Daylight on Iron Mountain

by David Wingrove

  As Hsü Jung told the story of Ching Su’s sad fate, Jiang found himself remembering moments from his past; seeing Ching Su vividly in his mind laughing and sharing a joke with them all. They had all been much younger then, of course, barely in their twenties. Before life had turned serious.

  ‘Ten years,’ he murmured, and shook his head sadly. Ten years ago Ching Su had died. And no one had thought to tell him.

  As the wine flowed, so the talk became less sombre, more ‘upbeat’ as the Hung Mao called it. Jiang had picked up a smattering of such terms and phrases from his time on the Western Isle – in fact, he had started a notebook to try to capture them before they disappeared.

  As they will, he thought. Now that we Han are in control.

  ‘I read your last collection,’ Pan Tsung-yen said, butting his bald head forward as he spoke, in the old familiar manner. Like a boxer, Jiang thought. He uses words like punches. Not that Pan Tsung-yen was physically belligerent.

  ‘It was good,’ Hsü Jung joined in. ‘Very good. I must have read each poem a hundred times, Nai Liu. Only…’

  Jiang smiled at the hesitation. Again, like Pan Tsung-yen, Hsü Jung may have aged, but he hadn’t changed. Not in essence. He spoke his thoughts in parts, bringing each new aspect to the discussion like it was a parcel, especially wrapped.

  ‘Only?’ Jiang coaxed.

  ‘Only it is four years since it was published. I had hoped… well… I had hoped you would have kept on writing.’

  Jiang sat back, smiling. ‘I did. In fact, that’s one of the reasons why I’m here. To see my publisher. I have a new collection – Thoughts At Twilight – that’s just the working title. I’m sure to come up with something much better, only…’

  Only I can’t use my preferred title, The Vanishing World. It wouldn’t get past the censors.

  They talked for hours after that, catching up on what each of them had been doing, throwing in whatever they knew of old friends and acquaintances. Towards the end, however, it seemed to Jiang that they were holding something back. There was something they wanted to say, but felt they couldn’t. Was it something about his wife, Chun Hua?

  Finally, Pan Tsung-yen seemed to lick at his lips as if they were dry. Then, with a brief, revealing glance at the camera, he spoke out.

  ‘It has been good to see you, Jiang Lei. It is pleasing to know that the years have enhanced our friendship. But there was a reason for us coming here tonight, and though we may get ourselves in trouble for saying so, it would have been a betrayal of our friendship to have neglected saying it.’

  Pan Tsung-yen paused. ‘We think you are in danger here, Jiang Lei. Things have changed. You may even have sensed it yourself. Various of our friends, whom we dare not mention by name, have died.’

  ‘Victims of court intrigues?’ Jiang asked.

  ‘Who knows…’ Pan Tsung-yen answered. ‘Yet they are dead.’

  Hsü Jung sat forward suddenly, anger in his face. ‘It is a viper’s nest, Jiang Lei. A foul, oppressive place. And the spies…’

  Spies? Jiang Lei narrowed his eyes at the word. ‘And you think I might be subject to these… intrigues?’

  ‘The Han are Han,’ Pan Tsung-yen said, nodding to himself. ‘A nation of gatekeepers and opportunists. Corruption is rife, Jiang Lei. As to whom you can trust…’

  ‘Trust no one,’ Hsü Jung said.

  ‘Not even you?’ Jiang asked.

  Hsü Jung shrugged, then smiled at the paradox. ‘Least of all us… after tonight.’

  Pan Tsung-yen stood. ‘Come. We have said enough. We’d best leave you now, dear friend, dear Nai Liu.’

  When they were gone, Jiang went and sat at his portable comset.

  Who knew who was watching him? All that was certain was that someone was. Maybe even Tsao Ch’un himself. But, whoever it was, they would know he had been warned.

  Unfolding the keyboard, Jiang typed in ‘Su Tung-p’o’ and sat back.

  At once a face appeared. It looked like a photograph, but it couldn’t be. Su Tung-p’o had died in 1101.

  A list of options appeared. He selected BIOGRAPHY.

  ‘Text or spoken word,’ the machine asked, in its light, anodyne tone.

  ‘Text.’

  The truth was he couldn’t stand that voice. Would have changed it, had it been allowed. Only it wasn’t.

  Su Tung-p’o had, it seemed, not been alone in his calling. Both his father and his younger brothers had been poets of some note. Su had taken his exams in 1057, at the age of twenty-one, and done brilliantly – so well that his papers were copied and circulated among students. However, before he could be appointed to a government office, his mother had died. Being a good son, he returned home to spend the next twenty-seven months in mourning for her, as was strict Confucian practice. It was thus not until 1061 that he had taken up his appointment as an assistant magistrate in Shen-hsi Province.

  All might have been well, for Su Tung-p’o was a distinguished official, but he was sympathetic to the plight of the common people. Through his poetry, he made clear his opposition to the policies of Wang An-Shih, a fellow poet who was the architect of the government’s plan to enforce the centralized control of the Chinese economy.

  Despite various banishments and exile, Su had a long and distinguished career, including being secretary to the emperor from 1086 to 1089, but his political enemies finally triumphed. Even so, Su Tung-p’o lived on, through his beautifully crafted poems and his writings, the clarity and simplicity of which meant that they were copied many times and thus survived down to the present day.

  Generally acknowledged to be the finest poet of the Northern Sung period, Su wrote in both the shih and tz’u styles, with a fine eye for descriptive detail.

  A very fine eye…

  Jiang Lei sat back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Reaching across he took his book and opened it at his favourite piece. It was only four lines; even so, it was probably the most evocative of all Su Tung-p’o’s works. He read it aloud.

  ‘Spring night – one hour worth a thousand gold coins;

  clear scent of flowers, shadowy moon.

  Songs and flutes upstairs – threads of sound;

  In the garden, a swing, where night is deep and still.’

  Jiang closed his eyes, savouring the lucidity of the poem; how it pushed aside the cloak of years and spoke to now. He himself struggled endlessly for such uncluttered beauty in his poems, and here it was. He particularly liked the way it spoke to all the senses, and then, at the very end, to mystery itself: ‘where night is deep and still’.

  Reading that part again, he gave a little shiver.

  I toast you, brother, he said in his thoughts, reaching for his wine bowl and lifting it to the air. Across the long centuries I salute you.

  ‘Master?’

  He turned. Steward Ho was standing there in the doorway, Jiang’s night clothes over one arm.

  ‘It is late, Master. I thought…’

  Jiang smiled. ‘I know. I should get some sleep. I have an important day tomorrow, neh?’

  Only an hour before his audience, Jiang Lei was told, by the appropriate official in the correct and most formal manner, that Tsao Ch’un was otherwise engaged. Their ‘meeting’ was to be delayed until a time suitable for both.

  Having stood there for the best part of two hours, in the unfamiliarly heavy cloth of his dress uniform, Jiang Lei could have been forgiven if he groaned. He had come so close – through six different doorways and six entirely different ‘ceremonies’ until he stood before the ‘dragon gate’. His Master, Tsao Ch’un, sat there behind it, on his massive throne on the far side of the great hall. And now it was to be delayed.

  But Jiang Lei did not groan. Nor did he show the smallest sign of impatience or disappointment. Instead, he bowed low to Tsao Ch’un’s messenger and, gripping the heavy scroll which contained the papers of his appointment as general tightly against his chest, turned about and marched crisply back the way he’d come. His eyes stared ah
ead, passing back through the imposing doorways, past the endless uniformed lackeys and stiff-mannered officials until he was outside again, on the white marble steps, breathing in the cool morning air.

  Was it a snub? If so, why summon him halfway round the world to deliver it?

  No. The more he thought about it, the more he felt it genuine. Something had come up. Something more urgent than a meeting with one of his lowly generals.

  So what now? How long would it be until his audience was rescheduled? He had heard that Tsao Ch’un would sometimes keep a supplicant waiting for months, even years, before he’d see them. And then only for the briefest moment. But those were supplicants. Rich men who needed a favour from their Master, the Son of Heaven. He, Jiang Lei, was not here for favours. Not that he really knew quite why he had been summoned, only that it was not at his instigation. Tsao Ch’un wanted to see him. He would not waste his time otherwise.

  So why not make a few visits?

  Jiang tried to keep calm, but his heart was racing suddenly at the thought that had come into his head. He did not even know whether it would be allowed. But surely he had to try – while he was here?

  He would visit Chun Hua. Would go to see her and his daughters. If it could be arranged.

  Jiang stroked his beard, considering the problem. This was not something Steward Ho could do. Ho was of too low a status; far more crucially, he was too inexperienced to handle this. Then whom?

  The answer came at once. Hsü Jung. Hadn’t Hsü always been the organizer among them – the one who had arranged things? Then why not ask him? If he couldn’t do it personally, then surely Hsü would know someone who could?

  Back at his quarters, Jiang went straight to his desk, not even bothering to change. If this was to be done, it must be done now, before the second summons came.

  Hsü Jung had left his contact number. Jiang typed it in then waited. The screen pulsed and then a face appeared, that of a young male Han, probably from Hsü’s household.

  ‘Forgive me, but could I speak to Hsü Jung?’

  The face, expressionless but for the hint of a scowl, answered him.

  ‘I am afraid no one may talk with Master Hsü. He is currently under house arrest. But if you would leave a message…’

  Jiang cut connection. Little good that that would do. They would have a trace on it for certain.

  House arrest… It could be no coincidence. Indeed, it might explain the cancellation of the audience.

  Jiang stood, pacing about, wondering what to do.

  Just then Steward Ho came out and, surprised to see his Master there, gave a small gasp.

  ‘Ah… Ho… I have a problem…’

  ‘But Master, you should be…’

  ‘The audience was rescheduled. I am to see Tsao Ch’un another time. No, my problem is this. I wish to see my wife…’

  ‘But that is forbidden, Master.’

  ‘No, not forbidden… but I must get permission… and, well… I do not know who to approach or how to go about it.’

  At that Steward Ho beamed. ‘Then you can leave it with me, Master.’

  ‘Leave it with you?’

  Ho nodded enthusiastically. ‘I am your servant, neh? Then let me deal with such tiresome details. When do you wish to see her?’

  ‘This afternoon?’

  ‘I shall see what can be done.’

  And with that Ho left the room. Jiang listened, heard a door on the far side of the suite of rooms bang shut.

  He sat again, slumping in the chair. Hsü Jung arrested. That did not bode well. And Pan Tsung-yen?

  He contacted Pan Tsung-yen’s number. As the screen lit and the same stranger’s face appeared, he cut at once.

  Pan, too, then. Both under house arrest for seeing him.

  Jiang sighed. If they had been arrested, then why not he also? What were they waiting for? Or were they on their way over right this moment?

  He stood, agitated now. There was no doubt he was being watched. But at what level? Had Tsao Ch’un cancelled their meeting because of something he had said last night? Something he had overheard?

  He could not think of anything seditious he had said, and the only things his friends had uttered that could be construed in that fashion were their final comments; their bitter warning to him to take care.

  But what if this had nothing to do with Tsao Ch’un? What if this was the work of some officious minister, furthering some personal scheme at their expense? They had said it was a viper’s nest, after all, and you could be sure that not everything that happened in the court emanated from Tsao Ch’un.

  Besides, why would Tsao Ch’un say he would reschedule if he did not mean it? There was no reason for the great man to make excuses. If Tsao Ch’un had suspected him of treachery, he’d have been in a cell by now, a hot brand searing his testicles, making him gibber like a monkey.

  And house arrest… it wasn’t exactly being led off in chains.

  No. But what worried him was the coincidence of events. He did not trust coincidence.

  He went to the window and looked out. There were guards out there, their faces masked, anonymous. Two men – senior officials from their powder-blue gowns – walked slowly, deep in conversation.

  Pei Ching. North City. The last time he’d been here had been the last time he had seen Chun Hua. Four years ago. Ch’iao-chieh had been nine then, San-chieh five.

  He looked down, saying in his mind the mantra that always gave him strength, that lifted him above his weakness.

  The trouble was, he didn’t know what Ho could do. Very little, probably. Who did he know here, after all? And even if he did have contacts, how in heaven’s name would he arrange things? If he, Jiang Lei, a general in the Eighteenth Banner could not exert sufficient influence, how could lowly Ho?

  No, he was mad even to think it might work.

  Jiang Lei went through and poured himself a cup of wine. It was too early in the day for drink, but for once he felt the need. It wasn’t every day his friends were arrested.

  He had finished his drink and poured himself a second when the comset buzzed and the screen lit up. Jiang hurried across.

  It was Ho. Seeing his Master, he bowed low and then launched in, smiling as he told Jiang what he had arranged.

  As he finished and the screen blanked, Jiang sat back, laughing with delight.

  Steward Ho, it seems, had a cousin who knew a servant in the royal household. That servant had a friend – a very close friend, let it be understood – who looked after the needs of the junior minister in charge of a certain government department. A contact of the friend in that department had a brother who, at a price, would place Jiang’s request before another junior minister. While that junior minister was unable himself to give the requisite written permission for a visit, he might, for a ‘small’ consideration, place the matter urgently before his Master, the minister himself.

  In short, four small, discreet payments and it would be done. He would get to see Chun Hua.

  ‘Ho,’ he said quietly, speaking to the air, ‘you are a genius.’

  Maybe. But first he had to arrange these payments.

  Ho returned a half an hour later, flushed at his success. Jiang greeted him, then handed him the four red packets, each marked with a different symbol, as Ho had asked.

  Ho bowed low. ‘It is a great deal of money, Master. Are you sure…?’

  Jiang nodded. ‘To see Chun Hua… I would pay ten times as much. But don’t tell them that, Ho. They would only raise their price.’

  Thus it was that, an hour later, Jiang Lei slid down from inside the litter. Handing his documentation to the gate guard, he waited to be passed through.

  He wanted it to be a surprise, so he had not notified Chun Hua of his coming. He wanted to see the joy on her face, hear his daughters squeal with delight as they saw him enter the room.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  The gate guard had turned away and was talking into his handset, in a low murmur that Ji
ang was clearly not meant to hear.

  The guard turned, gave him a contemptuous look, then turned away again.

  ‘Soldier!’

  Jiang’s bark caught the guard totally unprepared. He turned back and, noticing the dress uniform for the first time, came to attention.

  Jiang held himself straight, his full authority in his manner. ‘Are you going to let me go inside, or are you going to keep me out here all afternoon!’

  The guard bowed again. ‘Forgive me, General, only I…’

  At that moment there was a slamming of doors and, a moment later, the noise of several men shuffling quickly along on slippered feet. As Jiang looked past the guard, he saw five men – all Han, all wearing identical pale green pau – hurrying towards him down the broad, high-ceilinged corridor.

  As the guard stepped aside, four of the five formed up behind the eldest, a greybeard – the number on his chest badge said ‘Number One’ – as if to block Jiang’s way.

  ‘What do you want?’ Number One bellowed, his face sneering and ugly, clearly angry at being disturbed.

  Jiang looked to the guard. ‘Give him the permission.’

  The gate guard handed it across, then stepped back. The look on his face seemed to suggest he was pleased to hand this over to another; that he had done his bit in stalling the stranger.

  Jiang knew what this was. One last shake-down. Number One was yet another doorkeeper. He would say that the permission had not been properly verified and that it would cost a hundred yuan, maybe, to fix that.

  Jiang dug his hand into his pocket. At once Number One stepped back, as if Jiang had drawn a gun. He yelled at Jiang.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Jiang winced. Was their whole conversation to be nothing but a shouting match?

  ‘I have come to see Chun Hua,’ he said, trying to remain calm, not to let himself be drawn down to this other’s level. ‘That in your hand is the minister’s permission. As you’ll see, it has his chop…’

  ‘His chop? Fuck his chop!’ the man said and tore the permission in half.