him a comfortable retirement. Despite a good military record, his reward had been skimpy. He was making his final bid. All this the Chens had got from hearsay or had inferred from the man’s oblique approach.
The Chens did not have to do much guessing; many a career officer had learned, too late in life, that the great T’ang Dynasty, great because of its conquering armies and outstanding generals, was squelching the military and giving the Civil Service Bureaucracy ever more influence. General after general had been promoted to stations where he could not raise revolt. But for being engrossed in satisfying their own craving for more land, the Chens might have been sorry for Colonel Tsao.
Tsao lived not far from the Pagoda of the Classics, in one of the hundred and ten walled quarters of the Outer City, enclosed by the walls of Ch’ang-an. In the entire world, including that of the western barbarians, there was no other city to equal Ch’ang-an for magnificence, culture, public services, and a high standard of living. Three centimes previously, Rome, that great city of the West, had fallen into the hands of the ultimate barbarians, because Roman armies were not what they had been in its golden days.
Chen said to the doorkeeper, “Tell Colonel Tsao that I have arrived.” He handed the man a card. “He is expecting me.”
When the man returned, Chen and Lan-yin followed him across a court, skirted a garden, and were led into a small reception room. After only a few minutes, a house-boy came to announce that Colonel Tsao would see his visitors at once.
The man who got up from his worktable and set aside his brush was on the tall side, well fed, affable, and kindly seeming; but the lines at the corners of his broad mouth—a generous mouth which nature had designed for smiling—had been shaped by overlong compression.
The narrow, penetrating eyes were restless. It was as if Tsao had lost too many years of his more than half a century in seeking without ever finding what he sought. And then charm brightened his smooth face. His bow was as low as Chen’s. Before he spoke, gesture and amiable demeanor made it clear that informality should prevail. He indicated seats and brushed aside all the conventional pretenses of declining whatever passed for the position of honor.
Tsao accepted Lan-yin’s presence as if everyone who visited him on business was accompanied by a woman.
“You arrived this midaftemoon? You must be deathly tired—and you lost no time seeing me!”
Chitchat about the trip led to queries about the weather, suspicious characters, and prowling gangs of disbanded soldiers—a cumbersome term which meant bandits. Then Tsao sat back; and without his speaking a word, his visitors knew that the interview was in their hands.
Lan-yin went saucer-eyed to suggest that she was too deeply impressed by the great man to remember she had femaleness to turn on and she contrived also to flash Chen a silent reminder, without ever cracking the awed-woman portrait. Farm life had seemingly engulfed one who, but for the quirks of karma, might have been a high grade singsong girl.
“Kwan’s older son,” Master Chen began, “is in the city, as I told you he’d be, to study with Doctor Wu, for Imperial Civil Service. The Old Man borrowed enough to finance the entire three or four years it will take—just in case he should die before the boy completes his studies.”
“Who loaned him the money?”
“Your Excellency, I’ll try to find out.”
“The tax office knows,” Tsao remarked, as if that detail were irrelevant. “Don’t bother. You can do more important things for me.”
Lan-yin cut into the lengthening, thoughtful silence. ‘Your Excellency, just recently soldiers were drafted, and my son was taken. Neither of the Kwan brothers went. They were out in the second range cutting wood. They’re always away when an officer comes to make illegal demands for more soldiers.”
“What’s that got to do with our business?” Chen snapped at her.
Tsao’s attention remained fixed on Lan-yin.
“They can’t always be cutting wood!”
He nodded as if to thank her for a helpful hint. Then he asked Chen, “This woodcutting—do the villagers ever sell wood—I mean, is it a business with them?”
“Not at all, sir, but if anyone wants a few wagon loads or a pack train load, the brothers get busy and keep at it till they have all that’s needed.”
“Tell me about this Kwan Ju-hai—what sort of a lad is he? We didn’t have time to go into that when we started discussing the situation that time at the village.”
A talk anywhere on the Chen acres would be conspicuous if it went further than what appeared to be a stranger’s asking direction to some distant settlement. “What would make him neglect his studies?” Tsao continued. “Does he drink much?”
“He’s crazy about women,” Chen answered, and his wife added, “He’s awfully interested in jade-craft—no, he doesn’t even get sociably drunk.”
Tsao’s upward slanting brows flattened slightly and he leaned forward, his eyes focusing on the Chens, first on Chen, then on Lan-yin. “Do any of the villagers use afiyoun?”
They exchanged glances. It was clear that neither had ever heard the word before.
“No matter! If I can find a girl who is interested in jade, there’d be no problem getting him off the track. A fascinating sing-song girl ought to keep him up too late for a student.”
Tsao reached for a brush and wrote an order. He clapped his hands; when a servant appeared, he handed him the paper, after first putting his chop—his seal—on it. “Put the silver in a stout bag. And serve tea.” Then he turned to the Chens. “You’ve given me something to think about. If you learn anything interesting, I’ll have more silver for you.”
“If I came to see you or sent anyone from the village with a message—”
Tsao gestured to dispose of that suggestion. “I’ll send someone to see you. A peddler, for instance, who’ll hand you a note.”
They drank their tea, and the Chens took leave, to head for the bath where they’d left their traveling clothes. Tsao sent for a sedan chair. He directed the bearers to Professor Wu’s address and told the sons of turtles to stretch their legs.
They did so; and half an hour later Colonel Tsao was facing the elderly scholar, a frail little man with sensitive features.
“Master Wu,” the Colonel began, after respects, “your many years as an outstanding teacher moves me to impose on your kindness.”
“Be pleased to clarify. I am at your service.”
“A comrade of the old days—we were fighting in Mongolia—had a charming daughter. Unhappily, she is now a widow and living with her in-laws. During our final campaign together, he must have had a premonition. His daughter was then quite young, and he asked me to be her guardian in the event of my outliving him. This I did. And I arranged a good marriage for her when she reached that age. But no arrangement is ever good when a woman is a widow and living with her late husbands kinfolk.”
“Deplorable,” Doctor Wu admitted. “One of life’s sadnesses.”
“So many students come to you for instruction,” Tsao resumed.
