China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Pretty. It was almost an accusation. Every peasant family, even an important family like the Lungs, approved the good old adage: The ugly wife is a treasure at home. A rich man might choose a pretty girl as his concubine. But an honest peasant wanted a wife who would work hard, look after him and his parents, too. Pretty girls were suspect. They might be too vain to work. Worse, they might be coveted by other men.

  All in all, the village had concluded, Second Son’s behavior had proved that he was a fool.

  “She’s from a different clan,” he pointed out amiably.

  “Clan? There are five clans in this village. You choose the smallest clan and the poorest family. Not only that, her Hakka grandmother was a merchant’s concubine. He threw her out when he was passing through the nearest town. She takes up with a plasterer, and they were glad to find a poor peasant to put a roof over their daughter’s head. A leaking roof. These are the parents of your bride.”

  Mei-Ling bowed her head during this tirade. Though it was hurtful, she wasn’t embarrassed. There are no secrets in a village. Everybody knew.

  “And now,” her mother-in-law concluded, “she wants to bring criminals into our house. And you just sit there and smile. No wonder people call you the family fool.”

  Mei-Ling glanced at her husband. He was sitting there quite still, not saying a word. But on his face was the quiet, happy smile she knew so well.

  That smile was one of the reasons people thought he was simple-minded. It was the same smile he’d worn, week after week, as his parents raged at him about his refusal to take the bride they chose. He’d even smiled when they’d threatened to throw him out of the house.

  And that smile had worked. He’d worn them down. Mei-Ling knew it. He’d worn them down because, against all reason, he wanted to marry her.

  “You made a good marriage for my older brother. Be content with that.” He said it calmly and quietly.

  For a moment his mother was silent. They all knew that her elder son’s marriage to Willow would be perfect—as soon as she produced a male child. But not until then. She turned her attention back to Mei-Ling. “One day this Nio of yours will be executed. The sooner the better. You are not to see him. You understand?”

  Everyone looked at Mei-Ling. Nobody spoke.

  “Mah-jong,” said Mr. Lung calmly, and scooped up all the money on the table.

  * * *

  —

  It was Willow who noticed the figure in the entrance, and she signaled to her mother-in-law, who with both her sons and their wives immediately rose in respect.

  Their guest was an old man. His face was thin, his beard long and white as snow. His eyes had narrowed with age and turned down at the corners, as if he were almost asleep. But he was still the elder of the village. Mr. Lung went forward to greet him.

  “I am honored that you have come, Elder.”

  They served him green tea, and for several minutes they made the customary small talk. Then the old man turned to his host. “You said you had something to show me, Mr. Lung.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Lung rose and disappeared through a doorway.

  At the back of the big room was an alcove, occupied by a large divan upon which two people might easily recline. The women now set another low table in front of the divan. By the time this was done, Mr. Lung re-entered, carrying his prizes, which were wrapped in silk. Carefully he unwrapped the first and handed it to the old man for inspection, while the three neighbors gathered around to watch.

  “I bought this when I went to Guangzhou last month,” Mr. Lung told the elder. “If you go to an opium parlor, they are made of bamboo. But I bought this from a dealer.”

  It was an opium pipe. The long shaft was made of ebony, the bowl of bronze. Around the section below the bowl, known as the saddle, was a band of highly worked silver. The mouthpiece was made of ivory. The dark pipe gleamed softly. There were murmurs of admiration.

  “I hope this pipe will suit you, Elder, if we smoke together this evening,” said Mr. Lung. “It is for my most honored guests.”

  “Most certainly, most certainly,” said the old man.

  Then Mr. Lung unwrapped the second pipe. And everyone gasped.

  Its construction was more complex. An inner bamboo pipe was enclosed in a copper tube, and the copper had been coated in Canton enamel painted green and decorated with designs in blue and white and gold. The bowl had been given a red glaze and decorated with little black bats—the Chinese symbol of happiness. The mouthpiece was made of white jade.

  “Ah…Very costly.” The old man said what everyone was thinking.

  “If you recline on the divan, Elder, I will prepare our pipes,” said Mr. Lung.

  It was the signal for the neighbors to retire. This smoking of opium was a private ceremony to which only the elder had been asked.

  Mr. Lung brought out a lacquer tray, put it on the low table, and began to set out the accoutrements with the same care a woman would use to prepare a tea ceremony. First there was the small brass oil lamp with a glass funnel on top. Then two needles, a pair of spittoons, a ceramic saucer-sized dish, and a little glass opium jar, beside which lay a tiny bone spoon.

  Taking one of the needles, he first poked in the bowl of each pipe to make sure they were completely clean. Next, he lit the little brass oil lamp. Taking the bone spoon between finger and thumb, he extracted a small quantity of opium from the jar and placed it on the ceramic dish, and using the spoon and the needle, he carefully rolled the opium into a pea-shaped ball.

  Now it was time to heat the ball of opium. This required care and skill. Picking it up with the point of the needle, he held it gently over the lamp. Slowly, as the old man watched, the little bud of opium began to swell, and its color changed, from dark brown to amber.

  Then, as the two men watched, the bud of opium turned to gold, and Mr. Lung placed it in the bowl of the elder’s pipe. The old man adjusted his position so that he was lying on the divan with his head towards the low table and the lamp. Mr. Lung showed him how to hold the bowl of his pipe close to the lamp so that the heat would vaporize the golden opium within—but not too close, or the opium would get burned. And after the old man had done this successfully and drawn on the pipe correctly, Mr. Lung started to prepare his own pipe.

  “Did you know, Elder, that the opium increases a man’s sexual staying power?” he asked.

  “Ah. That is very interesting,” said the old man, “very interesting.”

  “Though your wife died two years ago,” his host remarked.

  “All the same, I might find another,” the elder replied. His face was already wearing a seraphic expression.

  Out in the courtyard, Mother sat with her family in silence. Whether she approved of the opium, it was impossible to know. But as a display of the family’s wealth that made the other folk in the hamlet more respectful and afraid of her, she was bound to welcome it.

  * * *

  —

  Second Son was tired that night, and Mei-Ling thought he had fallen asleep until he spoke. “I know you love Nio. I’m sorry about Mother.”

  With a little rush of relief, she burst out in an anguished whisper. “I felt so bad. I promised him I’d go to meet him. But I suppose I can’t now. I’d never do anything to upset you.”

  “I don’t mind if you see Nio. It’s Mother who minds.” And he put his arm around her as her tears flowed. By the time she stopped, he was fast asleep.

  * * *

  —

  All things seem possible in the morning. It was only when she awoke, slipped into the courtyard, and saw the morning mist that Mei-Ling realized what she could do. For what she saw, as she peeped out from the gate towards the pond, was not the mist of the day before, but a thick white fog. Impenetrable. Comprehensive. Like a cloak of invisibility sent her by the gods. The sort of fog in which, if you were foolish enoug
h to enter it, you might be lost at once.

  So she had an excuse. She’d stepped out and gotten lost. Just wandered along the path and gotten lost. Who could possibly prove where she had been? Nobody could see.

  She went back into her room. Her dear husband was still asleep. She wanted to kiss him, but she was afraid he might wake. Quickly putting on a pair of loose leggings under her tunic, she stepped into her clogs, took a shawl, and slipped out of the room. As she went through the yard, she could hear the village elder snoring from the divan. Obviously he had stayed the night. The door to Willow’s room was not quite closed. Was her sister-in-law watching? She hoped not. Moments later, she was outside, enveloped in the fog.

  It was lucky she knew exactly where the little footbridge was, because she couldn’t see it. After a couple of fumbles she found the handrails and started across. She could smell the reeds in the mud. The wooden boards creaked beneath her feet. Would anyone hear, in the house?

  At the far end, she stepped onto the path and turned right. Beside the path, thick green bamboo shoots towered over her. She could hardly see them, but drops of dew from their leaves fell softly on her head as she made her way over the rutted track that led around the edge of the hamlet. A faint tangy scent rose from the ground. She knew, without needing to see it, when she was passing a small grove of banana trees.

  And it was just then that she heard the sound. A faint creaking coming across the water behind her. Someone was crossing the little bridge. A cold fear stabbed her. Had Willow seen her go out and told her mother-in-law? She hurried forward, tripped on a root, almost fell, but recovered herself. If she could get to the meeting place before the older woman caught her, she might be able to hide with Nio in the fog. She listened again. Silence. Either Mother had stopped or she must be on the track.

  The path rose up a short incline. At the top it met the dirt road by the entrance to the hamlet. As she reached the road, she could make out the tiny stone shrine, which contained a little wooden figure of a man—though she always thought he looked more like a shriveled old monkey. The ancestral founder of the hamlet was there to protect his clan, and the hamlet in general. She asked for his blessing, though she wasn’t sure she’d get it.

  This was where she’d told Nio to meet her. She called his name, softly.

  The fog here was more like a thick low mist. It covered the rice fields behind her and the stream where the ducks lived, just ahead on the left; but she could make out the roofs of the huts higher up the road ahead, the modest hill beyond, and the encircling arms of the two small ridges—Blue Dragon and White Tiger, the villagers called them—that protected the hamlet on each side.

  Normally the village was a pleasant place. Cool summer breezes came up from the sea in summer; the low sun gave its gentle warmth in winter. The wind and waters—the feng shui—of the hamlet were good. But it would be like one of the eighteen layers of hell if Mother caught her now. She stared into the mist anxiously. She couldn’t wait here.

  She called Nio’s name again. Nothing. There was only one thing to do. If he came out to meet her, even in this mist, she surely couldn’t miss him on the narrow road. Muttering a curse, she hurried into the hamlet.

  Her parents’ house was nothing much to look at. There was no little courtyard in front with a gate onto the street, like the houses on either side. An assortment of wooden boards formed the front of the dwelling, into which an old door, taken years ago from a neighbor’s house when it was being pulled down, had been inserted, not quite vertically, so that it seemed to fall rather than swing into the dark interior that was the main room. There was no upper floor to speak of, but an inside ladder allowed her parents to creep up to a low loft space where they could sleep.

  As soon as she reached the rickety wooden door, she shoved it open.

  “Nio!” she whispered urgently. “Nio.”

  There was a rustling sound from the shadows, then his voice. “Big Sister. It’s you.”

  “Of course it’s me. Where were you?”

  “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Daughter.” Her father’s head appeared now, upside down, from the top of the ladder. “Go home. Go home. You shouldn’t be here.” Then her mother’s voice from the same place: “You must go back. Quick, quick.” That was all she needed.

  She pushed the door closed behind her. “If anyone comes, say I’m not here,” she called to her parents.

  At the back of the house there was a small yard. She stepped into it. Nio was up now, pulling on his shirt. He joined her, disheveled, but eager to make amends.

  “I didn’t think you’d get away,” he said, “and with this fog…”

  As she stood in the little yard in the morning mist, Mei-Ling looked at him sadly. “So you ran away from home. Is your family looking for you?”

  “No. I told my father I wanted to come and see you all. He gave me money and a present for your parents. I said I’d stay here awhile.”

  “But you don’t want to go back. Is it your stepmother? Is she unkind?”

  “No. She’s all right.”

  “I heard you’ve a new little brother and sister. Don’t you like them?”

  “They’re all right.” He looked awkward, then burst out: “They treat me like a child.”

  “We’re always children to our parents, Nio,” she said gently. But she could see that she wasn’t getting through. There was probably some family quarrel or humiliation that he wasn’t telling her about. “Where will you go?” she asked.

  “The big city. Guangzhou.” He smiled. “You taught me to speak Cantonese.”

  Guangzhou, on the Pearl River, the great port that the foreigners called Canton. When he’d first arrived as a little boy, he spoke only the language of the Hakka village where he lived. No one could understand a word he said. It had taken her months to teach him the Cantonese dialect of the village—a rustic version of the tongue spoken in the big city, though intelligible there, at least. But the thought of her Little Brother wandering alone in the great port filled her with fear.

  “You don’t know anybody there, Nio. You’ll be lost. Don’t go,” she begged him. “In any case, what would you do?”

  “I can find work. Maybe I can be a smuggler. Make a lot of money.”

  The whole coastline around the Pearl River was infested with illegal traffic of every kind. But it was dangerous.

  “You don’t know any smugglers,” she said firmly. “They all belong to gangs. And if they’re caught, they can be executed.” Not that she really knew about the gangs, but she’d always heard it.

  “I know people.” He gave a little smile, as if he had a secret.

  “No you don’t.”

  How could he? She wanted to put the idea out of her mind at once. Except for one thing. Last night, Mother had called him a criminal. She’d said it with conviction. Presumably Nio had let the village know he was running away. That was stupid enough. Now she wondered, had he said something more—some further piece of damaging information that had got back to her mother-in-law?

  She gazed at him. She supposed he just wanted to make himself sound mysterious and important. But the thought didn’t comfort her. Had he gotten to know someone in the smuggling business? Possibly. Had he been lured into joining a gang? Had they promised him he’d be a fine fellow and get rich? She had an awful sense that he was about to put himself in danger.

  “Nio, you must tell me,” she said urgently, “have you said anything bad, anything to make people talk about you in the village?”

  He hesitated. Her heart sank.

  “I had a bit of an argument,” he said. “I was right.”

  “Who with?”

  “Just some of the men.”

  “What about?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he suddenly burst out: “The Han
are not as brave as the Hakka. If they were, they would not have allowed the Manchu to enslave them!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The Manchu emperors force everyone to wear a pigtail. The sign of our subjection. The Manchu clans live at ease and the Han have to do all the work. It’s shameful.”

  She looked at him in horror. Did he want to get arrested? And then an awful thought occurred to her. “Nio, have you joined the White Lotus?”

  There were so many societies a man might join, from respectable town councils to criminal gangs of thugs. It was the same all over China. Scholars created cultural clubs and recited poems to the moon. Rich merchants formed town guilds and built guildhalls like palaces. Craftsmen banded together for self-help.

  And then there were the secret societies like the White Lotus. They were huge. One never knew who was a member or what they might be up to. The humble peasant or smiling shopkeeper met by day might be something very different after dark. Sometimes the White Lotus men would set fire to the house of a corrupt official. Sometimes they murdered people. And Mei-Ling had often heard people say the White Lotus would bring the Manchu emperor down one day.

  Could her Little Brother have got himself in with such people? He was so obstinate. And he’d always had his own crazy ideas of justice, even as a little boy. That was how he got the scar on his face. Yes, she thought, it was possible.

  “Nothing like that, Big Sister,” he said. And then gave a grin. “Though of course if I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Half of her wanted to shake him. Half of her wanted to put her arms around him, hold him close, and keep him safe.

  “Oh, Nio. We’ll talk about this in the days ahead.” Somehow she had to find a way to spend time with him, to make him listen to reason. She didn’t know how, but she knew she must.

  “I’m leaving today,” he said with a touch of obstinate triumph.