I also discovered something else: poor people. They were in every street. I’d seen them ever since the first day I came to see Grandfather’s Elder Brother when I was a boy. But I hadn’t really seen them. They were just in the background, nothing to do with me.
Starving people, dressed in rags, barefoot in winter. Sick people with dying children. Once you looked, you saw them everywhere, leaning against walls or peering out from narrow doorways. They reminded me of skinny birds, stripped of their feathers. As for their children, they made me think of fledglings that’ve fallen from their nest to the ground. If they weren’t dead already, you knew they soon would be.
And by the end of the tenth day, I was thinking, What lies between me and them? Not much. The money left from my father’s theft. Whatever work we could find as a family, so long as we kept our health. But with one more sickness—why, even if my father had an accident—we could be begging in the streets like those poor folk. And I’d be standing there, holding my little boy by the hand, watching him get thinner and thinner…
It was as if I were walking along the edge of a great dark abyss into which the whole family could fall. One bit of bad luck—that’s all it would take.
Sometimes I used to watch my father scurrying about the streets, looking so cheerful. Didn’t he realize the danger we were in? Was he just acting cheerful to keep our spirits up? Or maybe he couldn’t face the truth at all. I was never sure.
On the tenth day, I told him: “It’s no good, I’m not finding anything.”
I suppose I was expecting him to tell me to be patient, that something would turn up. But he didn’t say that. He was quiet for a minute. He seemed to be working out a solution of some kind. “You know,” he remarked as if he was sharing a secret, “the best thing one can do is save a rich man’s life.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What does that mean?”
“Well,” he said, “if you see a rich man in trouble, especially if you get the chance to save his life, he’s so grateful he’ll do anything for you. Quite a lot of people have come to fame and fortune that way.”
“You’ve lost your mind!” I shouted, which was no way to talk to one’s father.
“No, really,” he replied, looking offended. “It sometimes happens. You hear all kinds of stories.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I said.
* * *
—
The next day, dusk had fallen when I reached the street the eunuch had told me about and asked for Mr. Chen the merchant. This hutong, as such streets are called, was on the western side of the Inner City, quite a respectable area where a lot of rich merchants and tradespeople lived.
Chen’s place looked like a typical merchant’s courtyard house—with a doorway up a few stone steps, by the southeast corner of the wall on the street.
I’d already learned how to tell somebody’s status in Beijing by the doorway of their house. Royalty and nobles had gateways flanked by stone lions—and you could tell their exact rank by the size of gate they were allowed. As a commoner, Mr. Chen’s doorway was far more modest. Instead of lions, he had a thick disc like a millstone on either side of the double doors, which were dark red. The heavy lintel above the doors, however, suggested his wealth was pretty solid.
A servant came to the doorway. I gave my name and said I’d come to see his master on private business. It took him only a few moments to return and usher me in.
I stepped carefully over the doorsill into the open passageway that ran across the house from right to left. In many houses, the blank wall in front of me would have been enough to stop evil spirits getting into the house, for everyone knows that spirits have difficulty turning corners. Some people have fierce gods painted on their doors as well, to scare off the bad spirits. But in Mr. Chen’s entrance, one had to pass between a pair of door-god statues, fully armed and looking as if they’d destroy anything, body or spirit, that dared enter without permission. They were so impressive, they almost belonged in a bigger mansion. I suppose he’d got a good deal on them.
But the message was clear enough. Mr. Chen showed a modest face to the world, but he’d kill you if you tried to hurt his family. I followed the servant, first left along the passageway, then right into the courtyard.
The first thing I noticed in the courtyard was the stone beneath my feet. Not a speck of dust. It must have been swept a dozen times a day. The wooden pillars and panels on the walls glowed in the soft light from the tasseled red lamps that hung around them. At the far end stood a pair of beautiful Ming vases with plants in them. Valuable. Then I was ushered into an office where the merchant awaited me.
Mr. Chen was sitting on a square-framed wooden armchair behind a carved rosewood table. He was dressed in a long grey silk gown, very simple, best quality, and wearing a black skullcap. I bowed low. He indicated I should take a chair on the other side of the table. I sat down. Then I stared in surprise.
Mr. Chen was the eunuch I’d met.
“You are Mr. Chen?” I asked stupidly.
“I am,” he acknowledged. “You had not guessed?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I’ll tell you something,” he continued. “Neither have any of my neighbors. They only know Mr. Chen, the merchant, and my wife and children.”
“They don’t know you’re a palace person?”
“They have no idea. They see me come and go, dressed as a merchant, but they’re not sure what my business is. I change my clothes at the palace, you see. Only one of our servants, a woman, is aware of the truth. She’s known me all my life, and she will never tell.”
He rose from the table, indicated I should follow him, and led the way into a handsome room where a lady was sitting on a wide sofa. There was a girl—about seventeen, I thought—sitting beside her, who was reading aloud, but paused as we entered. At a writing desk on the other side of the room, a young man of about twenty was making notes.
“This is my wife, and these are my two children,” said Mr. Chen, as I bowed low. “What are you reading, my child?” he asked the girl.
“Journey to the West, Father,” she replied.
“My daughter reads well,” Mr. Chen said to me with pride. “Her mother does not read, but she likes to listen. Journey to the West is a great classic and an entertaining story, but it’s awfully long, and my daughter’s to be married in a few months. She won’t possibly finish it before she leaves us. Do you know the book? Could you read it?”
Journey to the West was very famous, so I knew a bit about it. The huge tale of how Monkey helps a priest on his journey to find the Buddhist Scriptures, and the demons and dangers they encounter along the way, would certainly have taken months to get through.
“I can read a bit, Mr. Chen,” I answered honestly, “but not nearly well enough for that.”
“I couldn’t do it, either,” Mr. Chen replied. “And my son is too busy working for a distinguished merchant to spend his time reading novels.” He smiled kindly at his wife. “So when our daughter’s left the home, I suppose I shall have to engage a poor young student to read us the rest of it.”
After this little exchange, telling his family that we had business to complete, he led me back into his office. “So you have seen my family and how I live. I work in the catering department in charge of buying all the groceries for the palace. I am allowed to take a small cut from every purchase, so you can imagine, I make a lot of money from my position. It took me over fifteen years before I got this house. But you could work in the palace for thirty years and have nothing. There’s no way of knowing. Some men are lucky. It’s their destiny. Some are not.”
“Do you think I’m lucky, Mr. Chen?”
“I had a feeling that you were from the moment that I met you. Your karma, if you like. I wouldn’t have suggested that you came here otherwise. Also,” he said, smiling, “you are quite good-looking. They don’t want u
gly people in the palace, you know.”
I don’t believe I answered at first. But I do remember thinking about the scene I’d just witnessed with his children, and realizing that what this man had was everything I desired in the world. I wasn’t sure about being lucky. Losing my job didn’t seem like good luck. But then again, it might have been fate’s way of taking me from my humble village to the imperial palace in Beijing. You can never tell.
But I did know one thing. I knew it so completely that I think I must have been a rich person in a former life: A house like this, with all the finer things in life it contained, was where I belonged.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“You must wait three days,” he told me. “During that time, I shall make the necessary arrangements. Strictly speaking, to get employment as a palace person, you should supply forms from your family, your relatives, and the chief of your village, which has to be notarized by the local authorities. However, I have some influence, and I can take care of all that. But you must take care never, at any time, to speak of any dishonesty on your father’s part. The operation itself is not without danger, especially for a grown man. The surgeons in the establishment run by a gentleman named Mr. Bi are the best, and Mr. Bi supplies more eunuchs to the palace than anyone. You will remain at his place for some time after the operation to make sure that everything heals safely. The charge for the operation is considerable, and I shall be happy to advance you the money, at a small rate of interest, which you can repay me at your leisure. For your loyalty and friendship, I assure you, are worth more to me than the repayment of the loan.”
I was starting to thank him, but he raised his hand to stop me.
“There are two other things you must know,” he went on. “As a eunuch, you can’t be buried with your family in holy ground, as self-mutilation is considered a sin. You’ll be buried in the eunuchs’ graveyard outside the city. However, there is a way around this. The surgeon at Mr. Bi’s will keep the parts of you he removed in a sealed jar. Those jars are well guarded, I can promise you. One day, if you have the money, your son can buy them back, and then your body will be considered complete again, and they can be buried with you in your family graveyard. Most eunuchs, of course, don’t have a son, and thus they adopt one for this purpose. But you’ve got a real son, so you won’t have to go to that trouble.”
That was a comfort to me, I must say.
His final words were very clear. “During these coming days,” he said, “you must discuss this with your family. You’re free to change your mind. Indeed, if you’re in any doubt at the end of that time, I urge you: Do not proceed. Remember, once you have gone to Mr. Bi, it’ll be too late.”
* * *
—
I told my family that evening. My mother sat down and burst into tears. “To think this should happen to my only son,” she kept wailing.
“You’ve got your grandchildren,” I reminded her. “That’s all that matters now.” But it didn’t seem to comfort her.
As for my father, he didn’t say anything for about a minute. Then he looked up at me so sadly. “I’m sorry about the boots.” He shook his head.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“The boots I made for your teacher,” he says. “If he’d liked the boots he’d have gone on teaching you, and you might be a schoolmaster by now. Or even a government official. It’s all my fault.”
I just didn’t reply. I mean, what can you say?
As for my wife, poor Rose wasn’t pleased at all. “That’s not very nice for me, is it?” she said.
“Well, it isn’t very nice for me, either.” I may have snapped at her a bit when I said that. “We’ve got to think of the children, Rose,” I said. “I wish you could have seen Mr. Chen’s house. You would have been amazed. And his wife seemed to be quite happy. She’s got every comfort. And the life their children are going to have…It’s beyond anything you and I ever dreamed of.” I was trying to comfort her. “If I could do the same thing for all of you…” I said. But I wasn’t sure she was even listening.
“Even if you don’t care about me,” she blurted out, “aren’t you ashamed?”
“I’ll be more ashamed if we all starve and die,” I cried. I was getting a little desperate myself, I suppose. Nobody seemed to be giving me any support, and I was the one making the biggest sacrifice.
“What will it cost?” my father suddenly wanted to know.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “The money we’ve still got saved will cover it.” I just said it to hurt him, I daresay. I didn’t tell him Mr. Chen would lend me the money. I wanted him to suffer, too.
* * *
—
Well, nobody said anything to me after that. Not that evening or the next morning. Not a word. That was worse than if they’d kept arguing with me. Or perhaps they’d seen I was right—except that none of them wanted to say thank you.
The second evening, my mother sat beside me and begged me to think about it some more. “Perhaps something will turn up,” she said. “I went to the Buddhist temple today. I’m going to the Taoist one tomorrow.” Then she started crying again.
As for Rose, after refusing to speak to me all day, she was cold to me at night as well.
“You may as well get some while it’s still there,” I said when we got into bed. But she turned her back to me.
It was noon of the following day when my father returned to our lodgings looking pleased with himself. “Good news,” he told me. “There’s no need to spend all that money.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I’ve been speaking to a man whose nephew was castrated when he was a boy. It turns out it’s not that difficult. His family performed the operation themselves. All you need is to make sure you have a really sharp razor, plenty of paper, sesame oil, and some prickly ash pepper. He gave me all the details. It takes a couple of months for everything to heal, but I’ll be there all the time, or if I’m not, Rose can always bandage you.” He looked quite happy about it all.
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m going to the professional.”
“You could save money,” he said. He sounded quite reproachful.
* * *
—
The house of Mr. Bi was built of brick, on the corner of an alley in the Tartar City, as they sometimes call the Manchu Inner City. When Mr. Chen took me there, he seemed in a cheerful mood. He made me carry a chicken and a bottle of rice wine, as presents for the surgeon, and kept up a running commentary all the way.
“As suppliers of eunuchs to the palace,” he explained, “the Bi family are granted quite a high rank amongst the Manchu bannermen. Even their surgeons are seventh grade officials, which is higher than a local county magistrate.” It all sounded quite impressive. “After your recovery, as soon as you start work,” he went on, “you’ll get a monthly stipend, which is quite handsome, even at the start. You’ll be assigned a mentor and be taught all kinds of things, from court etiquette to skills that make you useful. After six years, if you do well, you may get lucky and be chosen to serve one of the imperial family. You could even find yourself in the emperor’s company every day.”
He kept me so busy listening to all these wonderful things that I hardly had time to think of what was about to happen to me.
* * *
—
You have to fast for two days. Only liquids, no food. The third day they washed my body and gave me a potion brewed from the hemp plant they call cannabis.
The surgeon came in to see me and asked how I felt. “Good,” I said. “I feel good.” And gave him a smile.
It was strange, really. I remember feeling quite relaxed and calm. Very mellow. But it was better than that. A sense of peace, you might say. I just knew for certain that I was doing the right thing.
“I thought you’d give me opium to take away the pain,” I
said.
“Sorry. No opium.” He shook his head. “Opium’s very bad. The cannabis won’t take away the pain,” he added, “but it helps with inflammation. And you won’t vomit so much, either.” He seemed only a bit older than I was, but he had the quiet confidence of a man who knows his business. “This way,” he said, and he led me into a room where I hadn’t been before.
There was a raised bench in the middle of the room, made of dark wood. His assistant, an old man, was standing beside it. He was wearing a grey cotton apron that made him look like a butcher. They had to help me onto the bench. I realized I was moving a bit slowly. “We strap you down now,” the surgeon said, “so that you won’t move. Things go more smoothly that way.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. You can’t help being a bit frightened.
So they strapped my arms and body to the bench, and opened my legs wide and strapped them to the sides of the bench, too, so that I couldn’t move at all. Then the surgeon put a black cloth over my eyes and tied it tight. I didn’t know he was going to do that, and I started to protest, but he said not to worry, they always did that.
At first, when he made the cuts on either side of my abdomen, I didn’t feel all that much. But then I began to cry out.
“Take a deep breath, then close your mouth and push down as if you’re trying to shit,” he said. “Good. Again. Again. Open your mouth.” And the assistant popped something in. It felt like a hard-boiled egg—because that’s exactly what it was. “Close your mouth. That’s it. Now hold still. This is going to hurt.”
Hurt? It felt as if everything between my legs was suddenly on fire. I tried to scream, but the assistant had his hand over my mouth, and my mouth was full of the hard-boiled egg, so all I could do was make a sound like a horse whinnying in my throat. Then I felt another fire from down there. And then I blacked out.
They use pig’s gall to control the bleeding. I don’t know why, but that’s what they told me.
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