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

“It’s no good,” I told my father when I got back to him. He looked very depressed. Then he left and I went back to work.

—

I didn’t know what to expect when I returned home that night. My son was lying there so quietly. He’d eaten less than half the tiny bowl of soft noodles my wife had been feeding him. She’d given him some of the medicine, but there was no sign it was doing him any good. I didn’t know what to say. More important, I didn’t know what to do.

“I’m going to Beijing tomorrow,” my father suddenly said.

“What for?” I asked. “We’ve no money.”

“I’m going to talk to the old man at the big pharmacy.”

“But he already refused when we hadn’t enough money. And now we haven’t even got that.”

“I’ll tell him what happened. His father knew my grandfather. And people can be good-hearted. You never know.” He stopped. “Have you got a better plan?”

—

So you can imagine how amazed I was, four days later, when he came back with the medicine.

If he’d come the day after, it might have been too late. My little boy had been getting weaker and weaker. The night before, I’d looked into his eyes, and I could see he was giving up. I’ve often noticed that children don’t really have the life force until they’re five or six. I remember picking him up and hugging him to me and telling him, “You’ve got to fight, little fellow. You’ve got to fight.” And I think he may have sensed what I was saying to him, even if he couldn’t understand the words. Maybe he did try to fight a bit longer, but I’m not sure he would have lasted another day.

“How did you get the old man to give you the medicine?” I asked my father.

“I reminded him that this was where he came from. I said my grandson’s life was in his hands. Perhaps he was ashamed, or kindness intervened. Who knows?” He smiled. “It doesn’t really matter why people do things, does it, as long as they do them?”

So we gave my son the medicine, and by the next day, he started to get better. He’s still alive today, I’m glad to say.

—

A few days later my master told me he’d heard my son was getting better and that he was glad to hear it. “How did it happen?” he said.

So I told him about my father and the old man and the medicine. When he heard it, he looked a bit thoughtful. I supposed he might be feeling guilty that the old doctor behaved more kindly than he did. In any case, he didn’t say anything. A few days later, he had to go to Beijing himself.

It was the morning after he returned that he called me into his house. “Did you know that your father paid the doctor for the medicine he received?” he asked me.

I was completely astonished. “But that’s impossible, master,” I said. “We have no money.”

“I assure you he did,” he replied. “I spoke to the doctor myself.”

“Could it be that he doesn’t want to admit his kindness?” I suggested. “He may be afraid that if people knew about his generosity, they’ll all come asking for favors.”

“I don’t think so,” my master replied. He was watching me carefully. “There’s a piece missing out of the storeroom,” he went on. “Small, but quite valuable.”

I stared at him. It took me a moment to understand. “Oh, master,” I cried, “you don’t think I would steal from you, do you?”

“Who knows what any of us would do to save our child?” he answered.

It was true, I suppose. I’d have thought the same in his place. But I knew that I hadn’t. And then I realized what had happened. “I did not take it, master.” I shook my head. I couldn’t think what more to say.

“I know you didn’t,” he quietly replied. “Your father did. When you left him in the storeroom and came to speak to me.”

“I can’t believe…” I started.

“It’s obvious,” he said. “But he didn’t tell you.”

“I wouldn’t have let him,” I cried.

“I know that, too.” He paused. “I’m not going to do anything about the missing piece,” he continued. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to go. I can’t have you here anymore.”

“Master,” I pleaded, “you know I’m a good worker, and I love it here. I’ll do anything…”

He waved my words aside. “While I was in Beijing,” he said, “I spoke to the owner of a fine little lacquer workshop that I know. He used to be in the imperial works. I told him that I had a good worker, a young fellow with talent, who was forced by family circumstances to move to the city. On my recommendation, he’ll take you on—as a pieceworker at first, but in time you may get a permanent position. Just don’t ever let your father go near the place, or you’ll disgrace me.” He nodded. “I’m the only one that knows about this theft, and it will stay that way. But you must go to Beijing. There’s nothing else to say.”

—

When I got home that evening and accosted my father, he admitted the theft, but he didn’t even apologize. “You do what you have to. I saved your son’s life,” he told me.

“But you’ve disgraced our family,” I shouted.

“Not if nobody knows.” He sounded quite happy about it.

“I’ve lost my job,” I reminded him. “How’s that going to help the family?”

“Fine,” he said. “Ask for your job back if I plead guilty. Let the magistrate punish me. At least I’ll have done something for my family.”

“He won’t give me my job back, even if you get a hundred strokes of the heavy bamboo,” I said. “Anyway, he doesn’t want to prosecute.”

“He feels guilty, that’s why,” my father said triumphantly.

—

We all went to Beijing together: my two parents, my pregnant wife, and my little boy, who,