A Thousand Pieces of Gold

by Adeline Yen Mah

  “Instead of an army, I would send a diplomat armed with only a short letter, telling the King of Yan your true military strength. I predict that the King of Yan will submit to you. Next send your diplomat east to Qi. By then even the wisest adviser under Heaven would not be able to find a way out for Qi, and I’m sure Qi will submit as well. After that, Your Highness can draw a great plan for All Under Heaven.

  “As soldiers, we should always practice xian sheng hou shi, ‘discussion first and military force later.’ This is the stratagem that I would use if I were you.”

  General Hahn adopted his advice and sent a messenger with a letter to the King of Yan. Sure enough, the King of Yan submitted. Hahn Xin reported the good news to Liu Bang and recommended that Zhang Er be appointed King of Zhao.

  Meanwhile, Liu Bang himself was encamped at Chengkao, a small city close to Jungyang, planning to take back the Ao Granary. Xiang Yu, who held Junyang, now besieged Chengkao. Leaving behind his army, Liu Bang fled from Chengkao in his chariot toward Zhao, accompanied by only his driver, Xia. After spending the night at a guest house, Liu Bang galloped by himself at dawn into the barracks of General Hahn Xin and Zhang Er. He was told that they were still sleeping. Calling himself a messenger, Liu Bang slipped into General Hahn’s tent and took the seal and tally entitling him to the command of Hahn Xin’s army. He summoned the officers and proclaimed himself as commander in chief of all of Han’s armed forces. Only then did General Hahn and Zhang Er find out that Liu Bang was with them. They were greatly astonished.

  Liu Bang then appointed Zhang Er as King of Zhao and ordered him to raise fresh troops in Zhao. He made General Hahn Xin his prime minister and ordered him to go east and invade the state of Qi with the surrendered army of Chen Yu.

  Taking over General Hahn’s original army, Liu Bang went south again. Xiang Yu had taken Chengkao and maintained control of the Ao Granary. This time Liu Bang strengthened his defenses but would not engage Xiang Yu in direct battle. Instead, Liu Bang sent troops to aid the guerrilla fighter Peng Yue, who was harassing Xiang Yu’s forces in Chu and burning his food supplies.

  While this was going on, Mad Master suggested that Liu Bang send him to Qi so that he might persuade the new King of Qi (Rong’s son Guang) to submit to Liu Bang. Qi bordered Chu, and the King of Qi had a force of 200,000 soldiers. With Qi on their side, Liu Bang could attack Xiang Yu from the rear as well as the front and force him to fight on two fronts.

  Since General Hahn was busy drilling his newly raised army with Zhang Er in Zhao, Liu Bang did not deign to inform them of his plans but merely sent Mad Master to Qi as his shuo ke, “persuasive talker.”

  Face-to-face with the King of Qi, Mad Master asked, “Does Your Majesty know what is the true inclination of the people everywhere?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Only if Your Majesty understood the true inclination of the people would you be able to protect and safeguard Qi.”

  “Tell me then,” the King of Qi asked, “what is the true inclination of the people everywhere?”

  “Ren xin gui Han, ‘the heart of the people belongs to Han,’” Mad Master replied.

  Ren xin gui Han has become a well-known proverb. It encompasses and expresses the emotion Chinese people feel toward China. In 1984, when Margaret Thatcher signed the historical agreement with Deng Xiaoping ceding Hong Kong back to China in 1997, an American friend of ours who was in the oil business was visiting a small city in Liberia. To his delight, one day he came across a shabby but clean Chinese restaurant. Inside, there were no pictures on the walls, only two long strips of red paper with large black Chinese characters. He took a photo and showed it to us on his return to California, asking for the meaning of the words. One paper read “1997” (in Chinese), and the other paper read ren xin gui Han, “the heart of the people belongs to Han.” Our friend was astonished that a Chinese restaurant owner thousands of miles away in Liberia would care sufficiently about Hong Kong’s return to China to place such a proverb on his wall.

  In 1997, when Hong Kong was ceded back to China, 155 years of British colonial rule ended. In the newspapers of Hong Kong and Taiwan, many editorials and letters discussed the pros and cons of this historic event. “When all is said and done,” one paper reported, “despite the reservation many of us have regarding Communist rule, the majority of Hong Kong people still prefer to be part of China. Why? The reason is very simple. Ren xin gui Han, ‘the heart of the people belongs to Han.’”

  Mad Master then analyzed the political situation for the King of Qi, comparing and contrasting the personalities of Liu Bang and Xiang Yu. By the end of the meeting, the king had agreed to submit and enter into an alliance with Liu Bang against Xiang Yu.

  Meanwhile, after preparing his army for battle readiness in the state of Zhao, General Hahn was about to cross the Yellow River to Qi when he heard of Qi’s submission to the Mad Master. He began to halt his troops, but his political strategist, Kuai Tung, approached him and said, “Your Highness received orders from Liu Bang to attack the state of Qi some time ago. Later, Liu Bang arranged for Mad Master to go separately and prevail upon the King of Qi. Did Liu Bang ever withdraw his order to you or command you to halt your invasion at any time? No, of course not! If he hasn’t given you a direct order to stop, why should you stop?

  “Besides, Mad Master is only a scholar, not a military man. Using his san cun zhi she, ‘three inches of immortal tongue,’ he weaves a spell over the King of Qi, persuades him to surrender, and secures more than seventy cities in one fell swoop! In contrast, Your Highness has spent over a year on one battlefield after another, risking your life and the lives of 30,000 soldiers, in order to conquer just fifty cities. So, is your blood and sweat then worth less than the rant of a garrulous Confucianist?”

  When he heard this, General Hahn became agitated. He decided to cross the Yellow River and continue eastward toward Qi.

  Back in the capital of Qi, Mad Master was being royally entertained by the King of Qi after the signing of their treaty. Garrison duty was called off, and army officers were instructed that Han troops were now their allies. Encountering no resistance whatever, General Hahn’s army rolled across and easily routed the Qi army. In no time at all, they were encamped outside Qi’s capital city.

  Alarmed and suspecting entrapment, the king berated Mad Master vehemently for betraying his trust. Angrily, he ordered Mad Master to halt General Hahn’s advance immediately. Mad Master was surprised and confused at the turn of events. Not realizing that General Hahn had ulterior motives and a separate agenda, he nevertheless refused to intervene.

  “Your Majesty,” Mad Master said, “I cannot do so. General Hahn and I both work for Liu Bang. Apparently, he and I were separately deployed to Qi for reasons that have not been disclosed to me. Please believe that I hardly understand what’s happening myself. Far be it that I should betray Your Majesty. By refusing your request to address General Hahn, I fully recognize what is going to befall me. But for a great man like Liu Bang, who is deciding the fate of All Under Heaven, it is perhaps impossible to worry about minor details such as the life of a Confucian scholar like me. So be it.”

  Mad Master knew perfectly well what awaited him. The King of Qi gave the order, and Mad Master was boiled to death in a giant wok.

  When I was a little girl in Shanghai, one of my greatest pleasures was writing kung fu novels. I could spend an entire day crafting such stories at my desk. It thrilled me to be able to forget the horrors of my daily life in such a simple way. In my stories I was no longer the unwanted little girl who caused my mother’s death. Instead, I could be anyone I wished.

  I often dreamed about running away from home, going to the mythical E Mei mountains in Sichuan Province, and becoming an apprentice to a you xia, “knight-errant,” skilled in martial arts. My master would resemble a monk and dress in coarse russet robes. But he was actually a prince in disguise and extraordinarily skillful, able to break stacks of bricks with a single blow of his hand or top
ple muscular opponents twice his size with lightning-quick tackles.

  While researching the meaning of the proverb ren xin gui Han, “the heart of the people belongs to Han,” I hoped to discover the cultural essence behind the foundation of my own Chineseness. To my surprise, I found that there was a long tradition of knight-errantry in China that was first described by Sima Qian in Shiji and termed jiang hu wen hua.

  There is no exact equivalent for jiang hu wen hua in English. Literally, the four words mean “culture based on rivers and lakes” or “culture based on knights-errant drifting about every corner of the world defending the weak and helping the oppressed.” Skilled in martial arts, these you xia, “knights-errant,” do not care about status, money, or power, only about ethics, freedom, and chivalry.

  Unlike my grandfather, who limited his reading to only three books for the last few years of his life, I have gone back to the Chinese literature of my childhood. Once more, my mind is being gripped by the fearless kung fu heroes of yore who were “so limber that they seemed to have no bones, so silent that their footsteps sounded like sighs, so powerful that they jumped from rooftops like tigers, so agile that they scaled the walls like flies.”

  Perhaps my quest for the essence of what makes me Chinese will lead me back to the place from which I came, sitting and writing by the window in the same room on the second floor that I used to share with my Aunt Baba in Shanghai so many years ago. With hindsight, I’m beginning to understand that my childhood dreams of knight-errantry were very much part of the fabric of my Chinese heritage. The truth is: like a billion or more other Chinese, I have come to know that part of my heart also belongs to Han.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Human Heart Is Difficult to Fathom

  Ren Xin Nan Ce

  Since becoming a writer, I have received many letters from readers all over the world telling me about their own family problems. I found that regardless of racial origin, religious affiliation, income level, educational background, or nationality, every family has issues of its own of one sort or another. Intrigues, betrayals, conspiracies, and jealousies simmer and abound behind closed doors in many a home. Disputes usually stem from jealousy over love, money, or control. There are incidents in which the entire family becomes embroiled in painful turmoil stemming from the malice of one or two members. Frequently, the instigator is someone who is middle-aged, unhappily married, saddled with financial problems, and unable to keep a job. These people compensate for their lack of self-esteem by wreaking havoc.

  My sister Lydia was just such a woman. In hindsight, I now realize that she must have hated me on sight when she met my plane at Beijing Airport after a separation of thirty years. Here was I, the little sister whom she had always despised, returning to China in triumph as a respected, Western-trained physician from California. Worst of all, Lydia had to eat humble pie in front of her children and beg for my help to get them educated in America. Like a beast of prey, she marked me, made her plans, recruited Niang, swore her to secrecy, then lay in wait patiently before pouncing.

  Nine months before she died, Niang invited me and my family to visit her in Hong Kong. I did not know it then, but she had already disinherited me. Her friendly gesture was a sham, tendered deliberately to torment me so that the hurt would be that much more excruciating because of the element of shock. While we were there Niang played a cat-and-mouse game with me, first agreeing to an intimate tête-àtête with me and then canceling at the last minute. This happened four times.

  The evening before our departure, Bob and I invited Niang, my brother James, and his family out for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. When James arrived he brought us Niang’s apologies. She was feeling unwell and would not be coming. I expressed disappointment and told James that I would get up early the next morning to pay Niang a visit before departing for the airport. James pretended to approve. However, at the end of the meal he suddenly turned to me and said, “What do you say if I pick you up at 6 A.M. tomorrow morning and the two of us drive to North Point Cemetery to pay a visit to Father’s grave?”

  As I write, the memory of that gloomy, overcast morning comes back to me clearly. James picked me up at my hotel at the crack of dawn. When I got into his car, I saw with a pang that in his usual thoughtful way, he had brought along a big bouquet of flowers to be placed at Father’s grave.

  We stood side by side under a large black umbrella while the rain pelted down all around. I felt very close to my brother as we reminisced about our past. I reminded him of the time years ago in Shanghai when he had helped me bury my pet duckling PLT. Tears coursed down my cheeks, and I could hardly speak. Without a word, James fished around in his pockets and handed me his large white handkerchief.

  I would like to believe that there was a little bit of genuine emotion on James’s part that morning. What a clever move to suggest a trip to Father’s grave! I was, of course, totally taken in and diverted. By the time we got back to the hotel Bob was checking out and arranging a taxi to Kai Tak Airport.

  I never saw Niang again, let alone face-to-face by ourselves. At the airport I tried repeatedly to phone her, but her line was always busy. At one point I remember asking James, who was seeing us off with his family, “Does she speak on the phone a lot?” And he answered smoothly, “Sometimes she takes the phone off the hook when she wishes to rest.”

  I have neither written to nor heard from James again since the publication of my autobiography. From time to time I am tempted to try to contact him. I want to tell him that I love him and that I wish him well. But I am also aware that I am the last person he wants to see because I remind him of everything he wishes to forget. In spite of this, I hope he also realizes deep down that I will always be there for him, for as long as I live, should he need me in any way.

  I prefer to remember him the way he used to be, the sweet-faced gentle big brother who always understood without anything being said. The best times we spent together were probably those Sunday afternoons during our student days in England. I would take the day train from London to Cambridge and visit him in his medieval college rooms. Hour after hour we’d drink instant coffee brewed on his portable electric heater while sharing memories, exchanging jokes, learning each other’s minds, and discussing every subject under the sun. In those days betrayal and duplicity were inconceivable. Our friendship was rare and true. The future was limitless. We trusted each other implicitly. Our freedom was intoxicating, and we shared a sympathy so deep that nothing needed to be explained.

  Toward the end of his last year at Cambridge, I remember telling James about Karl, my professor and boyfriend, with whom I was having a very hard time. James was walking me back to the train station, looking very handsome and impressive with his Cambridge scarf around his neck and his black college gown flapping in the breeze.

  “He is not the right one for you,” James finally said, walking so fast on the cobblestones that I was forced to trot after him in my high heels.

  “How do you know? You haven’t even met him.”

  “I don’t have to meet him to know. Besides, I know you.”

  “How about coming to London next Sunday so you can see for yourself?”

  He stopped so suddenly that I almost ran into him. He thought for a while, then slowly shook his head no. In the silence, I could hear the church bells all around us ringing out their chimes for evensong.

  “But why not?” I finally asked, so disappointed I felt like crying.

  “Because it’s a waste of time!” he said. “Can’t you see that he is taking advantage of you? Get away from him. Just because you want a permanent relationship does not mean that he wants the same thing. How does that proverb go? Ren xin nan ce, ‘the human heart is difficult to fathom.’”

  I found out much later that the proverb ren xin nan ce was first written by Sima Qian to describe the demise of another relationship. I was fascinated to come across this same phrase in the well-thumbed copy of Shiji at the library of the University of California, Irvi
ne, while doing research for this book.

  As soon as Xiang Yu heard that Hahn Xin had routed Qi’s army and intended to invade Chu, he responded immediately to Qi’s request for aid and sent 200,000 soldiers under the command of Officer Long, one of his favorite followers.

  An adviser from Qi came to Officer Long and said, “General Hahn’s army has traveled a long way. Moreover, we have the advantage in that this is our home territory. I recommend that you strengthen your defenses but do not fight them directly. Tell the King of Qi to link up with the ministers governing the enemy-occupied cities of Qi. When they learn that their own king is leading the resistance with the help of Xiang Yu’s troops, they will rise up against General Hahn’s rule. The Han troops are more than five hundred miles away from home. If the people of Qi should unite and revolt against Han, the invaders would not have enough food and would have to surrender without a battle.”

  General Long replied, “General Hahn and I are both natives of Chu. I understand him well. My lord, Xiang Yu, has ordered me to rescue the King of Qi. If I should induce General Hahn to surrender without a battle, what service would I have rendered? On the other hand, if I should defeat General Hahn on the battlefield, I would end up with half of Qi as my own personal kingdom. Why shouldn’t I take him on?”

  Hahn Xin and Officer Long faced each other across the River Wei (present-day Shandong Province) and set out their battle formations. General Hahn ordered that 10,000 sandbags be made and filled with sand. In the depth of night, he secretly positioned the bags so as to block the flow of water from the upper reaches of the river. Then he picked the best swimmers from his army, marched them halfway across the river, and launched an attack with crossbows and spears. When the enemy resisted, Hahn Xin feigned defeat and retreated hastily. Observing their withdrawal, Officer Long said happily to his adviser, “I knew that Hahn Xin is timid!”