The Last Mandarin (23 page)

“They would be better off dead,” Shen said.

“Surely not.”

“We have so little for them.”

“Have you a corner for Feng, this night?”

“We turn no one away,” Shen said, “not even the healthy.”

Nurse An returned, and behind her Hao-lan, who paused in the doorway, obviously tired but to Burnham unspeakably lovely in her shapeless quilted garments. “Good evening,” Burnham said.

“Good evening,” she answered in a warm and singing whisper, and came to him. He met her, and they looked deep, surrendering and only a little wary, and gently he bent to kiss her.

“Yü,” said Nurse An. “Such carryings on.” Nurse An was thin, twentyish and bucktoothed, and her reprimand was a benediction.

Later they congregated in the warm kitchen, with a coal stove heating both the room and the soup, and when his gown was off Burnham felt snazzy in his striped cotton shirt, handsome for Hao-lan, man-about-town and crack shot, but he kept his mind on Kanamori and took the head of the table, not because he was an honored guest or comfortable and domestic with these friends but because his heart was pumping fast and he wanted his arms free.

He gestured Feng to the foot of the table; this too was socially normal, but Feng was jumpy, the eyes hopping, so Burnham said, “Easy does it,” and Feng grew calm. Hao-lan glanced curiously from one to the other. Dr. Teng, skeletal, smacked his lips and looked ravenous. Hao-lan sat by Burnham, and Shen padded in and relaxed audibly, sniffing at the mist of soup, and Nurse An busied herself about the stove, and finally Mother shuffled in from the children's wing. Burnham shot a quick look at the face and recognized it, though barely. Mother bobbed her head and seemed to smile behind the surgical mask. She hurried to help Nurse An, and passed close by Feng, who was popeyed with impatience and uncertainty.

Mother served Hao-lan first, and as she drew back after setting down the bowl Burnham rose carelessly and grasped her forearm.

Feng seemed to flow; he stood at Mother's side, and his knife was ready.

Dr. Shen said, “What is this foolishness?”

Burnham said, “Kanamori Shoichi,” and then stopped because he was not sure, even now at the critical moment, what it was that he had to say to this Japanese.

Appalled, confused, even frightened, the others were silent until Hao-lan began: “Burnham! What—”

Kanamori made owl's eyes and quavered “Eeeee, eeeee, eeeee” as Burnham's grip locked tighter, “eeeee, eeeee, eeeee” as Burnham bore down, forcing him to his knees, “eeeee, eeeee, eeeee” as the Japanese peered up just once, and for a brief instant Burnham saw, behind the eyes, the empty horror of Kanamori's mind, the hell he inhabited. Then Kanamori's head drooped forward, his throat seemed to close, he hawked and rasped and croaked. Burnham held tight, and some of the man's anguish flowed to him; they were like a statue, victor and vanquished, two yet one.

Benches scraped. Hao-lan protested, but without conviction: “Burnham! You're crazy! She helps me with my bath!”

Burnham twitched away the surgical mask. Kanamori's face was hairless, slightly wrinkled, Japanese or Chinese—well, what had he expected? A full beard? A rising sun on each cheek?

Kanamori was panting now, euhuh, euhuh, euhuh. Burnham bent to undo the buttons of the gown. Between them he and Feng stripped the gown from the upper body, and then the tank top of white cotton, and for a fleeting moment Burnham saw this Japanese loitering in summer on Fisherman's Wharf, smoking a cigar in his undershirt like any workingman. Beneath the tank top, no breasts, no woman; a man's body, lean, downy on the chest. Burnham said, “Helped you with your bath, did he?”

“She was like a grandmother. The gentlest soul—”

Feng said, “Look at his back.”

Burnham forced the Japanese head to the floor. The man's back was a crisscross of scars, white alternating with pink, ridges and slashes. “This the kai-t'ou told me.” He released Kanamori's head. The Japanese did not move, only remained kneeling in the eternal kowtow, forehead on the bare floor.

Hao-lan plumped down heavily on the wooden bench and blurted “Bugger!”

“None of you knew?”

Dr. Teng shook his head, and Dr. Shen, and Nurse An. Perplexed, recoiling from this unclean masquerader as if he embodied an ancient curse, they looked to Burnham for wisdom. This nest of vipers was his discovery, and it would be his hand that sorted them. But Burnham only showed sour anger.

Kanamori stirred then, and Feng tracked him cautiously as the Japanese crawled to the wall like a roach and huddled, keening “Aaawww” and “Aaahhh,” clutching his flanks and rocking from side to side. Yes, like a grandmother.

“We should examine him,” Shen said finally.

“Me first,” said Burnham. He set a firm hand on Hao-lan's shoulder. “It's all right now. He never hurt you?”

“She never hurt anyone,” Hao-lan said.

“Once upon a time he hurt a few.”

“But he … the babies. He buries the babies.”

“As indeed he should.” Burnham's voice was low and calm, and he was astonished at the lack of resentment in his heart—no anger, not even annoyance that he had been balked of a hot chase and a fierce fight. “Back off,” he told Feng, and bent to speak. “Major Kanamori,” he said in Japanese. Kanamori hummed and rocked. Burnham tried again and failed again, so fell back on tradition: he slapped him and called out, “Major Kanamori! Attention!”

Kanamori giggled. Burnham's hand rose again.

“Don't hit him,” Hao-lan said. “We're doctors here.”

“Yes. It does no good anyway. A world full of incompetents. Look at this killer, this savage. Look at me, last of the big-time headhunters. He giggles and I scream and shout and the soup cools.” Burnham squatted and tried to look Kanamori in the eye. “Kanamori Shoichi, do you remember Nanking? Do you remember Ginling College in Nanking?”

Kanamori squealed and whimpered, then grinned.

“Kanamori,” Burnham said, “do you remember your sergeant breaking my nose?”

Kanamori hummed and blinked, but Burnham caught a gleam.

“Kanamori,” Burnham said, “what is the last mandarin?”

Kanamori was silent, and his eyes were steady. Then he frowned ferociously, grimaced and wheezed out a windy breath. His mouth contorted; the cords of his neck swelled. His voice was at once a scream and a whisper: “Nan-ching!”

Nanking. Burnham took him by the throat and hauled him to his feet. “Kanamori, who is the last mandarin?”

Kanamori gasped and made a fish mouth; Burnham slacked off. “Kanamori, where is the last mandarin?”

Kanamori grinned and cocked his head; he was trying to speak. He failed, slumped, and panted like a runner.

Hao-lan came to them and said, “Mother, where is the last mandarin?”

Kanamori laughed like a crone, and said on a strangled cry, “In his tomb!”

“Oh, forget it,” Burnham said.

“What's this last mandarin supposed to be?”

“I don't even know. It was something he said in Chinese when he was delirious once.”

“I killed the baby,” Kanamori said in conversational tones. “I killed the little baby. Hai-ju. Hsaio-haerh. Hai-ju. Hsaio-haerh.” White-eyed, he swayed.

“He raves,” Dr. Shen said. “What is this about a babe at the breast?”

“No idea. Kanamori, who is the last mandarin?”

“The cemetery,” Kanamori said. “I killed the little baby. The baby. The mother and baby. The little baby. The father and mother and baby.”

“Kanamori,” Burnham said, “will you go home and bow before your mother?”

The Japanese took them all by surprise; he cried “Yaaaah!” and struck like a boxer, snapping Burnham's head back hard, then screamed and plunged and flailed. Burnham shouted “No, Feng!” and the knife hung suspended. He socked Kanamori gently with a straight right hand and bounced him off the wall. Kanamori screeched and sprang, but Burnham pushed him back. Kanamori weighed all of a hundred and twenty pounds; Burnham was close to two hundred and felt gross now, a barbarian.

Kanamori seemed to be brandishing an imaginary club. He feinted to his right. He feinted to his left. He raised the club high and shouted “Ima!” and chopped down savagely. Then he stood panting and white-eyed, a trickle of blood on his jaw, panting hoarsely and bending an evil eye on Burnham. “The unborn babe.” His voice was rusty. “The unborn babe.”

“Hold him,” Dr. Shen said. Burnham saw the needle, and he took one arm and Feng the other, and Dr. Shen gave Kanamori peace with morphine.

19

His room warmed by lamplight, Sung Yun reclined on the vast, comfortable bed, beneath him a mattress of genuine feathers and beneath that intricately tooled wooden springs. Miss Ai sat beside the bed; they were playing chess and drinking hot yellow wine. Miss Mei, on a couch in the corner, embroidered. When young Ming knocked and entered, he was struck by the hominess of it: a snug room bathed in golden light, a man and his women in calm recreation, the faint spicy odor of wine, Ming himself like a son come to chat. “Ah, the domestic pleasures!” he said. “How remote from strife and calamity!”

“Archery would be more classic than chess,” Sung Yun said, “but the season and the hour keep us indoors. I agree, however, that the note of bliss is antique and pastoral. You have brought Liao?”

“I have. And news.”

“Tell me.”

“The American went to the beggars. He then returned to his room, packed his traps, and made haste to the Beggars' Hospital.”

“The Beggars' Hospital! Again! We have perhaps been remiss. Where did he, ah, interview these beggars?”

“At their union hall in Arrow-Maker's Road.”

Sung Yun shuddered. “Arrow-Maker's Road! Off the Street of the Female Flutist, where that silversmith was dismembered?”

“Between that and the Street of the Aged Midget, where the three fishmongers were found.”

“An elegant neighborhood. This American is not only resourceful but courageous.”

“Foolhardy.”

“He is at the hospital now?”

“He is.”

“Let Liao enter.”

Ming clapped once. A spare man, perhaps thirty, of pinched features and wearing a policeman's uniform, entered and stood at attention.

Sung Yun dismissed Miss Ai, who glided to the couch and plumped herself down beside Miss Mei. He rose, sniffed throughtfully and rubbed the tip of his nose. “Ah, Liao! Do stand easier. Do not be a guest.”

With obvious effort, Liao relaxed fractionally.

“You killed Kanamori,” Sung Yun said.

Liao made no answer.

“Well then, you were sure once that you had killed Kanamori.”

“I was certain,” Liao said. His voice was soft and musical, little more than a sung whisper. “I am certain still.”

“Tell me again. In detail.”

Liao recited like a student. Now and then he frowned, and strained to remember. “I made my way from Nanking with the two sets of papers. I rode the train to Hsü-chou and Chi-nan—”

“Less geography,” Sung Yun said, “and more killing. You reached Peking safely. You found the Russian woman's brothel.” Poor Madam Olga, now dead. The crab in the belly, they said. Orange hair, painted mouth, the long cigarette dangling always, and her eyes flat, empty, inscrutable except for flashes of weary scorn. For men; for Orientals? Blue eyes! A woman of brass and cheap lacquer. Sung Yun imagined the scene: the parlor with foreign publications and sheaves of erotic prints, even the lampshades pornographic. Bottles of brandy. Probably a White Russian or two sitting about, chunky and superior, and perhaps other Japanese. The women in their silks urging Kanamori upstairs. The monkey disrobing as women mistreated him. Grinning. Those teeth. Chattering in Chinese. Always with the women he spoke Chinese.

“It was she who supervised,” Liao was saying, “and limited the injuries. I heard his cries. I saw him beaten. It was a large peasant girl with a Northeastern accent who whipped the monkey.”

Sung Yun imagined the lash descending, Kanamori wincing and crying out. On all fours, Liao was saying, and his sex hanging like a goat's. And the whip itself? Leather? A bull's pizzle? And the other women watching. Kanamori insisted: See, see!

“He cried for his mother, and urged the girl on. Welts rose. Blood flowed.”

The features twisted in anguish, Sung Yun could see this now; the tears running, the large teeth mangling the lower lip, and the women cheering one another on: “Beat him! Monkey!” And Kanamori in the lamplight swallowing his own blood.

“He called for a girl and mounted her as the peasant woman whipped him.”

Miss Ai said “Yüüü!”

Miss Mei set down her needlework.

“‘The last mandarin,' he shouted. He was laughing. ‘The last mandarin is the richest of all!'”

Sung Yun clapped his hands in vexation. “It means nothing! It was a joke! Go on, go on.”

“After the monkey completed his act he collapsed on the girl. He whispered ‘Enough.' The peasant girl hesitated, and at a sign from the Russian woman continued. Kanamori cried out, and struggled to rise. I entered the room then, and with both hands and all my strength, pressed his face into the other girl's belly. It seemed fitting that such a one should suffocate so. The peasant woman whipped and whipped. The others turned away; only the Russian woman stared. When Kanamori was limp and at least unconscious, perhaps already dead, the woman cleaned him off. I picked him up. The Russian woman looked sick. I carried him to the dumping ground south of Whore Street and dumped him among the dead things. Then I drew my knife and stabbed him in the chest. Then I cleaned my knife as well as possible in the dark. Then I listened for a heartbeat or a breath, and none came. Then I went away, and never came back, not to that house and not to that street. I went to the address in Pig Market Alley and awaited my lord's arrival.”