Mr Ma and Son (21 page)

N
O MATTER
whether you’re an important person or an insignificant one, you can accomplish something if you strive onwards with the utmost resolution. Although the magnitude of these accomplishments varies, they’re alike in the force of spiritual determination behind them, and in their success, for which they deserve our respect.

But merely waving flags and shouting battle cries without really doing anything is disgraceful. Only people lacking in ideals, only people devoid of constructive ideas or those who delight in vainglory, wave flags and shout battle cries. Such things are not only doomed to fruitlessness, not only undeserving of respect, but they can’t even raise a laugh in others.

When did any of those foreigners in China, the foreign devils with their big guns, their aeroplanes and their science, their knowledge and their financial resources, ever laugh at all those students waving paper flags, shouting about justice, vying to become president of their students’ union and neglecting to study? Laugh? It wasn’t worth a single laugh. The less they study, the better. As long as they fail to study, the foreign devils’ knowledge will remain superior to theirs. And their paper flags, come what may, will never overcome the foreign devils’ artillery. If those students had a go at the foreign devils’ big guns with some little guns, the devils might perhaps manage a laugh. But if they merely clutched a little stick with a bit of red paper pasted on it, and tried to repel the cannons with that scrap of paper, they could hardly expect the foreign devils to crack a smile. No, that’s not the way people who truly care for their country set about things.

Love. What a terrible thing love is. At its altar, life and wealth may both be sacrificed, sacrificed for the sake of a woman. Even love, however, may be overcome by firm resolution. Life’s a complex, many-sided thing, and besides love it involves ambition, duty, vocation . . . Those who are fortunate may proceed from the fulfilment of their love to the attainment of their duty, and the accomplishment of their vocation. The unfortunate can only acknowledge their bad luck, and turn their attentions to their ambition, duty and vocation.

If someone abandons all his sacred ambition, duty and vocation, gratuitously discards his golden life simply because he can’t kiss someone’s cherry-sweet lips – such a person is a fit hero for a novel, but a social criminal. Real society and novels are two quite different things. To drop the paper flags to study and work, and to quiet one’s sad wails of disappointed love and take a look at one’s ambition, duty and vocation; those would be two salutary doses of medicine for the youth of China, of shattered China, decrepit but charming China.

When in China, Ma Wei had held up a paper flag and shouted battle cries along with the rest of them. But now he’d come to realise that the strength and prosperity of England was in large measure due to the fact that the English don’t shout battle cries, but put their heads down and get on with it. The English are passionately committed to freedom, but oddly enough their university students have no right of free speech with regards to their school authorities. The English are passionately committed to liberty, but oddly enough there’s order everywhere. When several million workers went on strike, it could be done without the firing of a rifle, and without the death of a single person. Order and discipline are the secrets of a strong country, as Ma Wei now realised.

In his heart, he couldn’t forget Mary, but he also realised that if he went to pieces over her, he and his father would starve to death, without question. And he would be unable to render the slightest service to his motherland.

Ma Wei was no fool. He was one of the new youth, and the new youth’s highest aspiration was to achieve something for their nation and society. Such a duty was more important than anything else. To lose your life for old China would be a million times more noble than dying for a beautiful woman. Sacrificing yourself for love would be to add one more flower to the garland of poetry, but sacrificing yourself for the nation would be to add a most splendid page to the history of China. Ma Wei realised that now.

His approach was simple: to resist his spiritual depression by means of physical labour. First thing in the morning, he’d get up and go for a run around the park, and sometimes he’d also do half an hour or so of rowing. The first time he rowed, he almost knocked himself flat on the bottom of the boat with all the exertion. Wind or rain, he’d go out running, and after three weeks of it, his cheeks had acquired a ruddy glow. On coming back from his run, he’d take a cold-water bath (Mrs Wedderburn had now granted them permission to use her bath) and rub himself bright red all over, till he looked like a fresh lobster in a fishmonger’s. After the bath, he’d go down to breakfast. Mary would look at him, and he would look at Mary. When Mary spoke, he would reply with a smile. He knew that she was beautiful, so he decided to regard her as some beautiful little ragdoll.

You look down on me, but I scorn you even more,
he told himself.
You’re beautiful, but I’m seeking glory and the fulfilment of my duty. Beauty can scarcely balance glory and duty on heaven’s scales. Ha!

Noting the ruddiness of Ma Wei’s cheeks, how his wrists grew daily thicker and more muscular, and the remarkable sparkle of his eyes, Mary now made deliberate excuses to engage him in conversation. Foreign girls do like tough young lads. Ma Wei deliberately ate quickly, and as soon as he’d finished his breakfast, he would go upstairs, three steps at a time, to do some studying. When he met Mary in the street, he’d just lift his hand and hurry on past like a gust of wind.

Ha! Good fun, this. Seem to have worked that lot out of my system!
thought Ma Wei.

If you can see the funny side of things, life’s much more enjoyable.

After a few hours study, Ma Wei would go out and run all the way to the shop. He put all Li Tzu-jung’s suggestions into effect, one after the other. The goods that Wang Ming-ch’uan had obtained for them reached London just before Christmas, and he and Li Tzu-jung set to work with a vengeance, decorating the shopfront, pricing things, printing the catalogue . . . Each day without fail, he’d put in seven hours’ work.

The wares weren’t all antiques, but included Chinese embroideries, trinkets and old embroidered garments. When elderly ladies in search of something Chinese for their relatives and friends came to hear of the Mas’ shop, they found many things to choose from. One day they’d buy a small purse, and the next a circular fan. Sometimes as they picked up such gifts, they’d also buy something expensive in passing.

As soon as Li and Ma Wei got all the goods sorted out, Li Tzu-jung called Lord Simon in to take his pick of the best. Head cocked to one side, Lord Simon wandered round the room for a good half of the day. In addition to the porcelain that he wanted for himself, he bought an old embroidered Chinese skirt costing twenty-five pounds as a Christmas present for Lady Simon. On that occasion alone, he bought a hundred and fifty pounds’ worth of goods.

‘It’s worked, Ma, old lad!’ said Li Tzu-jung, raking his hair.

‘Yes, it’s worked, old Li!’ Ma Wei was already smiling so much that those were the only words he could manage.

The two of them then got into a long discussion of how to attract the attention of passers-by to their shop. Li Tzu-jung proposed putting flashing lights at the end of the street, a red light alternating with a green one, shining out the message BUY CHINESE ANTIQUES, followed by GIVE THEM SOMETHING CHINESE AS A PRESENT.

Young people move quickly, and three days after this discussion, the lights were installed in position.

As the Mas’ shop trade got busier, the manager of the antiques shop next door grew rather worried. He’d always known that the elder Ma was a useless layabout, and was just biding his time, fully expecting Ma to declare that he was giving up the business, so that he himself might take over the Mas’ shop. Seeing the two young men now making such a wonderful go of things, he decided that he’d have to take action. If he waited until the Mas’ shop was really going great guns, the matter wouldn’t be so easy to pull off. Hatless, his bald head shining and his hands clasped round his ample belly, he secretly invited Li Tzu-jung out for a meal and had a little word with him, tête-à-tête.

‘Go and buy yourself a bottle of hair-restorer,’ Li Tzu-jung told him smiling, ‘and when you’ve grown some hair, we’ll talk again!’ The old manager stroked his bald pate, burst out laughing – the English do have their good points – and said nothing more on the subject.

Mr Ma dropped by a number of times, pretending that it was to help them, but in reality it was only to get a couple of delicate little trinkets for Mrs Wedderburn. On one occasion he paced around the shop, posture upright, steps measured, looking at this, looking at that, feeling this and shifting that.

He snatched a furtive glance at Ma Wei. Ma Wei’s eyes were riveted on him. He gave a couple of feeble coughs, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, and moved off on his rounds once more with his erect posture and measured tread. A customer came in, and the elder Ma gave him a deep bow. He intended at the conclusion of his bow to advance and begin his sales pitch, and thereby demonstrate his talents. But by the time he’d straightened up, Ma Wei had already led the customer past him. Well, then!

‘He’s got the drive. The boy’s certainly got what it takes. But don’t you forget that I’m your dad,’ Mr Ma muttered to himself.

When Christmas was only a few days off, business grew even busier. Of the things they sold, eighty or ninety per cent had to be packed up and delivered to the customers. Sometimes, Ma Wei and Li Tzu-jung would be wrapping up parcels till ten o’clock at night. Some they took to the post office, but other more fragile things they had to deliver themselves. Li Tzu-jung volunteered to undertake this difficult mission, and went to the bicycle shop to hire a wonky bike, upon which he hared round for all he was worth, delivering parcels around town. When Mr Ma saw Li Tzu-jung on the battered old bike, squeezing his way through the traffic, he shut his eyes and prayed to God on his behalf.

‘Tell that Li Tzu-jung,’ said Mr Ma to Ma Wei, ‘not to hurtle round at such a speed! It’s no game going round like that, pushing his way in and out of gaps in the traffic. Tcha! He shouldn’t try to do a Washington. He’ll be thrown off and killed sooner or later.’

Ma Wei communicated his father’s well-meant advice to Li Tzu-jung, who burst out laughing.

‘Thank Mr Ma for his kind advice. But it doesn’t matter – I’m insured. So if I get run over and killed, the insurance company’ll give my mother five hundred pounds. You know, Ma, old lad, it’s a marvellous feeling edging between two big vehicles. And if I wasn’t carrying the goods, I’d be able to move even faster. Last night I was having a proper race with a crowd of boys and girls on bikes, when suddenly I noticed that I was hurtling towards the back of a car. What do you think I did? Don’t know how I managed it, but I brought the bike up sharp, so that its wheel rammed against the car while I jumped off. The whole crowd of youngsters raised their heads and gave me three cheers, they did!’

Ma Wei told his father about this, and the elder Mr Ma said nothing, just nodded his head and gave a couple of sighs.

Seeing Ma Wei so busy gave Mr Ma pause for thought. One day, after finishing his evening meal, the elder Ma went back to the shop.

‘Ma Wei,’ he said as he entered, ‘I absolutely must do something. I may be no good at the business side of things, but you can’t tell me I’m not capable of wrapping up parcels, can you now? I insist on giving you a hand!’ With these words, he placed his tobacco pouch and pipe on the table, and picked up a few sheets of paper. ‘Give me some of the easier things to pack,’ he said.

Ma Wei gave his father some things. Mr Ma stuck his pipe in his mouth, screwed his nose up a bit, surveyed the size of the paper, then examined the articles. He wrapped away for ages, but for all his efforts, he couldn’t manage to wrap them up neatly. He stole a glance at Li Tzu-jung. Li Tzu-jung had already wrapped quite a number of things into tidy parcels. Actually, all he was doing was putting one hand on the object, to hold it in place, then, it seemed, chopping at the paper with his other hand.

Hmm, don’t know how on earth the paper obeys him like that.
In one movement it was all wrapped neatly and evenly round the articles. Mr Ma, too, chopped with his hand, and hastily tied up his parcel with string. Remarkably, the string tied itself into one great tangled knot, and the ends of the paper curled up out of the parcel, as wildly as Mrs Ely’s hair.

‘“The mason spake: is it even or nay? All we need now is one handful of clay.” There we are!’ Having somehow or other managed to wrap an object, Mr Ma weighed it in both hands. Then he took a look at the other two. Both were smiling.

‘Don’t you laugh! When you get old, you’ll understand. You’re young and strong, nimble-fingered and agile. Whereas me . . . well, I’m getting on in years.’

He proceeded to walk round in a circle, clutching the parcel in both hands, not knowing where to put it. Li Tzu-jung dashed over, took it from him, and told Ma Wei to stick on the address label and write the name on it. Ma Wei took it and placed it to one side.

‘Now, where’s my tobacco pouch?’ asked Mr Ma.

‘Haven’t seen it. Under the paper perhaps?’ they said, by complete coincidence in perfect unison.

Mr Ma lifted up the paper, sheet by sheet, but his tobacco pouch wasn’t there. ‘Don’t bother about me. I can look for it. I’m always losing my tobacco pouch.’

He hunted all over the room, but couldn’t find it.

‘Odd! The busier you are, the more mishaps occur. Why, bl—!’ The parcel that he’d just wrapped caught his eye. Without a word, he opened up the parcel and took out his tobacco pouch.

‘Ma Wei, I’m going home. Don’t stay up too late, either of you.’

The instant he’d left, Li Tzu-jung leapt high into the air and laughed himself hoarse. Ma Wei laughed too, so much that he knocked the ink bottle over.

‘Shall I tell you something, old Li? Those things I handed my father didn’t need to be wrapped anyway. Nobody’d bought them! I knew full well the old man wouldn’t be able to wrap them properly.’