Mandarin

by Elegant, Robert;

  Compared to the cruel barbarism of the Manchus, the evil done by the outlanders was trivial. The outlanders had not condemned his father to death, but rather the perverse law of the effete Manchu princeling who reigned under the ironic name Hsien Feng, Universal Abundance. Neither universality nor prosperity prevailed amid the deprivation, rapacity, and brutality cloaked with mock-Confucian moralizing.

  Aaron pushed through the throng that endured such misgovernment with oxlike docility. Nurtured by the fertile South, he stood a head taller than the holidaymakers with the flat, unsmiling faces. His body was lean and his face narrow, its fine-cut features burned golden by the southern sun. He must appear a son of privilege to the stocky creatures of the bleak northern plain. Though city dwellers, they looked like surly peasants with pores ingrained by yellow earth.

  Were they, he wondered, also Chinese? What did it mean, being Chinese? How could he and these brutes belong to the same land, much less the same race?

  “Ai-kuo!” his fervently nationalistic friends urged. “Love the country.” Ai-kuo? Yes, he supposed he did love his country, but his love was no longer undiscriminating. Ai-kuo did not mean that he must—or could—love the repulsive people of Peking. Ai-kuo certainly did not mean that he could love the Manchu interlopers who brutalized and exploited all Chinese.

  If only Confucian virtue truly prevailed in China, all would be well. However, vestiges of the moral and legal justice that had formerly made the country harmonious and prosperous did persist. The grotesque verdict passed upon his father might still be commuted, and he had come to Peking to pursue that purpose. But how could the natural and man-made calamities that afflicted his country ever cease while a degenerate alien occupied the Dragon Throne? Perhaps the Mandate of Heaven, the divine sanction that bestowed power on a dynasty, had already been withdrawn from the Ching. Perhaps only a Chinese emperor reigning over a Chinese dynasty could redeem the nation.

  Aaron shuddered at his own temerity. Hastening out of the park of the Temple of Heaven, he turned north on the Imperial Way, the boulevard running due north that bisected the Northern Capital. Before him stood the Chien Men, the massively ramparted Fore Gate, which guarded the Manchus’ Tartar City from their Chinese subjects. Narrow streets called hutungs led off the Imperial Way into mazes palisaded by blank walls. Some were barely wide enough for two men walking abreast, since the old quarters of Peking had not been built for wheeled vehicles. Except on the boulevards, most men walked, while a few were carried in sedan chairs. Peking was secretive, its cramped thoroughfares sinister compared with the broad streets of the Foreign Settlement and the open shops of the South City.

  Aaron turned right at a signboard advertising BENEFICENT YANG, PAWNBROKER. Loath to ask directions of the natives with their shuttered faces, he followed the crude map drawn by the secretary of the Shanghai Moneyshop Guild, which was tucked in his money pouch between his taels and his letters of introduction. His memory trained by his rote education, he could see the brush strokes on the thin rice paper as clearly as if they were before his eyes. Yes, there it was, the textile shop with the signboard announcing that it used only the “long yard” measure of Peking. He turned left.

  Saul Haleevie had chosen the elder Lee brother to plead his father’s cause. Although such intervention was not sanctioned by the Criminal Code, custom and mercy inclined senior judges to hear such pleas. And who could speak better for a man unjustly condemned than his own son? Aaron dreaded the coming months, when his father’s life would depend upon the impression he made on the most learned—and most censorious—Mandarins in the Empire. Perhaps perversely, he was also stirred by the challenge, which would test his knowledge of the complex legal process.

  His younger brother had remained behind to visit their father in prison, while Saul Haleevie spoke only a little Shanghainese and no Mandarin. Since the merchant could not, therefore, have pleaded for Aisek even if the Ching Dynasty allowed barbarians to enter the capital, the responsibility had fallen to Aaron.

  Yet he had, it appeared, begun by losing his way. If he did not reach his objective, his journey would be vain—and he would be stranded in an alien city.

  Aaron stepped into a doorway to escape the eyes he felt watching through shuttered windows and fumbled under his long gown for the sketch map. Perhaps this time his memory had played him false.

  His elbow brushed against a brass plaque in the shadows, and he stooped to peer at it. The discreet ideograms did not read: KIANGSU PROVINCIAL ASSOCIATION. The new sign said: KIANGSU SHANGHAI ASSOCIATION. Aaron was overjoyed at finding his goal, whose new designation acknowledged the importance of his native city. The signboard he expected over the door had probably been removed to placate Peking’s xenophobia, since Shanghai was both the stronghold of the oceanic barbarians and the source of the new ideas that threatened the rockbound Manchu Dynasty. His hand trembling with relief, he grasped the bronze knocker.

  “Shei-yah?” a voice called. “Who’s here?”

  “A countryman called Lee.” Aaron felt tears prickle his eyelids. “A Lee from Shanghai.”

  The door creaked open. Eyes squinted suspiciously upward in the grotesquely large head of the dwarf porter. But the door swung wide, and a smile revealed blackened teeth when Aaron exclaimed in Shanghainese: “Please let me in! I’ve come a long way. And I’m cold and hungry.”

  The sweet fragrance of ginger and Shanghai vinegar suffused the vestibule, and Aaron heard the buzz of conversation in his own language. Even Shanghai flowers welcomed him. Dwarf azaleas in green-and-gold jardinières glowed beneath a landscape of the verdant Yangtze Delta.

  “You can’t treat them like civilized people,” the manager of the Capital Branch of the Shanghai Moneyshop Guild advised Aaron over dinner. “Always remember that they’re northern savages. The Manchus, of course, but even the Chinese. They’re not like you and me.”

  Exiles, even voluntary exiles like the plump banker, Aaron knew, often spoke disparagingly of their involuntary hosts. His equanimity restored by the familiar surroundings, Aaron regretted his hasty condemnation of the Northern Capital. He listened with half an ear, engrossed by the delicious food of Shanghai. When he crunched the sweet tang-li yü, crisp-fried lampreys, their crackling blurred his host’s voice. The braised terrapin was tender but chewy, and his tongue searched for morsels trapped between his teeth. He beamed when the waiter offered sautéed eel in bubbling oil specked with white pepper.

  The banker smiled indulgently. He had often seen homesickness assuaged by the genius of the chef whom the Kiangsu Shanghai Association paid so lavishly. As the association’s chairman himself acknowledged, the chef was far more important than any chairman.

  “Remember they’re not like you and me, these northern savages,” the banker repeated. “They’re not just greedy but unbelievably avaricious and lazy. They don’t want to work for their money. Above all, they’re devious, crooked as a ram’s horn.”

  “It sounds as if nobody can do much with them.”

  “You can work on their laziness and their avarice, young fellow,” the banker counseled. “And their deviousness. Never approach anything directly, but use silver for bait. Trickle it out in crumbs to draw the little birds. When the fat buzzards see what’s going on and come close—then bring out your gold to catch them.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite see, sir.”

  Aaron spoke candidly, since the banker was a friend, a fellow Shanghailander who wished him well.

  “It won’t be easy. But the barbarian Ha-lee-vee has provided ample funds.”

  “Our own, of course,” Aaron interposed.

  “Of course, your own—your honored father’s. Don’t worry about funds, though you’ll need a lot, but draw on me. And consult me before paying out large … ah … gifts. Your father put some good business my way in the old days. Think of me as an uncle.”

  “I’m deeply grateful, sir.”

  “Don’t be grateful yet. Just be smart. Any Shanghailander, even a night-
soil coolie, is twice as smart as these thick-headed northern savages. Now, I’ve arranged an appointment the day after tomorrow.”

  “An appointment? With whom?”

  “Master Way, deputy chief clerk for the Ministry of Justice. Those clerks aren’t Mandarins, but they’re twice as powerful. A few taels—silver, mind you—will buy his good will and his counsel. Time enough later for gold to buy friends.”

  “I’m deeply grateful, sir, for your wisdom.”

  “And don’t trust anyone! Always remember these northerners are strange. No, strange isn’t the word. They’re weird. By Heaven, I’ll be overjoyed when I go back home.”

  CHAPTER 13

  April 22, 1855

  SHANGHAI

  Sarah Haleevie had learned restraint from her husband. Since her father had indulged her as she now deplored Saul’s indulging Fronah, the lesson was painful, but she had finally learned from her husband’s example to control her impulsiveness. In his youth, Saul Haleevie had fought a prolonged battle to curb his violent temper. If she lapsed from time to time, so did he.

  She waited a week after concluding that it was her duty to remonstrate with Saul about Fronah’s future—and their own. The appropriate moment appeared on April 22, when Saul, having sent Aaron to Peking to plead Aisek’s case, put that concern aside for the moment. Besides, the business difficulties that worried him appeared to be resolving themselves. Contemplating the profits from the spring tea shipment, he had been almost buoyant at lunch. By early evening, she calculated, he would be glowing with the satisfaction of a full day’s work well done. Had she known that the mail had just arrived from Bombay, she might have postponed the confrontation.

  After dressing with care, Sarah slipped out the side door and took the path to the godown with the counting house above it. Climbing the staircase to the second story, Sarah was momentarily abashed at her own temerity. How dared she instruct her learned husband? But sometimes women had to speak out against men’s excessive subtlety, which could be the devil’s snare. Armored in righteousness, she swept past clerks startled by her invasion of their male preserve and opened the door of Saul’s office.

  “Oh, it’s you, my dear.” He looked up from the creased Hebrew document on his desk. “I’ll be with you in a moment. Just let me finish this letter from old man Khartoon. But what are you doing here? Is something wrong, my dear?”

  Sarah settled herself in the black leather visitor’s chair, which gleamed darkly in the lamplight. Seeing her husband’s face drawn, she was tempted to remind him that he should not be working so late every night. She had known for weeks that business was troubling him, though he had spoken only a few words about his problems. She almost felt herself a traitress, but she would not be diverted from her resolution by his worries.

  “Saul, there’s nothing specially wrong,” she replied. “But there is something wrong. I must talk with you about it.”

  “It?” he asked irritably. “What’s this mysterious it?”

  “Fronah and other things. But mostly Fronah, my dear.”

  “If it’s Fronah again, it can wait, can’t it?” Saul smiled. “After all, it’s been Fronah for sixteen years—especially the last year or two. A few minutes more won’t matter, will they?”

  “I suppose not, but only a few minutes. I really must talk with you. That’s why I came to your office.”

  “Perfectly all right, my dear. Actually I’m glad to see you. This matter of Aisek and, now, the old man … old Khartoon.” Saul automatically smoothed the letter. “But what’s this about Fronah?”

  At moments like this, Sarah Haleevie silently praised the Almighty, who had given her Saul for a husband. They were truly one—one flesh and one spirit. Her fear of his temper and her own imperative purpose were both tempered by his glad welcome and his concern for her problems.

  “No, my dear,” she said. “First tell me what’s troubling you. The letter from old Solomon Khartoon?”

  “I suppose so. That and Aisek. The judge ordered execution provisionally after the Autumn Assizes. So there’s some hope. I’m wondering what more I can do. Perhaps more bribes to Samqua.”

  “What of Reb Solomon’s letter?” Bored by the interminable predicament of Aisek Lee, Sarah recalled her husband to their own affairs.

  “You remember, my dear, I said old Solomon wouldn’t hear about Aisek’s arrest or our partnership until everything was settled. As long as profits kept rising, he couldn’t object.”

  “I remember, Saul.”

  “He’s a tyrant, Sarah, a little brass despot like a miniature idol of Baal.” Saul’s resentment erupted. “He doesn’t like the partnership, though it doesn’t hurt him. He wants me to prostrate myself before him like a Moslem toward Mecca. He hates my having any independence.”

  “What can he do? Has he threatened?”

  “Threats, yes. But there’s little he can do. Our contract stipulates I can trade on my own. Replace me? Hardly likely. He couldn’t find anyone else. Besides, that would make me independent. But the trouble is … you remember I said he wouldn’t care as long as profits rose?”

  “And, Saul?”

  “Profits aren’t rising. They’re falling, if anything.”

  “But how? I thought things were going well. You’ve shipped more tea and silk than any year before. How can profits be down?”

  “This damned disruption of trade—the Taipings and the Small Swords. The Chinese just aren’t buying Khartoon’s cotton goods. The import trade is down by half.”

  “But he still makes his profits on exports, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course. Tea, silks, porcelains, that new line I started … shared with him … fans, leather trunks, carpets, and furniture. Demand has never been higher. All Europe is mad for Chinese things. He’s making a fortune out of Shanghai. And he only opened here on a speculation—because I pressed him.”

  “What’s the trouble, then?” At that moment Sarah found the sacred rituals of business tedious. “What’s wrong?”

  “The trouble, my dear, is that it’s costing him too much. He’s paying out too much silver. And silver is dear. The Chinese don’t want piece goods now. They demand payment in silver, though, of course, opium has never been more robust.”

  “I know you don’t like dealing in opium, but you say you must.”

  “I must indeed, Sarah. I’d have to even if the other goods were snapped up. I can’t just give up that market. Besides, the Chinese are going to legalize the opium trade. They now want the taxes on opium they used to despise. Otherwise how could they pay their armies?”

  “Saul, what’s really bothering you?”

  “The old man’s damned impertinence. How dare I, he asks, how dare I take a Chinese partner? Just as he feared, he writes, I’m mixed up in a law case … treason and murder, which of course it’s not. He’s threatening to cut my percentage.”

  “Can he, Saul?”

  “I suppose he can. Our agreement stipulates that my share of the proceeds rises and falls along with the profits. Of course it all depends on his book-keeping. But if he sends less silver, I’m in trouble. If I can’t compete for exports …”

  “We do have other interests, don’t we?” Eager to reassure him, Sarah no longer concealed her extensive knowledge of his affairs. “The land you’ve bought, the buildings in the Settlement and the South City, the godowns—they’re all worth more every day, aren’t they?”

  “Of course, but only I see that now. I couldn’t sell if I wanted to. I need silver, liquid assets. The only other answer is more opium.”

  “It’s not that bad, opium. Judah Benjamin says it’s only a mild stimulant—good for the Chinese, like a glass of wine for us, if they don’t overdo it.”

  “That could be true, Sarah, even though Judah says so. But the Chinese will overdo it. Besides, violence and crime grow out of the opium trade—smuggling and piracy. There are many blackguards among the Europeans. And for Chinese, particularly poor Chinese, opium is a curse.”

/>   “You’re not the Almighty, Saul. You can’t change the world overnight. If opium’s necessary, you have to sell it. Why let the Europeans and the Americans take the trade away?”

  “I suppose you’re right, my dear. We must do the best we can. I’ll work it out. Now, what of Fronah? What brings you here looking so beautiful and so sad?”

  “All her gadding about. She’s always with the Gentiles. She won’t listen when I warn her. And she says you approve.”

  It was a joy, Saul reflected, to be married so long to a woman one loved deeply. It was also occasionally a problem. If he often anticipated her thoughts, she had the same insight into his. She had just revealed how intimately she knew his business affairs, which shouldn’t really concern a lady. Did she, Saul wondered, also know his altered view of their situation in Shanghai and their future? Her present concern was for Fronah, but, he feared, Sarah was also dismayed by what she must consider his own straying from the strict standards of their upbringing.

  His long fingers twisted the cover of the round tin beside the onyx tray holding his pens. He extracted a stubby Burma cheroot and held it to his ear. Rolling the brown cylinder between his fingertips, he listened appreciatively to its crackling. He struck a wooden Lucifer and allowed the sulphur fumes to dissipate before lighting the cheroot. The gray-blue smoke coiled about his full beard before drifting upward to veil his eyes.

  The ostentatiously casual gesture would hardly deceive Sarah. Since he normally smoked only a single cheroot after dinner, she would know that he too was perturbed about Fronah. But the delay allowed him to ponder his reply. He was reluctant to explore all the ramifications of her fears regarding Fronah. At that moment he regretted fleeing Baghdad to escape the Caliph’s vendetta against the Jews. Had he remained, he could probably have weathered the persecution and become a scholar of the law like his father. If he had not been forced into commerce, their present perplexities would never have arisen.