Breaking Bamboo (62 page)

‘I see Chung prospers,’ remarked Guang, quietly. Those who knew him well might have detected a veiled threat in his tone.

Shih grunted something incomprehensible in reply.

But soon Chung had passed, replaced by members of the fan-maker’s guild, including Old Hsu’s Son who waved cheerily at Dr Shih. His flushed cheeks indicated he had been celebrating the New Wine for some time.

Finally, groups of little boys and girls carried five-stringed lutes, staring round as though unsure whether to be amazed, proud or terrified. Shih glanced up at the tower room of Apricot Corner Court where the bobbing heads and shoulders of his own children watched enviously. Many respectable parents did not share his scruples about allowing their children to join the parade. Perhaps he was too wary, Cao certainly thought so.

It was traditional for men on horseback to bring up the rear of the procession. However the new laws forbade Chinese from owning horses. Many in the crowd laughed to see how a few wits evaded the prohibitions by riding paper horses pasted onto bamboo sticks. Ripples of applause rolled up and down North Canal Street. The hundreds of Mongol cavalry assigned to ride at the rear of the parade seemed oblivious to the joke. Their grins made it clear they believed the applause was intended for themselves. Once the armed men had passed Guang turned to his brother.

‘Shall we follow?’

‘Is that wise? You know. . .’

Shih was silenced by an upraised hand.

‘Eldest Brother,’ said Guang. ‘The children are watching us.

How will we tell them what happens if we lack the courage to take part?’

Such a reproof left Shih little choice but to shrug and laugh hollowly. He bought frothing green wine from Mao’s Refreshment Stall and the two revellers swigged, passing the flask between them as they followed the crowd towards Peacock Hill.

Many stared curiously at the twins and Guang grew tense, feeling himself besieged by a thousand eyes. Yet Dr Shih brightened as the wine seeped through his soul. The old pride took hold at walking beside his noble brother, for Guang was still a handsome man – despite his wounds, the years had brought distinction to his looks rather than frailty – still a notable man, the very image of a fine warrior.

‘Brother,’ said Shih. ‘You will be surprised by the changes on Peacock Hill.’

‘How so?’

‘The last fourteen years have sadly aged our governor. Many of the families who once provided our province’s officials, including the Wang clan, have been replaced by foreigners.’

Guang wondered why Shih avoided the use of Wang Ting-bo’s name. But nearly all freedoms had perished with the last dynasty. The crowd pressed around them and might conceal a hundred spies.

‘His Excellency prospers?’ he asked.

‘In his office, but not in his health,’ said Shih, adding in an undertone: ‘His wife rules him now, so I hear.’

‘What of his heir, the boy you saved?’

‘He lives and is now a young man. They say he is destined to succeed his father.’

Guang considered this for a moment.

‘What of my old patron, Wang Bai?’

They were interrupted by a surge of people spilling out of Jasper Ward, drums pounding and flutes trilling hysterically.

When the crowd was flowing again Shih said quietly: ‘His Excellency’s nephew no longer resides in Nancheng. He has been appointed head of the Bureau for the Stimulation of Agriculture and dwells in Da-Du beside the Imperial City.’

‘Only beside? Not within?’

‘He is Chinese,’ muttered Shih.

‘Ah.’

This news unsettled Guang. He could never hate Wang Bai, who had spoken out on his behalf during the trial before General A-ku.

He was granted little time to consider the past. The crowd pushed on toward Peacock Hill until it reached a great square before the gates of the former prefecture, now Governor Wang Ting-bo’s palace. Here lay the inn where Guang had once stood on a balcony, hailed as Captain Xiao. He glanced furtively at his brother, afraid he might remember. But Shih, along with the rest of the crowd, was studying the gatehouse at the foot of Peacock Hill.

Dozens of soldiers and high officials thronged the battlements, staring impassively at the sea of faces below. An orchestra played the ancient melody
Dew At Sunset
, a regal, stately march, and Governor Wang Ting-bo appeared before the crowd, leaning on an ivory stick. Guang craned for a better view of his lost patron.

Though far away in time he pictured His Excellency’s features just as they had been, noble and dignified, before the years of compromise. Perhaps fear had betrayed Wang Ting-bo – or simple greed for more power. Confusion agitated the waves of Guang’s soul. How he had loved that old man leaning on his stick! How he had craved the slightest sign of respect and notice from him! He had risked every sinew of his young body for just that. But when Guang had needed him during A-ku’s trial, that same noble Wang Ting-bo refused to speak up for him. And so disillusion takes root, spreading out ugly creepers.

Now it was Shih’s turn to lay a reassuring hand on his brother’s arm. He leaned forward and whispered in Guang’s ear: ‘It is said the Great Khan only keeps him in office so he can point to at least one Chinese governor. Wang Ting-bo barely remembers his own name unless his wife reminds him of it. He will not recollect you.’

The frail man on the tower raised a silver bowl and drank, vanishing as soon as the rite of the New Wine was over.

Officials threw down handfuls of
cash
coins and banknotes from their high vantage point. Only the poorest fought for them. The new emperor’s addiction to printing paper money to finance his conquests had debased an already fragile currency.

Many were sullen as the paper rectangles fluttered down like a mockery of blossom.

‘Well, it is over,’ said Guang.

They were leaving the square along with thousands of others.

‘For another year, at least,’ said Shih. ‘Such ceremonies always return.’

By now they had grown used to passers-by staring and whispering the name
Captain Xiao
or
Dr Yun Shih
. If Guang was to remain in Nancheng it must become something they either relished or ignored. Neither seemed likely.

‘We should return home and celebrate the festival with hot dishes,’ said Shih. ‘After all the Cold Food Festival begins tomorrow.’

‘Let me buy some . . .’ Guang’s offer trailed. He halted in surprise. They were passing one of the numerous portable theatres erected all over the city by competing troupes of actors.

‘What is it?’ asked Shih, still hazy from green wine.

He frowned. Guang was staring at the stage with a strange intensity. An actor’s voice boomed out across the crowd: ‘I am Chang Xi! Sent through all corners of the Empire on my great master’s orders to find a girl, a truly virtuous and beautiful girl, who appeared to the Emperor in a dream. See, here is her picture! Has anyone seen her?’

Guang seemed transfixed by the figure on the stage.

‘What is it?’ repeated Shih. ‘Do you want to see the play?’

Again, no reply. Guang’s lips silently followed Chang Xi’s lament at the corruption and greed in the land, how all were unmindful of their filial duty. Evidently he had heard this speech so many times he knew it by heart. Finally he turned to Shih with a troubled expression.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I remember now what I meant to say. I shall buy a chicken for Cao to pluck.’

The actor’s voice followed them as they left the square: ‘How can I find such a girl? Impossible!
Impossible!
’

*

Guang did very well in Apricot Corner Court. His nephews and nieces flagrantly adored him, and they were not alone. Festival presents appeared outside the gatehouse – vegetables arranged into plum blossom shapes, a basket of coloured eggs. It seemed his brief hour as Captain Xiao had never faded from many people’s hearts. Yet Guang dared not welcome such attention.

Enthusiasm at his reappearance could easily become its opposite or, worse, provoke the authorities. Guang took care to hide his face from passing Mongols, mindful a relative of Bayke or a former comrade might recognise him.

When her duties allowed, Cao joined her brother-in-law beneath the apricot tree and they talked of small things. These mundane conversations – gossip about neighbours and the cost of millet, reminiscences of curious incidents – were in-expressibly sweet after so many years of war. Despite their long separation, she was still very dear, second only to Shih in his affections, unless he included ghosts and lost friends. Yet he could not help noticing that the children, while scarcely dimming Sister-in-law’s spark and humour, were exhausting creatures. Gaining everything she had ever wanted surely cost a price. Her face, too, had aged more than was justified by fourteen years, but then she had always been plain. Yet she was evidently contented in ways he could scarcely imagine, and so could not envy.

He waited three days before seeking out the actors. As dragon boats raced up and down the Han River and traditional tugs of war between the young men of Fouzhou and Nancheng took place, he strolled into the city. The streets were deserted.

Sensible folk occupied themselves with frivolity and betting on the races – including a contingent of Mongols who found their new vassals’ effeminate ways oddly enticing.

As was customary during the Cold Food Festival, all fires in the city had been extinguished with the exception of the invaders’ encampment on Peacock Hill. Aromas of wood smoke and roasting meat drifted in the spring air from Wang Ting-bo’s residence, along with the noise of almost continual feasting. The Governor spared no expense in entertaining his guests, using revenue intended for the restoration of Fouzhou.

When Guang reached the market square he hesitated. What exactly did he hope to gain by hunting ghosts? All his dreams had fallen from the stem and dwindled to dust. Only the greatest Immortals or sorcerers could restore green to dead leaves.

The square was deserted except for a few refreshment stalls and fortune-tellers reluctant to surrender their pitches. After all, those watching the races were sure to return. For this reason he was not surprised to see activity near the theatre that had fascinated him a few days before. Two labourers were hanging a huge banner from long bamboo poles. A stout, middle-aged man directed them from the empty stage. He fell silent as Guang approached.

They stood without speaking for a long while, each reluctant to be the one who first averted his eyes. Both had aged in different ways: Guang’s face bore the evidence of many fights, but the man on the stage had suffered a different kind of harm.

Swollen blood vessels on his nose told stories of reckless debauch; eyes ringed by shadow suggested bitter, uneasy nights.

Guang made a stiff bow. An offensively blank demeanour was all the return his courtesy received. Finally Chen Song’s shoulders relaxed and he jumped down, bowing as Guang had – only with a trace of mockery.

Small birds fluttered and cheeped round the empty market square. The sky was soft and oddly blue, almost too blue to be natural, the kind of flawless spring sky the young assume will always come their way – because the future stretching out before them is endless and there is plenty of time to become whatever they wish, to mend the world’s faults.

At last Chen Song’s feelings bubbled over: ‘Need I be afraid of your presence here?’ he demanded. ‘You who enlisted in the Great Khan’s armies? Captain Xiao who
enlisted
with the enemy! I wept when I heard it, Yun Guang, I wept. But perhaps you no longer go by your old name. Perhaps you have adopted one of
their
names!’’

Guang blinked at this absurd accusation, then adopted a haughty expression.

‘I was given little choice but to enlist.’

‘We all had a choice!’

‘My own determined the safety, no, the very existence of my entire family!’ Guang bit back angry words. ‘I did not come here to justify myself to you.’

Then he realised that was exactly why he had come.

‘I came here,’ he said. ‘Solely to see if you prospered and to offer any assistance within my power. To honour. . . our former friendship.’

Chen Song smiled thinly at Guang’s strained dignity. There was something earnest and boyish and absurd about it, especially from so weathered a man.

‘I do not need your assistance,’ he said. ‘But if you like I shall consider myself suitably honoured.’

‘Good!’ grunted Guang. ‘That was my intention.’

They watched the twittering birds squabble over grain and scraps left over from the previous day’s festival market. Chen Song’s expression softened.

‘Do you remember the crowd hailing you as Captain Xiao when you stood on that inn balcony over there?’ he asked. ‘I often think of those days. They were the best of my life.’

A hollow space in Guang’s throat made him swallow hard.

He laughed uneasily and Chen Song shot him a quick glance.

‘A few days ago I recognised you at dawn on the battlements of Swallow Gate,’ he said. ‘I suspect we both went there for the same reason – to remember and mourn a little.’

Guang nodded.

‘Anyway, after that I followed you back to Apricot Corner Court. There I discovered a most astounding and delightful thing. Your honoured sister-in-law’s barrenness has become a stand of green, green bamboo! Who could have predicted so many sons and daughters! Yet when I made enquiries at a nearby tea stall the owner confirmed the children are your nephews and nieces.’

‘There are five,’ said Guang, proudly. ‘Each is healthy and pleasant in its own way.’

‘So I noticed.’ Chen Song paused, looking at his former friend carefully, before adding: ‘While I stood at that tea stall I had a strange thought. You might almost call those children your own.

If you had not served the Great Khan not a single one of them would exist. Then I despised myself for allowing my anger to weaken. Sometimes anger is all that keeps me going.’

Guang bowed his head in recognition of such feelings. ‘I have grown tired of anger,’ he replied. ‘The war has been over so long, Chen Song! And we lost! We
lost
. Now we must retrieve what we can from defeat. I want to live again, while I still may.’