A Husband for Kutani

by Frank Owen

  Pan Tun’s sole remaining problem was how they could escape from those vast subterranean chambers without hindrance from the Doctor. The course which he finally decided upon was unworthy of one who ranked so high in the affairs of China, but it was a very simple one. Ko Juan had been instructed to hold herself in readiness, then Pan Tun quietly entered the laboratory of Dr. Shen Fu. The Doctor was so absorbed in a fluid emulsifying in a test-tube over an alcohol flame, he had no time for anything else, that is until Pan Tun stumbled. A few flasks toppled to the floor from the bench he had disturbed. It was an unfortunate moment, for Pan Tun’s arm was raised to strike. Dr. Shen Fu smiled as he translated the Mandarin’s expression, and even though there was naught but friendliness in that smile it did not prevent the crash of Pan Tun’s clenched fist straight to the face. Dr. Shen Fu fell with a groan, but the groan was well-simulated. In reality he was hurt but little. He had lived for two hundred and seventy years and his skin had toughened till it was strong enough to with stand anything. Pan Tun bent over the inert form. Dr. Shen Fu’s eyes were closed. He seemed to be breathing with difficulty. No need to strike again.

  In great haste, Pan Tun returned to Ko Juan. She was waiting. It was an easy matter to find their way through the long dim-lit halls. Soon they emerged into the drug shop. Several clerks were waiting on customers as though the morning was one of complete serenity. A junior chemist was concocting an elixir with ground deer horn, rhinoceros horn powder and a few chemicals of a violet hue because the patient was one who had a strong affinity for drugs of purple tone.

  The next moment Pan Tun and Ko Juan were in the street. Pan Tun summoned a ricksha. It was not long before they were at the waterfront. It was but the work of a few moments to engage a small houseboat. Ko Juan lay as though exhausted under a canopy, her eyes half closed, as the boat floated gracefully into the romantic sweep of the Grand Canal. Now they were free. Dr. Shen Fu was forgotten. Henceforth, Pan Tun reflected, he would dwell in a garden worthy of a poet, and he would be a poet for Ko Juan would be with him. He leaned over her. How peaceful she seemed, so flower-like, as she lay there. The rise and fall of her breasts was barely perceptible. Pan Tun breathed deeply of the air. What matter that it was almost nauseous, so clogged it was with the ten thousand smells of China, odors to be found nowhere else in the world. All that he could think of was the perfumed breath of Ko Juan. Tonight she would sleep in his arms, while the moon gazed down enviously from the blue pillows of the sky. And so an hour passed. Still Ko Juan did not move.

  Pan Tun bent over her. Odd that she should sleep so deeply. For almost an hour she had not moved. Then with a cry he sprang back in horror. Ko Juan was once more still and cold. Too late he remembered that Dr. Shen Fu had told him Ko Juan could only breathe and become a figure of flesh and blood when the temperature was excessively hot and the air had been especially treated and filtered. Pan Tun crouched in the bottom of the boat and moaned and wept in his distress. He prayed to all the gods to remove this horror that was blotting out everything.

  After awhile all his anger and despair was spent. He felt hollow, torn, empty, but at least some measure of sanity was returning to him. He saw clearly that they must return to Dr. Shen Fu and throw themselves on his mercy, else Ko Juan would never breathe as a mortal again. The romantic pilgrimage was ended at its very inception. The journey back was consumed with all the solemnity of a funeral cortege.

  Dr. Shen Fu welcomed Pan Tun with a bland expression.

  “I am glad you have come,” he said. “Tonight a feast is being prepared. I gauged the moment of your arrival well. The day has been somewhat lonely without you.”

  There could be no doubting his graciousness.

  Pan Tun bowed humbly. “What can I say?” he faltered.

  “Say nothing,” was the reply, “and you will have less to answer for when the vast confusion of words all of us utter is flung back into our faces. Sometimes I think we are ill-advised when we worship any god whether false or true. The gods should be conquered first and held in reverence afterwards. Man would be far happier if he could control his gods, hold them forever in subjection, but then perhaps before attempting to conquer the gods he ought to conquer himself.”

  Dr. Shen Fu carried the body of Ko Juan back and placed it in the crypt where it had remained for two centuries.

  “Let her rest,” he murmured, “she has had trouble enough for one day. Tomorrow, perhaps, who knows? Tonight we must dine alone.”

  “But what of the feast?” Pan Tun protested. “Would it not be well for Ko Juan to join us in that?”

  Desperately he was trying to ingratiate himself once more in the Doctor’s good graces. But Shen Fu remained undisturbed.

  “It takes two friends to make a feast,” he mused, “but it only takes one to squander the greatest feast of all, a feast of living. Why be satisfied with the crumbs that fall from other men’s tables?”

  Pan Tun was unable to understand the allusion, but Dr. Shen Fu was not angry and that was something.

  Much later that evening, Dr. Shen Fu sat in his chair, smoking. And in between puffs he made a short discourse on an extraordinary exhibit in the circus of entomology.

  “It has been said that the Aweto is the oddest insect on earth and no one has ever had the temerity to dispute it. It is an insect that should belong in folklore and legend, a fabulous monstrosity that still exists. Come with me to my laboratory and I will show you amazing specimens of this tong ch’oong hah ts’o, ‘winter-worm summer grass’, for so it is called in our Materia Medica.”

  Dr. Shen Fu led the way to the laboratory, continuing to speak as he walked, “It is to be found in Sz-chüan as well as in New Zealand. An Aweto of inferior quality has been found also in Japan but it is of little use.”

  When they reached the laboratory, Dr. Shen Fu pointed to amazing specimens. “It is scarcely believable that a caterpillar should be born and later blossom out into a plant. The explanation is this. A certain vegetable fungus takes root in the neck of the caterpillar, grows upward to a height of seven or eight inches. Meanwhile the roots grow downward into the body of the caterpillar until gradually vegetable matter supplants all insect tissue within the outer skin of the Aweto. When this has been accomplished and nothing is left of the insect except the outer skin which still retains its original shape, the plant dies, having previously killed the insect. And now a strange metamorphosis takes place. The combined Aweto and plant becomes dry and hard, like a carved bit of brown rock. In briefer words the Aweto is first an insect, then a plant, finally a rock. In our Materia Medica, this Aweto rock is pulverized and then boiled into a sort of soup which is supposed to be a tonic. To give the soup taste pork is boiled with it. Personally I strongly doubt if it has any material value when taken in this manner. But lately I have been wondering what would happen if the blood stream could be saturated with secretions from the living plant. An interesting problem to muse over, well-worthy of experimentation. In other words could a living man duplicate the case-history of the Aweto?”

  “Very interesting,” Pan Tun muttered because he felt that he had to say something. Perhaps had he known the design which was in the Doctor’s mind he might have been more attentive. As it was, he was far more concerned with the affairs of Ko Juan, longing for that breathtaking moment when he would be able to converse with her again. Thus it was that he drank the liquor that was given him that night without comment, nor did he observe the intent expression on the face of Dr. Shen Fu. The drink was slightly bitter to the taste. The second cup was more palatable. After the third a pleasant lassitude commenced to creep over him.

  When Pan Tun awakened the next morning he felt still weary as though he had scarcely slept at all, yet his sleep had been deep, undisturbed by dreams. It was with considerable effort that he rose and dressed. Only the thought of Ko Juan drove him forward. That morning he rested for the most part. Hour after hour he sat waiting but Ko Juan did not appear.

  “You must be patient,” Dr. Shen Fu
told him. “I am having trouble with the complicated apparatus that controls the air currents and temperature. However, in a day or two it will be fixed.”

  The Doctor smiled mirthlessly as he turned away.

  “Yes,” he reflected, “it will be ready in a day or two, or fifty years or a century.”

  A few moments later he returned with a flask of that strange bitter liquor that brought on such an agreeable feeling of languor. It banished care into forgetfulness. It would help absorb the long hours until Ko Juan would be with Pan Tun once more. Perhaps under prevailing conditions it would not have been inapropos for Pan Tun to have remained in the laboratory where his hourly reactions could have been observed and charted.

  That night Pan Tun was so inexpressibly weary he retired early, not even able to keep awake for the consummation of the evening meal. In a moment he was sleeping, nor did he move again till morning. And even then he only moved with difficulty. All his bones ached. His knees were stiff. He could hardly move his arms. Dr. Shen Fu had to assist him to rise. He rested in a chair a short distance from the kong or bed on which he had slept. Food was brought to him. And a bottle of that odd bitter liquor which Dr. Shen Fu had recommended so heartily. All through the day he remained in a state approaching coma, arousing occasionally to consume the glass of liquor beside him which Dr. Shen Fu watched over, filling it as soon as it was empty. It was interesting for him to watch the results of his experiment. What he had surmised was true. The calcium and other mineral deposits that formed so abundantly in the fungus that attacked the Aweto were equally as potent when they had been introduced into the blood stream of a human being. Pan Tun was succumbing to an overpowering mineral lassitude. The process of ossification had been accelerated. His flesh was hardening, his joints were losing their flexibility.

  In the days that followed Pan Tun seldom aroused from his sleep. He lay in a coma, scarcely moving. His eyes remained wide open, but he saw little as they hardened into a substance resembling glass. Now that he was no longer able to drink, the drug was given to him by hypodermic injection. In this form it was not necessary to make it into a distillate. It was much more powerful in its crude state. At last a day came when Pan Tun’s lungs had turned completely to stone. He could no longer breathe. Like the Aweto, only the outer shell of a man remained. Ossification was complete.

  Dr. Shen Fu bent over him. His body was hard and like ice. No longer was Pan Tun a menace. No longer could he compete with the Doctor for Ko Juan’s affections. Pan Tun had come to Dr. Shen Fu because he was in search of a new thrill, nor had his pilgrimage been in vain. He had met death, the greatest thrill of life, in a manner unlike any other passing in the history of the world. Man is never so intensely alive as in that brief moment when he stands on the threshold of death, pausing to bid adieu to life. Even now, though Pan Tun was dead, Dr. Shen Fu stood over him. His claw-like hands shook with rage. Pan Tun had attempted to take Ko Juan from him. He would attempt no further deceptions.

  Suddenly Dr. Shen Fu straightened up. His face broke into a smile. Jealousy had been rekindled in his heart, an emotion so much akin to love that the two oft-times blended and became one. With a cry of exaltation he returned to his laboratory. His efforts were beginning to bear fruit. He had recaptured the emotion of jealousy. Perhaps his lost youth was hovering over him like a white heron flying low on the broad horizon. And before another half-century had filtered through the hills of time, it would fly back once more through the windows of his soul.

  THE BOOK OF LOVE

  1

  PANDRO SHARP HAD NEVER BEHELD A STORE more intriguing than the Perfume Shop of Tso-Lin in the little town with the unpronounceable name on the fringe of the Gobi Desert. The front of the shop was quite narrow, yet it seemed to lose itself in the mazes of shops that clustered about it in the crowded alley and might easily have trailed off into measureless distances. In its very appearance there was something fabulous. Near the open doorway stood a curious jade jar, drinking in the music of a thousand garbled sounds, the never-ceasing roar of China.

  Pandro Sharp entered the shop, a trifle breathlessly, and as he crossed the threshold he felt as though he were entering upon a great adventure. Perhaps it was due to the quietude of the room, at variance to the clamor outside, or perhaps it was the spell cast by the elusive attar that mingled with the air, or perhaps it was the strange appearance of the old man who walked toward him. He was tall and thin as a bamboo reed. “His face was like a snakeskin, wrinkled and loose and withered.” His eyes were like points of light, prodding one’s very thoughts.

  “If my appearance appals you,” he said softly, “be not disturbed. Set it down to the fact that I am almost two hundred years old. Think not that my mind has been seized for torture by dragons. My great age is due in part to the fact that I live close to the desert. The dry air is an elixir. But I am by no means the oldest living man in China. For there is one who surpasses me by more than fifty-six years. He has lived serenely and naught has there been to disturb him until recently when the fact of his age was flashed around the world in news despatches. But he had no desire for ephemeral renown for the dignity of age had already clothed him in the robes of an immortal.”

  “Interesting,” murmured Pandro Sharp, oddly destitute of words. In this room trivialities seemed banal.

  Tso-Lin motioned him to a chair beside a table. He tapped a bell and at once a servant entered with a pot of tea and two fragile cups.

  “Drink,” said Tso-Lin, “and may your future days be pleasant.”

  Pandro sighed. It was a moment of complete relaxation.

  “Given tea,” he mused, “what need have men for wine?”

  Not till they had finished their tea did either speak again. Then Pandro said, “You are of course acquainted with my reason for being here since we have already been in communication by letter.”

  “Yes,” replied Tso-Lin. “You wish to meet the descendants of Confucius.”

  “That is true.”

  “They number many thousands.”

  “But you can direct me to those best suited to help me.”

  “I can do that easily, for in the heart of the Gobi Desert, far removed from the chaos of cities, dwells Chang Kien, surrounded by those who are interested in the contemplative life. They believe in the words of the Master, ‘Everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it.’ The eye should be so trained that it turns away from unpleasant sights. ‘The heart of the wise, like a mirror, should reflect all objects without being sullied by any.’ If I am correctly informed, your mission to China is to prove that the Chinese classics are forged, that my people have perpetrated the greatest hoax in all history.”

  “You speak bluntly,” said Pandro. He was plainly ill at ease. He wished the old man’s eyes would not bore into him so disconcertingly. “Permit me to change the wording of my purpose. I wish to prove that the ‘Book of Mencius’, ‘The Odes of Confucius’, the ‘Record of Rites’ are all authentic.”

  “Speaking for the six hundred million of my countrymen, my thanks,” said Tso-Lin gravely. “Yellow men have poured through China like the turbulent water of the Yellow River for thousands of years. And now at last a champion has come to defend our sages. We are gratified. Nevertheless, may I point out that Confucius has written, ‘In all things, success depends upon previous preparation, and without such preparation there is sure to be failure.’”

  “Is that a warning?” Pandro Sharp believed in direct methods. He hated innuendoes.

  “Not at all,” was the affable response. “I am here to help you; otherwise you would not have been directed to my shop by our mutual friends, your bankers. I admit that I endeavored to warn you that you were setting out on a perilous road where each step you take may bring disaster. I mean, of course, disaster to your plans. Therefore in order that your mission may be satisfactorily accomplished, I shall myself lead you to the home of Chang Kien.”

  “But how can you leave your shop?”

  “I have five
sons, all of whom are blended into my business. Now I seldom do physical work. I have arrived at that period of my life where I can sit back smoking serenely and gazing on the competency of my sons. Perhaps Li Po was right. ‘Life is an immense dream. Why toil?’”

  “But won’t a journey over the desert be arduous for you?”

  “No, for we will ride horseback and our mounts will be animals that know the way. Nor will it take as long as you imagine. After all, what is age? When is a man old? Life itself is but a moment snatched from eternity. Let us hurry.”

  Early the next morning they set out. The day was fair, pleasant and uneventful. No sand storms disturbed the tranquillity of that sea of dust and silence. They were unaccompanied by servants. Just they two alone rode into the desert. Occasionally Tso-Lin spoke briefly, quoted a verse or made some comment about the country through which they were passing.

  “The desert is the beginning and the end of life,” he said. “From dust we come, to dust we return, according to your Christian doctrines, the nature of which I have found no time to dispute. At this moment we are riding over the ashes of ten million dead. Unless it is true that the spirits of those we love never die. It is love that makes them immortal. Perhaps they are in the air about us. In the color of the dawn, in the fragrance of a flower or in the singing trees.”

  The sun climbed into the sky. It rained a golden flood upon the desert. Earth and sky seemed to blend into one mass. Horizons were blotted out.

  “When the physical world clashes with the spiritual, no doubt remains who will be vanquished.”

  Under the inverted bowl of the sky, the air was bursting with sunlight, but it was not unduly hot.

  Pandro Sharp breathed deeply.

  “It is good to drink in the sun,” he said.

  “Man needs light as much as he needs food or drink.”