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

had to come back,” Second Son explained when they were all sitting together. “I just had this feeling something was wrong, that you needed me.”

“What did the American say?” Mei-Ling asked.

“He was all right.” Her husband smiled. “He said: ‘You gotta do what you gotta do.’ ” So he and their son had hurried back. They’d been traveling since before dawn. “But now that you’re all well,” he continued, “I wonder if I should go back and join the American again. I’m sure we could catch him up. We still need the money.”

“There’s no need,” Mother told him. “I found money today that your father must have hidden away.” She glanced at Mei-Ling, who nodded at once and said that it was most fortunate. “Enough to keep us going for quite a while.”

“Really?” said Second Son. “Well then, it was fate that brought me back.”

“It was,” said Mei-Ling.

And tired though they were, they made love that night.

—

It was just a few days later that Mei-Ling began to have a strange feeling. She could not say exactly why. Was it an instinct? A memory of how she had felt before? Or was it her imagination? Whatever the cause, the suspicion came and would not go away. A suspicion that a new life had begun within her.

Three weeks later, the suspicion grew much stronger. A month after that, she was almost sure. She told Mother, who nodded and made no comment.

That evening, when Second Son came in, Mother told him: “Good news. You’re going to be a father again.” And Second Son was overjoyed.

“It must have been the night before I left,” he said to Mei-Ling when they were alone later.

“It could have been the night you came back,” she replied.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Don’t you see? That’s why I had the message, telling me I needed to return.” He beamed at her excitedly. “It all makes sense. The ancestors were watching over us.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Mei-Ling said. It could be so.

But although she was happy at the turn events had taken, there was still something else that Mei-Ling would need in order to complete her happiness.

A few days later, without telling Mother, she went to a small Buddhist temple a few miles away. Taking great care, making sure to step with her right foot over the entrance and not to do anything to offend the spirits of the place, she offered two lighted candles to the Buddha. Then, kneeling before him and pressing her forehead three times to the ground, she prayed most fervently that the life within her should be a girl.

As she returned home, she felt the warm light of the afternoon sun falling so kindly on her face that she took it for a blessing.

—

When the baby was born seven months later, Second Son was overjoyed. “Our first daughter,” he cried in delight. “You always wanted one. And she looks just like you!”

It was true. The baby was tiny, delicately featured, and looked just like Mei-Ling.

Even Mother was pleased. “You are a good daughter,” she told Mei-Ling with a smile. “If the baby has your character as well as your looks, we shall be fortunate indeed.” All the astrological signs were promising as well.

But what should they call her? It was Second Son who provided the answer.

“She must have been conceived just around the time of the full moon,” he said. “We shall name her Bright Moon. As long as you don’t mind,” he added, looking at Mei-Ling, who smiled and agreed.

Everyone calls me Lacquer Nail. Ever since I was a young man. But I had to find my way into the palace of the emperor himself to get my name. So I’d better explain how that came about. It’s quite a strange tale, really. I don’t know anyone else who has a story as interesting as mine.

The village where I was born lies about fifteen miles south of Beijing. My parents had nine children, but just three of us lived beyond infancy—my two sisters and me. So it was up to me to carry on the family line.

My father was a carpenter, but I don’t think he was very good at it, because sometimes he wasn’t employed at all. He was a bit of a dreamer, really. “My grandfather was the son of a merchant with money,” he’d say, “but money’s not important to me.” When he said that, my mother would cry: “That’s only because you haven’t got any.” She was impatient with him sometimes, although I think they loved each other.

The only time I remember him trying to get money was when I was seven years old. The time he took me to Beijing.

My grandfather’s brother had left for Beijing long before my father was even born. But he used to come to our village every spring for the Qingming Ancestors Day, to pay his respects at the family graves. He’d given that up a couple of years before I was born, on account of his age, so I’d never met him. He must have been almost eighty when we went to Beijing.

Of course, as the oldest living member of my father’s family he was a person of consequence. I remember my father instructing me how I should address him, because I didn’t know the correct term for a paternal grandfather’s elder brother. On my mother’s side, of course it would have been completely different. And even little children have to be exact about such relationships. “If he was my father’s younger brother, you’d call him shu gong,” my father told me. “But he’s an older brother, so you call him bo gong.” Once I’d learned how to address him right, my mother said, “After you’ve spent some time with him, you could try calling him Granddad in an affectionate way, as if he were your grandfather. Maybe that will please him and make him like you.”

It made