  Catherine didn’t seem to have heard him. ‘Ah, love, love!’ she murmured again.

  ‘Elder Sister, are you free on Saturday?’

  ‘Why?’ She suddenly looked at him.

  ‘I’d like to ask you out for a Chinese meal. Can you come, Elder Sister?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Ma Wei. What time?’

  ‘Would one o’clock suit you? I could meet you at the Top Graduate.’

  ‘All right then. Look how pretty those pine cones on the trees are, Ma Wei: like little bells.’

  Ma Wei didn’t say anything, just looked up.

  Neither said any more. They came out of the grove of pines, went round past the flowerbeds and found themselves back at the main gate. Both turned to look back at the gardens. In there all was still tranquillity, serene and beautiful. Both in an inexpressible turmoil of love and sorrow, they put all that behind them, and walked through the gate.

  Hmm . . . Happy New Year?

  VII

  OF THE few Chinese restaurants in London, the Top Graduate is the most popular. It’s roomy, the food’s cheap, and at any time of night or day it gives the impression that all the great minds and worthy nobility of the world are gathered there. Not only do Siamese, Japanese and Indians frequent it for their meals, but even English people, impecunious artists, members of the Socialist Party – sporting red ties – and fat old ladies – in quest of the quaint – often go there for a cup of Lung Ching tea or a bowl of chop suey. The artists and Socialists go there to demonstrate their lack of nationalist sentiments, and the old ladies to collect material for their tea parties. Actually, none of them like Lung Ching tea or chop suey.

  Chinese diners are few, though, partly because real Chinese food can’t be had there, and partly because the waitresses don’t welcome them very much. Naturally, no respectable girls work in Chinese restaurants. Decent girls aren’t going to get involved with the Chinese, are they now? They all know that when you’re around Chinese people, mortal danger threatens constantly. But beautiful girls of doubtful virtue, ignoring such considerations, can, by batting their eyelids at gullible Indians, earn two or three pounds in an evening. Or, by flirting with a Japanese, they may at least get a packet of boiled sweets. They make, however, no attempt to charm any Chinese man, having no time for them as customers. Everybody despises the Chinese, and fallen women are no exception to the rule. Even they have their freedom of choice and their pride, and you won’t catch any of them going out of their way to attract the attentions of those subhuman Chinamen. Why, of course not!

  The restaurant manager, Mr Fan, is popular with everyone. His eyes are half-hidden, as if he’s never properly woken up, but there’s always a smile on his face. The artists are very fond of him, because he invites them to paint whatever they wish on his walls: women with tiny bound feet, wizened old men smoking opium, and pigtailed yokels kowtowing to Buddha. The artists know as much of China as do English people in general, but are able to express that knowledge in painting.

  The socialists are very fond of Manager Fan, because he likes to say, ‘Me no likee capitalisma!’ The fat old ladies love him because he’s forever using ‘me’ instead of ‘I’, and sometimes, when the mood takes him, even ‘I’ instead of ‘me’, all of which the old ladies feel to possess considerable entertainment value. If the average English person detests the Chinese, the wealthy, men and women alike, regard the Chinese as objects of amusement. The Chinese use chopsticks instead of cutlery. The Chinese drink their soup after the main meal. The Chinese drink tea without milk or sugar. The Chinese eat meals without potatoes. In the eyes of ordinary people, like Mrs Wedderburn and her daughter, all such things are absolutely wrong and deplorable. But in the eyes of the wealthy, fat old ladies, all these things are whimsically irrational, comically laughable, extraordinarily funny . . . In short, quaint.

  Manager Fan and Mr Ma were already the best of friends, like brothers to one another. Although Mr Ma thoroughly despised businessmen, he’d made an exception for Manager Fan; the man was impeccably hospitable, his little half-hidden eyes forever twinkling in a smile, and since he would often make something special for Mr Ma, the elder Ma would have found it awkward trying to avoid an acquaintance with him. Anyway, he was, to be sure, a businessman, but even among businessmen some good chaps are to be found, aren’t there?

  When Mr Ma came to the restaurant for a meal, he never took any notice of the students there, as they all looked so ill-bred. There was no common ground for conversation. And if those students happened to be Chinese, Mr Ma would ignore them all the more. When that bunch of students returned to China, they’d all become government officials. Recalling his own lack of good fortune in the matter of a government career, Mr Ma would sometimes even glare at them through his big spectacles.

  With the socialists, Mr Ma got on like a house on fire. Although he didn’t read the newspapers, and was thus unaware of the nasty things said about the Chinese each day, he knew full well that English people’s attitudes towards him weren’t the most favourable. Even those fat old ladies, so fond of hearing about China, weren’t slow to make catty remarks in his direction. But the socialists were always sticking up for the Chinese, and cursing their own government’s policies of aggression. Although Mr Ma had no idea of the meaning of ‘nation’, he was very proud of being Chinese, and as the socialists were the only ones to praise the Chinese, Mr Ma, when they did so, would automatically brighten and invite them to a meal. After they’d eaten, the socialists would call him a true socialist, him being willing to sacrifice his money to provide them with a meal.

  If the elder Ma told the average English person that the Chinese drink tea without milk, the most polite reply that he could hope for would be, ‘What? Without milk! How can you bear it? Dreadful!’, which would make him twitch his little moustache and fall silent.

  But if he told the socialists that you shouldn’t put milk in Chinese tea, they’d at once declare, ‘There you are! The Chinese are the only ones who know the proper way to drink tea, aren’t they! After all, it was the Chinese who gave the world tea, and they know how it should be drunk. But for them, it’d never have occurred to us to drink tea, or wear silk, or print things. Ooh yes, the Chinese are so civilised. You’ve got to hand it to Chinese civilisation. Beggars description, it does!’

  Listening to such words, Mr Ma would feel tickled pink. And, fully convinced that the Chinese were indeed the most civilised people in the world, he’d invite the socialists for another meal on him.

  By the time Ma Wei reached the Top Graduate, Mr Ma had polished off a plate of dumplings and gone home, Mrs Wedderburn having decreed that he should return early.r />
  The kitchen of the Top Graduate is in the basement, with tea and food being carried up by a dumb waiter that’s much the same as the well windlasses used in China. This machine is Manager Fan’s invention. It’s not only simple to operate but also sounds spectacular as it rises swishing and gurgling, bearing with it a whiff of commingled food smells.

  The dining room’s divided into two: an inner and an outer part. The outer is long and narrow, with pictures depicting the history of Chinese civilisation painted on its walls – the old men smoking opium, and the young girls with bound feet. Also inscribed on the walls are such lines of Chinese poetry as ‘During the Festival of Pure Light the rain is coming down wildly’. The inner part of the dining room is broad and low-ceilinged, its walls hung with a few cigarette advertisements. The Chinese patrons always prefer the inner part, because to them it has the air of a private recess for the genteel. All the foreigners prefer sitting in the outer part, partly to look at the pictures on the walls, and partly to watch the dumb waiter going up and down.

  The outer part being full up, Ma Wei went to the inner part of the restaurant, found a vacant table next to the window and sat down. There were two Chinese students already there, strangers to him. Half-consciously, he gave a slight nod in their direction, but they completely ignored him.

  ‘Waiting for someone?’ asked a young waitress indifferently, cocking her head to one side.

  Ma Wei nodded.

  The two Chinese students were discussing how to request the legation to make a protest against anti-Chinese films. From their conversation, Ma Wei was able to make out that one was called Mao, and the other was Ts’ao. He saw that the one called Mao had spectacles and almost no eyebrows, while the one called Ts’ao was lacking both spectacles and decent eyesight. He guessed that Mao was advocating they should force the legation to issue a stern protest, and, if the legation refused, to drag them all out onto the street, from the minister down to the secretaries, and beat them up. Ts’ao was saying that when a nation’s weak, it’s no use protesting, and when a nation’s strong, there’s no need to protest, as others don’t say nasty things. As they spoke, their disagreement steadily increased, and their voices grew louder and louder. Mao was raring to take on old Ts’ao there and then, but since Ts’ao seemed unwilling to accept a thrashing, Mao didn’t dare lift a finger against him.

  Then they both stopped speaking, lowered their heads to their meals and chomped away with fierce intensity.

  Miss Ely came in. ‘Sorry, Ma Wei, I’m late.’ She shook hands with him.

  ‘No, no, you’re not late,’ said Ma Wei, and handed her the menu. She pulled off her coat and sat down with unaffected grace.

  Ts’ao and Mao glanced at her, spoke a few words in Chinese, then started speaking in English.

  She chose a dish of fried spring rolls, and Ma Wei ordered three vegetable dishes to go with it.

  ‘Been feeling any better these last few days, Ma Wei?’ Miss Ely gave a little smile.

  ‘Much cheerier!’ replied Ma Wei, smiling.

  Ts’ao glanced maliciously towards Ma Wei, and Ma Wei felt a bit uneasy.

  ‘Have you seen anything of Washington?’ asked Miss Ely quietly, looking at the menu.

  ‘No. He hasn’t called round for Mary for a few days,’ replied Ma Wei.

  ‘Ah!’ Miss Ely seemed rather relieved. She glanced at Ma Wei, but as their eyes met, she turned her gaze elsewhere.

  The first dish to come was the spring rolls, and Ma Wei served her one with his chopsticks. She cut her spring roll in two with her fork and took a very delicate bite of it, her chin moving daintily, then slowly swallowed the morsel. She ate so sweetly, so serenely and leisurely, so perfectly. There was nothing resembling Mary’s ways in her manner.

  Ma Wei had just cut his spring roll with his chopsticks and was about to pop it into his mouth, when the fellow Mao remarked in English, ‘Foreign prostitutes are only for sleeping with. If you have the money, by all means take them to bed, but restaurants and cafes are not the place for a rendezvous. I must confess, Ts’ao, old chap, I object to young whippersnappers trotting harlots around with them all day.’

  Miss Ely’s cheeks went as bright as a bottle of red ink, but she was still very cool and calm as she put her fork down and made to stand up.

  ‘Don’t!’ Ma Wei’s face had gone as white as a sheet, and he uttered that one word through trembling lips.

  ‘Look here, Mao, old chap,’ said the one with bad eyesight, ‘What’s got into you? Not all foreign women are prostitutes.’ He was speaking in Chinese.

  ‘All those I know are,’ said Mao, still in English, ‘and I don’t like to see people prancing around with them in public places.’ He glanced at Ma Wei once more. ‘What a way to show off! Taking her out for a meal to prove you can afford it! I’m more choosy about my cash; I prefer to spend the night with’em.’

  Miss Ely stood up. Ma Wei stood up as well, and barred her way. ‘No, don’t. I’ll take care of him. Just see if I don’t.’

  Catherine said nothing, just stood there, trembling all over.

  Ma Wei went across and challenged Mao. ‘Who are you saying things about?’ His eyes glared, shooting forth two pure white flames.

  ‘I wasn’t saying anything about anybody. Can’t one have a conversation in a restaurant then?’ Mr Mao, while not daring to answer directly, was unwilling to back down.

  ‘No matter who it was you were talking about, I’m asking you to apologise. If you don’t, you’ll get a taste of this.’ Ma Wei thumped his fist on the table.

  Old Mao sprang back like a tiny grasshopper, jumping into a corner, and shaking his head for all he was worth.

  Ma Wei stepped two paces forwards, glaring at Mao. Mr Mao’s invisible eyebrows were drawn together in a sullen frown, and he kept on shaking his head.

  ‘We can talk it over. Settle it with words. No need to lose your temper.’ Ts’ao tried to stand in Ma Wei’s way.

  Ma Wei pushed him with the flat of his hand, and old Ts’ao sat down again. Glaring at Mao, Ma Wei demanded, ‘Are you going to apologise?’

  Mr Mao was still shaking his head – now mockingly, in a fine old regular rhythm.

  With a scornful laugh, Ma Wei took aim at Mr Mao’s face, and let fly with a right and left, landing two clouts between Mao’s spectacles and upper lip. Shaken to the marrow and in pain, Mr Mao nonetheless felt thoroughly gratified, and gave up shaking his head.

  Two of the waitresses came rushing towards them, giggling, but both turned pale as they saw what had happened. Diners from the outer part of the restaurant also flocked over to have a look, curious as to what was afoot. Manager Fan of the hidden eyes came up and placed a restraining hand on Ma Wei’s shoulder.

  Miss Ely glanced at Ma Wei, then, head low, walked out. He made no move to stop her. She’d just reached the small door in the partition between the two parts of the restaurant when one of those watching the fun called out, ‘Kay? It’s you! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Ah, Paul,’ said Catherine, head bowed. ‘Let’s go home together, shall we?’ She wouldn’t look at her brother.

  ‘Wait a sec. We’ll go when I’ve got things straight!’

  With these words, Paul pushed his way through the crowd, shoving past Manager Fan. Beaming broadly, Manager Fan tumbled to the ground, very cleverly managing to knock his head on the leg of a table, thus raising a greeny-blue lump on his forehead.

  ‘Ma Wei, what do you think you’re up to?’ asked Paul angrily, thrusting his hands in his blazer pockets. ‘I’m warning you: don’t think you’re man enough to go around with our girls! If you try pulling any more fast ones, you’ll be asking for a jolly good thrashing!’

  Ma Wei said nothing, but his pale face slowly gained colour.

  ‘You see, Ts’ao, old chap,’ said Mr Mao in English. ‘No good comes of going round with prostitutes in public, does it?’

  Ma Wei clenched his teeth and sprang at Mao. Paul swung a punch at Ma Wei’s chin. Ma Wei step
ped back a good few paces, but avoided falling by supporting himself on a table. With the speed of a dragonfly, Mr Mao escaped through the crowd. Manager Fan was about to intervene with a soothing word, but hesitated, beamed broadly, felt the lump on his head with his fingers and thought better of advancing.

  ‘Come on! There’s another where that came from!’ said Paul with a sneer.

  Ma Wei rubbed his neck and glanced at Paul.

  Some Chinese people wanted to come in and settle things peacefully, but the English people stopped them. ‘Let’s see them fight. Let them fight it out! Let’s have fair play – let ’em fight it out fair and square.’

  The handful of socialists among them had always rallied to the cause of peace, always proselytised for harmony. But, all said and done, they were Englishmen, and as soon as they heard the words ‘fair fight’, they cheered from the bottom of their hearts, and stood by to watch the pair battle it out.

  Ma Wei drew in a deep breath, tore off his collar and bounced back at Paul. Paul went pale now. He blocked Ma Wei’s right hand, and with his free fist pounded at Ma Wei’s ribs, sending him back to where he’d come from. Without any pause for breath, Ma Wei pushed himself off from a table, and immediately lunged back. He made a feint towards Paul’s chest, then, not allowing Paul time to recover, delivered a crashing right uppercut to Paul’s chin. Paul staggered back a few steps, then clenched his teeth and tried to come back. But while Paul was still preoccupied with keeping his balance, Ma Wei punched him again. One hand clutching at a table, Paul slipped downwards. His legs did their best to bring him upright again, but no amount of trying could get him straight. Ma Wei looked at him. Paul stayed down. Ma Wei stepped forwards, helped him to his feet, then thrust out his right hand towards him.