Mr Ma and Son (7 page)

I
F A
nation is old, then its people are old from the moment they’re born: myopic, deaf, coughing and wheezing. If the nation’s got four hundred million of these ancient neophytes, that nation will keep on getting older and older, until it’s too old even to crawl, and then it’ll kick the bucket without a sound. ‘Our civilisation’s much older than yours, sir!’ say the haughty Chinese students who come to Europe, addressing the foreign devils. (All Chinese people who come to Europe to study are mainly concerned with promoting Chinese culture. Studying the foreign devils’ books is a mere excuse: as if their books were worthy of study.) ‘Moreover, there are four hundred million of us,’ they continue. ‘A great nation. A great nation!’

Note the vigorous emphasis they give to the words ‘old’ and ‘great’.

‘If “old” is equal to “good”, then why is it that your esteemed country is old yet not apparently good?’ the tricky foreign devils reply with a smile. ‘If all four hundred million of you are useless layabouts, what good would another four million do?’

When they hear such words, the students can do nothing but creep off to that sole overseas enterprise of the Chinese, the Chinese restaurant, and eat a meal of roast pork to try to crowd out all the disgruntled humours that fill their bellies.

Mr Ma Tse-jen was, beyond all shadow of doubt, an ‘old’ element of the ‘old’ nation. Having established his credentials, you may take it for granted that he’d never put his brain to any use, nor had he ever fixed his eyes on anything for more than three minutes. What was life for? So that one could become a government mandarin! How did one set about becoming a mandarin? Invite some people round to dinner and try to get them to pull some strings for you. Why get married? Because one was the right age to do so. How should one acquire a wife? Consult a professional matchmaker. If one already had a wife, why should one still want a concubine? One wasn’t enough . . .

Such preoccupations provide a lifetime’s pleasures for the people of the old nation. And true to form, the elder Mr Ma’s aspirations went no further than such things.

Coming to England was like some hazy dream for him; he knew nothing about business, and in addition had always despised businessmen. The honourable way of making one’s fortune was by becoming a mandarin – nothing good would come of trade and earning one’s money by one’s own sweat and blood. That was ignoble! Vulgar! He sat there in the study, without aim or plan, smoking away at his pipe.

He grew fed up of just sitting there.
We’re in England now,
he suddenly thought,
and Ma Wei’s got a chance to study. Some day he’ll go back and take up a government post . . . And then what about me? I’ll sit back and live in clover. Ha ha!

Such was the sum of his activity. He didn’t even open the curtains to take a look at what London streets were really like. He was in London – why be bothered looking at it? Wasn’t it bad enough just being there? Even Peking was by now a vague recollection, Was there in fact a cake shop just south of the
Four Archway Gates
? He couldn’t remember for certain. Oh dear: he wouldn’t be able to eat Peking
po-po cakes
any more now. Perish the thought! In this way he got more and more caught up in his homesickness for Peking, forgetting all else.
Oh dear . . . those Peking cakes!

By the time it was almost one o’clock, and his stomach was emitting a few mild rumbles. He forced himself to carry on smoking, and as he did so, his belly started feeling frantically empty.
Looks like I’ll just have to have a bite of something or other,
he thought.

It occurred to him quite a number of times to go downstairs and mention the fact to the landlady. But each time he thought better of tackling her. He stood up, and took a few paces. That was no good – activity increases hunger. He sat down again and filled his pipe once more, but then put it down, unsmoked. Minutes passed, by which time his stomach was aching as well as thundering.

I’ll go downstairs and have a try.
He stood up and slowly walked downstairs.

‘Did you have a good sleep last night, Mr Ma?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn with a trace of sarcasm.

‘Excellent! Excellent!’ replied Mr Ma. ‘And how are you, Mrs Wedderburn? Has Miss Wedderburn gone out then?’

Mrs Wedderburn mumbled a sniffy reply.

The words, ‘I’d like to have something to eat’ came a good few times to Mr Ma’s lips, but each time were swallowed. In fact the questions he asked strayed ever further from the topic of food.

‘The weather’s very cold, isn’t it? Er, Miss Wedderburn has gone out then? Oh, I’ve already asked you that. My apologies. And how is Napoleon?’

Mrs Wedderburn called Napoleon over, and Mr Ma picked him up. Napoleon was delighted, and licked Mr Ma’s ear incessantly.

‘This little fellow’s a very intelligent dog.’ Mr Ma began singing Napoleon’s praises.

Mrs Wedderburn at once grew chatty, and nattered on about various things. ‘Are the Chinese fond of dogs, too?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes, we love dogs. When my wife was alive, she used to keep three Pekingeses and a baby rabbit, and the four little pets would all take their meals together, without ever fighting,’ he replied.

‘How fascinating! How simply fascinating!’

He told her a few more stories about Chinese dogs, and she listening with growing interest. Mr Ma had ample experience in idle chatting with Aunty Changs and Granny Lees, so was well furnished with colourful replies for her questions. It was his view that women were the same the world over. The only difference was that Western women’s noses were pointier than Chinese women’s.

When he’d been through all his doggy tales, Mr Ma had still neglected to mention that he felt like a bite to eat. Mrs Wedderburn could never for a moment have imagined that he was hungry. The English think in black and white, and as long as the rules are followed, all’s fine and dandy, and nothing else is of any concern. Mr Ma hadn’t had any breakfast because he’d got up late. It stood to reason that when you got up late, you didn’t get any breakfast. As for lunch, Mrs Wedderburn had made it quite clear when she rented the rooms that she wasn’t going to cater for that. Under the terms of the agreement, she was under no obligation to make lunch, so what did she care whether he was hungry or not?

Seeing that there was no hope and resigning himself boldly to hunger, Mr Ma put Napoleon down and went upstairs. Napoleon, seemingly very taken with Mr Ma, pursued him, tail wagging, and, as Mr Ma reinstalled himself on his chair, came up barking and clawing, intent on having some fun with him, one moment hiding behind the chair and tugging at his coat, the next moment coming round to gnaw on his shoes.

‘I say! Don’t carry things too far. Don’t get too excited!’ said Mr Ma. ‘All right, you’ve got a nice full tummy, so here you come leaping and bounding. You just don’t care whether anyone else is hungry or not!’

Anxious about Napoleon, Mrs Wedderburn had come upstairs. The door of the study was open as she reached it, and purely by chance she overheard Mr Ma’s complaint to Napoleon.

‘Oh, Mr Ma! I never realised you wanted something to eat! I thought you’d be going out for your meals.’

‘Never mind, I’m not too —’

‘If you’d like a meal, I can make up a little something for you, one shilling a time.’

‘Let’s say two shillings, and give me a little extra.’

After what seemed an eternity, she brought him up a pot of tea, a plate of cold veal, a few slices of bread and a bit of lettuce. When he saw that the food, apart from the tea, was all cold, Mr Ma frowned. But being famished, he had no choice but to eat it. He slowly drank all the tea and ate only half the meat, but polished off the bread and lettuce. Then, having eaten and drunk his fill, he returned to the armchair, gave several sonorous belches, then broke off a matchstick-end to make himself a toothpick, and with great relish cleaned between his teeth.

Napoleon was still there, glancing sideways at Mr Ma, and waiting for him to play. But Mr Ma wasn’t inclined to, and, feeling hard done by, the dog lay down beside the chair.

Mrs Wedderburn came in to collect the dishes. Seeing Napoleon, she knelt on the carpet and picked the dog up, asking him what games he’d been playing with Mr Ma.

Not since he’d first come into the house, not until this very moment, had Mr Ma ventured to look directly at Mrs Wedderburn. A gentleman can’t go round taking casual looks at women! But now, with the scent of her hair in his nostrils, he felt himself suddenly go hot inside, then give a shiver, and was at a loss as to what to do next.

Mrs Wedderburn asked him how many dog shows were held each year in China, what protection the laws of China afforded dogs, and whether Pekingeses did in fact originally come from China. Mr Ma’s knowledge of doggology was as sparse as his knowledge of natural sciences, so he was obliged to fob her off with made-up answers. Anyway, so long as he told her what she wanted to hear, he couldn’t go wrong. As he spoke, he plucked up the courage to look at her more closely. She looked to be thirty-six or thirty-seven, but with no signs of age on her face. And the smart, elegant clothes she wore served to heighten the impression of her youth.

Rousing himself, he tentatively stretched out his hand to play with Napoleon. Mrs Wedderburn didn’t move out of his way, and even came forwards to push the dog towards him. Mr Ma’s hand almost brushed her bosom. His nerves leapt to attention. Then suddenly, in a flash of inspiration, he stood up and gave Mrs Wedderburn his chair, moving a stool over for himself. Their conversation turned to business, of which she also seemed to have had some experience.

‘The most important thing in business nowadays is advertising,’ she said.

‘I sell antiques, so surely advertising is no use to me,’ he replied.

‘Even with antiques, you have to advertise! It’s essential.’

‘Yes, of course one must.’ He switched from argument to agreement so quickly that she got quite a shock. She stood up.

‘I’ll leave Napoleon here, shall I?’ she said.

Aware that Napoleon was not to be regarded lightly, he hastened to take the little dog from her. She cleared the crockery onto her tray, and as she was going, said to the dog: ‘Behave yourself now. Mustn’t be naughty!’

When she’d gone, Mr Ma deposited the dog on the floor, lay back in the chair and went to sleep.

M
A WEI
didn’t get back until after six o’clock, and he was so tired that the veins in his temples were bulging, and there were streaks of red across the whites of his eyes. The Reverend Ely had taken him to see the Tower of London, looking at London Bridge in passing, St Paul’s Cathedral and the House of Commons. You couldn’t see all the sights of London in one day, any more than you could understand it in one day. The Reverend Ely had left the museums, art galleries, zoos and so on for Ma Wei to explore by himself later on, when he’d got used to finding his way about London. On the way to St Paul’s, he’d pointed out to Ma Wei his uncle’s antiques shop, which was in a little street just to the east of the cathedral.

The Reverend Ely’s beanstalk legs had pounded along at a tremendous pace, and Ma Wei had been hard put to keep up with him. But he’d refused to be beaten, and for a good part of the day had been desperately haring around after the clergyman.

As he came home, Miss Wedderburn was just arriving home too. She was very hot from walking, and her cheeks were a prettier red than ever. On some clumsy pretext, he tried to tell her about what he’d just seen, but she hurried off into the kitchen.

He went upstairs to see his father. Mr Ma was still sitting in the study smoking his pipe. Ma Wei told him about each sight in turn. Mr Ma listened none too attentively until his son mentioned the antiques shop, when an idea suddenly occurred to him. ‘Ma Wei! Tomorrow we’ll go to visit your uncle’s grave, and then we’ll go and have a look at the shop. Don’t forget!’

The bell rang, and they both went down to the dining room for their evening meal, after which, as Mrs Wedderburn busied herself with the washing-up, Mr Ma returned to the study for a smoke once more. Ma Wei was sitting alone in the drawing room when Miss Wedderburn suddenly ran in.

‘Have you seen my handbag?’

Ma Wei was on the point of replying when out she ran again.

‘I know,’ she called as she went, ‘it’s in the kitchen.’

Ma Wei stood at the drawing-room door and watched her. She found the handbag in the kitchen and rushed his way again, jamming her hat on her head in a great fluster.

‘Are you going out?’ he asked.

‘Can’t you tell? To see a film!’

Looking out through the drawing room window, he saw her walk off with a boy, the two of them side by side, close together, talking and laughing as they moved away.

Mr Ma was thinking of his brother. That night he dreamt several times of him, and in one dream they wept a few commiserative tears together. As he recalled his brother’s kindness, he felt somewhat ashamed. He’d spent so much of his brother’s money. And it was money his brother had come by through hard graft. It wasn’t merely that Mr Ma had spent all that money from his brother, either – every time he’d received some, he’d gone and got himself drunk as a lord, so sozzled he’d needed a couple of policemen to help him home. Imagine taking money from his brother just to booze it away! And getting drunk in public like that!

But the past is past, like it or lump it. What was the good of dwelling on it? He was here in London now, and the manager of a shop. Not as glorious as being a mandarin, but still, you had to admit that his horoscope hadn’t been such a bad one, and that his guiding star was on the up and up . . . Now why hadn’t he brought a fortune-telling almanac with him? How could he tell whether it’d be a good day tomorrow for going to the cemetery? But Christians should fear nothing. The power of the Lord was much greater than that of any other gods. What about the astrological gods? Not a chance! An astrological god would never be impertinent enough to compete with the Lord God . . . But still . . . Questions of every kind assailed him thick and fast, preventing him from getting any proper sleep at all.

The following morning, the sky hung dull and heavy and the east wind blew very chilly. The elder Mr Ma donned his camel-hair coat, his flannel shirt and his thick blue woollen suit. Still afraid that he might catch cold when he went out, he tried to put on his cotton-padded jacket over the shirt, but it was too bulky, and if he wore it he wouldn’t be able to fasten his trousers. Cursing the Western devils’ attire, he took the padded jacket off again. Didn’t that just go to show how the cultures of East and West could never blend? You can’t even wear a little Chinese quilted jacket together with Western trousers.

After breakfast, he took a few puffs of his pipe before making a move. Eventually Ma Wei took him down Gordon Street, across Torrington Square and straight towards Oxford Street. As they walked, Ma Wei asked whether they should take the Tube or a bus. He’d already made certain where the cemetery was from the Reverend Ely the previous day.

‘We’ll just see when we get into town,’ was all Mr Ma said, having no notion either way.

On reaching Oxford Street, they discovered a steady two-way stream of traffic, with cars jammed nose to tail. There were little vehicles squeezed between big ones, and motorbikes tagging along behind the little cars, the whole like a flock of ostrich chicks being taken for a jolly walk by their mother. They all seemed about to crash into each other, and in fact it wouldn’t have taken much for them to do so. They seemed on the verge of butting the vehicle in front of them before somersaulting into the distance.

Puffs of blue smoke came from each car; the wheels swish-swished along; the horns blared wildly. There were vehicles on every side, far and near, all chugging out blue smoke and whooshing along, and all honking mightily. The whole of this huge street had become an ocean of traffic. On each side of the mass, people – men, women, young and old – were all hurrying along with their heads craned forwards, as if they were looking for something they’d lost. Glancing down, all you could see were packs of legs, and glancing up, one endless bobbing stretch of heads, as if waves from the sea of traffic were dashing against the pebbles on either footpath, shifting them up and down, up and down.

Mr Ma raised his head and looked up at the sky. It was a sullen, grumpy grey. He thought of telling Ma Wei that they should cancel the trip, but then felt that wouldn’t do. He stood in a quandary for a moment, then caught sight of a rank of cars parked in the middle of the street.

‘Ma Wei, are those taxis?’

‘The fare would be very expensive,’ said Ma Wei.

‘No matter. We must hire one.’ The sight of the big buses was making him dizzy.

‘How about going by Underground?’ asked Ma Wei.

‘I can’t breathe in the Underground!’ Mr Ma recalled his experience of the Tube on his first day in London.

‘We mustn’t waste too much money,’ said Ma Wei with a smile.

‘What are you on about? We’re going to hire a taxi. And that’s not all – we’ll have to get the taxi driver to find some quiet way to the place. I tell you, I’m feeling dizzy!’

Ma Wei was left with no option but to hail a taxi, and tell the driver to take a less busy route, no matter how circuitous. In the taxi, Mr Ma still felt uneasy; you never knew when you might have a crash and get your head smashed in.

‘Why didn’t we bring a fortune-telling almanac with us?’ he muttered under his breath, ‘If it happens to be a “black day”, it’s suicide careering round in one of these things.’

‘What do you want an almanac for?’ asked Ma Wei.

‘Just talking to myself. Don’t butt in so much!’ Mr Ma glared at Ma Wei.

As requested, the driver took the backstreets, dodging alternately eastwards and westwards, round a green, into a narrow alley . . . they were driving for forty or fifty minutes before they reached an open area, bounded by a high iron railing and lined with bushes. The grass was covered with stone monuments and slabs, both tall and short, and the silence was profound. London’s a funny place like that: the noisy parts are really noisy, but the quiet spots are as quiet as can be.

The taxi circled the iron railing until it came to a small gate, at which it stopped. Father and son alighted. Ma Wei wanted to send the taxi away, but Mr Ma insisted on its waiting. Beyond the small iron gate there was a little red house, standing in isolation before the sea of stone. Its little chimney was sending out a curving, curling plume of smoke.

They knocked on the gate, and the door of the red house opened a crack. The crack widened, and slowly a round, plump face peeped out, mouth moving as though chewing something. The door opened wider still, and the plump face became a short, fat, little old woman.

The old woman’s face looked featureless, as if it were just one shiny globe of soft flesh. And arms and legs aside, her body was one little round wheel. It wasn’t until she’d walked right up to them that they realised all parts of her face were intact, and that her eyes were twinkling away merrily. Wiping her mouth with her apron, she asked whose grave they were looking for. As she spoke, it became clear that she had only one tooth, which, being deprived of any company, looked exceptionally large, as if it had made itself sole tyrant of the area by brute force.

‘We’re looking for the grave of a Mr Ma, a Chinese man,’ Ma Wei told the woman. She’d finished wiping her mouth, and now vigorously scrubbed her face, seemingly to wipe her eyes.

‘I know, I remember him. He died last autumn. Such a tragedy!’ She made to raise her apron again. ‘There were three wreaths on the coffin . . . In the autumn, it was. October the seventh. The first Chinaman buried here. Yet, that’s it, he was the first. Oh, poor man.’

As she spoke, tears flowed sideways down her face, as her cheeks were too chubby to let the tears flow straight. ‘Come with me. Of course I remember him.’

The old lady set off, waddling on her stumpy legs like a newborn duckling. And as she walked, her cheeks trembled like the jellyfish eaten in winter.

The Mas followed her, and after going a few hundred yards, she indicated a small stone pillar.

‘There it is,’ she said.

The Mas hastened over to it. The name on the stone pillar wasn’t that of a Chinese person.

‘No,’ she said, as they were about to mention their doubts, ‘that’s not it. We’ll have to go a bit further. Of course . . . I remember him . . . Over there. The first Chinaman, he was.’

They proceeded another few hundred yards, then Ma Wei, with his sharp eyes, noticed a small square pillar to their left that bore an inscription in Chinese characters. He tugged at Mr Ma, and the two of them walked towards it.

‘Yes, that’s right, there it is. I remember. Of course!’ said the old woman from behind them, her plump finger pointing to the stone pillar that they’d already discovered themselves.

The pillar was a mere three feet high. On it was inscribed the name of Ma Wei’s uncle: Ma Wei-jen. Beneath his name were inscribed the year and month of his death. The stone itself was light grey, streaked with greyish-purple lines. The wreaths in front of it had by now lost their colour, washed by the rain, and the notes attached to them had long since been blown away by the wind. On the grass at the foot of the stone grew a few light-yellow flowers in pale bloom, their petals hung with drops of dew like teardrops. The black clouds in the sky, the stone pillar and the tattered wreaths combined to produce an atmosphere of forlorn desolation. A feeling of distress welled up inside Mr Ma, and he found himself shedding tears. And although Ma Wei had never met his uncle, his eyes grew red-rimmed too.

Ignoring Ma Wei and the old lady, Mr Ma knelt down before the slab, and with great reverence performed three
kowtows
. ‘Elder brother,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘protect your younger brother so that he may make his fortune and carry your coffin back to China.’

As he uttered these words, his voice broke, and he couldn’t say anything more.

At his father’s side, Ma Wei bowed three times towards the stone slab. The old woman behind him was crying so brokenly that her face was awash with tears. Rendered powerless to even lift up her apron, she was reduced to rubbing her face with her fists.

In the midst of her nonstop weeping, she asked, ‘Do you want any fresh-cut flowers? I’ve got some.’

‘How much?’ asked Ma Wei.

‘Bring some,’ said Mr Ma as he knelt before the grave.

‘All right, I’ll go and get some. I’ll go and get some.’

The old woman picked up her skirts, seemingly to run, but, as her ankles were rather bent, she merely stumped along, face to the sky, tottering unsteadily. She was away for an age, and when at last she slowly waddled back, her face and neck were as red as the bricks of her little red house. With one hand she clutched her skirts, and in the other held a bunch of apricot-yellow tulips.

‘Here’s the flowers, sir. Nice and fresh. Oh, yes . . .’ she rambled on as she handed the flowers to Mr Ma.

He picked up one of the wreaths and stuck all the flowers in it. Then he placed it back at the foot of the slab. He stepped back two paces, contemplated it, and wept once more. As he wept, the old woman accompanied him with her sobs.

‘The money,’ she said suddenly, at the hysteric height of her lamentations, stretching out her hand. ‘The money.’

Without a word, Mr Ma fished out a ten-shilling note and handed it to her. At the sight of the note, she lifted her head and peered closely at Mr Ma.

‘Thank you. Oh, thank you. Yes, the first Chinaman buried here. Oh, yes. Oh, thank you. I do hope a few more Chinamen die and get buried here.’

This last sentence was addressed to herself, but was quite distinctly overheard by the Mas.

All at once, the sun shot a ray of light through a broken cloud and cast their shadows on the stone pillar, rendering that melancholy spot unique in its gloom and misery. Mr Ma gave a sigh, wiped his eyes and turned round to his son. ‘Ma Wei, let’s go.’

Slowly, father and son made their way out of the cemetery. The old lady ran after them to ask whether they wanted any more flowers as she’d got other kinds, too. Ma Wei shot her a look, and Mr Ma shook his head. By the time the two of them reached the iron gate, they’d left her far behind them, but they could still hear her saying, ‘The first Chinaman . . .’

They both got into the taxi again. Mr Ma closed his eyes, and wondered how he would manage to carry his elder brother’s coffin back to China. Then he remembered that his elder brother had been younger than sixty when he died. How would he fare himself? He was already heading for fifty!
Life’s but a dream with no meaning. Yes, a dream
. . .