by Don Wulffson
Sometimes for hours, Baoliu and his mother would talk. Once she told him about a fire that had destroyed most of Beijing when she was a little girl. She reminisced about her days serving in a duke’s household, then of marrying Baoliu’s father in Hangzhou—an arranged marriage, one in which the two did not meet until the day of the wedding.
She told Baoliu about how awkward it had been at first, but then how she had found herself falling in love with their father, and what a good man he had been and what great pride and pleasure he had taken in his work. They had been poor, but they had gotten by, happy in their determination to improve their lot in life. And they had done so. Throughout Yongjia, their father had become well known for his exceptional workmanship, and orders for the footwear he crafted had soared. He had purchased a much larger shop, and for a time they had lived there, in an apartment above the workplace, until they had moved to Tiantang.
In the end, she had spoken only of her love for her husband, her sons, and the rest of the family. For them to be happy after she was gone, that had been her only wish.
Each day, she had grown weaker, and her face had become narrow and shrunken-looking. Her eyes had seemed to grow large, and looked shiny and watery.
The family physician had visited daily. He tried to stop the illness with cauterization, massage, arsenic, and medicines made from plants and insects, but she had only gotten worse. To ease her pain, he applied acupuncture—until her body looked like a forest of needles. For a time, she seemed better, but then her pain became unbearable. She was given opium, in increasing amounts. And then mostly she slept.
One afternoon, Baoliu sat with her as she dozed. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. A few moments later she was gone.
At the funeral, Baoliu and Hai Nan had held on to each other and wept. And their father had come to them; he had put his arms around them and told them to be strong.
But it was their father who had been weak, it seemed to Baoliu. He had turned cold and bitter. He was harsh with the servants. The slightest thing made him angry; strangely, it seemed that he was angriest with his wife, as though by dying she had abandoned him. He complained incessantly about how empty and lonely his life had become.
Less than four months later he had purchased Jia Lam.
“This murder that you were convicted of,” said Zhou, startling Baoliu from his reverie. He looked up, a splicing knife in hand.
“Your father paid for your life to be spared but didn’t speak up for you at your trial. Why? It makes no sense.” Zhou rocked back on his heels, squinting at Baoliu through squares of shadow.
“Because he thought I was guilty—and wouldn’t dishonor himself by saying otherwise in court.”
Zhou smiled crookedly. “Rich people, they’re so strange. A poor person couldn’t afford to think like that!”
Baoliu shrugged, not knowing what to say.
“The crime—the murder—if you didn’t do it, then who did?”
“I don’t know. Could have been anybody.”
“How about your brother?”
“It’s possible. But why would he be stealing? He wasn’t desperate for money—not that I know of. He gambles a little, but that’s about it.”
“Maybe he gambles more than you know? Maybe he owed money and was a lot more desperate than you realize?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose. But I doubt it.”
“How about a servant?”
“Some of them, perhaps, but not the house servants—they could have stolen anything they wanted at any time they wanted; they wouldn’t have needed to sneak around at night.” Baoliu shrugged. “Most likely it was just a common thief.”
Zhou scratched the scar on his neck. “If that’s the case, then whoever it was would have tried to sell the jewelry. And if you can find out who did, then you’ll know all you—”
“You’re a genius!” exclaimed Baoliu, interrupting him. “They would have tried to sell the things, probably to a pawnshop. If we can find out who sold the jewelry, then we’ll know who killed Jia Lam!”
“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” Zhou laughed.
THAT AFTERNOON, THEY headed into town, first to letter-writing booths near the town square. There, for two tongqian, illiterates dictated letters to scribes. For a half tongqian, Baoliu purchased a sheet of paper, quill and ink, and the use of a writing table.
“I don’t even know what was taken,” he admitted to Zhou. “But I’d recognize most of the pieces, especially the newer ones; they all had our family emblem worked into the design.” He bent over the writing table, and as well as he was able, drew a picture of a snake biting its own tail.
The first pawnshop was just across the way. It had been built of the same material as the plaza’s cobblestone pavement, and the place seemed to grow right out of it.
“Mei Kanguo!” “No!” said the owner, his face as round and hard as the stones that seemed to make up most of the strange shop. “No. I’ve not seen such jewelry. Now, out of here!”
Down the road they found a place selling used clothing and jewelry. The owner there seemed intrigued by the question; the elderly lady, an abundance of combs in her white hair, studied the pictures at length. But then shook her head no and returned the drawing.
A man with gold teeth yelled at them and chased them out of his shop with a club. A young woman showed the drawing to other family members, but none were familiar with the design. A man and his wife, both of them very fat, gave each of the boys a fen, but had no information to offer. Some people treated them well, some treated them rudely; it made no difference: none knew anything about the jewelry.
From the heart of the city, the Genggu, The Drum of Time, began pounding, signaling the beginning of the last hour of the day.
Doors and shutters banged closed; iron screens were dragged across storefronts. People poured from workplaces. Across from Baoliu, a skinny water porter lowered the burden from his back, sat wearily on a doorstep, and then bowed his head, as though in thanks that his day was done.
“We’ll try again. We probably haven’t been to more than half the places,” said Zhou as they headed back down through the city, the streets beginning to crowd with people headed home.
Suddenly, Baoliu stopped and stared. Wearing the black skullcap and a full-length robe of a merchant, his brother walked right past him.
“Hai Nan!”
“What?” He flinched, turned around. “Who are you?”
“Your brother.”
“Baoliu!” He looked him up and down. “I … I’m glad to see you,” he said, fumbling over his words. His eyes traveled to Zhou.
Zhou met his gaze and then gave Baoliu a knowing look. “I’ll meet you at the wo-pu,” he said, and with a backward wave headed down the street.
“Rangkai!” “Out of the way!” a man pushing a wheelbarrow grumbled, trying to get past them.
They moved to the side of the road, and looked at each other. Baoliu was in too much shock to know where to begin, and the same was true for Hai Nan, it seemed.
“Shall we walk?” he said.
They joined the flow of pedestrians headed up the street, saying nothing, just moving along with the others. Finally, a burned-out area beside the road offered an escape from the noisy throngs. Tall grass had sprouted from the blackened remains of a house that had burned down, seemingly not long ago; the pungent scent of burned wood still lingered in the air.
Tired-looking, Hai Nan sat down on the remnant of a wall. In the ashes, Baoliu spotted a small statuette of Buddha, and picked it up. Once white, the ivory Buddha was charred, the base of it almost completely burned away. He studied it for a moment and then dropped it back into the ashes. A tiny geyser of gray powder popped up.
“How have you been?” Hai Nan touched the filthy sleeve of his shirt. “How are you getting by?”
“I manage.”
Hai Nan looked at him appraisingly. “I didn’t recognize you at first,” he said. “Your clothes. The shaved h
ead.”
“How’s Father?” asked Baoliu.
A noisy oxcart, one with massive wooden wheels, drowned out any other sound. They waited for it to pass.
“How is he?” Baoliu asked again.
“Not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s tired all the time, and hardly has any appetite. He has trouble sleeping and often wanders the house at night. All that’s happened—all these ‘difficulties’—they have been very hard on him.”
“I understand,” said Baoliu.
“I don’t think you do.” Hai Nan crossed his arms into his sleeves. “Father has lost his wife. He has lost a son. And now he may lose his business.”
Baoliu blinked. “Why?”
“It cost him eight thousand tongqian to save your life, much of his savings. But even worse, now he’s losing customers. Because he’s in disgrace, many of his best customers no longer come to the shop. And there’s talk that his contract with the military may not be renewed.”
“And this is my fault?”
“Yes,” said Hai Nan evenly. “Who else do you think is to blame?”
“The person who killed Jia Lam.”
“Ah, yes! The mysterious person that no one but you saw!” Hai Nan shook his head. “The constables questioned people for miles around, and asked if anyone had been seen running away that morning. None had.”
“Perhaps the killer never fled.”
“What do you mean?”
“That whoever killed Jia Lam may have been someone in the house—someone who belonged there, and had no reason to run away; they would have simply slipped back into their quarters.” He looked Hai Nan in the eye. “Someone such as yourself.”
“You’re suggesting I killed her? How dare you!”
“It’s possible.”
“And why would I want to?” he snapped, getting to his feet.
“I have no idea. I only know that I didn’t.”
“You still claim to be innocent when so clearly you’re not?”
“I am innocent. And as I told Father, I’ll prove it someday.”
“I hope you do.”
“Do you really?” Baoliu scoffed.
“Yes, for your sake as well as ours. Do you think this is what Father wants for you? Do you think it is what I want—to have my only brother wandering the streets like some beggar?”
“I wouldn’t know. All I know is that neither of you spoke for me at my trial, and not once did either of you consider the possibility that I was telling the truth!”
“We have! But nothing supports your story. Damn you, Baoliu, don’t you think that Father and I care about you, that we would love nothing better than to see you prove your innocence? You would be welcomed back into the house. You would become part of our lives again. And once again the family name and business would be restored.”
“Ah, yes, ‘the family name and business’—that would be of the utmost importance!”
Hai Nan scowled. “Do you ever think of anyone but yourself? Do you care at all about what you have done to anyone else? What you have done to our family—to Father? Suddenly his whole world has been destroyed.”
“I can’t imagine what that would be like!”
“Does it matter at all to you that his life’s work, his business, is about to fail because of you? Because of all this, we may lose everything!”
“How terrible! You could end up living in the streets.” Hai Nan stiffened.
“And I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen!” Baoliu laughed. “The two of you might end up sleeping in the same wo-pu as me!”
Hai Nan glowered, clenching his jaw. “I’ll tell Father we met.”
“Do as you please.”
Hai Nan looked at him sourly, and then shaking his head, turned and walked away, burned debris crunching underfoot. He glanced back at Baoliu for an instant and then continued on his way.
7
Alone, the next day Baoliu went to every shop he thought they had missed. And he went to the street peddlers, those selling jewelry from carts and stands, and from mats spread on the ground. But again and again came the answer he expected—no, they hadn’t seen anything on the order of what he was looking for.
“I’m not going to find them,” he told Zhou the following morning as they headed down to the harbor area. “We’ve gone to about every place possible and haven’t found anything. There’s no place left to look for the jewelry, and I have no idea what else I can do. Maybe I should just start trying to put all this behind me.”
“Maybe you should—I don’t know,” said Zhou, as they stepped onto the docks, and into fog drifting in from the sea. Gulls circled, jabbering and squawking as they followed boats headed out to sea.
“You two want work?” A man loomed out of the mist, and gestured to a huge trawler, the vessel rocking in the backwash of passing boats.
“Doing what?” asked Baoliu.
“Unloading the catch.”
“How much?” asked Zhou.
“Eight tongqian until the job’s done.”
“Ten,” said Baoliu.
“I’ll give you nine, but no more.” With a nod of agreement from them both, the man led them to the trawler and set them to work. In the trawler’s hold was a small mountain of fish. Over and over, they filled large, two-handled baskets, hauled them across the dock, and then spilled them onto worktables for cleaning.
By the time they had finished, the day had turned hot and humid. Wet with sweat, every part of them coated with silvery-looking slime, they made their way down to the beach—and then walked right into the ice-cold sea, fully dressed, washing themselves and their grimy clothing at the same time. They made their way out deeper and deeper, until the water came up to their chins. And then, as fast as they had rushed in, they turned and hurried back, unable to bear the cold any longer.
“That felt good!” exclaimed Zhou, hugging himself and shivering as they trudged ashore.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so filthy,” said Baoliu, following Zhou’s example of stripping down to his loincloth and then laying out his clothes on a large, sun-heated rock to dry.
Baoliu looked down at himself, at an assortment of bruises and scrapes, and at hands so darkly tanned he seemed to be wearing gloves.
“Sometimes I wonder,” said Baoliu, sitting down beside Zhou.
“Wonder what?”
“What would have happened if I’d never met you.”
Zhou laughed. “You’d probably be dead by now.”
“Could be.” Baoliu shrugged. “And without my father, I’d be dead for sure. Instead, I end up sitting there in front of the whole world, watching a man have his head chopped off—with everyone wishing that I was the one down on my knees. As long as I live, that’s the way everyone’s going to see me.”
“You sure you want to give up on trying to prove you didn’t do it?” Zhou squinted into the glare of the sun.
“No, I’m sure I don’t,” said Baoliu. “Just as I’m sure I don’t know what to do next; I have no idea how I can prove I didn’t kill Jia Lam. All the evidence is against me; everyone is certain I killed her, everyone is sure I’m guilty, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t prove anything to anybody. I’ll just have to accept it and try to go on from there.” He smiled grimly. “It’s strange—sometimes I feel like I am guilty.”
Zhou looked up.
“Not of killing Jia Lam but of killing Shen Manfong.”
“Your father’s employee—the one who was executed in your place?”
“That day in the execution yard, in my mind I keep seeing it. I keep seeing his head lying in the dirt. For what? He didn’t deserve to die any more than I did.”
“That’s true.”
“I wonder what he was like and what was going on with him.” Baoliu bit at his lip. “Even if I can’t clear myself, maybe I can find out what drove him to do it.”
“You said he worked for your father. He was a shoemaker?”
>
“No, a tanner. He cured hides. He wasn’t around much, maybe once every few months when he brought hides from one of our tanneries. He scalded himself—his hands—while working out back, behind the shop. I wasn’t there. I just heard about it the next day. A long time passed. And then one day Shen Manfong came into the shop and walked right past me. I saw his hands. The scars were awful; some of the fingers looked as though they were webbed together.”
“Then what happened? What’d he do?”
“I heard Father arguing with him in a back room.”
“About what?”
“I couldn’t make out what they were saying.” Baoliu shrugged. “A while later the door to the office slammed, and Shen Manfong walked off—and looked really angry. I never saw him again—not until the morning of the kadi,” said Baoliu. “And for a second the night before, in the room in the guardhouse where they took me to see my father and the magistrate. He was thinner, and his scalp was shaved. He looked a little different, but I’m certain it was him.”
“You said Shen Manfong and your father fought. How did they go from fighting with each other to Shen Manfong giving his life to save you?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Baoliu.
“Where did he live?”
“I don’t know. But I can probably find out.”
“How?” asked Zhou, and then realized the answer himself: “At your father’s shop. He’d know.”
Baoliu frowned. “But I’m forbidden to speak to him.”
“I’m not.” Zhou smiled. “I’ll talk to him. All right?”
Baoliu didn’t answer. He just looked at Zhou. “You’re a good friend, Wanlun Zhou,” he said. “You don’t even know that I’m innocent. I don’t have any proof. All you know is what I’ve told you.”
“You’re wrong,” said Zhou.
“What?”
“I do know you’re innocent.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You don’t have any reason to lie to me. Besides, after the execution, you stayed in Yongjia. If you were guilty, you’d have gotten out of the city as fast as you could, to somewhere where you wouldn’t be known. Instead, you’re still here, still trying to prove you’re innocent, still trying to find out what happened. That’s not what a guilty person would have done.”
