A Thousand Pieces of Gold (21 page)

Fan Kuai took the seat next to Zhang Liang. After a while, Liu Bang left to go to the toilet and beckoned Fan Kuai to follow him. Outside, they were joined by Zhang Liang.

Liu Bang said, “I should leave right away. However, I have not said good-bye to Xiang Yu.”

Fan Kuai replied, “Major undertakings should never be hindered by minor scruples. When you are under such peril, why worry about something as trivial as bidding your host farewell? At present,
ren wei dao zu, wo wei yu rou,
they are like ‘the knife and chopping board,’ whereas we are
‘fish and meat about to be minced.’ When your very life is at stake, why bother to say good-bye at all?”

Liu Bang agreed. Before going, he ordered Zhang Liang to stay behind and render thanks on his behalf. He said, “I’ve brought gifts, but seeing that they are unhappy with me, I have not dared present them. Will you please do so for me?”

Zhang Liang said, “Of course!”

In order to escape as fast and far as possible, Liu Bang did not summon his chariot driver or cavalry escort but simply mounted a horse, accompanied by Fan Kuai and three other trusted aides who followed on foot with their swords and armor. Instead of following the major highway, they decided to take a shortcut at the foot of Mount Li. Before galloping off, Liu Bang said to Zhang Liang, “Since we’re taking the shortcut, our camp is only five or six miles from here. Don’t be in a hurry to return to the banquet. Tarry awhile. Wait until you think we’re safely back. Only then should you speak to Xiang Yu.”

Zhang Liang waited for a good long while before going back to Xiang Yu, saying, “His Lordship Liu Bang has a very limited capacity for wine. Hence he was not able to bid you farewell in person. He wishes to render his apologies and has asked me to present to Your Highness this pair of white
bi
[a round flat piece of jade with a hole in its center]
.
He is also presenting General Fan Zheng (Old Man Fan) with this pair of jade wine cups.”

Xiang Yu asked, “Where is Liu Bang?”

Zhang Liang replied, “His Lordship Liu Bang thinks that you are displeased with him and may reprimand him. Hence he left by himself and is probably back at his camp by now.”

Xiang Yu accepted the jade
bi
s and placed them at his side. But Old Man Fan took the cups and angrily threw them on the ground. Then he drew his sword and slashed them to pieces. In an agitated voice he shouted, “Useless younger generation! You are unworthy of me! Mark my words! The one who steals your kingdom from you Xiangs is bound to be Liu Bang. And we will all end up as his prisoners in the not too distant future!”

The proverb
Xiang Zhuang wu jian, yi zai Pei Gong,
“While Xiang Zhuang ostensibly performs a sword dance, his real intention is to kill Liu Bang, Lord of Pei,” alludes to words or actions that contain a hidden motive. The idiom was used recently in a Chinese newspaper’s obituary published after the death of Young Marshal Zhang Xueliang in October 2001.

The Young Marshal was the son of a Manchurian warlord. He nursed a lifelong hatred toward the Japanese because his father, the Old Marshal, had been murdered by Japanese agents. Hoping to persuade the Nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek to scrap his anti-Red campaign and form a united front with Mao Tse-tung’s Communists against the invading Japanese, he devised a devious plan.

In December 1936, the Young Marshal sent his troops to seize Chiang Kaishek while the latter was staying at the hot springs resort in Xi’an. Chiang escaped barefoot through a window, leaving behind his false teeth, his diary, and his shoes. He was discovered four hours later, injured and shivering behind a nearby rock, and taken into custody.

The kidnapping shocked the world and became known as the Xi’an Incident. It ended two weeks later when Chiang Kai-shek was released unharmed after promising to join forces with Mao’s Communists in fighting the Japanese. This had been the Young Marshal’s sole purpose for his daring escapade. Afterward, he surrendered voluntarily to his leader, Chiang Kai-shek. By subjugating himself, he gave his leader back the face that Chiang had lost by being kidnapped. However, Chiang never forgave him and placed him under house arrest for the next fifty-four years.

Using the proverb “While Xiang Zhuang ostensibly performs a sword dance, his real intention is to kill Liu Bang, Lord of Pei” Chinese newspapers claimed that the Young Marshal’s kidnapping of Chiang Kai-shek provided a decade of cooperation between Nationalists and Communists that allowed the Communists to recover their strength and eventually take over mainland China.

After the Young Marshal’s death at the age of 101 in Honolulu, the Chinese president, Jiang Zemin, hailed him as a great patriot. It is widely believed that the Xi’an Incident altered the course of Chinese history by giving the Communists breathing space at a crucial stage in their development, allowing them to consolidate their power and drive out the Nationalists thirteen years later.

Why did Xiang Yu not kill Liu Bang during the course of the banquet at Wild Goose Gate? I believe it was because he did not wish to lose face in front of his own army. Liu Bang had come to Xiang Yu voluntarily, accompanied by only a
hundred cavalrymen, making abject apologies and handing over unconditionally the great city of Xianyang, which he had just conquered. By humbling himself, he had given Xiang Yu a big dose of face in front of the latter’s troops. Chinese etiquette and honor demanded that Xiang Yu should reciprocate by inviting his visitor to dinner, thus giving back some face in return. This is known as
ke qi,
“courtesy” or
“qi
toward guests.”

By becoming a guest at Xiang Yu’s table, meekly enjoying his hospitality and sharing his food, Liu Bang placed Xiang Yu in a difficult situation. To kill him, Xiang Yu needed an excuse to justify his violence. At that moment he could think of none. For a host to suddenly turn on his guest who had just given him face would have been rude, shameful, and despicable.

Face
means “self-respect” or “honor.” The concept is deeply ingrained in the Chinese psyche and signifies a person’s sense of self-worth. In China, face can be lost, sold, bought, borrowed, given, or denied. Most of all, face must be preserved, especially in front of an audience composed of one’s own henchmen. To please the Chinese, it is vitally important to give them face at every opportunity. On the contrary, making someone lose face is perceived as having done something unforgivable. This is what I inadvertently did when I wrote my autobiography. It is my family’s perception that I made them lose face when I wrote my book. Because of this, some of them are angry and probably will never speak to me again. The fear of causing family members to lose face may be the principal reason why so few true autobiographies have been written in China.

Yi Jin Ye Xin

T
he Chinese term
lao jia,
“old family home,” is difficult to translate because it encompasses the city as well as the dwelling you used to live in before the age of ten. You might have loved or hated it while you were there; it doesn’t really matter. But despite your feelings for it at that time, this particular place will become special as you grow older and will affect you in a way no other place can duplicate. It is different from any other location in the world. You might even say that its shadow has become part of your soul. No matter how old or how young you are, when you go there again, it will conjure emotions and invoke memories that are unique.

For me, that city and place is Shanghai. Although I was born in Tianjin, a northern city one thousand miles away, my mother, father, aunt, and grandparents were all from Shanghai. My father took me to Shanghai when I was five years old, and I lived there for the next five years.

Readers ask me, “Where is your home?” And now it has become a very difficult question to answer. I have lived in many places, including Hong Kong, London, and Los Angeles. But no city can ever replace Shanghai in my heart. This is the spot where my psyche was formed, so to speak. Every metropolis afterward became an anticlimax, no matter how glamorous or romantic.

My parents wrenched me away from Shanghai and my Aunt Baba when I was ten years old. They placed me in a succession of boarding schools in Tianjin, Hong Kong, Oxford, and London. Throughout that time, I dreamed of running away and returning to my
lao jia
and my Aunt Baba in Shanghai. The dream persisted even after I entered London Hospital Medical School. As a medical student, I belonged to the Chinese Students’ Union. A group of us from Shanghai used to get together on Saturday afternoons and go ice skating at a nearby rink. Afterward, we would eat great bowls of soup noodles, drink jasmine tea, and speak to one another nostalgically about boat rides on the Huangpu River or walks along the Bund.

Although many spoke of going back, only one of our group actually returned to Shanghai during the 1960s. We never heard from him again. His disappearance distressed me greatly and shattered every fantasy. I finally recognized that the one thing that remained of my
lao jia
was probably the comforting image of a safe haven existing solely in my mind. Everything else had vanished.

It took many years for me to learn the painful lesson that I can never go back to my
lao jia
again. My grandfather told me long ago that the only thing that does not change is that everything changes. Some people never seem to grasp this simple truth. For them, the yearning for their
lao jia
persists throughout their life, so much so that nothing else can be as meaningful as going home in triumph. Such a person was the ancient warrior Xiang Yu. When he became the most powerful man in China, he chose to go home and show his people that he had made good rather than remain in Xianyang and consolidate his power. “Otherwise,” he claimed, “life would be like
yi jing ye xing,
‘dressing in the finest brocades to parade in the dark of night.’”

As soon as he was safely back in his own camp, Liu Bang executed the informer Cao. A few days later Xiang Yu entered the capital city of
Xianyang. In contrast to Liu Bang’s policy of
qiu hou wu fan,
“not disturbing the finest downy hair,” Xiang Yu went on a wild spree of murder, looting, and arson.

Xiang Yu had been only ten when Qin annexed Chu and his grandfather Xiang Yan committed suicide on the battlefield. Since then he had nursed a burning hatred against the Qin emperors. This feeling had been exacerbated when his Fourth Uncle Xiang Liang was killed while fighting the Qin army two years earlier. Now he found himself the supreme warlord of All Under Heaven at the age of twenty-six.

In his heart he had no thought of benevolence or righteousness, only hatred and revenge. In his eyes the Qin people were not individuals with hopes and aspirations similar to those of the people of Chu, they were merely the enemy. He did not care that the surviving King of Qin, Zi Ying, was as much a victim of Zhao Gao as everyone else. To Xiang Yu, King Zi Ying was the head of the evil force that had killed his grandfather and beloved Fourth Uncle and as such needed to be exterminated. He did not recognize that the magnificent palaces, bridges, temples, tombs, and gardens stretching in front of him for a hundred miles represented the blood, toil, and tears of years of disciplined organization and hard labor. To the young warrior, they were only the trappings of his adversary and therefore had to be demolished. He never realized that he was standing at the threshold of a new era and was, at that moment, the overlord of
tian xia,
“All Under Heaven.” The whole empire was clamoring for change, and Xiang Yu was perfectly placed to bring this about, but he chose a different path.

He began by killing the surrendered King Zi Ying, his entire family, and Qin’s chief officials. He plundered the palaces and ransacked the treasuries, appropriating for himself all the gold and silver ingots, jewelry, ornaments, precious objects, and beautiful women. He set fire to and burned the palaces and courts of the Qin emperors, including the imperial library with its unique collection of ancient books. An area extending for a hundred miles was soon ablaze. Buildings at that time were constructed of wood. They burned quickly, but it still took three months before the flames of Xianyang finally subsided. He dug open the entrance to the First Emperor’s tomb, which had just been completed, seized the best weapons of the buried terra-cotta army, and torched the subterranean chambers.

Shiji
mentions briefly that Xiang Yu sacked the First Emperor’s tomb. In another book written a few years later,
Book of Han,
it is recorded that a shepherd was searching for a lost sheep that entered a tunnel. The shepherd followed, carrying a torch to light his way. The pit caught fire, and its contents were burned, including many coffins.

Nothing of what Xiang Yu saw or touched was left without damage. The people of Qin, picking through the rubble for their belongings after the fire finally died, were
da shi suo wang,
“greatly disappointed in their hopes.” However, since they feared Xiang Yu, they dared not protest or rebel.

Having packed his booty and captured the city’s most beautiful women, Xiang Yu prepared to depart. A scholar named Han Sheng now approached to offer him advice.

“The Land Within the Passes (Guanzhong), which used to be the state of Qin, is unique in its geographical location,” Han Sheng said. “It is surrounded by high mountains that are difficult to traverse. Its lofty terrain and narrow passes make the area easily defensible, while the land within is well irrigated year round and rich in productivity. You should consider making Xianyang your capital instead of returning to Chu. From Xianyang you can rule the rest of China.”

Xiang Yu gazed out, but all he saw was the waste and destruction he himself had wrought. Knowing that he was unable to restore the city to its former pristine glory, he felt more homesick than ever and longed to return to Chu. He said to Han Sheng, “A man who conquers All Under Heaven and does not return home to enjoy his fame and fortune is like someone who
yi jin ye xing,
‘dresses in the finest brocades and parades around in the dark of night.’ Who would know of his success?”

Han Sheng was disappointed at Xiang Yu’s narrowness of vision. He said nothing but related their exchange to many of his acquaintances and added, “I don’t know what I was expecting when I met Xiang Yu but certainly not this! It has been said that the people of Chu are like
mu hou er guan,
‘restless monkeys in tall hats’ or ‘worthless people dressed up as dignitaries.’ Sure enough, it’s true!”

Someone reported Scholar Han Sheng’s remarks to Xiang Yu. The young warrior became incensed. Without further ado, he arrested the scholar and executed him.

While clearing out my parents’ apartment after my stepmother’s death, I came across a letter to my father from one of his employees who had emigrated to San Francisco in the 1960s. The import-export firm he started in California was prospering, and by 1973 he had a fancy office and a staff of twenty employees. His sole regret, he wrote, was that his relatives and friends in Hong Kong (like my father) could not witness his success for themselves, with their own eyes. He ended the letter by quoting the proverb
yi jin ye xing,
“dressing in the finest brocades and parading around in the dark of night.”

At this very moment, sitting in the study of our bright and sunny London flat surrounded by my computer and my books, I wish I could speak to my father and tell him of my writing career. I long to describe to him my early morning routine. What joy it gives me to get up at six and climb the steep steps to my study, turn on the kettle for my first cup of jasmine tea, and read over what I have written the night before! How beautiful and peaceful it is in my study, with the whole of London stretched out like a picture canvas at my feet! Sheer exhilaration comes over me when I have captured on paper what I never dared to express as a child. I feel indescribable delight at the sight of a newly completed manuscript and the knowledge that it will remain even after my life is over. I long to say to him, “Please forgive me for giving up medicine and becoming a full-time writer. I know it is not what you wanted, but it is what I’ve dreamed of doing since I was a child. This is the happiest time of my life. Please be proud of me.”

Alas, this conversation will never take place. My father will never read any of my books or hear any of my talks about my writing. Without my father’s stamp of approval, am I also
yi jin ye xing,
“dressing myself in the finest brocades to parade in the dark of night”? Or is that merely a state of mind, somewhat akin to the endless search for our
lao jia,
“old family home,” and Xiang Yu’s lifelong yearning to return to his roots in Chu?

Xiang Yu had Hang Sheng executed in one of the cruelest ways: by frying him to death in a cauldron of hot oil. At that time, the death penalty was carried out in seven ways, depending on the severity of the crime, and Hang Sheng’s punishment was the worst.

1. Beheading.
   
2. Being cut in two at the waist.
   
3. Having holes chiselled in the head.
   
4. Having ribs extracted.
   
5. Being torn limb from limb (the head and four limbs were attached to five different horses or chariots. These were then forced to move in different directions at a given signal).
   
6. Five punishments (consisting of branding the forehead or tattoing the face, cutting off the nose, ears, fingers, or feet, and death by flogging, followed by exposure of the corpse in the marketplace).
   
7. Peng si:
   Being fried to death in hot oil or boiled to death in water.
   

The First Emperor kept a boiling cauldron in his throne room, into which he threw those who dared to oppose him. He added four additional methods of carrying out the death penalty.

1. Being buried alive.
   
2. Being put to death by a thousand cuts, inch by inch.
   
3. Execution of the entire family to the third degree (wife, concubines, siblings, parents, and children).
   
4. Execution to the ninth degree or death of the entire clan (wife’s and siblings’ families, parents’ families, and children’s families).
   

Apart from these various forms of death penalty, there were corporal punishments:

1. Flogging by bamboo lash.
   
2. Tattooing the face.
   
3. Cutting off the nose.
   
4. Amputating the feet or hands.
   
5. Castration.
   
6. Cutting off the ears.
   

Chinese people perceive life as a temporary phenomenon and death as the great equalizer. Even the cruelest despots are eventually forgiven and forgotten when they die. After the death of the First Emperor, a ballad was composed that became very popular:

As for Xiang Yu, he simply viewed himself as the supreme ruler with the right to dispense death in the cruelest manner to whomever he wished. Having buried alive the surrendered Qin army, executed their king, ransacked their treasury, burned their palaces, raped their women, terrorized the population, and fried Han Sheng to death in hot oil, he now sent a messenger to the King of Chu. After bragging about his conquests, he hinted that the king should now give his blessing for Xiang Yu to do whatever he wished regarding the Land Within the Passes (Guanzhong). But His Majesty replied, “Let Guanzhong be ruled according to the Covenant we all agreed to a year ago.”

Xiang Yu felt that the king had treated him unfairly the previous year by not allowing him to go west and storm the passes with Liu Bang. Instead, Xiang Yu had been sent north to relieve the siege of Julu and fight the main Qin army, a far more hazardous assignment. Consequently, he had no chance of reaping the benefit of the covenant, which fell to the hands of Liu Bang by default.

So he said to the generals, “The King of Chu was merely a shepherd whom my Fourth Uncle and I rescued from obscurity. He neither fought nor achieved any merit of his own. Why should he be the one to make decisions? Men like us, who wore the armor, held the spear, and lived in the rough, are the real conquerors of Qin. We are the heroes and as such deserve to reward ourselves accordingly!”

Feigning respect, Xiang Yu made the King of Chu an emperor and gave him the honorary title of Emperor Yi. In reality, he kept all the power himself and began issuing orders to the generals in his own name only, without even pretending to legitimize them by adding the emperor’s name.