China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

“I know.” Shi-Rong sighed. “I’ve been away from my wife too long. You know,” he continued, “if I hadn’t been told this was only a temporary appointment and that I’d soon be sent elsewhere, I would have brought my family here. I thought it was less disruptive to leave them at home until I had a better establishment to receive them.”

“I understand, Lord.”

“All the same…Perhaps I should send for them.” He paused. “I thought I’d get something better than this by now,” he murmured.

After his father’s death, he’d used his time pretty well. First he’d studied at the family estate; then he’d gone back to old Mr. Wen in Beijing. He’d passed his exams—not with outstanding honors, but well enough to put him in line for a good career. And he’d married. The daughter of the prefect of a province. An appropriate marriage. They were happy enough.

“It’s a pity that Commissioner Lin has died,” said Sun.

“It was he who first got me a job as a magistrate,” Shi-Rong acknowledged. “But I doubt he could do more for me now, even if he were alive.”

Lin had regained his good name. To some, he was a hero. He’d even been made governor of a province again, though not an important one. But he’d never advanced beyond that point.

“The fact is, anyone connected with the Opium War is under a cloud at court,” Shi-Rong remarked. “The emperor thought quite well of me, but he’s dead, too, and the new emperor doesn’t know me at all.”

“At least, Lord, you have a fine family estate on the Yellow River to go back to. Few magistrates have such good fortune.”

“Which is why they take bribes. You know I have never taken a bribe.”

“I do, Lord. You are greatly to be commended.”

“Good fortune may be a blessing. It may also be a curse. Perhaps, if I were a poorer man, I might strive harder. I do not know. What do you think?”

“I cannot say, Lord. But I am glad I am not ambitious. It never seems to make people happy.”

“Tell me, Sun—I know you are a Buddhist—what do you expect to be in your next incarnation?”

“Something peaceful, I hope, Lord.”

“Well, you deserve it.” Shi-Rong nodded. “I think I should go back for that pretty woman we just saw.” He glanced at his secretary, saw the look of concern on his face, and laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t.”

Nor did Shi-Rong pass through the hamlet again during the course of that year or the year after.

◦

Mei-Ling remembered that day, but not because of Shi-Rong. She’d hardly even seen his face. She remembered it because that night her sister-in-law had gone into labor for the eighth time. And by morning poor Willow was dead. She left four living children, the youngest a boy.

Willow’s life had not been very happy and would have been worse if it hadn’t been for Mei-Ling. This wasn’t so much because Mei-Ling tried to be kind to her, though she did. But the fact that every time poor Willow produced another daughter, Mei-Ling had produced another son seemed to deflect the rage that Mother would otherwise have felt towards her elder daughter-in-law. The family matriarch came to regard Willow as a lost cause, an unfortunate fact of nature, like bad weather. When at last Willow did produce a son, she was treated in the same manner as a useless employee who finally does something right, but cannot be relied upon to do so again. And now she was dead. What did it signify?

As it happened, a turning point.

Old Mr. Lung had been so proud of his little opium ceremonies and furious when Commissioner Lin’s campaign stopped his supplies. When in due course the opium had become available again, he’d laid in a considerable quantity. He could afford it. Indeed, guests were treated to a visit to the storeroom where his cases of opium were kept, which greatly impressed them.

“If any interfering mandarin starts throwing opium into the sea again, he won’t worry me,” the old man would declare.

“No, Mr. Lung,” his guest would agree respectfully.

But the British opium trade had continued, so there was an excess available in the house. Old Mr. Lung’s sessions became more frequent. He attended less to his business, and in due course bought more opium than he had before. Sometimes Elder Son would join him in these sessions. Second Son never did. He was offered the chance, but he always smiled and said he was happy as he was. He just went about his tasks on the land as usual, and old Mr. Lung and his elder brother attended to the loans and the collection of rents and the other business.

So when one night old Mr. Lung slipped into unconsciousness after his usual evening smoke and never awoke, it came as a shock to discover that there wasn’t much money left. There were all kinds of loans due to him and other complex arrangements that Elder Son declared were all safely in his head, but somehow the loans were never collected, and though his mother demanded to know who owed what, so she could go and collect the money herself, Elder Son proved surprisingly obstinate about supplying the information.

“I am the head of the family now,” he reminded her, as if that solved anything. And though Second Son did try to get some sense out of him, as he truly said to Mei-Ling, “If he isn’t going to tell Mother, he certainly isn’t going to tell me.” They even tried to enlist the help of Willow, but she only bowed gracefully to her husband’s authority, which was no use at all.

So the rents were paid in arrears, if at all. Several of the villagers bought their rented fields from him, at reduced prices. Even the family house was beginning to show some signs of neglect, although Second Son attended to all the repairs himself.

And then, that night after the magistrate passed through, Willow had died.

Elder Son seemed