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

was, just as I remembered him, in his peacock robes, looking serenely into the cooking pots. Everyone was terrified, of course. And so was I for a moment or two. But then something else occurred to me.

I daresay he inspects the kitchen once in a while, I thought, but he’s also come to look at me, just to make sure that I’m suffering and that he has really humiliated Mr. Chen.

One thing was sure: I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to confront him.

So I went up to him, made a low bow, and said, “Mr. Liu, may your humble servant speak with you for a moment, after your inspection?” And I must have been right, because after staring at me blankly for a moment, he said, “Tell Old Stinker to start without you.”

—

He led me to the little office and sat down behind the table, leaving me standing in front of it. Then he just watched me, waiting for me to speak.

“Mr. Chen is very humiliated,” I began.

“So I hear,” he answered.

“It’s terrible, what you’ve done to me, Mr. Liu,” I said. “My family still don’t know what I do, but they’ll find out. I can’t get the smell off my hands. And I get so little pay…I can’t support them on it. Will you ever show me any mercy?”

“No. It would make me look weak.”

“Then may this foolish servant ask your advice?” I said.

He looked a bit surprised. “My advice?”

“Yes, Mr. Liu. Should I kill myself?”

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“Your lowly servant is very serious,” I said.

“How would you do it?” he asked. He seemed quite curious.

“When the last Ming emperor lost his kingdom to the Manchu invaders, he went up a hill and hanged himself for shame,” I said. “If that was good enough for him, it’s got to be good enough for me. But I thought I should ask you first.”

“Why?”

“You might not want me to.”

“Oh?” He glared at me. “Why not?”

“Well, sir,” I said, “everyone knows that my suffering is to embarrass Mr. Chen. So if it drives me to kill myself, people might say bad things about you.”

After a pause, he nodded. “You’re quite intelligent,” he replied. “But you’re mistaken. People don’t value life as much as you think. You’ve heard the story of the lady-in-waiting who spilled hot ash on an empress, and how she was executed. Unlike you, she came from a noble family. But nobody complained. So don’t think anybody’s going to be shocked by your death. Or even interested.” He considered. “And you’re overlooking something else. There are dozens of people in this palace whom I’ve helped and promoted down the years, who owe their lives and fortunes to me. If I drive you to your death, it will only add fear to their gratitude, which is quite useful to me, you know.”

“I see what you mean, Mr. Liu,” I said.

“On the whole,” he continued easily, “I’d be quite agreeable to your killing yourself.”

You had to admire his logic.

“Well, that’s it, then,” I said.

“You were unlucky in having Mr. Chen for a friend.”

“I don’t believe in friendship anymore,” I cried. “I don’t think it exists.”

“No,” he corrected me, “it does. But I grant you it is rare.” He seemed to be meditating. “You know,” he said, “you could have taken another line of argument.”

“May your humble servant ask what that would have been?” I inquired.

“That for the time being, I might prefer to have you alive. As long as you’re with Old Stinker, you’re a constant humiliation to Mr. Chen. Once you are dead, people will soon forget. Though Mr. Chen certainly won’t try to promote any more of his kind in the palace—which was my goal—I’d like to rub his nose in it for a few more years.” He nodded to himself. “So I will make you this offer. I shall give you a present that will allow you to keep your family for a year. A private present from me to you. On no account may you tell anyone about it. Above all, you must not pay Mr. Chen a single copper coin of the money you owe him. If he asks for anything, you will tell him you have no money. Do you agree to this?”

“But I have to go on with Old Stinker?” I forgot even to address him politely.

“Exactly so.”

I had to think of my family. “You’ve got me there, honorable sir,” I said.

“In a year’s time, if I still wish to humiliate Mr. Chen, and if you have done nothing to displease me, then I may give you another present.” He looked at me. “Well?”

“Your servant thanks you, Mr. Liu,” I said.

“On your way home tonight, you will see me in the street, and I shall slip you the money.”

—

And sure enough, he did. A small bag of silver, far more than I expected. It was nothing to him, of course, but it would more than feed my family for a year.

“Don’t tell your family about the money,” he warned me, “or they’ll spend it all. Keep it hidden and give them only a little at a time.”

He was right, of course. The moment I produced a silver dollar that night and told my family I’d been given a tip for my good work in the palace, I saw my father’s face light up.

“Well done, my son,” he cried. “At this rate, I shan’t need to work anymore.” And although he was laughing, I could tell he meant it. In my experience, the minute someone thinks they don’t have to work, you can never get the notion out of their head again.

“Don’t stop working, Father,” I said. “This could be the last tip I ever get.”

The next problem was: Where to hide the money?

I still kept all my lacquer work brushes and other implements in a box. So I stowed the silver in that for the night. But it was no use leaving it there. Sooner or later, someone would be