The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (23 page)

The Mandarin leaned back in his shaking seat and closed his eyes. ‘Perhaps, Jin Lao, you can now tell me what is the purpose of this charade and why it is that I am spending an afternoon using the resources of the state to execute three harmless bumpkins?'

‘They are bandits, Da Ren. And kidnappers. The foreign boy. Cruelly murdered. So sad.' Jin Lao sighed.

‘We went through all that at the hearing this morning,' said the Mandarin. ‘I didn't believe you then and I don't now.'

Jin Lao's serene smile did not waver. ‘We have proper confessions, Da Ren. And the soldiers were shown the graves in the forest.'

‘Of the murdered boy and his companions?'

‘Of course, Da Ren.'

The Mandarin's hooded eyes opened a fraction, then closed again. His voice was a quiet murmur when he spoke: ‘Do not waste my time, Chamberlain Jin. The murdered boy is a catamite at Mother Liu's brothel. He is being kept there to be buggered by you and her degenerate son. Do not waste my time or try my intelligence.'

If Jin Lao was perturbed at the extent of the Mandarin's knowledge, he did not show it. ‘You are all-knowing and all-perceiving, master, with “eyes that see a thousand miles and ears which catch the wind”,' he said.

The Mandarin sighed. ‘It was Iron Man Wang who supplied you with these three sacrificial victims?'

Jin Lao inclined his head.

‘Presumably they are some of his debtors who are buying safety for their families with their lives.'

‘That is the usual way.'

‘And the bad debts of these wretches are transferred to me and deducted from my dues from the bandits?'

‘As before, Da Ren.'

‘Before, Chamberlain, if we staged our little executions, it was only after significant depredations had been made against my merchants and after several large shipments of treasure had been purloined. It was when the people were angry and afraid, and there was discontent in the city. It is my duty to ensure that law and order is preserved. Law and order requires retribution, and a certain amount of restitution. So through the good graces of the Society, I persuaded Iron Man Wang to provide us with a modest number of culprits. A small portion of the robbed treasure was returned to the rightful owners. Justice was done and seen to be done, all parties were satisfied, and harmony was maintained.'

‘A wise and brilliant solution, worthy of such a great mandarin,' murmured Jin Lao.

‘You think so? Even though the sentenced men happened to be innocent of any crimes?'

‘They were common people, of the criminal class. Certainly no loss,' said Jin Lao.

‘And yet I allow a greater criminal like Iron Man Wang my protection and even come to an accommodation with him. Now, why do you think I do that?'

‘I imagine, Da Ren, it is because Iron Man Wang has always paid you the tribute that is due to a man of your standing and authority,' said Jin Lao.

‘With you there is a venal justification for all things. Yes, Jin Lao, I am compensated well enough through our arrangements, although I might argue that I am only receiving secondhand through Iron Man Wang the unpaid taxes from my merchants that they are so skilful in hiding from me through their account books. It is nevertheless unpalatable for me to have to deal with such vermin. And these judicial murders, which you accept so casually, are distasteful to a man of honour. Has it occurred to you that there could be reasons other than self-enrichment or self-gratification that may justify such perfidy? That matters of state could be involved? That Iron Man Wang and his army of marsh brothers may be serving a higher purpose? You might call it a patriotic purpose. Do you have the slightest idea of what I am talking about? Or any inkling of what is at stake?'

The Mandarin searched his chamberlain's bland features, the enigmatic smile and the rheumy eyes. ‘No, I do not expect you to understand. Greed is essentially short-sighted. And I do not hire you for your virtue.

‘What I do expect you to understand is that I am not to be trifled with, and it is not for you, Chamberlain, to use my authority with Iron Man Wang or anyone else for self-indulgent machinations of your own. I do not know what grubby plot you and the brothel-keepers are cooking, or why you need to invent this fiction of the foreign boy's death. Perhaps you intend to make him disappear when you have satiated yourselves with him. Or you fear that the doctor or one of the other foreigners will discover his hiding place. That is not my concern.

‘What I am telling you is that the blood money for these wretched peasants we are executing this afternoon will not come from my coffers. This time you will pay it yourself. Take it from the cumshaw you regularly steal from me, or from one of your other bribes. And never put me in this position again, or it will not be a peasant's head that rolls in the sand.

‘Am I clear, my dear old friend?' He leaned forward and, grinning broadly, patted the chamberlain on the knee. ‘Am I clear?'

Jin Lao avoided the snakelike eyes. His smile wavered. ‘Perfectly clear, Da Ren,' he breathed. A thin hand emerged from his sleeve and wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead.

‘Good,' smiled the Mandarin. ‘Then we can get on with the beheading.'

His good humour and energy seemed totally restored. ‘I hope this foreign boy has been worth all your trouble, my friend. You must tell me about him one day, although I cannot say that I understand your tastes in that direction. At least you are doing me one favour. Now that his death has been established I will no longer be bothered by the doctor on this subject. His constant petitions have become tedious. By the way, you and Mother Liu had better make sure that the brat remains hidden. I don't want to have to investigate another abduction or murder.'

‘No, Da Ren,' said Jin Lao.

‘How comforting that I can rely on your discretion—especially where your own self-interest is so concerned. Oh, cheer up. I have never seen your face so long. Roll up the window and show me where we are. We must be getting close to the square.'

Jin Lao pulled on the string and the bamboo blind lifted to reveal the main street and the jeering crowds by the side of the road.

‘Well, well, we talk of the doctor and here he is,' said the Mandarin. He recognised Airton jostling through the stream of people. His usually neat appearance was slightly ruffled and he was shooting disapproving, almost angry glances in the direction of the procession and the pathetic line of prisoners stumbling under their
cangues
. He was with a foreign woman, a young one, noticed the Mandarin. How indecorous these barbarians were: parading their women in public like equals! He assumed it must be the daughter of the soap merchant who had just arrived. The doctor had a protective arm around her shoulder, attempting to shield her from the throng rushing towards the square. The Mandarin had an impression of green eyes in a white face, and a pyre of flaming red hair. She was staring at the procession of condemned men with wonder, her mouth slightly open. Did the Mandarin detect excitement in her rapt attention?

The palanquin was quickly past. They were under a
pailou
and into the square. The crowd roared with blood lust when the prisoners appeared. The Mandarin composed his features into the bored expression of disdain suitable for a high official on such an occasion. As he did so, he caught himself wondering how even foreigners could find women of such colouring attractive. The white features of a ghost? The eyes of a civet? The fiery hair of a fox spirit? He was intrigued.

Five

Can it be that the foreigners have poisoned all the wells in Chih-li?

 

The Mandarin's palanquin moved on, leaving the doctor struggling against the flow of the pushing crowd. He had caught a glimpse of his old friend in the carriage window, superciliously surveying the scene. In his present mood Airton would have quite happily punched the haughty features. Disgusted with the Mandarin, and himself, and temporarily with everything Chinese, he turned to Helen Frances. ‘Come, my dear, let's get you home. This is no place for a young woman.'

But Helen Frances did not move. She was transfixed, one hand to her open mouth, her eyes wide with fascination or horror, the doctor could not tell which. Only a few feet away from them the condemned men shuffled by. Two were middle-aged. One was in his early twenties. Their heads were dragged down by the heavy
cangues,
their backs and necks bending to the strain. Forced into grovelling, cringing postures, they appeared to be cowering with shame under the weight of the crimes that flapped in blood-red characters on the cloth notices above their heads. The sullen eyes in the broad peasant faces of the elder men were fixed on their own stumbling feet and the chains dragging through the dust. Their expressions were phlegmatic and resigned. Only the younger one showed any curiosity about his predicament. His eyes, startling white against the stained brown of his cheeks, flitted nervously from side to side like those of a frightened colt. He seemed bewildered that so many people were rushing to the square with the sole purpose of watching him die. Two soldiers flanked each man. Their smart uniforms and stiff, martial postures were a contrast to the abject and broken demeanour of their charges. This juxtaposition itself was a lesson, a living tableau asserting the dignity of the law over society's outcasts, a morality play deliberately choreographed for the edification of the crowd. The drum pulsed like a heartbeat from behind. Major Lin on his white horse followed slowly with his riflemen, a picture of implacable correctness and authority.

‘Come on, my dear, we must go. Let's leave the heathen to their barbarities.' Gently he pulled Helen Frances's arm. ‘Do come with me now, there's a good lassie.'

‘It's like Christ and the thieves on the way to Gethsemane,' murmured Helen Frances. ‘Carrying their crosses.'

‘Aye, very like,' said the doctor. ‘Humanity hasn't improved through the ages. It's only refined its cruelty. It's a pathetic sight. Come, my dear.'

But Helen Frances still would not move. She craned her head to catch a last view of the procession as it disappeared in a cloud of dust through the
pailou
. The doctor noticed a red flush on her cheeks, and a slight trembling of her arm. ‘It's all right, my dear. It's all right,' he attempted to soothe her, putting his arm clumsily round her shoulder.

Helen Frances wriggled gently out of his embrace. She turned towards him. Her green eyes contemplated him steadily, but the irises were enlarged, moist, almost shining, and she was smiling strangely. ‘I'm perfectly all right, Doctor.' Her voice, though calm, was an octave higher than usual. ‘I've seen an execution before. I'm not a weak woman in shock. I assure you I'm not. On the contrary, I'm … I'm … I'm really not sure how I feel. I—when I was a girl and read about the pirates and highwaymen being hanged at Tyburn and the crowds who flocked to see them die, I thought it was unimaginable that any person would want to see such a horrible thing, but I suppose they went because—because they found it thrilling. I think I understand now.'

‘My dear, I'm not really sure what to say. I think I should be taking you home.'

The crowd on the street was thinning. The road itself was empty except for the swirl of settling dust. Most townsmen had taken their places in the square. A noise like the wash of a wave was welling from the indistinct blue and brown mass of people they could make out through the
pailou
. The desertion of this usually busy thoroughfare was ominous and menacing. Only a few stragglers could be seen and they were hurrying to get to the execution in the square. A young man in artisan's costume crashed into the doctor, knocking him off balance, cursed, then giggled foolishly when he saw it was a foreigner, before running on.

‘You bloodthirsty heathen,' called the doctor after him. He stood in the dust and shook his fist. He did not know whether it was anger or despair but he felt tears of rage burning his eyes. What a day.
What
a day. He realised that he must have been holding back this emotional outburst since the late morning when he had received the Mandarin's note …

*   *   *

Everything had actually gone rather well up to then. The embarrassments of the dinner party seemed to have faded into insignificance in the light of morning, although Nellie still had a few scathing things to say about ‘flibbertigibbet' young women who did not know what was good for them, and young men of doubtful morals who should have known better. She obviously still felt sensitive about the rebuff she had received. Pleading a headache, she had elected to remain in the house all morning. It was a transparent excuse to absent herself from the hospital when Miss Delamere came for her tour of the mission. Airton did not press her. There would be plenty of time for a reconciliation between the two women. No doubt it would be up to him as the ‘busybody of the family' (that jibe still smarted) to arrange it.

Soon enough a cheerful Frank Delamere and Tom, on their way to a day's work at the Babbit and Brenner godown, deposited Helen Frances at the mission gates and the doctor took her straight into his surgery where he was about to remove a cataract from an old lady's eye. The equanimity with which the girl watched the whole operation impressed him, as did, later, her demeanour in the sick wards. She asked intelligent questions and was not distressed even when meeting their latest burn victim, a little boy of four who had knocked over a wok and been covered from head to foot in boiling fat. Helen Frances had sat by the disfigured boy's bed and, holding his unburned hand, whispered nonsense to him until he gave a faint squeal of delight. That convinced the doctor that Helen Frances had the pluck and sensitivity it would take one day to become a fine nurse or helper in the hospital. It was a pity that Nellie was not here to see it.

She was an appreciative visitor and a delight to show round. He enjoyed her acute questioning. Her beautiful presence brought out the gallantry in him and a desire to entertain. When they reached the opium ward—usually a depressing place where listless addicts sweated through their cures—the doctor was brimming with good humour as he described his method of treatment. ‘You see, while I give them ever-decreasing injections of morphine to break down their craving, Sister Elena gives them an ever-increasing diet of Bible stories to occupy their minds. Whether it's my diluted morphine or their fear of hearing yet another story about Elijah, I can't tell,' he joked, ‘but the cure seems to work. One or two have actually broken the opium habit for good.'