Breaking Bamboo (8 page)

Nearly all their
cash
was gone. He examined Father suspiciously. The old man was following the progress of a gaggle of perfumed and powdered singing girls. They giggled fetchingly beneath tasselled umbrellas as they shuffled round puddles on tiny feet. Father’s were not the only eyes drawn to the girls, but staring so intently might attract notice.

‘Father, remember our situation,’ he pleaded.

The old man puffed out wizened cheeks.

‘I will buy the lot of them,’ he declared, scornfully.

The girls made their way to a small stage covered by garish curtains and awnings. So they were actresses rather than singing girls. It all amounted to the same thing: quails who sell their feathers. Guang fell back to moodily watching the crowd.

‘There will be a performance when the rain pauses,’ he observed.

The actors were gathered round the stage, drinking tea and joking.

‘We should find somewhere else to sit when the play starts.

The Mongols like a play.’

Indeed, it was strange how they loved the theatre. Guang had heard that when they massacred cities honourable enough to resist them, they spared only artisans, craftsmen and actors.

The rain continued to fall. Tomorrow he and Lord Yun must risk leaving the city or starve where they crouched. Father stared hungrily at the stage where the girls could be seen moving about. Wearied beyond all reason, Guang fell into a doze.

When he opened his eyes the sky had cleared. Lord Yun was still watching the temporary theatre, now lit with candles and flickering torches, though the curtain stayed shut. Hundreds of townsfolk had gathered for the show. Guang’s bowels ached and he cursed inwardly; a diet of cheap scraps was affecting him badly. Lord Yun, used to poor rations, seemed quite at ease.

‘Father, wait here,’ he hissed. ‘I must relieve myself.’

When he returned from the nearest back alley he looked round in alarm. All the panic of a parent who has lost his child in a dense throng possessed him, for Father had vanished.

Guang pushed deep into the crowd. The audience laughed and talked while loud music prepared them for the drama –cymbals clashing, flutes trilling mournfully. He surveyed the excited people. How could they behave as if their land was not occupied? A group of Mongol officers elbowed to the front, accompanied by North Chinese interpreters. Other barbarian warriors watched from the side, perched on their horses for a good view.

Guang’s forehead was damp with sweat. A few onlookers protested as he shoved past. Then he understood where the old man must be. At the front, the place he had always taken when Lord of Wei. In his confused mind he was still that Lord.

The curtain opened with a roll of drums and Guang concealed himself behind a tall merchant. He could see Father near the stage, gazing with rapt intensity, his mouth half-open. A dozen people formed a barrier between them.

An actor in splendid blue silks strode on stage. The crowd gasped and he examined the people haughtily. His face was fierce with red make-up and he wore an extravagant wig and false beard. In his hand was a huge scroll, tightly rolled.

‘I am Chang Xi!’ he declared. ‘Sent through all corners of the land on the Emperor’s orders to find a girl, a truly virtuous and beautiful girl, who appeared to my great master in a dream.

See, here is her picture! Has anyone seen her?’

Despite himself, Guang bent forward with the eager crowd, as Chang Xi unrolled a huge picture of an elegant maiden. The Mongol officers were craning like entranced children. For an odd moment, Guang glimpsed something shared between conquered and conquerer, that the enemy were men, not immune to softer feelings. He blinked. Shook his head. The thought confused him. A traitor’s thought.

At the appearance of the picture Father half-rose. One of the Mongols had noticed Lord Yun, and was nudging a companion to point out the ridiculous old fellow.

Once more Chang Xi declaimed, lamenting the impossibility of his quest in a land where all are debased by corruption and greed, unmindful of their filial duties. How could he find such a girl? He stamped his feet. Glared at the crowd.

‘Impossible!’ he cried. Knowing glances were exchanged among the audience. The actor’s hidden message was clear, but not to the Mongols, who roared at the actor’s eloquence.

The music resumed. Louder, wilder. Drums and clashing chimes. Flutes and strummed
pi-pa
. Dancers cart-wheeled onto the stage – the very same beauties who had captivated Lord Yun earlier on the street. Chang Xi marched up and down, pretending to assess each girl, before rejecting her as unworthy.

Thunderous applause allowed Guang to slip closer to his father.

Lord Yun was on his feet now, staring at the dancers like one possessed by fox-fairies. It seemed he might rush forward, causing a scandal that could only end in arrest. Surely every eye in the crowd must be upon him! Someone might even recognise the former Lord of Wei.

Guang gently took the old man’s arm. The tumult on stage was beginning to settle. Now was the time to slip away, while attention was focused on the actors. Yet he dared not manhandle Father, who would certainly protest. So he stood beside him and awaited the worst.

Yet a strange thing happened. As Chang Xi addressed the crowd once more, bewailing his failure to find a virtuous maiden, his glance fell upon Guang and the painted man blinked in surprise. The actor’s hesitation was momentary, but the fugitive’s stomach tightened. Had they been recognised?

Perhaps the posters were more accurate than he supposed. The actor hurried into the wings.

A beautiful lady entered the stage. Her silks and make-up were perfect. The Mongol officers exchanged sly remarks, no doubt recollecting their own hairy women and itchy, yak-skin couches.

‘I am Shu Qian,’ she announced, in a shrill, nasal voice. ‘My father is so poor he has arranged an auction of my virtue. . .’

A commotion at the edge of the crowd made Guang turn.

Then he knew they were truly lost.

Khan Bayke and his retinue were pushing their horses straight into the ranks of people, examining faces in the crowd.

In a moment they would cry out in recognition, riding down any who got in their way.

Someone was tugging at his arm. He turned to find a fat lady at his side. Closer inspection revealed a eunuch dressed in women’s clothes.

‘Quick!’ he hissed. ‘Follow me.’

The crowd was applauding again as the beautiful Shu Qian began to sing. Guang enveloped his Father in strong arms and carried him after the fat he-woman, who hustled them to the side of the stage, out of sight. Yet as Guang placed his hand over Lord Yun’s mouth, the old man’s jaws closed tight and Guang cried out in pain. When, in the safety of an alleyway crowded with actors waiting to go on stage, he pried open Lord Yun’s clamped jaws, a bloody half-circle of tooth marks dis figured his hand, scars he would carry to his grave.

*

They were led to a room at the rear of a cheap tavern. The eunuch bowed very low.

‘Wait here,’ he said, examining the two fugitives curiously.

‘My master will join you as soon as the performance ends.’

Before Guang could demand more information the man had gone. Father squatted on the floor, just as he had in Whale Rock Monastery, alternately weeping and staring into space.

Sometimes he muttered incoherent words. Guang did not wish to know what haunted so troubled a mind. Lord Yun’s lack of dignity revolted him. His instinct was to flee into the streets of Chunming but he held back. After all, the actors could have betrayed them while they stood in the crowd.

Guang furiously twisted the stubborn spear blade from the end of his bamboo pole. Taking a small pot from his bag he smeared thick black paste on the sharp tip. Whatever happened tonight, he would not meet the Infernal Judges alone. Father must not fall into Bayke’s hands. If the need arose, he would protect the old man from further shame – forever.

An hour later there was a gentle tap on the door. Guang stepped to one side of the entrance, balancing on the balls of his feet, spear ready to stab.

‘Enter!’ he called.

The actor playing the role of Chang Xi stepped inside, looking round eagerly. When he noticed the poisoned spear point hovering beside his throat he went very still and licked his lips.

‘Close the door, my friend,’ said Guang. ‘But softly.’

‘I recognised you, sir,’ said the actor with a gulp. Thick make-up caked his plump young face. Guang moved the spear tip a fraction closer to the actor’s fluttering windpipe.

‘Let me introduce myself,’ gasped the man.

‘Please do,’ said Guang.

A fanciful tale followed, throughout which the spear did not waver. The actor was a good talker. He claimed to be in the occupied lands on a delicate mission and that his real name was Chen Song.

‘I am a scholar,’ he said. ‘But that is not why I helped you.’

Still Guang kept silent. Chen Song spoke in an eager rush:

‘Many have heard the tale of how you rescued Lord Yun! And killed a dozen of Khan Bayke’s men! Such filial piety! When I see Lord Yun’s – how can I put it – unfortunate condition, I honour you all the more! Of course, I felt obliged to help. You see, we have met before, though you do not recognise me.’

‘When was that?’ demanded Guang.

Yet as he examined the fellow’s face in the soft lamplight, there was certainly a likeness to one he had known.

‘Do you not remember my brother, Chen Su, your comrade at the Western Military Academy, who you stood beside at the Battle of Lu Shan? He perished in the last campaign, before the Traitor’s Peace. I saw you together when I was just a boy.

My brother often told me how you saved his life.’

‘He would have done the same for me,’ said Guang.

Then he lowered his weapon and settled heavily in a chair.

He was exhausted beyond further precaution.

‘Father has not eaten for a whole day,’ he said. ‘And neither have I.’

Chen Song took the hint at once, ordering a banquet of five grains, five meats, and five wets to honour the fugitives. It seemed he could not do enough for them.

*

Two days passed in the small room. Chen Song visited briefly but he was busy with performances all round the city, including the Mongol governor’s residence.

Guang ensured Lord Yun did not venture out even to relieve himself. No one disturbed them, except to bring large meals twice a day and replace the chamber pots. Beyond the bamboo curtain, which he dared not lift, rain murmured and splashed.

Father slumped on the bed, occasionally sighing or chuckling.

Sometimes Guang tried to engage Lord Yun in conversation but every word felt strained and false. Perhaps Abbot Jian was right – Father’s two souls, his
hun
and
po
, had been possessed by demons and there the matter ended. Yet one might find amulets or spells to oppose even the strongest devils. Shih would know what to do. Above all, they must keep Father’s condition secret. Otherwise shame would taint the family name.

‘Father,’ he said. ‘I must learn more about this Khan Bayke.

He is our deepest enemy now. Tell me what happened when the Mongols first came to Wei. Did no one fight?’

He recognised the unspoken accusation in his voice and added more softly: ‘Tell me, please.’

The old man turned to meet his eye. For once the steady wind of his madness slackened.

‘I was never in good health like you,’ said the old man, full of self-pity. ‘My essential breaths were afflicted by the women.

They drain one’s life force, Guang! You must keep away from them, the temptresses!’

‘What happened, Father? If only I had been there! I was on the coastal frontier, thousands of
li
away.’

The old man was mumbling: ‘When I was young I was the handsomest man in our district. No, in our province! In the whole of Chunming Province! When I rode to visit the Prefect, everyone stared and admired my fine figure. So noble on my horse! I had whatever I wanted. And then spring passed.

And in autumn Bayke came.’

Guang almost wept. In all the years he had known him, Father had never spoken so frankly. He didn’t like it. He preferred him mocking and distant, ineffably cold.

‘Everything I wanted was mine by right!’ cried the old man, growing agitated. ‘Everything! How dare your mother hint otherwise? She betrayed my wishes like the others.’

He turned to face the wall and Guang attempted no further conversation. Who might these others be? It seemed better to think about plans for escape; that, at least, brought a kind of relief.

Each time Chen Song visited, Guang learned more about the actor’s delicate position. His troupe consisted of a dozen performers and musicians, as well as porters to set up the stage.

The company’s previous owner had sold the entire business to Chen Song, who assumed the role of manager. None of the actors knew government funds had hired them. Neither did they know the true reason for their tour of the occupied lands, believing it was for mutual profit, and indeed they were making plenty of money.

On his next visit, Chen Song revealed that although the Empire and the Khanate were officially at peace, various spies had been sent into the Mongol territories. Given the free passage accorded to actors, Chen Song had been instructed to travel and observe, noting the enemy’s weaknesses and strengths. He came from a family of notable scholars in Sichuan, but the ancestral estates had been seized by the enemy.

His grudge was much like Guang’s own.

‘We shall go no further west than Chunming,’ said Chen Song. ‘I have learned enough for a full report.’

‘What have you learned?’ asked Guang.

It was their third night among the actors. Now they shared wine like old comrades.

‘That the people are fickle,’ said Chen Song, bitterly. ‘Many place their necks under the yoke for an easy life. I tell you we must extinguish the Mongols or find our ancient ways snuffed out forever. Then we will live in darkness. When war resumes, as surely it must, I will no longer skulk as a spy but seek a good commander to serve!’

Guang nodded approvingly.