This Old Man by Lois Ruby Page A

Man once in his whole life ever given in to anything?”
    Wing thought for quite a while. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “He got sick, didn’t he? He’s never been in the hospital before. That’s a big concession for him, can’t you see?”

6
    The time had come to hear about Old Man. The history I’d imagined for him wasn’t enough to keep me from being furious over his pig-headed, intolerant, overbearing, uncompromising ways. “Tell me where he was born, exactly. Don’t just say ‘in China,’ okay?” Reluctantly, I was letting the spirit out of the bottle.
    Wing answered all too eagerly, glad to have the bottle unstopped.
    â€œHe came from Sunkiang, a city of about seventy-five-thousand people when Old Man was born.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œSunkiang is in the southern part of China, along the Soong-Huang, the Pine River. It was a great literary center. Old Man was the son of the son of a wealthy man, whose name was on the Pak Ka Sing , the Hundred Families Name List. Old Man was, of course, a great scholar, like his father and grandfather. He was one of the few prized students admitted to the Hanlin Academy.”
    â€œWhat’s that, some college?”
    â€œMore important. These students, who were all past their doctorates, had the great honor of compiling the history of the dynasty.” Wing beamed with pride, his eyes dashes in the rolls of his cheeks. Now the bottle had been shaken, and its contents were exploding. His smile slowly faded. “But Old Man never got to the Hanlin Academy.”
    â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    â€œIt was the early 1900s,” Wing began, as though this were a tale told over and over. I pictured him sitting on the floor at his grandfather’s feet, hearing the story for the first and fortieth time. “The first car came to Sunkiang, and the first streetcar also. There were these revolutionary republicans who fought against the Manchu Dynasty, which our family supported. There were all kinds of riots in the streets. I’ve heard it was bloody and vicious. It went on for a long time, but finally, the Manchu Dynasty fell about 1912, and China became a republic.”
    â€œSo how does Old Man fit into all this?”
    â€œI’m coming to that. Be patient.”
    Patience was never easy for me.
    â€œIn those days a Manchu proudly wore his hair knotted into a long braid down his back.”
    â€œYes, a queue, I read about it in a Pearl Buck book.” He’d never heard of Pearl Buck. How could he be Chinese and not know Pearl Buck?
    â€œLike all the other scholars, Old Man wore a queue also. The revolutionaries thought the queue was a sign of Manchu tyranny over the people. So a big pastime was prowling through the streets with knives and shears, and slashing off the men’s braids. This happened to Old Man,” Wing said, with quiet rage.
    â€œI’m sorry.” I truly was. “But couldn’t it just grow back?”
    â€œYou don’t understand. It was terribly demoralizing. A nobleman would lose great face when something like this was done to him. He’d lash out in anger maybe, like Old Man did. He’s always been outspoken.” Wing glanced toward me for some reaction, and I gave him a small nod. “Old Man became an enemy of the republic. All the aristocrats were, of course, but Old Man was targeted for death. He hid in the shadows of his courtyard, to save his life. He was a prisoner in his own home.”
    I had a certain satisfaction in knowing that Old Man had suffered this disgrace, this terror. But I was embarrassed for him, as if I’d seen a great beast reduced to slithering. I could not let myself picture Old Man—then a young man—with the stubby hairs of his amputated queue over his collar, cowering within the gates of his home. “What happened to him then, Wing?”
    â€œHere’s the good part. One night a crowd