Call to Arms Page 3

  “Kong Yiji, can you really read?”

  When he glanced back as if such a question were not worth answering, they would continue, “How is it you never passed even the lowest official examination?”

  At once a grey tinge would overspread Kong Yiji's dejected, discomfited face, and he would mumble more of those unintelligible archaisms. Then everyone there would laugh heartily again, enlivening the whole tavern.

  At such time I could join in the laughter with no danger of a dressingdown from my boss. In fact he always put such questions to Kong Yiji himself, to raise a laugh. Knowing that it was no use talking to the men, Kong Yiji would chat with us boys. Once he asked me:

  “Have you had any schooling?”

  When I nodded curtly he said, “Well then, I'll test you. How do you write the hui in aniseed-peas?”

  Who did this beggar think he was, testing me! I turned away and ignored him. After waiting for some time he said earnestly:

  “You can't write it, eh? I'll show you. Mind you remember. You ought to remember such characters, because you'll need them to write up your accounts when you have a shop of your own.”

  It seemed to me that I was still very far from having a shop of my own; in addition to which, our boss never entered aniseed-peas in his accountbook. Half amused and half exasperated, I drawled, “I don't need you to show me. Isn't it the hui written with the element for grass?”

  Kong Yiji's face lit up. Tapping two long fingernails on the bar, he nodded. “Quite correct!” he said. “There are four different ways of writing hui. Do you know them?”

  But my patience exhausted, I scowled and moved away. Kong Yiji had dipped his finger in wine to trace the characters on the bar. When he saw my utter indifference his face fell and he sighed.

  Sometimes children in the neighbourhood, hearing laughter, came in to join in the fun and surrounded Kong Yiji. Then he would give them aniseed-peas, one apiece. After eating the peas the children would still hang round, their eyes fixed on the dish. Growing flustered, he would cover it with his hand and bending forward from the waist would say, “There aren't many left, not many at all.” Straightening up to look at the peas again, he would shake his head and reiterate, “Not many, I do assure you. Not many, nay, not many at all.” Then the children would scamper off, shouting with laughter.

  That was how Kong Yiji contributed to our enjoyment, but we got along all right without him too.

  One day, shortly before the Mid-Autumn Festival I think it was, my boss who was slowly making out his accounts took down the tally-board. “Kong Yiji hasn't shown up for a long time,” he remarked suddenly. “He still owes nineteen coppers.” That made me realize how long it was since we had seen him.

  “How could he?” rejoined one of the customers. “His legs were broken in that last beating up.”

  “Ah!” said my boss.

  “He'd been stealing again. This time he was fool enough to steal from Mr. Ding, the provincial-grade scholar. As if anybody could get away with that!”

  “So what happened?”

  “What happened? First he wrote a confession, then he was beaten. The beating lasted nearly all night, and they broke both his legs.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, his legs were broken.”

  “Yes, but after?”

  “After?... Who knows? He may be dead.”

  My boss asked no further questions but went on slowly making up his accounts.

  After the Mid-Autumn Festival the wind grew daily colder as winter approached, and even though I spent all my time by the stove I had to wear a padded jacket. One afternoon, when the tavern was deserted, as I sat with my eyes closed I heard the words:

  “Warm a bowl of wine.”

  It was said in a low but familiar voice. I opened my eyes. There was no one to be seen. I stood up to look out. There below the bar, facing the door, sat Kong Yiji. His face was thin and grimy—he looked a wreck. He had on a ragged lined jacket and was squatting cross-legged on a mat which was attached to his shoulders by a straw rope. When he saw me he repeated:

  “Warm a bowl of wine.”

  At this point my boss leaned over the bar to ask, “ Is that Kong Yiji? You still owe nineteen coppers.”

  “That... I'll settle next time.” He looked up dejectedly. “Here's cash. Give me some good wine.”

  My boss, just as in the past, chuckled and said:

  “Kong Yiji, you've been stealing again!”

  But instead of stout denial, the answer simply was:

  “Don't joke with me.”

  “Joke? How did your legs get broken if you hadn't been stealing?”

  “I fell,” whispered Kong Yiji. “ Broke them in a fall.” His eyes pleaded with the boss to let the matter drop. By now several people had gathered round, and they all laughed with the boss. I warmed the wine, carried it over, and set it on the threshold. He produced four coppers from his ragged coat pocket, and as he placed them in my hand I saw that his own hands were covered with mud—he must have crawled there on them. Presently he finished the wine and, to the accompaniment of taunts and laughter, slowly pushed himself off with his hands.

  A long time went by after that without our seeing Kong Yiji again. At the end of the year, when the boss took down the tally-board he said, “Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers.” At the Dragon-Boat Festival the next year he said the same thing again. But when the Mid-Autumn Festival arrived he was silent on the subject, and another New Year came round without our seeing any more of Kong Yiji.

  Nor have I ever seen him since—no doubt Kong Yiji really is dead.

  March 1919

  ■ Medicine

  Ⅰ

  It was autumn, in the small hours of the morning. The moon had gone down, but the sun had not yet risen, and the sky appeared a sheet of darkling blue. Apart from night-prowlers, all was asleep. Old Shuan suddenly sat up in bed. He struck a match and lit the grease-covered oillamp, which shed a ghostly light over the two rooms of the teahouse.

  “Are you going now, Dad?” queried an old woman's voice. And from the small inner room a fit of coughing was heard.

  “H'm.”

  Old Shuan listened as he fastened his clothes, then stretching out his hand said, “Let's have it.”

  After some fumbling under the pillow his wife produced a packet of silver dollars which she handed over. Old Shuan pocketed it nervously, patted his pocket twice, then lighting a paper lantern and blowing out the lamp went into the inner room. A rustling was heard, and then more coughing. When all was quiet again, Old Shuan called softly, “Son!... Don't get up!... Your mother will see to the shop.”

  Receiving no answer, Old Shuan assumed his son must be sound asleep again; so he went out into the street. In the darkness nothing could be seen but the grey roadway. The lantern light fell on his pacing feet. Here and there he came across dogs, but none of them barked. It was much colder than indoors, yet Old Shuan's spirits rose, as if he had grown suddenly younger and possessed some miraculous life-giving power. He had lengthened his stride. And the road became increasingly clear, the sky increasingly bright.

  Absorbed in his walking, Old Shuan was startled when he saw the crossroad lying distinctly ahead of him. He walked back a few steps to stand under the eaves of a shop, in front of its closed door. After some time he began to feel chilly.

  “Uh, an old chap.”

  “Seems rather cheerful....”

  Old Shuan started again and, opening his eyes, saw several men passing. One of them even turned back to look at him, and although he could not see him clearly, the man's eyes shone with a lustful light, like a famished person's at the sight of food. Looking at his lantern, Old Shuan saw it had gone out. He patted his pocket—the hard packet was still there. Then he looked round and saw many strange people, in twos and threes, wandering about like lost souls. However, when he gazed steadily at them, he could not see anything else strange about them.

  Presently he saw some soldiers strolling around. T
he large white circles on their uniforms, both in front and behind, were clear even at a distance; and as they drew nearer, the dark red border could be seen too. The next second, with a trampling of feet, a crowd rushed past. Thereupon the small groups which had arrived earlier suddenly converged and surged forward. Just before the crossroad, they came to a sudden stop and grouped themselves in a semi-circle.

  Old Shuan looked in that direction too, but could only see people's backs. Craning their necks as far as they would go, they looked like so many ducks, held and lifted by some invisible hand. For a moment all was still; then a sound was heard, and a stir swept through the onlookers. There was a rumble as they pushed back, sweeping past Old Shuan and nearly knocking him down.

  “Hey! Give me the cash, and I'll give you the goods!” A man clad entirely in black stood before him, his eyes like daggers, making Old Shuan shrink to half his normal size. This man was thrusting one huge extended hand towards him, while in the other he held a roll of steamed bread, from which crimson drops were dripping to the ground.

  Hurriedly Old Shuan fumbled for his dollars, and trembling he was about to hand them over, but he dared not take the object. The other grew impatient, and shouted, “What are you afraid of? Why not take it?” When Old Shuan still hesitated, the man in black snatched his lantern and tore off its paper shade to wrap up the roll. This package he thrust into Old Shuan's hand, at the same time seizing the silver and giving it a cursory feel. Then he turned away, muttering, “Old fool....”

  “Whose sickness is this for?” Old Shuan seemed to hear someone ask; but he made no reply. His whole mind was on the package, which he carried as carefully as if it were the sole heir to an ancient house. Nothing else mattered now. He was about to transplant this new life to his own home, and reap much happiness. The sun too had risen; lighting up the broad highway before him, which led straight home, and the worn tablet behind him at the crossroad with its faded gold inscription: “Ancient Pavilion.”

  Ⅱ

  When Old Shuan reached home, the shop had been cleaned, and the rows of tea-tables were shining brightly; but no customers had arrived. Only his son was sitting at a table by the wall, eating. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, his lined jacket was sticking to his spine, and his shoulder blades stuck out so sharply, an inverted V seemed stamped there. At this sight, Old Shuan's brow, which had been clear, contracted again. His wife hurried in from the kitchen, with expectant eyes and a tremor to her lips.

  “Get it?”

  “Yes.”

  They went together into the kitchen, and conferred for a time. Then the old woman went out, to return shortly with a dried lotus leaf which she spread on the table. Old Shuan unwrapped the crimson-stained roll from the lantern paper and transferred it to the lotus leaf. Little Shuan had finished his meal, but his mother exclaimed hastily:

  “Sit still, Little Shuan! Don't come over here.”

  Mending the fire in the stove, Old Shuan put the green package and the red and white lantern paper into the stove together. A red-black flame flared up, and a strange odour permeated the shop.

  “Smells good! What are you eating?” The hunchback had arrived. He was one of those who spend all their time in teahouses, the first to come in the morning and the last to leave. Now he had just stumbled to a corner table facing the street, and sat down. But no one answered his question.

  “Puffed rice gruel?”

  Still no reply. Old Shuan hurried out to brew tea for him.

  “Come here, Little Shuan!” His mother called him into the inner room, set a stool in the middle, and sat the child down. Then, bringing him a round black object on a plate, she said gently:

  “Eat it up... then you'll be better.”

  Little Shuan picked up the black object and looked at it. He had the oddest feeling, as if he were holding his own life in his hands. Presently he split it carefully open. From within the charred crust a jet of white vapour escaped, then scattered, leaving only two halves of a white flour steamed roll. Soon it was all eaten, the flavour completely forgotten, only the empty plate left. His father and mother were standing one on each side of him, their eyes apparently pouring something into him and at the same time extracting something. His small heart began to beat faster, and, putting his hands to his chest, he began to cough again.

  “Have a sleep; then you'll be all right, ” said his mother.

  Obediently, Little Shuan coughed himself to sleep. The woman waited till his breathing was regular, then covered him lightly with a much patched quilt.

  Ⅲ

  The shop was crowded, and Old Shuan was busy, carrying a big copper kettle to make tea for one customer after another. But there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “Aren't you well, Old Shuan?... What's wrong with you?” asked one greybeard.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?... No, I suppose from your smile, there couldn't be,” the old man corrected himself.

  “It's just that Old Shuan's busy,” said the hunchback. “If his son...” But before he could finish, a heavy-jowled man burst in. He had over his shoulders a dark brown shirt, unbuttoned and fastened carelessly by a broad dark brown girdle at his waist. As soon as he entered, he shouted to Old Shuan:

  “Has he taken it? Any better? Luck's with you, Old Shuan. What luck! If not for my hearing of things so quickly....”

  Holding the kettle in one hand, the other straight by his side in an attitude of respect, Old Shuan listened with a smile. In fact, all present were listening respectfully. The old woman, dark circles under her eyes too, came out smiling with a bowl containing tea leaves and an added olive, over which Old Shuan poured boiling water for the newcomer.

  “This is a guaranteed cure! Not like other things!” declared the heavyjowled man. “Just think, brought back warm, and eaten warm!”

  “Yes indeed, we couldn't have managed it without Uncle Kang's help.” The old woman thanked him very warmly.

  “A guaranteed cure! Eaten warm like this. A roll dipped in human blood like this can cure any consumption!”

  The old woman seemed a little disconcerted by the word “consumption,” and turned a shade paler; however, she forced a smile again at once and found some pretext to leave. Meanwhile the man in brown was indiscreet enough to go on talking at the top of his voice until the child in the inner room was woken and started coughing.

  “So you've had such a stroke of luck for your Little Shuan! Of course his sickness will be cured completely. No wonder Old Shuan keeps smiling.” As he spoke, the greybeard walked up to the man in brown, and lowered his voice to ask:

  “Mr. Kang, I heard the criminal executed today came from the Xia family. Who was it? And why was he executed?”

  “Who? Son of Widow Xia, of course! Young rascal!”

  Seeing how they were all hanging on his words, Mr. Kang's spirits rose even higher. His jowls quivered, and he made his voice as loud as he could.

  “The rogue didn't want to live, simply didn't want to! There was nothing in it for me this time. Even the clothes stripped from him were taken by Red-eye, the jailer. Our Old Shuan was the luckiest, and after him Third Uncle Xia. He pocketed the whole reward—twenty-five taels of bright silver—and didn't have to spend a cent!”

  Little Shuan walked slowly out of the inner room, his hands to his chest, coughing repeatedly. He went to the kitchen, filled a bowl with cold rice, added hot water to it, and sitting down started to eat. His mother, hovering over him, asked softly:

  “Do you feel better, son? Still as hungry as ever?”

  “A guaranteed cure!” Kang glanced at the child, then turned back to address the company. “Third Uncle Xia is really smart. If he hadn't informed, even his family would have been executed, and their property confiscated. But instead? Silver! That young rogue was a real scoundrel! He even tried to incite the jailer to revolt!”

  “No! The idea of it!” A man in his twenties, sitting in the back row, expressed indignation.

  “You know,
Red-eye went to sound him out, but he started chatting with him. He said the great Qing empire belongs to us. Just think: is that kind of talk rational? Red-eye knew he had only an old mother at home, but had never imagined he was so poor. He couldn't squeeze anything out of him; he was already good and angry, and then the young fool would ‘scratch the tiger's head,’ so he gave him a couple of slaps.”

  “Red-eye is a good boxer. Those slaps must have hurt!” The hunchback in the corner by the wall exulted.

  “The rotter was not afraid of being beaten. He even said how sorry he was.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about in beating a wretch like that,” said Greybeard.

  Kang looked at him superciliously and said disdainfully, “You misunderstood. The way he said it, he was sorry for Red-eye.”

  His listeners' eyes took on a glazed look, and no one spoke. Little Shuan had finished his rice and was perspiring profusely, his head steaming.

  “Sorry for Red-eye—crazy! He must have been crazy!” said Greybeard, as if suddenly he saw light.

  “He must have been crazy!” echoed the man in his twenties.

  Once more the customers began to show animation, and conversation was resumed. Under cover of the noise, the child was seized by a paroxysm of coughing. Kang went up to him, clapped him on the shoulder, and said:

  “A guaranteed cure! Don't cough like that, Little Shuan! A guaranteed cure!”

  “Crazy!” agreed the hunchback, nodding his head.

  Ⅳ

  Originally, the land adjacent to the city wall outside the West Gate had been public land. The zigzag path slanting across it, trodden out by passersby seeking a short cut, had become a natural boundary line. Left of the path, executed criminals or those who had died of neglect in prison were buried. Right of the path were paupers' graves. The serried ranks of grave mounds on both sides looked like the rolls laid out for a rich man's birthday.

  The Qing Ming Festival that year was unusually cold. Willows were only beginning to put forth shoots no larger than grains. Shortly after daybreak, Old Shuan's wife brought four dishes and a bowl of rice to set before a new grave in the right section, and wailed before it. When she had burned paper money she sat on the ground in a stupor as if waiting for something; but for what, she herself did not know. A breeze sprang up and stirred her short hair, which was certainly whiter than in the previous year.