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

quite impressive. “After your recovery, as soon as you start work,” he went on, “you’ll get a monthly stipend, which is quite handsome, even at the start. You’ll be assigned a mentor and be taught all kinds of things, from court etiquette to skills that make you useful. After six years, if you do well, you may get lucky and be chosen to serve one of the imperial family. You could even find yourself in the emperor’s company every day.”

He kept me so busy listening to all these wonderful things that I hardly had time to think of what was about to happen to me.

—

You have to fast for two days. Only liquids, no food. The third day they washed my body and gave me a potion brewed from the hemp plant they call cannabis.

The surgeon came in to see me and asked how I felt. “Good,” I said. “I feel good.” And gave him a smile.

It was strange, really. I remember feeling quite relaxed and calm. Very mellow. But it was better than that. A sense of peace, you might say. I just knew for certain that I was doing the right thing.

“I thought you’d give me opium to take away the pain,” I said.

“Sorry. No opium.” He shook his head. “Opium’s very bad. The cannabis won’t take away the pain,” he added, “but it helps with inflammation. And you won’t vomit so much, either.” He seemed only a bit older than I was, but he had the quiet confidence of a man who knows his business. “This way,” he said, and he led me into a room where I hadn’t been before.

There was a raised bench in the middle of the room, made of dark wood. His assistant, an old man, was standing beside it. He was wearing a grey cotton apron that made him look like a butcher. They had to help me onto the bench. I realized I was moving a bit slowly. “We strap you down now,” the surgeon said, “so that you won’t move. Things go more smoothly that way.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. You can’t help being a bit frightened.

So they strapped my arms and body to the bench, and opened my legs wide and strapped them to the sides of the bench, too, so that I couldn’t move at all. Then the surgeon put a black cloth over my eyes and tied it tight. I didn’t know he was going to do that, and I started to protest, but he said not to worry, they always did that.

At first, when he made the cuts on either side of my abdomen, I didn’t feel all that much. But then I began to cry out.

“Take a deep breath, then close your mouth and push down as if you’re trying to shit,” he said. “Good. Again. Again. Open your mouth.” And the assistant popped something in. It felt like a hard-boiled egg—because that’s exactly what it was. “Close your mouth. That’s it. Now hold still. This is going to hurt.”

Hurt? It felt as if everything between my legs was suddenly on fire. I tried to scream, but the assistant had his hand over my mouth, and my mouth was full of the hard-boiled egg, so all I could do was make a sound like a horse whinnying in my throat. Then I felt another fire from down there. And then I blacked out.

They use pig’s gall to control the bleeding. I don’t know why, but that’s what they told me.

—

Actually, the worst thing wasn’t even the day of the operation. It was afterwards. I was strapped to that wooden bench for a month.

It just ached and burned, day after day. I kept taking the cannabis drink for three days, which helped a bit, and they made me drink rice soup through a wheat straw. Three times a day the assistant would help me move my legs—I was still strapped to the bench, of course—because otherwise you probably couldn’t walk when you got up. But it’s so uncomfortable, being tied to a hard bench like that. Torture, really.

And it’s so boring. Just lying there, staring at the ceiling, for thirty days. I didn’t know the true meaning of boredom until that time.

The only other thing I remember happening was, a day after the operation, the surgeon came in with a jar and let me look inside it. And there were all the vital bits he’d cut off me—pickled, you might say, in lime. I suppose I was glad to see them and to know they were safe. But honestly, they looked so shriveled, so completely separate from me, that I could have wept.

My father came to see me. “Rose wasn’t sure if she should come,” he said, and I told him not to bring her. I didn’t want my wife to see me strapped to the bench. “We may need to use a little of the money I have,” he went on sheepishly, “with you not bringing any in just yet.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I won’t need it all.” I still hadn’t told him about the loan from Mr. Chen, and I wasn’t going to.

A month later, when I was able to walk, I sent word to the family to come and see me, but it wasn’t a great success. Rose asked me if I was all right, and I said yes, and she said, “That’s good.” It didn’t sound as though she really meant it. My mother started to cry, so my father said he’d better take her home, and Rose went with them.

They’ll cheer up when I bring them some money, I thought.

Mr. Chen looked in several times to see how I was getting along, but apart from that I had no visitors.

—

I wasn’t the only person undergoing the operation at the house of Mr. Bi. There were half a dozen others, but they were all boys. I was the only adult. Normally it