Man once in his whole life ever given in to anything?â
Wing thought for quite a while. âYes,â he answered slowly. âHe got sick, didnât he? Heâs never been in the hospital before. Thatâs a big concession for him, canât you see?â
6
The time had come to hear about Old Man. The history Iâd imagined for him wasnât enough to keep me from being furious over his pig-headed, intolerant, overbearing, uncompromising ways. âTell me where he was born, exactly. Donât just say âin China,â okay?â Reluctantly, I was letting the spirit out of the bottle.
Wing answered all too eagerly, glad to have the bottle unstopped.
âHe came from Sunkiang, a city of about seventy-five-thousand people when Old Man was born.â
âAnd?â
âSunkiang 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
âWhatâs that, some college?â
âMore important. These students, who were all past their doctorates, had the great honor of compiling the history of the dynasty.â 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. âBut Old Man never got to the Hanlin Academy.â
âWhy not?â I asked.
âIt was the early 1900s,â Wing began, as though this were a tale told over and over. I pictured him sitting on the floor at his grandfatherâs feet, hearing the story for the first and fortieth time. âThe 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. Iâve 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
âSo how does Old Man fit into all this?â
âIâm coming to that. Be patient.â
Patience was never easy for me.
âIn those days a Manchu proudly wore his hair knotted into a long braid down his back.â
âYes, a queue, I read about it in a Pearl Buck book.â Heâd never heard of Pearl Buck. How could he be Chinese and not know Pearl Buck?
âLike 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 menâs braids. This happened to Old Man,â Wing said, with quiet rage.
âIâm sorry.â I truly was. âBut couldnât it just grow back?â
âYou donât understand. It was terribly demoralizing. A nobleman would lose great face when something like this was done to him. Heâd lash out in anger maybe, like Old Man did. Heâs always been outspoken.â Wing glanced toward me for some reaction, and I gave him a small nod. âOld 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.â
I had a certain satisfaction in knowing that Old Man had suffered this disgrace, this terror. But I was embarrassed for him, as if Iâd seen a great beast reduced to slithering. I could not let myself picture Old Manâthen a young manâwith the stubby hairs of his amputated queue over his collar, cowering within the gates of his home. âWhat happened to him then, Wing?â
âHereâs the good part. One night a crowd
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