At last the bowl was empty. Tuan Ti Fo smiled, holding the boy to him a while, conscious yet again of how insubstantial he seemed. As if he were made of something finer than flesh and bone, finer than yellow earth. And again he wondered about his presence in the dream. What did that mean? For it had to mean something.
He drew a pillow close then set the boy’s head down, covering him with the blanket.
‘Maybe you’ll tell me, eh? When you wake. That’s if that strange tongue is not the only one you speak.’
He went back to the oven and poured the remains of the Hun tun into the bowl, spooning it down quickly, then took the bowls and basin outside, locking the door behind him, going to the washrooms at the far end of the corridor. It didn’t take long, but he hurried about his tasks, concerned not to leave the child too long. And when he returned he took care in opening the door, lest ‘Gweder’ should slip out past him. But the boy still slept.
Tuan Ti Fo squatted, his legs folded under him, watching the boy. Then, knowing it would be hours before he woke, he got up and fetched his wei chi set, smoothing the cloth ‘board’ out on the floor before him then setting the bowls to either side, the white stones to his left, the black to his right. For a time he lost himself in the game, his whole self gathered up into the shapes the stones made on the board, until it seemed the board was the great Tao and he the stones.
Once he had been The First Hand Supreme in all Chung Kuo, Master of Masters and eight times winner of the great annual championship held in Suchow. But that had been thirty, almost forty years ago. Back in the days when he had yet concerned himself with the world.
He looked up from the board, realizing his concentration had been broken. He laughed, a quotation of Ch’eng Yi’s coming to mind.
‘Within the universe all things have their opposite: when there is the Yin, there is the Yang; where there is goodness, there is evil.’
And in the boy? He took a deep breath, looking across at him. Gweder and Lagasek. Yin and Yang. As in all men. But in this one the Tao was at war with itself. Yin and Yang were not complementary but antagonistic. In that sense the child was like the world of Chung Kuo. There too the balance had been lost. Like the boy, Chung Kuo was an entity at war with itself.
But the thought brought with it an insight. Just as this world of theirs had been tampered with, so too had the child. Something had happened to split him and make him fight himself. He had lost his oneness.
Or had had it taken from him.
Tuan Ti Fo cleared the board slowly, concerned for the boy. Yet maybe that was his role in this – to make the boy whole again: to reconcile the animal and the human in him. For what was a man without balance?
‘Nothing,’ he answered himself softly. ‘Or worse than nothing.’
He began again, the shapes of black and white slowly filling the board until he knew there were no more stones to play, nothing left to win or lose.
Tuan Ti Fo looked up. The boy was sitting up, watching him, his dark, over-large eyes puzzling over the shapes that lay there on the cloth.
He looked down, saying nothing, then cleared the board and set up another game. He began to play, conscious now of the boy watching, of him edging slowly closer as the stones were laid, the board filled up again.
Again he laid the final stone, knowing there was no more to be won or lost. He looked up. The boy was sitting there, not an arm’s length from him now, studying the patterns of black and white with a fierce intensity, as if to grasp some meaning from them.
He cleared the board and was about to play again when the boy’s hand reached out and took a white stone from the bowl to his left. Tuan Ti Fo made to correct him – to make him take from the bowl of black stones – but the boy was insistent. He slapped a stone down, in the corner nearest him on the right. In tsu, the north.
They played, slowly at first, then faster, Tuan Ti Fo giving nothing to the boy, punishing him for every mistake he made. Yet when he made to take a line of stones he had surrounded from the board, the boy placed his hand over Tuan’s, stopping him, lifting his hand so that he might study the position, his face creased into a frown, as if trying to take in what he had done wrong. Only then did he move his hand back, indicating that Tuan Ti Fo should take the stones away.
The next game was more difficult. The boy repeated none of the simple errors he had made first time round. This time Tuan Ti Fo had to work hard to defeat him. He sat back, his eyes narrowed, staring at the boy, surprised by how well he’d played.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You can play.’
The boy looked up at him, wide-eyed, then shook his head. No, Tuan thought; it’s not possible. You must have played before.
He cleared the board then sat back, waiting, feeling himself go very still, as if something strange – something wholly out of the ordinary – was about to happen.
This time the boy set the stone down in the south, in shang, only a hand’s length from Tuan Ti Fo’s knee. It was a standard opening – the kind of play that made no real difference to the final outcome – yet somehow the boy made it seem a challenge. An hour later Tuan Ti Fo knew he had been defeated. For the first time in over forty years someone had humbled him on the board he considered his own.
He sat back, breathing deeply, taking in the elegance of the shapes the boy had made, recollecting the startling originality of the boy’s strategies – as if he had just re-invented the game. Then he bowed low, touching his forehead almost to the board.
The boy stared back at him for a moment, then returned his bow.
So you are human after all, Tuan Ti Fo thought, shaking his head, amused by the gesture. And now I’m certain that the gods sent you. He laughed. Who knows? Perhaps you’re even one of them.
The boy sat there, his legs crossed under him, perfectly still, watching Tuan Ti Fo, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to understand why the old man was smiling.
Tuan Ti Fo leaned forward, beginning to clear the board, when a knock sounded at the door. A casual rapping that he knew at once was Marie.
He saw how the boy froze – how his face grew rigid with fear – and reached out to hold his arm.
‘It’s all right…’ he whispered. ‘There!’ he said, indicating the blanket. ‘Get under there, boy, and stay hidden. I’ll send them away.’
*
Marie turned, hearing noises behind her, then broke into a smile, bowing to the two elderly gentlemen who were passing in the corridor. She turned back, frowning. Where was he? It was not like him to delay.
Marie Enge was a tall, good-looking woman in her late twenties with the kind of physical presence that most men found daunting. They preferred their women more delicately made, more deferent. Neither was the impression of physical strength deceptive. She was a powerful woman, trained in the arts of self-defence, but that was not to say that she lacked feminine charm. At a second glance one noticed signs of a softer side to her nature: in the delicate primrose pattern of the edging to her tunic; in the strings of pearl and rose-coloured beads at her wrists; in the butterfly bow on her otherwise masculine-looking pigtail.
She waited a moment longer then knocked again. Harder this time, more insistent.
‘Tuan Ti Fo? Are you there? It’s me. Marie. I’ve come for our game.’
She heard a shuffling inside and gave a small sigh of relief. For a moment she had thought he might be ill. She moved back, waiting for the door to open, but it remained firmly shut.
‘Tuan Ti Fo?’
The slightest edge of concern had entered her voice now. She moved forward, about to press her ear against the door, when it slid open a little.
‘What is it?’ the old man said, eyeing her almost suspiciously.
‘It’s me, Shih Tuan. Don’t you remember? It’s time for our game.’
‘Ah…’ He pulled the door a fraction wider, at the same time moving forward, blocking her view into the room. ‘Forgive me, Marie, I’ve just woken. I didn’t sleep well and…’
‘You’re n
ot ill, are you?’ she said, concerned
‘No…’ He smiled then gave a bow. ‘However, I do feel tired. So if, for once, you’ll excuse me?’
She hesitated then returned his bow. ‘Of course, Shih Tuan. Tomorrow, perhaps?’
He tilted his head slightly then nodded. ‘Perhaps…’
She stood back, watching the door slide closed, then turned away. But she had gone only a few paces before she turned and stared back at the door, a strong sense of oddness – of wrongness – holding her in its grip. He had never before spoken of sleepless nights; neither, as far as she knew, had he ever complained of any kind of illness. Indeed, a fitter old boy she had never known. Nor had he ever put her off before. She frowned then turned away again, moving slowly, reluctantly, away.
For a moment she hesitated, not quite knowing what to do, then she nodded to herself and began to move quicker. She would go straight to the Dragon Cloud. Would ask Shang Chen if she could work an extra hour this end of her shift and leave an hour earlier. Yes. And then she would return.
Just in case the old man needed her.
The Dragon Cloud filled one end of Main, dominating the market that spread below its eaves. It was a big, traditional-looking building with a steeply sloping roof of red tile, its five storeys not walled in but open to the surroundings, each level linked by broad mock-wooden steps. Greenery was everywhere, in bowls and screens and hanging from the open balustrades, giving the teahouse the look of an overgrown garden. Waiters dressed in pale blue gowns – male and female, Han and Hung Mao – hurried between the levels, carrying broad trays filled with exquisite ceramics, the bowls and pots a pure white, glazed with a blue marking. At strategic points about the house the ch’a masters, specialists in ch’a shu, the art of tea, sat at their counters, preparing their special infusions.
At a stretch the Dragon Cloud could seat five thousand. More than enough, one would have thought, to cater for the surrounding levels. Even so, it was packed when they got there, not a table free. Chen looked about him then looked back at Karr.
‘Let’s go elsewhere, Gregor. It’ll be an hour at least before we get a table.’
Karr turned, beckoning to one of the waiters. Chen saw how the man came across, wary of Karr, eyeing the big man up and down as if to assess how much trouble he might be. Behind him, at the counter, several of the other waiters, mostly Han, turned, following him with their eyes.
Chen watched; saw Karr press something into the waiter’s hand; saw the man look down, then up again, wide-eyed. Karr muttered something then pressed a second tiny bundle into the man’s hand. This time the waiter bowed. He turned and, summoning two of his fellows across, hurried away, whispering something to his companions.
In a little while the waiter was back, bowing, smiling, leading them up two flights of steps then through to a table at the centre of the house. As they moved between the tables, three elderly Han came towards them, bowing and smiling.
Chen leaned towards Karr, keeping his voice low. ‘You bought their table?’
Karr smiled, returning the old gentlemen’s bows before allowing one of the waiters to pull a chair out for him. When Chen was seated across from him, he answered.
‘I’ve heard that the Dragon Cloud is the cultural centre of these levels. The place where everybody who is anybody comes. Here, if anywhere, we shall hear news of the boy. You understand?’
‘Ah…’ Chen smiled then sat back, relaxing. It was not like Karr to use his privilege so crudely and for a moment he had been concerned by his friend’s behaviour.
‘Besides,’ Karr added, accepting the ch’a menu the waiter held out to him, ‘I have heard that the Dragon Cloud is the paragon among teahouses. Its fame spreads far and wide, even to the heavens.’
This was said louder, clearly for the benefit of the waiters. The one who had first dealt with Karr bowed his head slightly, responding to Karr’s words.
‘If the ch’un tzu would like something… special?’
Karr leaned back. Even seated he was still almost a head taller than the Han.
‘You would not have a hsiang p’ien, by any chance?’
The waiter bowed his head slightly lower, a smile of pleasure splitting his face. ‘It is the speciality of the Dragon Cloud, ch’un tzu. What kind of hsiang p’ien would you like?’
Karr looked across at his friend. ‘Have you any preference, Kao Chen?’
Chen studied the menu a moment, trying to recognize something he knew amongst the hundred exotic brews, then looked up again, shrugging. ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ll have what you have.’
Karr considered a moment then turned his head, looking at the waiter. ‘Have you a ch’ing ch’a with a lotus fragrance?’
‘Of course, Master. A pao yun, perhaps?’
Karr nodded. ‘A Jewelled Cloud would be excellent.’
The man bowed, then, his head still lowered, took the ch’a menus from them. ‘I will have the girl bring the ch’a and some sweetmeats. It will be but a few minutes, ch’un tzu.’ He bowed again then backed away.
Chen waited a moment, until the man had gone, then leaned across, keeping his voice low. ‘What in the gods’ names is a hsiang p’ien?’
Karr smiled, relaxing for the first time in almost twelve hours of searching. ‘Hsiang p’ien are flower ch’a. And a ch’ing ch’a is a green, unfermented ch’a. The one we’re having is placed into a tiny gauze bag overnight with the calix of a freshly plucked lotus.’ He laughed. ‘Have you not read your Shen Fu, Chen?’
Chen laughed and shook his head. ‘When would I have time, my friend? With three children there is barely time to shit, let alone read!’
Karr laughed then studied him a moment. He reached out and touched his arm gently. ‘Maybe so, Kao Chen, but a man ought to read. I’ll give you a copy of Shen Fu some time. His Six Records of a Floating Life. He lived four centuries ago, before the great City was built. It was another age, I tell you, Chen. Cruder, and yet in some ways better than ours. Even so, some things don’t change. Human nature, for instance.’
Chen lowered his head slightly. So it was. He looked about him, enjoying the strange peacefulness of the place. Each table was cut off from the next by screens of greenery; even so, from where he sat he had a view of what was happening at other tables and on other levels. He turned, looking about him. Above the nearest serving counter a huge banner portrait of the ch’a god, Lu Yu, fluttered gently in the breeze of the overhead fans. It was an image that even Chen recognized, flying, as it did, over every teahouse in Chung Kuo.
‘Where do we begin?’ Chen asked after a moment. ‘I mean, we can’t simply go from table to table asking, can we?’
Karr had been staring away almost abstractedly; now he looked back at Chen. ‘No. You’re quite right, Chen. It must be done subtly. Quietly. If necessary, we will sit here all day, and all tomorrow too. Until we hear something.’
‘And if we don’t?’ Chen shook his head. ‘Besides, I hate all this sitting and waiting. Why don’t we just empty this whole deck and search it room by room?’
Karr smiled. ‘You think that would be a good idea, Chen? And what reason would we give?’
‘What reason would we need to give? We are on the T’ang’s business, surely?’
Karr leaned towards him, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘And if rumour were to go about the levels that the T’ang has lost something important and would clear a deck to find it? Surely such a rumour would have a price? Would find ears we’d rather it didn’t reach?’
Chen opened his mouth then closed it again. ‘Even so, there must be something else we can do?’
Karr shook his head. ‘The trail has gone cold. It would not do to rush about blindly elsewhere. The boy is here somewhere. I know it. The only course now is to wait. To bide our time and listen to the faint whispers from the tables.’
Chen leaned forward, about to say something, then sat back again. One of the waiters was approaching their table – a woman this time, a tall, blonde-ha
ired Hung Mao. He glanced at her as she set the tray down on the table between them then frowned, seeing how Karr was staring at her.
‘Your hsiang p’ien,’ she said, moving back slightly from the table, her head bowed. ‘Shall I pour for you, ch’un tzu?’
Karr smiled. ‘That would be most pleasant.’
The teapot was square in shape with a wicker handle; a white-glazed, ceramic pot with a blue circular pattern on each side – the stylized pictogram for ‘long life’. Beside it was a chung, a lidded serving bowl, and two ordinary ch’a bowls. Moving forward, the woman poured some of the freshly brewed ch’a into their bowls, then the rest into the chung, setting the lid back on.
She was a big woman, yet her movements had been precise, almost delicate. She touched the bowls as if each were alive, while the ch’a itself fell daintily, almost musically into the bowls, not a drop splashed or spilled.
Chen, watching Karr, saw a small movement in the big man’s face; saw him look up at the woman appreciatively.
‘Thank you,’ Karr said, smiling up at her. ‘It is good to be served by someone who cares so much for the art.’
She looked at him for the first time then lowered her eyes again. ‘We try our best to please, ch’un tzu.’
‘And these bowls…’ Karr continued, as if reluctant to let her go. ‘I have rarely seen such elegance, such grace of line, such sobriety of colour.’
For the first time she smiled. ‘They are nice, aren’t they? I’ve often commented how pleasant it is to serve ch’a from such bowls. They have… yu ya, no?’
Karr laughed softly, clearly delighted. ‘Deep elegance. Yes…’ He sat back, appraising her more closely. ‘You know a great deal, Fu Jen… ?’
Again she lowered her eyes, a faint colour coming to her neck and cheeks. ‘I had a good teacher. And it is Hsiao Chieh Enge, not Fu Jen. I am not married, you understand?’
Karr’s smile faded momentarily. ‘Ah… forgive me.’ He sat forward slightly. ‘Anyway, I thank you again, Hsiao Chieh Enge. As I said, it is very pleasing to be served by one who knows so much about the great art of ch’a shu.’
The Broken Wheel Page 22
