The Season of the Stranger Read online

  “And with the revolution all that fled.” The room was smoky. Girard’s eyes hurt. The old man spoke without seeing him. The noises of the teashop were softened murmurings and the muffled contacts of porcelain and wood. “And from the revolution I fled. I isolated myself at home, receiving no visitors, reading and eating and sleeping and dreaming. So great was my prestige that I was not bothered. My concubines went unmolested through the streets; my servants were welcomed at the marketplace. Soon, soon, I thought, this coarseness, this earnest vulgarity, this evil growth on the face of society, will die.

  “I waited tranquilly, and it did die. Yüan Shih-k’ai came to power, compromising at first with the westernized hotheads, appropriating meanwhile the army and the taxes, the strength and the revenue. He remembered me from the dynastic days, and sent for me. I shall not forget that morning: I left the house by open sedan, and my servants took the long route to the palace; the crowds at first were curious and shouted insults at my queue, and then they became silent, and as we drew nearer the palace they were beginning to bow.” He took a bad peanut from his mouth, looked at it, and threw it to the floor.

  “I worked with Yüan Shih-k’ai. I convinced him, if he needed persuading, that the country would die without an emperor. He liked me. I worked my way into the heart of the country’s direction. I became more wealthy. I left my home without fear and without bitterness. I entertained. They came asking boons, and I was generous. And again I could see the future, unfolding like the paper flowers in water jars, brightly colored, luxurious, with growth and work. I could almost see the revivification of the house of Ch’ing and the strength of the northeast. I could almost see myself leading this revival; emperors have died before and emperors have been replaced before.

  “And when Yüan, too, died, having failed, leaving the country with no leader, I used the power and wealth which had come to me. I worked with anyone and everyone and shifted my allegiance four times, but always with the object in mind: the rehabilitation of my country. And with Chang Tso-lin came vigor and cunning, the energy and subtlety of the northeast, which had managed successfully the threats of the west and of Russia and Japan. I worked with him near the end; and when he was blown to death, blasted through the walls of his private railway car, my last great hope exploded with him.

  “I retired again with my money and my concubines. Each day I wore a different costume, and all of them were imperial. I lived with my books and my language, now dead; and knowing that for me there could never be the future the past had promised, I lived in that past.

  “And when the republican troops swept north across rivers and valleys and ranges I barred my door and kept life away, and for a time life stayed away. But the men who came north with the armies knew nothing of our culture, of our minds. They descended like vultures and sought carrion, with the instincts of hunger and acquisition supreme. They came, and they looted and killed; they created nothing, destroyed everything.” His body had shrunk, drawn back on his chair. He stared ahead of him, at nothing, his face the face of a man remembering death. He twisted his sleeve with a dreaming hand.

  “They came to me, too. They came at night, with clouds, and with their low boots and filthspattered uniforms, with their smells and rotting teeth, with their hunger and their diseases. They shot the lock from the street door and battered the inner doors to splinters, doors three hundred years old. They began with the first pavilion, taking what they could and breaking what they left. They streamed across the courtyard and assaulted the second pavilion; when they had demolished the door they rushed in and found me standing calmly with contempt in my face and in the lines of my body, standing with the women behind me. And for a moment even they, even the beasts of the animal south, were halted. They stared in wonder and awe at me and at the women, and at the delicately carved chests and the mosaic tables; and when they comprehended the wealth it was too much for them and they came crouching toward us. Their leader was gross and muddy with no cap and with a fringe of untouched beard on his cheeks. His eyes were small, almost hidden, and he stood tense with the tongue lying in one corner of his open mouth. He touched my first concubine, pregnant even then. I sprang like a tiger of his own southern jungle and killed him with one thrust of a dagger that had killed princes. And then three of them were on me, with the smell of breath and of the offal in which they lived almost enough by itself to kill.

  “When I came to life again, naked, my treasures were gone, my past was gone; my women, even the aged cook, had been defiled again and again; and they had not been content with that. I remember the pain, the stinging convulsing pain, as I struggled to sit, and the unaccountable blood pooled and smeared at my legs, and then the knowledge, striking with the force of an executioner’s sword, that they had destroyed my manhood also; they had taken even that, and left me naked and cropped.

  “There was no past now; and perhaps if they had left me a comfortable present I would have accepted it. But they had left me nothing, and I could not live with nothing. Tens of times each day after that I battled, and tens of times each day I decided to live. They had taken from me one future; but there was another, not the future of my boyhood, but still a future. And then I knew that I wanted it, that I would do anything to have it.

  “My first concubine gave birth. I wanted a man, a man I could teach, who would someday do in the world I wanted the deeds I wanted done. It was a daughter, the first of my children I had ever cared about, the last I would ever have. I would have loved a man as I loved the empress, and expected as much of him; but I loved the daughter as I had loved my past, and expected only that she would be as beautiful.

  “I worked again. I had time for nothing but work. I left my shattered home at night; I used my remaining money darkly and carefully; I hired killers, scum; in two years I controlled the opium of the City. And then I went to the rabble government I despised and I offered them what I had in return for what I wanted. They needed me, they knew they needed me. They gave me the position and the power, and I used it; I sold and confiscated, sold and confiscated, sold and confiscated. The same marked bundles of opium went through my hands three times in a week.

  “Even then I could not be sure of my happiness. The Japanese came. For a time there was the horrible picture of losing all again. The Japanese had taken my homeland, and no one doubted that they would be in the City within the decade. Not until they came did I find that I was the master of circumstance. I played the City and the Japanese one against the other, pitted the wit of my country against the brawn of its despoiler. Then to the people I ruled and despised I became a legend; and to their enemy, too, I became ruler.

  “When the Japanese were driven out I was left the most powerful man in the City. In many ways I am still.”

  With difficulty Girard pulled his eyes to the old face and focused them. The old man wiped his mouth and smiled.

  “This is the man you have argued with,” he said. “You know now how little your death would mean to me. And if my daughter remains obstinate, even she will not be allowed to destroy me.”

  Girard ran angry hands down the flanks of his gown. He could not think. He wanted time to crouch, to squat, to sit with his back to a wall, to keep him away. He stood up with his legs trembling and sweaty. “I wish they had killed you,” he said. “I wish they had finished. I wish they had spitted you and fed you to dogs.” He was almost shouting now and the teashop was quiet. “You are old,” he said. “Too old. Perhaps you will die soon.”

  In their silence he walked on stiff legs to the back door. Before he reached it he heard the old man’s high dead laugh, and when he went through the door into the room of the sweet and sickly smoke he heard them all laugh, and then he was out of the room and in the smell of the winding alleyway.

  8

  By the middle of December they knew that the war would come before spring, that there would be blood on the late winter snow. Trains came from the north, whistling outside the university wall, flatcars and coalcarriers with the re
fugees from the northern cities packed into or onto them standing; standing sometimes for half a day while the train clattered through the web of villages; standing sometimes for a longer period, when the line was cut and track repair crews had to be called out. They could see the trains from the hill beside the house, and sometimes on the flatcars there would be the family of a rich man, cold for the first time, bunched in a corner of the car, making up in this trip for the cold they had never felt, staring at the houses beside the track, seeing the smoke curl from the chimneys; and behind them on the flatcar would be the heirlooms: the beds, tables, chairs, draperies, crates of silk clothing, vases and statues, and once a birdcage; but this was a private car and a dozen men had been given rice or wheat or gold or jewels to insure the privacy.

  Most of them stopped and settled in the City. Some came with money and bought houses. Others came with nothing and swelled into the poorest parts of the City, making them poorer. Some were students and came to the university. Room was made, and the narrow chamber large enough for one which had been built for two and occupied by three now contained four.

  The work had slowed. Only a halfhearted feint toward teaching was required. The examinations would come in three weeks, and after that the six-week vacation; and after the vacation the faculty might be gone, the records might be destroyed; a new administration would revise the curriculum. (The broadcasts of the advancing armies, which had always featured pentatonic folksongs, had lately been playing Bach. Girard hoped that they would still want Shakespeare to be taught). Even to the teachers the work became unimportant; the waiting and debating, the theory and countertheory, had become more real. The meetings and rallies increased in frequency. Girard had not much to do, and the story of Ma Chi-wei had been circulated; when he knew that he would not be embarrassing to the students he started going to the meetings.

  “What will it be about tonight?”

  “Food, probably.” Six of them were walking to the auditorium. For three days wall posters and handbills had advertised the meeting. It was called a conference instead of a meeting. At a conference there were guest speakers, and more resolutions were passed.

  “Why food?”

  “There may be shortages.”

  “Who will be there?”

  “Professors and students. The usual participants plus a few guests.”

  “We are becoming a focal point,” Girard said.

  “The next city to fall is always the focal point.” Cheng walked beside him. The others were talking about conditions in Shenyang before it was taken. Cheng and he dropped back a few steps.

  “Listen,” Cheng said, “and excuse me. But I am curious.”

  “What is it?”

  “We never see Hsieh Li-ling. If you would prefer not to discuss this, please do not. Still …”

  “Still, there is curiosity.” Girard smiled at him. “I have not seen her for almost a month, and there are many reasons for it, all of them clear and pointed. I am not happy about it.”

  “I can guess some of the reasons,” Cheng said. “Perhaps when the City goes.”

  “Yes. Perhaps when the City goes.” May it go soon he thought. Because it will go sooner or later and it might as well be sooner. She has probably not been out of her father’s palace all this time. House of rotting wood and rotting people. House of nothing. Someday on that spot there will be only grass. Or a tar pit, with struggling dogs and tigers dying in last breathless thrashings. And later a coal mine there, or a tree. If there is a tree an unknown and unknowing destroyer will invent the bow and arrow and after a long enough time there will be a palace there again.

  “All the lights are on.”

  Girard looked up at the auditorium. “Unusual.”

  “Yes,” Cheng said. “There will be a crowd.” They took the steps two and three at a time and came through the door into the back of the auditorium. Someone handed them programs and they started down the crowded center aisle, shouldering through the chattering groups and looking for empty seats. They reached the stage without finding any and looked back. They heard Cheng’s name then and saw Wu sitting in the balcony’s first row, waving them to him. They went back up the aisle and mounted the twisting iron stairway.

  “Here,” he said when they reached him. “I have saved two.”

  “Thank you,” they said together. They sat. Cheng flapped the paper in his hand.

  “Fancy,” he said. “Very fancy. We have not enough food but there are paper and ink for programs which will be discarded within ten minutes of the end of the meeting.”

  “Morale,” Wu said. “We are at a conference, not a meeting. There is a high tone tonight.”

  “There is a tone, anyway,” Cheng said. “Look at all these screaming dirty children.” The balcony was full of them. “Whatever the performance, a film, the opera, a concert of western music, a meeting of which they will understand perhaps one part in twenty, they come. And they come always to the balcony.”

  “They like the height,” Girard said. “They live in mud houses or stone shacks, and the highest they go is to the back of a donkey.”

  “I never thought of that,” Wu said. “Cheng does not like children.”

  “I have perceived it,” Girard said. “What causes this in the old one?”

  “It is the natural result,” Cheng said, “of having sprung fully mature from the egg of a roc. Being both divine and adult, I have little sympathy for these muck-encrusted victims of nature.”

  “Look,” Wu said. “We begin.” The footlights were on and people were filing to the stage and sitting on wooden chairs. Wu stood up and turned. He glanced around him at the children and boomed, “Silence!” They were quiet. “This man,” he said, pointing to Cheng, “is born of a roc and a divinity. If there is not quiet during the meeting, you will be struck down by …” He frowned.

  “Deep dread-bolted thunder,” Girard said.

  “Untranslatable at short notice,” he said. He glowered at the children. “By the wrath of the heavens,” he said. “Now shut up.”

  He sat then and there was silence as Professor Ou-Yang walked to the microphone. The mouthpiece was too high. He tilted the microphone to the side and held it while he spoke.

  “Good evening.” His voice thundered into the balcony. He moved the mouthpiece away from his face. “Good evening. Before we begin the meeting—” he leaned forward to catch muttering in the front rows—“the conference, I wish to read to you the last received bulletin on the progress of the war. This is a bulletin composed by the faculty members of the universities of north China. It is fairly reliable.” He lifted the paper and read:

  “‘Twentythird day of the twelfth month, thirtyseventh year of the republic of China or nineteen fortyseven, four o’clock in the afternoon: fighting has been observed and reported in the village of K’aifu, two hundred eighty li north of the City. The main lines of battle extend almost directly east and west of K’aifu, with the exception of the Tientsin area. There the battle lines are within one hundred li of the city of Tientsin, as they have been for some months. The Tientsin area is as quiet as usual. There is no prospect of an immediate breakthrough near K’aifu. On the other hand there is no prospect of halting the advance toward the City. All signs indicate that fighting will reach the City during the second month of the thirty-eighth year of the republic.’” He folded the paper and put it away. “With this as background, I introduce the first speaker of the program, Doctor Ku Shou-ping, whom you all know.” He stood the microphone properly on its base. The audience applauded. Doctor Ku came forward and cleared his throat.

  Wu shifted in his seat and leaned toward Girard. “What is two hundred eighty li in miles?”

  “Three to one,” he said. “About ninety miles.”

  “A mile is three li,” Wu said, “and they run it in four minutes.”

  “Some of them do,” Girard said. “A little more than four minutes.”

  “It is a twofold problem,” Doctor Ku said. “One: as the war continues i
ts advance the agricultural properties are taken and the availability of the food supply decreases. Two: as the war continues its advance, the displaced collect in the City, and the demand for these food supplies is increased.” He coughed. “And we, at the universities, are dependent. We have no supplies of our own.”

  “We depend upon the government. And here again is a bifold problem. One: the government is antipathetic to intellectuals. Many of the people of our northern universities have been killed or incarcerated. The remainder walks always under suspended sentence. Two: as nourishment becomes less available, the government will purchase or confiscate all crops; and the government will then proceed to the establishment of itself as a national market. All resident in or near the City will be urged or compelled to buy from the government. At exacting rates. And this is a national university, as are most of the universities of the north. Therefore any assets we have or are likely to get came and will come from the government.

  “We are therefore susceptible to suffocation. The government can withhold money, or it can revaluate prices upward uniquely for us. It is an unfortunate position.”

  “At that rate they would be here in six hours,” Wu said.

  “Who would?”

  “The war. At four minutes for three li.”

  “Government itself needs food,” Doctor Ku said. “We are fortunate in that. They are making strong efforts to facilitate transportation. But it is difficult. You will remember Honan five years ago.

  “They have up to the present taken the following steps. They have doubled patrols on the railroad from the City to the sea. If this can be maintained as an open route the City will continue to receive supplies by sea from Shanghai. The government has also initiated the transport of food from the south by air. The City has two airports. The government has ordered into food distribution shuttles all available aircraft of the government owned company. The government has contracted with the other large airline for the use of several of their aircraft. I fear that these will soon be the only food sources available to the City: the air and the sea. And should the railroad line be cut our supplies from the sea would vanish.”