That morning, when the drizzle gleamed on the gold-and-green roof tiles of the Imperial City to the north, Aaron walked in the Tartar City, the administrative center of the Great Empire. It was bisected by the Boulevard of a Thousand Paces, the northern extension of the Imperial Way along which he had entered Peking that April day that now seemed so long ago. After passing through the curved curtain wall of the Chien Men, the towered Fore Gate, he saw brooding distantly over its plaza the Tienan Men, the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The immensity of its seven stories beneath three tiers of gold-tiled roofs was the main entrance to the Imperial City. He was, of course, not making for the Emperor’s outer sanctum, which was open only to men on state business.
Pausing to orient himself, Aaron wiped his narrow face with a primrose kerchief. Since the deputy chief clerk of the Ministry of Justice had warned him the Autumn Assizes were open to all, he had started early in order to find a place where he could hear the judges clearly. The proceeding that would decide the fate of his father—and many others—was also a public spectacle.
Behind the double rows of plane trees on either side of the Boulevard of a Thousand Paces rose matte-red walls like twin cliffs. On his right behind the eastern wall lay the five principal executive ministries. Behind the western wall reared the Emperor’s instruments of retribution: the Ministry of Justice, which was more accurately rendered in English as the Ministry for Punishment; the Court of Revision, which initiated the appellate process; and the Board for Investigations, which foreigners called the Censorate because its Mandarins watched for their colleagues’ misdeeds.
Those punitive agencies imposed the fear that ensured that the Emperor’s subjects would render him perfect filial piety and total obedience. They were set apart from the executive ministries because feng-shui, the science of the winds and the waters, which the foreigners called geomancy, associated the element metal with the direction west. Metal was hard like the soldier’s pike and brutal like the headsman’s sword. The way west was a cruel road.
Aaron turned west through a portal in the red wall. He wiped his face again and thought of taking off the oiled-cloth cloak that protected his cotton long gown. But the drizzle was growing heavier, and even a cotton gown was now to be treasured. Saul Haleevie had already poured out so much of his own gold—as well as the Lee family’s salvaged gold—that the well of treasure required to wash Aisek Lee clean of guilt could soon run dry.
Sometimes detached and reptilian, sometimes unctuous and hopeful, Master Way was always asking: “What are a few more taels against your father’s life?”
After paying out a hundred fifty gold taels and almost a thousand silver taels, Aaron had received no assurance that his father would escape the executioner’s sword—not even from Master Way, whose word was hardly the most solid coinage of the realm.
“Who can depend on Manchus? Underneath, they’re still barbarians.” The functionary appealed to the solidarity—and the superiority—of the oppressed Chinese race. “They’re immoral. They simply won’t stay bought. But many of the Higher Judges are Chinese. They’ve accepted your gifts, and they are men of their word.”
Aaron entered the open gate amid a stream of the Emperor’s subjects come to witness the Emperor’s justice. Under green oiled-paper umbrellas, their black-and-scarlet staffs crooked casually in their elbows, lictors ostentatiously disregarded the anxious relatives who pressed forward to hear the Higher Judges’ verdicts. The public Autumn Assizes were archaic—and sacrosanct because archaic. All were welcome, even idlers who gloated when kinsmen wept at confirmation of execution and grumbled when the judges were lenient.
Its oxblood walls gleaming dark in the mist, the Ministry of Justice loomed balefully. The Assizes, however, were convened in the open, recalling ages long past when priest-kings dispensed justice under sacred trees. Attended by lictors and clerks, the High Judges were just seating themselves at tables covered with red cloth.
Aaron pushed to the forefront of the chattering semicircle around the tables. He was startled by the spectators’ jocose air—and chilled by the High Judges’ somber manner. He had expected the highest officials of the Ching Dynasty to proclaim their eminence by the splendor of their robes. But all wore severe pu-fas, dark surcoats like those the nomadic Manchus had worn on horseback, which were prescribed for Court functions. The robes beneath the pu-fas were, however, embroidered with multicolored wave patterns, and their protruding cuffs were hoof-shaped to honor the Dynasty’s equestrian origins.
The Mandarins’ ranks were displayed in squares on the breasts of their surcoats. The silver crane of the first grade and the golden pheasant of the second predominated among a few peacocks of the third, and even an occasional egret of the sixth. Knowing the Emperor wore five-clawed dragons within great circles, Aaron was startled to see four men wearing the Imperial dragon insignia. They were, he realized, Imperial Princes, their dragons enclosed within squares. He was puzzled by many pi-hsieh insignia like the mythical unicorn that infallibly pointed out the guilty for Kao Yao, the legendary first Minister of Justice.
“Ah, young Lee, you’re here, are you?” Master Way appeared beside him as silently as a lizard sliding out of a crack in a rock. “Why are you looking bewildered?”
“All those unicorn insignia.” Aaron asked. “I thought only dukes wore unicorns. But there can’t be so many dukes.”
“By no means, my young friend. The unicorn also distinguishes Senior Censors because they smell out guilt.”
Flicking a raindrop from his lustrous blue silk gown, Master Way was implacably didactic. “You do understand, the best would be the verdict ‘deferred execution’? Which means never. Also good would be the two lesser degrees of commutation: ‘worthy of compassion’ and ‘to remain at home to care for parents or carry on the sacrifices to the ancestors.’ No headsman’s sword for that lot, either. At worst, exile or prison. We need only fear the fourth category: ‘deserving of capital punishment.’ But your father’s case is already classified ‘execution provisionally after the Assizes.’ At worst, the judges will affirm the provisional classification before it goes to the Son of Heaven.”
“We can’t expect a verdict of innocent, can we?”
“Certainly not.” Master Way laughed. “That almost never happens. Perhaps two or three times in a reign. But all sentences go to His Imperial Majesty for confirmation. You know, I’ve been busy there.”
“Is there any definite word?”
“Why should I deceive you, young Lee? One could hardly expect that. But intimations, yes. I have had intimations.”
There was no point in asking: “Intimations of what?” The clerk was too slippery to give a direct answer to any question, let alone that vital question. Besides, who could possibly know the mind of the Son of Heaven?
Aaron pointedly turned away, then regretted yielding to his revulsion from the self-important bureaucrat. Master Way was still essential to his father’s survival. But a clumsy apology might be worse than none. Instead of speaking, he gazed at the Higher Judges, who were conferring before announcing their verdicts.
“It’ll be a while yet,” Master Way instructed him. “They’ve got dozens to get through before your father’s name comes up.”
Aaron Lee’s thoughts wandered while he watched the archaic spectacle. The lawgivers of the Great Empire, the arbiters of the single largest community among mankind, were sinister in their black garments. An air of unreality hung over the solemn ritual, an atmosphere of theatrical excess.
The obsessive concern for justice demonstrated by the labyrinthine appellate process was, of course, admirable. But an element of mummery was exposed by Master Way’s revelation that only one in ten criminals was executed and almost none was found innocent. His father, who was a decent, unassuming, and loyal subject, stood convicted of a farcical crime under an archaic statute. Once entangled in the law, he could escape only through this equally archaic ceremony.
The Manchus, knowing themselves interlopers, were
naturally more orthodox than any Chinese dynasty. They pursued Confucian practices to the verge of absurdity. The play-acting was meant to affirm the Manchu Emperor’s possession of the Mandate of Heaven, but actually revealed fundamental flaws in the legitimacy of his power.
Perhaps Confucian morality, which governed all men’s actions, was itself flawed and no longer served the people. Perhaps the Taipings were right. Perhaps the ethical, administrative, and legal structures of the Empire required radical alteration to suit modern conditions. The Taipings’ alternative was nonsense, but their analysis might be valid.
While Aaron’s mind speculated, his lean body was rigid with the tension of waiting. At last the presiding judge came to the Li’s, and Aaron, his fists so tightly clenched that his fingers ached, listened to the verdicts on the first three criminals.
“Li Ai-shih of Kiangsu, merchant, convicted in the Provincial Court of filial impiety in that he did cause the suicide of his aged mother,” the corpulent Senior Mandarin finally droned before refreshing himself with a sip of tea. “Sent forward with the notation: ‘Provisionally sentenced to decapitation after the Autumn Assizes.’”
The rain quickened, and a grove of green umbrellas sprouted over the spectators. The crackling as the umbrellas opened masked the judge’s voice, and Aaron leaned forward to hear better.
“… has certain interesting features and has occasioned much discussion,” the judge observed. “The reviewing judges felt the mitigating circumstances merited the most thorough review and are agreed that it was not the intent of the convicted to cause his mother’s suicide. That is clear.
“I could expatiate on the matter at some length. However, time presses, and others wait for justice. Yet I must, in fairness, cite two precedents.”
For four minutes the Mandarin drew analogies between the case of the merchant Li Ai-shih in the third year of the reign of the Hsien Feng Emperor and the case of a certain carpenter Wu Chien-hsin in the fifty-fifth year of the Kang Hsi Emperor. For three additional minutes he discussed parallels to the crime of one Chang of Hunan, given name lost in the mists of time, since his transgression had occurred in the twelfth year of the reign of the Hung Wu Emperor of the Ming Dynasty, almost four centuries earlier.
“Accordingly, the judges felt that a measure of mercy might be called for,” the judge declared. “We have considered the mitigating circumstances very carefully.”
Aaron was elated. Whether the merits of the case or Master Way’s intrigues had carried the verdict, he would never know. He smiled triumphantly at that virtuous official, who stood smugly behind the seated judge.
“… realized when greater wisdom pointed out to the court,” the judge was summing up, “that the case, whatever its merits, concerned an abomination. Matricide, however hedged with mitigating circumstances, remains an abomination.”
The blood pounding in Aaron’s ears drowned the judge’s monotone. Seconds later, he heard again: “Accordingly, the word provisional is stricken from the lower court’s judgment. The verdict is: ‘Deserving capital punishment.’”
Shock stunned Aaron. Bile rose in his throat, and he retched. He leaned forward, a yellow stream erupting from his mouth, and felt himself falling.
“You’re all right, aren’t you, young Lee?” The unctuous tones of Master Way were distant.
Aaron lay on the ground, his head pillowed on the clerk’s knee. He shook his head, and his vision cleared. The tension had been too much for him, he thought; he must have fainted before the verdict was pronounced. He tried to stand in order to hear the judge clearly, but Master Way’s hands held him down.
“Of course, it must still be confirmed by His Imperial Majesty,” the deputy chief clerk was saying. “All is not lost. I’ll ask no great number of taels—only that little which is absolutely essential. Remember there is still hope. Remember only one in ten is executed. Remember His Majesty’s clemency.”
Aaron looked up at the cold eyes and shook his head wearily. In the next instant he made the hardest decision of his life. He would not pour out more gold, since it would do no good. His father would not wish further vain expenditure, which would make the family paupers, reducing his brother and himself to penniless vagabonds.
Aaron was enraged. They had mulcted him mercilessly, playing with him like vicious cats with a stupid moth, the officials of the Northern Capital. He was grief-stricken and furious, but he could do no more.
He could only return to tell his father all hope was gone. The least he could do, the most he could do, was tell his father himself. He must bring the dreaded news before the ponderous machinery of mock justice reported the verdict to Shanghai.
He alone must tell his father, though it would be excruciating for himself. Aisek Lee would hear his sentence of death from the lips of his eldest son.
CHAPTER 19
September 22, 1855
SHANGHAI
Saul Haleevie touched the tan fabric distastefully. Though raw silk, the pongee felt coarse to his fingertips. The beige cotton nankeen was considered supple, though it crumpled stiffly. These were the light stuffs for wear during the interminable Shanghai summer, which in late September gave no sign of loosening its damp grip. The flannels and worsteds of the winter suits hanging like decapitated apparitions on his office wall would be more uncomfortable.
He had finally made up his mind two weeks earlier, and he would not alter his decision. The hardest part would be explaining to Sarah, particularly after the climactic conversation last April that had revealed her insecurity. During the intervening months she had frequently referred to her fear that they were in danger of losing their essential Jewish identity because they were adapting too rapidly to the alien ways of the foreign settlement.
Saul stroked the shimmering silk of his white robe with regret. He gazed fondly at the broad sash embroidered with gold thread and sadly folded the long turban with the intricate tassels. He would wear those garments, his father’s farewell presents in Baghdad, to the synagogue on the Sabbath and the High Holy Days. But on all other days he would wear the garb of the Europeans and Americans who were his competitors.
He smiled wryly. Perhaps he should tell Sarah he had only at the last moment decided against assuming Chinese dress—like some Christian missionaries. As if a man with round eyes and a big nose was less conspicuous because he wore a long gown and in some cases grew a queue. Recovering from that fright, she might be reconciled to his appearance in European trousers, more like a radish than a man, as the Chinese said. The European suits were not only undignified but constraining after the loose robes he had worn all his life—the same robes his forefathers had worn for millennia. That clothing was, however, not conspicuous in the foreign settlement, and there was much to be said for being inconspicuous.
He might also have to force himself to find another Chinese associate—a comprador, however, not a partner. No one could replace Aisek. He still waited anxiously for Aaron’s report from Peking on the verdict of the Autumn Assizes. Though he hoped his lavish bribes would buy Aisek’s life, he had to be practical. No European could do business in Shanghai without a Chinese intermediary.
Sighing deeply, Saul folded his robe and turban on the great rosewood chest he had rescued from Aisek’s house before the bailiffs arrived. When he opened the lid, a pungent aroma billowed through the office. With customary Chinese ingenuity, the unknown carpenter had a century earlier lined the chest with camphor wood to ward off moths. As he laid the garments in the chest, Saul felt he was interring the better part of his past. He closed the lid decisively.
He would, of course, never desert his Jewish heritage, but it was necessary to adapt. His beard, which was not conspicuous in a hirsute age, he would retain all his life as the law required. He would always cover his head in deference to the Almighty, even if only with a small skullcap. Unlike his daughter Fronah, Saul had no desire to obscure his origins. However, Shanghai was his future, while Baghdad was his past. He must shape himself to his milieu with
out violating the tenets of his religion. He could no more repudiate his burdensome but glorious heritage than he could cut off his right hand.
That ancient heritage had won Saul respect among the Chinese, who were obsessed with tradition. Though their records were sparse until the sixth century of the Christian Era, ha-Levis had been settled in Baghdad since the Babylonian captivity twenty-five hundred years ago. Some had followed the Patriarch Abraham when the Emperor Cyrus allowed the Jews to depart, but his branch had remained. A few centuries in Spain before their return to Baghdad were only an instant in their history. The ha-Levis had prospered as merchants, while remaining scholars. He had himself been trained as a teacher of the law who was to be supported in his holy studies by his ancestors’ wealth.
Saul was shattered when the Caliph’s persecution forced him to make his life elsewhere. He bitterly regretted being forced to give up scholarship for commerce. Shanghai had been no more than a convenient place to make a living when he came to China twelve years earlier. He had sent for Sarah and the infant Fronah two years later. Thereafter China had entered into his soul.
Guiltily aware that he had smoked six cheroots, Saul opened the window and gazed across the rooftops at the angry face of the Hwangpoo, where the lights of anchored ships rocked madly above the waves. Spray obscured the pagoda thrusting into the flickering moonlight on the far bank.
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