Anthony Grey

by Peking- A Novel of China's Revolution- 1921-1978 (epub)

  The moment the coolie’s straw-sandaled feet struck the spine of ridge stones leading down the center of the cobbled alleyway, Jakob sat straighter in his cushioned seat. Rice-straw matting stretched across bamboo supports above his head blocked out the sun’s glare and turned the narrow alley into a mysterious, subterranean tunnel:

  narrow-eyed faces poised above rice bowls and chopsticks peered from the gloom of open-fronted cook shops, intent craftsmen hammered and carved trinkets of jade, gold, and brass in dimly lit workrooms, and itinerant food peddlers sold noodles and rice cakes from little wheeled stoves. The whiff of hot spices, acrid oil smoke, and incense mingled with the reek from excrement handcarts in the stagnant air. Ragged, doll-faced children shrieked and giggled, pressing themselves against the walls to let the rickshaw pass; traveling barbers shaved the heads of old coolies in crumbling doorways; and from unseen wireless sets the discordant clamor of Chinese music rose hauntingly above the unceasing hubbub of excited voices echoing the length of the tunneled lane.

  From that instant of entering the shadowy Shanghai alleyway Jakob in later life would date his true arrival in Asia. The sights, sounds, and odors which immediately excited his senses left an indelible impression in his brain. As the iron-wheeled rickshaw jangled along the cobbles, emotions began to stir which would never entirely leave him — a superficial fascination changed quickly to something much deeper.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the filtered light Jakob began to see the stark reality of what from the ship had seemed merely exotic and picturesque. Some of the shrieking children, he noticed, were calling warnings to files of blind beggars following them, hand to shoulder, through the gloom. One hunched figure clad in rags bumped against the rickshaw’s hood and Jakob saw then that both sockets of his eyes were mutilated and empty. Many of the weary-faced women hobbled painfully on bound, stunted feet scarcely big enough to support small girls, and the pitted features of men and women alike betrayed the ravages of smallpox. Open sores were visible on many bodies, empty sleeves and trouser legs bore witness to the mutilations caused by China’s many internal wars, and here and there the body of an adult or child lay motionless and lifeless at the foot of the walls. In the blank, sullen expressions of the people he saw on all sides, Jakob recognized despair and distrust, and soon he became aware that a dull, pervasive hopelessness existed beneath the surface commotion.

  As they emerged from the narrow lane into a tiny, crowded market square, the tiring rickshaw coolie stumbled to a standstill. Looking down, Jakob saw that he had been forced to halt by a legless beggar who had propelled the trunk of his body across the cobbles into their path on a makeshift wooden trolley. Both the beggar’s lower limbs had been severed at the hip, and to his horror Jakob saw that the unfortunate man had shaved his head and placed lighted incense sticks in a self-inflicted wound in his skull to solicit additional sympathy. Appalled by the sight, Jakob tugged money from his pocket and leaned out of the rickshaw to press a Chinese dollar into the beggar’s outstretched claw. He murmured a prayer in English as he did so but the cripple turned his wooden-wheeled trolley around and rattled noisily away across the cobbles without uttering a word. When the rickshaw rolled forward again, Jakob noticed that sweat was coursing down his panting coolie’s back like grease oozing from a spitted ox. The heat and the shock of what he was seeing all around him were making Jakob’s own head swim and all his natural compassion focused itself with a sudden irrationality on the coolie.

  “Ting che!” yelled Jakob. “Stop!”

  The coolie looked around uncertainly, still trotting, and motioned queryingly with his chin toward the rickshaw of Laurence Franklin that was disappearing into the crowds a hundred yards ahead. Jakob shouted his command again and leapt out of the cushioned seat.

  “Get in — please!” Jakob struggled with his rudimentary, training- college Chinese. “You’re tired. I pull you now.”

  The coolie refused, protesting loudly, but seeing that a crowd was starting to gather, Jakob swung the astonished Chinese off his feet and lifted him bodily into his own vehicle. Seizing the shafts, he turned and set off at a fast run in pursuit of the other rickshaw.

  The thick crowds impeding the stinking alleyway fell back against the walls on hearing the approaching commotion; as Jakob raced past them they gaped open-mouthed at the sight of a white European transporting a yelling Chinese coolie in his own rickshaw. Despite the heat which bathed him instantly in perspiration, Jakob felt a purifying exhilaration surge through his limbs. Restless after the weeks of inactivity at sea, his strong young body rejoiced in the act of running. Although the lane led up a slight gradient he increased his pace, lengthening his stride and throwing back his head. As he ran, the sustained exertion helped release the tensions growing within him: the perplexing feelings which Mei-ling had aroused, his other shipboard anxieties, and the new horrors of Shanghai’s terrible poverty and disease all fused in his mind to produce, paradoxically, a sublime sense of elation. The magnitude of the task awaiting him in China was clearly greater than he had dared to imagine — but dashing through the densest throng of humanity he had ever encountered in his young life, he found himself welcoming the challenge with all his heart, It would provide a true and worthy test of his faith!

  Rushing on past shabby fan-tan gambling dens and grimy tea-houses that echoed with the clack of mah-jongg tiles, he saw Franklin’s rickshaw turn into the gate of a walled compound in which the mission house evidently stood. From sheer exuberance he accelerated and ran faster now that his goal was in sight, swinging the rickshaw shafts out behind him to pass a swaying coolie cart piled high with gray roof tiles. Too late he saw another heavily laden barrow rolling down the lane in the opposite direction, and when his own coolie began to shriek a warning, he plunged toward the mission house gates with all his strength in an effort to get through the narrowing gap between the converging carts.

  The approaching coolie’s head was down, his eyes focused on the pitted surface ahead of him, and his own rhythmic trotting chant made him oblivious to the shouted warnings. lie came on, his speed unchecked, and in swinging sharply from his path Jakob snagged the oilcloth hood of the rickshaw against the precariously stacked load of roof tiles. A rope snapped and the entire load cascaded from the cart, blocking the lane and overturning the oncoming barrow. One of the flying tiles struck Jakob a glancing blow on the temple and he sank to his knees on the cobbles, half-stunned. He heard soft- shod feet rush to surround the debris but the confused babble of Chinese voices remained muffled, as though reaching him through deep water. Feeling a gentle hand touch his shoulder he looked up:

  hazily, through a mist, he saw the pale face of a girl framed with soft brown hair.

  “He’s cut his forehead —— but it’s only a scratch.”

  The girl’s voice bore a trace of soft American vowels which seemed to soothe Jakob’s throbbing head, and as his vision cleared he saw wide gray eyes smiling sympathetically down at him. Then a man’s face that was vaguely familiar appeared at the girl’s shoulder. The weathered features had aged and his hair, previously steel gray, had turned white but when he spoke his voice too revived dim memories.

  “You seem to have made an auspicious start in China, Mr. Kellner,” said the man, smiling ironically. “Perhaps we’d better get you inside.”

  6

  The gleaming, chauffeur-driven Buick limousine that had met the Tomeko Maru purred smoothly past the ornate Victorian grandstand that flanked the British racecourse on the Bubbling Well Road. It was heading toward the western edge of the International Settlement, where palatial mansions protected by wrought-iron gates and high walls stood apart from the turbulent sprawl of waterfront Shanghai. Its uniformed Chinese driver held himself formally erect at the wheel and in the luxuriously cushioned rear compartment, separated from the driver by a closed glass partition, Chiao and Mei-ling sat silently side by side, wrapped in their own thoughts.

  As the car edged along the Bund and crawled into the c
ongested streets adjoining the waterfront, Chiao had peered out at the dark, scrofulous alleyways and the wretched people emerging from them with a look of intense consternation on his face. Mei-ling too wore a troubled expression as she looked out of the window on her side, noticing the desperate contrasts between the poverty-stricken Chinese majority swarming the pavements and the minority of wealthy foreigners and Chinese merchants. Once or twice Chiao shook his head mutely as though in disbelief, but he did not break his silence until the limousine was clear of the dense throng and was moving more briskly through lighter traffic. Then he checked that the glass partition was fully closed before speaking in a low voice.

  “Nothing has changed since we left,” he said bitterly. “How can any Chinese who loves his heritage doubt that the Kung Ch’an Tang is necessary? Without the Communist Party how can we hope to win back our dignity and self-respect among all this?”

  “Are you already rehearsing your arguments in your head, Ta ko, for the meeting with Father?” asked Mei-ling anxiously. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  Although she looked at him with obvious affection, Mei-ling still used the formal mode of address — Elder Brother — when addressing Chiao. In his turn, Chiao habitually demonstrated his concern for his younger sister by the warmth of his expression and the extent to which he was prepared to confide in her. Often she read his inner thoughts accurately before he spoke but on this occasion he shook his head firmly, his features becoming set and determined.

  “Shanghai isn’t the Bois de Boulogne, I know, Mei-ling. Here we’ve got to do more than lie in the grass dreaming of how we might change the world. But I’m restless for some real activity. I can’t wait to get down to the southern countryside. I’m longing to find out for myself what life is like in the new Central Soviet.”

  For a moment they both fell silent again, remembering the long summer afternoons in Paris when they had passionately debated the future with groups of young Russians and European Communists. Mei-ling had spent her vacations in France, and lolling in grassy hollows among the trees calling complete strangers “comrade” had induced feelings of exhilaration and hope in both of them: the existence of the Communist International forging a worldwide, seemingly unlimited brotherhood of youthful idealists had filled them with a great certainty that one day they would return home and help bring about sweeping, historic changes in their distant country. But now with the sickening reality of China’s plight close before their eyes again, they faced the immediate prospect of an explosive confrontation with their father when they revealed their plans for the future.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to say nothing for a ‘eek or two?” suggested Mei-ling tentatively. “It would allow some time for us to readjust.”

  “No.” Again Chiao shook his head firmly. “I’m sure Father will have arranged a homecoming banquet for us tonight. We must wait until that’s over. But I shall tell him as soon as possible afterward.” He paused and looked more closely at his sister, his voice softening. “You talk about waiting. Are you sure you still want me to speak for you as well? You don’t have to come if you’re not sure.”

  Color rose quickly in Mei-ling’s cheeks. “Ta ko, if I stay I will be forced into an unbearable marriage with one of the Chang brothers or somebody like them. I would die of shame and humiliation!” Her dark eyes flashed angrily at the thought. “I’m coming with you.”

  Chiao smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry for doubting your determination. I should have known better.”

  “What do you think Father will do?” asked Mei-ling in a quiet voice. “Will he understand, do you think?”

  Chiao’s face became very serious. “I will try to make him understand. I hope he will want to support us in some way. But I don’t know. .

  “Will you tell him you joined the Communists six years ago, before you went to Europe?”

  “If he assumes it began in Europe. I won’t say anything different. .

  Chiao looked up warily as the limousine swung across a broad, tree-shaded avenue and glided into a willow-fringed drive that led to a cluster of single-storied pavilions ornamented with red pillars and blue upswept eaves. In contrast to the surrounding European villas and mansions, the residence had been built in the style of a traditional Chinese dwelling. Walled courtyards linked by circular moon gates and artificial gardens surrounded the pavilions; potted plum flowers and blooming shrubs abounded; water tinkled into quiet rock pools; and flickering lanterns and caged singing birds were suspended in the branches of small trees, giving the house an air of deep tranquility and peace.

  As the car sighed to a halt, their father’s personal servant, Old Wang, an aged Chinese with a shaven head and the tight, strained features of a former court eunuch, hurried from the house to hold open the Buick’s rear door. Smiling delightedly, he clasped his hands inside the sleeves of his black silk tunic and bowed low as Mei-ling and Chiao alighted. No other family member appeared to disturb the calm and they followed the old servant into the cool, silent house. In the corridors their eyes immediately fell on familiar ornaments of jade and ceramic, disposed with great precision on blackwood tables. Silk scroll paintings with which they had grown up hung alongside calligraphy banners bearing felicitous handwritten characters, and Chiao and Mei-ling both experienced a keen feeling of pleasure at returning to forgotten, familiar things. They glanced at one another, exchanging faint smiles, but each could see that the happiness the other felt was mingled with a growing apprehension about the reception they would get when they met their father.

  7

  House servants jacketed in red and gold bore a succession of rare culinary delicacies to the banqueting tables of Lu Peng three hours later to celebrate his son’s return to China: sautéed tongues of wild duck and hummingbird, braised paws of bear, shark’s fin, turtle with black mushrooms, ovaries of snow frog with ginseng. When the braised bears’ paws were served, Lu rose to his feet and lifted high a slender-stemmed glass of Shao Hsing wine. A stocky, square-faced man with heavy brows and narrow, watchful eyes, he had an air of resolution and inner strength; only the pouches under his eyes testified to the fact that he was in his early sixties, and his otherwise unlined skin glowed with health. His hair was unrelievedly black and an unusual stillness in his manner had an ominous quality, so that the moment he stood up, his fifty invited guests gathered around several circular tables of polished teak fell silent.

  “The bear was once the symbol of might in China. To eat the paws of the bear helps give a man the bear’s strength. Today my son and heir has come home from abroad after two years of study . . . Now he will devote himself to our family business. To him, and to all those who offer him friendship and cooperation, I wish the strength of the mighty bear.”

  While the guests rose to drink the toast, Li Peng’s old manservant entered quietly carrying a scroll of calligraphy that bore verses inscribed by Lu in his own hand. Deferentially the servant placed it before his master and retired unnoticed.

  “To mark this occasion,” continued Lu, picking up the scroll, “I have penned a few unworthy lines of poetry in what was known as the ‘old style’ even in the time of the Tang emperors. Though undoubtedly quite worthless, these verses do perhaps convey the feelings of an old father’s heart.”

  Lu, who wore an embroidered mandarin scholar’s long-gown and a round, peakless cap of tight-fitting silk, turned toward his son, who sat at his right hand, and read from the scroll:

  “Like the ghosts and spirits

  Of our many illustrious ancestors

  A man is always happiest

  In the midst of his united family”

  Chiao rose and bowed low to his father as the assembled company applauded; he too wore an embroidered Chinese jacket but was hatless. He offered his thanks confidently and elaborately, with much traditional self-deprecation, although Lu noticed that his son avoided looking directly at him. When the old manservant appeared at Chiao’s side bearing a scroll inscribed with Chiao’s own calligraphy, h
e took it and held it respectfully toward his father and read its complementary old-style verse aloud:

  “One day in my father’s house

  is far more precious to me

  Than a thousand days

  in lands beyond the sea.”

  Lu beamed with genuine pleasure and nodded his approval as he accepted his son’s poem amid a further burst of applause. The banquet became more animated as other elderly male Chinese guests rose in turn to offer good wishes in the form of verse, epigram, or wordplay. When dishes of turtle shreds sautéed with bamboo fungus and black mushrooms were served, Lu rose again and looked toward Mei-ling, who was sitting opposite him. She wore a high-collared jacket of palest green silk decorated at the neck and across the sleeve ends with broad bands of pink satin; her jet black hair, lifted in a glossy chignon, gleamed in the candlelight, giving her a poised, detached air.

  “My dear Mei-ling,” said Lu, smiling affectionately, “this dish has been prepared as a thanksgiving to our ancestors for bringing you safely home through the storm at sea. A poetic interpretation of the characters denoting this delicacy might also be ‘a golden willow bestrides a falling wave.’ “ He passed a decorated handwritten list of the dishes to her across the table. “I am very happy that my ‘golden willow’ has tamed the waves of the ocean and returned to glorify my garden once more . . . And of course I know that your return has made someone else happy too.”

  He directed his glance to the bespectacled young Chinese seated beside his daughter; a few years older than Mei-ling, he was already faintly proprietorial in his manner toward her and he smiled back with confidence at Lu.

  “Now that you’ve finished your music studies, Mei-ling,” added Lu, “we can begin to prepare for the joining of our family with the Changs. Not only have members of our, two families been lifelong friends, since you’ve been away the Changs have become our closest business partners.”