The Nicholas Linnear Novels (12 page)

They found themselves in a room only somewhat smaller than the first. On three sides were folding screens of exquisite manufacture, dark colors coming to vibrant life, passing through the years as if they were but veils of smoke.

Scents now invaded his nostrils, the chalkiness of charcoal, the muskiness of incense, and there were others, subtler, delicate cooking oil, tallow and still more impossible to define.

“Please,” Chia Sheng said, leading them past a low red lacquered table. Freshly cut flowers in a bowl spread themselves on its center. They disappeared between the ends of two of the screens, which revealed a doorway of blackness, as if it had been cut out of the heart of a piece of onyx.

“The stairs,” Chia Sheng murmured and they ascended. It was a narrow spiral staircase with room enough to climb single file only.

The stairwell debouched at length upon a kind of tower which struck the Colonel more as a garret. A green tile roof was supported at the four corners of the structure by wooden beams. Otherwise there was an unimpeded view on all sides save the one where the basalt mountain, like some awesome leviathan out of mythology, loomed close enough to serve as guardian.

As they came into the garret, the Colonel’s eyes fell upon a tall figure gazing out at the riding storm, a long glass held to one eye. This was So-Peng.

“Welcome, Colonel Linnear.” His voice was rich and deep and seemed to set the garret to vibrating. His Mandarin was oddly accented; in Western terms one might have said clipped. He did not turn around; did not in any verbal way acknowledge Cheong’s presence. Chia Sheng, her mission perhaps at an end, left them, silently descending the winding stair.

“Please come over here and stand by me, Colonel,” So-Peng said. He wore an old-fashioned formal Chinese robe of the color of mother-of-pearl. It was woven of a material totally unfamiliar to the Colonel, for even the slightest movement of the old man caused its surface to pick up and reflect the fitful light in a most marvelous way.

“Look here,” the old man said, thrusting the glass at the Colonel. “Look to the storm, Colonel, and tell me what you see.”

The Colonel took the polished brass spyglass, closed one eye and peered through it with the other. Now within the elevation of So-Peng’s eyrie, he felt the first tentative touches of the storm they had earlier observed; the wind was rising.

Within the confined circle of his extended vision, he saw the bloom of the clouds, now purple-black like bruises, and, too, the color of the sky behind the storm had changed. The solid-seeming yellow tinge had been struck through with tendrils of a pale green; such a hue the land-bound world could never produce. Deep-throated rumblings could be heard now and again, rolling over the earth like an invisible
tsunami,
a tidal wave. Dutifully, the Colonel related all he saw.

“And that is all you see,” said So-Peng. There was no hint of an interrogative in his inflection.

Yes, the Colonel was about to say, that is all I can see. But he checked himself at the last moment, certain that there was something out there that the old man wished him to see.

For long moments he moved the eye of the glass over the terrain an inch at a time but he saw nothing new to report. Still, it nagged at him and he moved the glass upward, scanning. Nothing. Then downward toward the earth. Below the onrushing storm, he saw the women in the rice paddies, the flat wet fields without protection of a single tree or even a makeshift lean-to. Almost in concert, the women bent to their tasks, leaning over, reaching for and pulling at the growing rice. Their skirts were pulled up in the center, tied in huge knots between their bent legs; woven sacks circled their backs so that they had the aspect of beasts of burden; water covered their bare feet to the ankle.

“The women are still working,” the Colonel said, “as if the storm wasn’t there.”

“Ah!” So-Peng said, nodding. “And what does this tell you, Colonel?”

The Colonel took the glass from his eye, lowering it to his side, looking at So-Peng, at his yellow hairless head, the gray wisp of his beard hanging straight down from the ultimate point of his chin, the dark serene eyes regarding him coolly as if from some other age.

“They know something we don’t,” the Colonel said.

“Hmmm,” So-Peng murmured and nothing more. He was fully aware that by “we” the Colonel had meant, however implicitly, Westerners. Yet he now had to make up his mind whether the Colonel was being serious or merely condescending. So-Peng, not unlike every Asian on the continent, had had far more experience with people expressing the latter sentiment. Yet he did not dismiss the Colonel summarily as he very easily might have, so that even at this early stage he must have had an instinctual reaction to this man.

For his part, the Colonel knew only too well that he had come to a crucial nexus in his relationship with Cheong. This man’s blessing was imperative for her. Why it had not been necessary at her marriage he could not understand. Yet he knew that for her to depart Singapore, So-Peng had to become an active agent.

That this house, this town were so isolated, so totally unknown to-the Western population, made him all the more apprehensive. The Colonel was painfully aware that many Chinese had no great love of Westerners, those barbarian giants from across the sea. That this dislike—indeed this enmity—was, at its core, mostly justifiable, made no difference to him at this moment.

But the Colonel had a great love for these people, for their life, their history, religion and customs, and it was this knowledge, chiefly, which heartened him now, which prompted him to say, “There is no doubt, sir, that we have much to learn here but, too, I feel that the most advantageous of situations involves an exchange, initially, of information but, more important, leads from there to an exchange of—confidences.”

So-Peng’s hands were inside the wide sleeves of his robe as he crossed his arms over his thin chest. “Confidences,” he said meditatively as if the word were some new and exotic flavor he was testing on his palate. “Well, now, Colonel, ‘confidences’ may have many meanings—inflections and contextual placings determine that. Whereby, my boy, I might be led to believe that you had meant by it, secrets.”

“That may not be very far from the mark, sir,” the Colonel replied.

“And what,” said So-Peng, “makes you think that any such intimacy should be extended to you?”

The Colonel kept his gaze steady, his eyes impaled by those he saw in front of him, and so intense became this look that at length the other’s face seemed to disappear, leaving behind that pair of lights swimming alone in the atmosphere, hovering in lambent conversation. “There is, firstly, respect, sir. Then there is knowledge, knowledge sought and assimilated. There is acceptance, of what is and what was—the understanding of one’s role within the matrix. Then there is the curiosity to learn the unknowable. And lastly, there is love.” This being said, the Colonel relaxed somewhat, knowing that he had spoken his heart, expressed himself in a manner both pleasing to himself and honoring his wife. There was nought else to be done now.

Yet when So-Peng next spoke, it was directed not at the Colonel but at his wife. “Cheong,” he said. “I believe that Chia Sheng is calling for you. Her voice drifts up to me in this charged air.”

Without a word, Cheong bowed and departed.

The Colonel stayed where he was, silent. Beyond their frail enclosure the storm came on.

“Cheong tells me that you are leaving for Japan shortly.”

The Colonel nodded. “Yes. Tomorrow. I have been asked to work with General MacArthur in reconstructing Japan.”

“Yes. There is much prestige in such work. A place in history, eh, Colonel?”

“I hadn’t thought about that, quite frankly.”

“Do you not think,” said So-Peng, “that this reconstructing, as you put it, is best left for the Japanese people to decide for themselves?”

“That would be the ideal, of course. But unfortunately certain elements within Japanese society have misdirected them throughout the last two decades.” When the other remained silent, the Colonel continued on. “I am certain you are quite aware of their activities in Manchuria.”

“Manchuria!” So-Peng scoffed. “What have I or my people to do with Manchuria? It is as a slum on the far side of the world to us. I would just as soon allow the Japanese and the Bolsheviks to fight between themselves for it. Manchuria, from my point of view, would be no great loss to China as a whole.”

“But the Japanese sought that land as a foothold into the rest of China. There they would have built their military bases from which they would expand.”

“Yes.” So-Peng sighed. “Their imperialist nature saddens me deeply—at least it did when I was a youth. Yes, then it was like a thorn in my side, for the Japanese way is the way of militarism. It always has been; it cannot be otherwise. It is the blood flowing out of the centuries and its imperative cannot be denied, neither by politicians’ rhetoric nor by any kind of collective amnesia. Do you understand me, Colonel? The Germans deny their racism now. But how foolish, for how can they? Easier to deny that air is the source of one’s life.

“China has nought to fear from Japan nowadays. This I tell you as a—confidence, eh? The pressure now comes from the Bolsheviks and they are to be feared more than ever the Japanese were.

“
Bushido
, Colonel. Do you understand this concept?”

He nodded. “Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Then you understand what I mean.” He looked out at the sky, entirely gray now and moving, as if some unseen giant were waving a rippling pennant at them. “That is a measure of friendship, did you know that? Good friendship, I am speaking of now—not a friendship as one might find between business associates or neighborly acquaintances. In this kind of friendship, which is rarer these days than one might believe, communication no longer becomes a problem or, as it most often is, a barrier. Do you agree with this notion of mine?”

“Yes, sir, most assuredly.”

“Umm. Something told me that you might.” He laughed softly, not unkindly. “You know, it was a day just like this one when Cheong first came to me. She was a very small child, not even three yet, I believe. Once there had been quite a large family. I don’t know whatever happened to them; apparently no one does, for I made many inquiries over a good many years. All fruitless.

“After a while it did not seem to matter at all. This was her family and I could not have loved her more if she were my own daughter. I have many children and now many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. My goodness, so many is their number now that I sometimes confuse a name with the wrong face. But it is excusable. I am an old man and my mind is otherwise occupied with numerous matters.

“But I may tell you with all candor that among all my progeny Cheong has a special place. She is not the fruit of my loins but she most assuredly is the fruit of my mind, do you follow me? This is where she comes from and you must know this, come to understand it for what it is and what it portends before you leave Singapore.”

He was silent for a time now as if he were dreaming of a far-off land or, perhaps, a time long gone. The air seemed to split open and rain slanted down out of the charcoal sky, pattering against the small square roof of the garret, dripping from the diminutive eaves. The green leaves of the trees dipped and shivered under the downpour until, hissing, the world was obliterated as if by a solid wall of water. Leaning slightly over the side, the Colonel could not even make out the lower roof of So-Peng’s house. Mist, heavily laden as smoke, drifted up to them. The world was now a gray-green pointillist painting from which only brief shadows emerged as if they were watching the visualization of still-forming thoughts within some godlike brain.

“We seem very alone up here now,” the Colonel said.

So-Peng smiled. “One is never truly alone in Asia, is that not so?” He seemed as still as a statue and it seemed odd to the Colonel that this should be so, primarily because the background was in such violent motion. Reflective spray bouncing up off the sill inundated him with a fine mist and he stepped back from the verge a pace, reminded of standing at the bow of a fast cutter on the open seas. “The world is different here,” So-Peng continued. “
Our
world is different. We are born with, grow up with, indeed live our entire lives with the concept of eternalness always close to us. This—shall we say intimacy—I have often thought is a two-edged sword. It is indubitably our great strength in life but also—this is another confidence—it is our weakness, I fear, our Achilles’ heel when it comes to dealing with the West. I am much afraid that too many of my countrymen underestimate Westerners precisely because they think of them as barbarians, unable to fully grasp the Eastern concepts of man, honor and the nature of time. This can be lethal. Witness the Japanese. Idiotic what they attempted! Glorious but idiotic. But the Japanese know well the nobility of failure. A majority of their national folk heroes would be considered dismal failures by Western standards. It is the nature of their being, the quality of their thoughts that are revered; deeds count for all, in the West. The Protestant ethic, I believe it is called, eh? Well, it is nothing to scoff at, as any Japanese would tell you now. The Protestant ethic is what defeated Japan. It was made to pay dearly for the miscalculation of Pearl Harbor. The United States was truly the sleeping giant; its wrath awesome to behold.” He gazed out upon the frantic rain. The air was heavy with moisture. “We as yet lack the necessary understanding of the nature of time. We still look to yesterday when its eternalness was all; we have not yet caught up with the present.” He laughed. “But give us time. We are most ingenious people. Once show us the way and there is our salvation. We are an extremely flexible people. Watch out that we do not catch you and overtake you!”

The faraway, dreaming look left So-Peng’s eyes as he turned to the Colonel and said, “But my personal views of philosophy are no doubt of little interest to you. Words of wisdom—I do not believe in that phrase. One cannot learn wisdom by sitting at another’s feet. One must live one’s own life, make one’s own mistakes, feel one’s own ecstasy to learn the true meaning of existence, for it is different in each individual. Fall down, get up, do it all over again in another context. Experience. And learn. That is the only way.