Part 3

He laughed as his horse took the open road.

CHOP-STICKS

What is better than roast duck with sweet ginger dressing? Is anything—anything—in the world and all, superior? Two roast ducks—as Ching Chung said—are more to be desired? Ah, of a certainty. Two. Two roast ducks, with _hong keong_ dressing, and _ling gow_, and _jung yee_, and _tou ya_, and _yu chien_ (the very fine tea that grows only in three gardens of Ku Miao), and—but really that’s enough for any dinner. More might mean misery.

Those were the dishes that Cheng Chang prepared with matchless perfection. Those were the dishes that Ching Chung ate with the utmost gusto. Cheng Chang, the very fine cook, and Ching Chung, the extremely appreciative master. They were old bachelors, those two worthies. Little Cheng Chang and large Ching Chung were foot-free, funny, and forty. Cheng Chang came within an inch of being a dwarf. He was only a mere trifle taller than his own willow-wood ladle. Why, he was nearly as short as Wu Ta Lang, who, as you’ll remember, when standing under his cherry tree could not reach the limb, and when on the limb could not touch earth.

Beyond a doubt, Cheng Chang was little—but . . . how he could cook. He was ugly—but . . . how he could cook. He tied his queue with a leather string—but . . . how he could cook. He taught his own grandmother how to roast eggs—and that’s something few men could do.

Ching Chung was the master. He was a tremendous person. He was nearly as large as Ho Lan, the giant, who, one day when stretching, burned his hand on the hot red sun. Surely no one could ask for more proof that Ching Chung was quite large. And how the man could eat. He worked hard, from crow of cock till the owl said “Time for bed.” And how he could eat. Four roast ducks at a sitting . . . how he could eat. But his voice was so powerful that it often shook the pots from Cheng Chang’s stove. Then there was nothing to eat.

Ching Chung frequently complimented Cheng Chang upon his so glorious cookery. He would say to Cheng Chang: “Cheng Chang, this roast duck is simply _tou ming_. If I were king and you my cook, I would make you Governor of Kwang Ting, where the best ducks grow.” And Cheng Chang would say: “To the Gracious Master I offer my no-account thanks. I sorrow that my terrible cooking is not better.” Or, again, Ching Chung would say: “Cheng Chang, this exquisite roast duck has infused me with new strength. One more morsel, or maybe two, and I could conquer the world.” And Cheng Chang would reply, “It is nothing, Honorable Master.”

Strengthened and made bold by Cheng Chang’s roast duck and perhaps by a sip of the stuff called _sam shu_ (which is fire and madness in a bottle), Ching Chung one day went a-courting. Before a body could say “_Chang wang li chao_” (about the same as “Jack Robinson”), the beauteous lady, Li Kuan, was pledged to be Ching Chung’s bride. Whereat, the happy groom to be, who had always proclaimed that a bachelor’s life was the only life, promptly changed the burden of his song and declared that all old bachelors should be boiled in rancid bean oil and used as candles to lighten the darkness. And, no doubt, he was very right.

Said master to cook: “Cheng Chang, why don’t you follow the excellent example that I have set and take unto yourself a bride? There’s Pang Tzu, a buxom lady, and wealthy. Why not marry Pang Tzu?” So Cheng Chang answered, “Very well then, Honorable Master; I’ll do as you advise.” And he did.

With Ching Chung married and Cheng Chang wed, both of the old bachelors were husbands, and their lives were changed, utterly. For marriage is a most peculiar thing. It promotes the fortunes of some men. Other men go from bad to worse. The wedding bell has two tongues. One tongue speaks good; the other, evil.

Consider the case of Ching Chung. His wife had no wealth whatsoever. But her fifth cousin was a general in the royal army. The general came to visit, riding a handsome donkey, and wearing his two swords. He tasted the roast duck (cooked, mind you, by Cheng Chang), upon Ching Chung’s table, and instantly took a great liking for Ching Chung. He thought his host a most hospitable and excellent man. Nor was he wrong. (But Cheng Chang had cooked the duck.)

It was no time till Ching Chung received a commission in the royal and brave army. He became a general. Before one could say “_Chang wang li chao_,” he won a great victory. . . . And, the king having died meanwhile, Ching Chung was placed upon the throne. There he was—upon the throne—a king. And hail to King Ching Chung.

On the other hand, consider Cheng Chang, the cook. Poor Cheng Chang. He was afraid of his wife. Horribly afraid. His wife had but to whisper “Chang,” and Chang trembled like jelly, spilled on the king’s highroad. His wife had but to say “Cheng Chang,” and Cheng Chang fell upon the floor. It often happened that his wife said “Chang,” just as the poor man seasoned a duck on the stove. Then Cheng Chang would tremble, and drop in too much salt or garlic or ginger, and the dinner would be ruined. Frequently Cheng Chang had to throw away a dozen ducks, before he dished up one that was really excellent. Of course, his own purse had to pay for the loss. Almost before one could say “_Chang wang li chao_,” the timid Cheng Chang was a pauper. A lucky thing for him that his wages were raised as soon as Ching Chung became King.

How remarkable are the tricks played by fate. She gives the wheel of life a turn. What was top becomes bottom. Strangely enough, what was bottom—becomes top. The once mighty eat humble pie. The once lowly sit upon gilt chairs, drinking _yu chien_ from cups of egg-shell porcelain, and eating birds’ nests. Cheng Chang was at the bottom. And fate gave the wheel a whirl.

The wife of Cheng Chang went to visit her three brothers, who conducted a large go-down in Ning Poo. The art of cookery, so nearly lost to Cheng Chang, once more thrilled in his finger tips. A pinch of this. A mite of that. A dash of something else. Cheng Chang cooked as he had never cooked before. The roast duck that he served up for King Ching Chung was—was—was—. There are many words in the language of men, but not one of them can describe the duck that Cheng Chang presented his King and master, Ching Chung. Sublime, delicious, perfect—those words are weak and unable. Away with them. The duck must remain undescribed. But, oh, what a duck it was. King Ching Chung ate half of it. Perhaps he ate a trifle more than half. He kept his gaze upon the platter. He said neither “Good,” nor “Bad.”

Cheng Chang lingered near by to receive the praise that he felt was due. But the praise was slow in forthcoming. The wondering cook began to fear that he had dropped in too much _chiao fen_. Horrors. Horrors twice. Suppose he had? He deserved to be killed.

King Ching Chung laid his knife aside. He placed his fork in company. He raised his eyes and gazed at Cheng Chang. For a full minute he gazed. He questioned, “Cheng Chang, did you cook this duck?” Poor Cheng Chang. Down he went, kneeling three times. Each time he knelt, his head rapped the floor thrice. “Yes, most gracious and forgiving Majesty, I cooked the duck. I, Cheng Chang, alone am guilty. Oh, have mercy.” He could almost feel the headsman’s sword.

Steadily for another minute the monarch stared. Then he spoke. “You did, did you? Well, all I can say is this. The man who cooked this duck should be King. And, by the teeth of the bobtailed dragon who brings famine, I am going to make him King. I shall abdicate and appoint him to rule in my stead. Arise, King Cheng Chang, ruler of the universe—and the best cook that ever roasted a duck.”

So soon as Cheng Chang’s wife heard of her smaller half’s good fortune she hurried back to the palace. With her she fetched the three brothers, feeling sure that King Cheng Chang would appoint them to high places. If he wouldn’t, _she_ would. She had things planned to the last detail. One brother was to be keeper of the royal and full treasury. What a clever idea. He had the largest pockets. Another brother was to be Governor of Kwang Ting. The third was to be made Commander-in-chief of the royal and never-run army.

At breakfast, the eldest brother mentioned his desire. “Oh,” said King Cheng Chang, “I can’t make you keeper of the treasury. I’ve already put in a man who has no hands.” “Well, what appointment have you saved for me?” “For you? Let’s see. You can be Ambassador to Ho Chung Kuo.” (A far-off country—America, in fact.) “Indeed?” screamed the Queen’s brother in terrible rage. He took his knife from his mouth and lunged at the King. . . . Only a remarkable quickness of foot saved King Cheng Chang.

His Majesty, very properly, was much displeased at such unseemly behavior. Who wouldn’t be? “I shall have your eldest brother beheaded,” he told the Queen. “Indeed?” said the Queen. “Then I shall beat you.” So that ended that. He was little and she was large. There was no beheading.

At dinner the Queen’s second brother remarked in a casual tone: “It’s an exquisite day, isn’t it? I hope it will be this pleasant when I am inaugurated Governor of Kwang Ting.” “You? Governor? I have appointed Ching Chung to be Governor of Kwang Ting. You can be constable at. . . .” “Indeed?” screamed the would-be governor in an ungovernable rage. He seized his fork and rushed at the King. Fortunately a mat slipped from beneath his feet. His fork tore a deep furrow in the floor. The monarch escaped injury.

Nevertheless, King Cheng Chang was highly indignant. Surely that was his kingly right. He said to the Queen, “I shall have your brother be. . . .” The Queen interrupted, “If you do, I shall beat you.” She rather had him there. The King crawled under his throne. The subject was closed, and the headsman’s sword was unstained.

Supper had barely begun when the Queen’s youngest brother, a huge brawny yokel, remarked that he had already purchased his uniform and would take over the army to-morrow. The King was taken back. “You command the army? Huh. I shall make you Minister to Yin Yung.” (A place twenty thousand li distant at the ships sail.) “Indeed?” roared the Queen’s brawny youngest brother. Clutching his soup spoon he leaned across the table and struck at King Cheng Chang, “Swish,” with all his might.

Thanks to him who made the table, he made it of generous width. The Queen’s youngest brother could not quite reach across it. His murderous spoon merely parted the King’s beard. It was a most atrocious deed, meriting extreme punishment, but it caused no actual pain. Its main effect was upon the King’s dignity. But this time His Royal Mightiness said nothing of the headsman. He imagined that his wife would most likely raise objections. No. The King said nothing of punishment. Instead, he rewarded the Queen’s youngest brother, appointed him director of the Imperial Gunpowder Factory, with a bed in the factory. . . . And gave him six pounds of smoking tobacco.

The three attempts upon his life worked havoc with Cheng Chang’s nerves. When eating breakfast, he could never look at a knife without shuddering. Seated at dinner, each time he touched a fork cold chills raced down his marrow. At supper, he could scarcely eat because of the spoon. Each glance at the spoon wrought from His Majesty a groan of dread.

So King Cheng Chang did a most wise thing. He abolished knives and forks and spoons. He ate his rice and duck with the aid of two harmless, delicate, little sticks. There was nothing about the sticks to inspire uneasiness. They were incapable of hurt.

The little sticks used by King Cheng Chang were called Chop-Sticks. Chop means good.

Naturally enough, all the people in Cheng Chang’s kingdom soon were using chop-sticks. They wished to do as the King did. People are like that. Chop-sticks became, first, fashionable, then, universal. Every one used them.

Wherefore, today King Cheng Chang is remembered not for his roast duck—which was heavenly, and gained him the throne—but for his chop-sticks—which are wood, mere wood.

BUY A FATHER

The Street of Wang’s Broken Tea Cup lies between Seven Thieves Market and the long wharf where ship bottoms from all the world (and, as some say, the moon) discharge their varied cargoes. Queer sights are so excessively common there that the Phoenix bird lighting a match to his feathers would, probably, excite only ordinary interest. Nevertheless, the people _do_ possess eyes, and they _are_ provided with ears. Now and again they can be made to open those eyes, and sharpen those ears into eager hearing. The ridiculous, in especial, rouses their attention. There was the wit-wandering beggar, Weng Fu, as an instance.

Weng Fu walked in the Street of Wang’s Broken Tea Cup, bearing a great bundle of bamboo switches upon his back, and shouting thunderously. . . . “Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? What young man wishes to buy him a father?” Whereat, several persons gathered, laughing. “I, Weng Fu, will sell myself as a father to any young man for only five cash.” The crowd and the laughter increased. “Who’ll buy a pretty father? An orphan may have me for only one cash. A most excellent father I’ll be to my son. I promise to beat him twice each day. Of every hundred cash he earns I’ll take only ninety-nine and he may keep one. I’ll even let him sleep upon warm ashes in the bed-stove. Ho—young men, come buy—come buy.”

The shopkeepers left their stalls unguarded as they gathered round Weng Fu to mock and express their not-flattering opinions. “Surely,” said they, “this is the oddest fellow we have had in a long while. He must think our young men are silly as Ko Chih, who scrabbled in the deep snow of January, searching for plums. Ho. Ho. Ho. Was there ever anything more ridiculous? A pretty father he would make. Pretty indeed.” A crowd of boys assembled to have sport with the fantastic beggar. “Here, most honorable Father—here is five cash, and I will be your dutiful son.” A richly dressed youth held out some money to Weng Fu. But when Weng Fu grabbed at it, the boy shut his hand and ran away swiftly, cackling in well-pleased laughter. After him plunged the greedy beggar, his tattered clothing flapping like strings on a scarecrow. A bystander put out a foot. The old man tripped heels over head in the deep black mud. Then the crowd slip-slapped on, mildly interested in a fight between Wan the hunchback who had only one leg, and a blackamoor who had no arms.

The boy Ah Tzu, an orphan, approached Weng and tugged to assist him. The beggar’s rags tore away by the handful. A train of laden donkeys labored down the street. “Ho. Good man, you must get out of this,” shouted Ah Tzu, pulling. “The donkeys will shred your flesh from the bones. Come.” “Will you buy me for a father?” “Certainly. Now see if you cannot arise.” Ah Tzu pulled manfully, and the contrary old beggar moved his limbs in helping. The two staggered aside just in time to avoid being trampled. “Where shall we go—Father—where is your house?” asked Ah Tzu. “In the Street of The Place Where The Cow Lost Her Horn,” answered Weng Fu. “And don’t walk so fast, my son, else I shall beat you.”

The house of Weng Fu was luxurious in the extreme. A goat could have leapt through any one of a dozen holes in the walls. The roof was made of straw, so thin that the rain demon, Yu Shih, laughed at it, and the stars peered in nightly. There was no _kang_ (bed-stove), no table. Chairs were lacking. For furniture it had a heap of bean straw in a corner, a dozen bricks in another corner, a cupboard on a wall—thus was the house of Weng Fu furnished.

Weng Fu sat upon the earthen floor and bade Ah Tzu do likewise. “My son,” said the beggar, “this is your future home—and excellent it is. This is your home—provided you prove worthy. But I warn you, I am hard to please. A son of mine must be as prompt as Ching Chi, as devoted as Wei Sheng, as brave as Meng Feu. Faithful and honest must my son be. You must ask no questions and do as I say. Otherwise, I shall beat you, and turn you out in the street. . . . Open the cupboard and bring me a bundle of straw.” Ah Tzu obeyed. His new father continued: “Braid this straw into a pair of sandals. Work swiftly and have them finished by the time I return. And give me what money you have so that I may purchase food.” Ah Tzu turned over his tiny bag of money. Then his fingers worked nimbly, braiding the straw.

Weng Fu returned in a very few minutes. His face was purple. His voice pitched high. “What? _Ya shu_ (idle rascal). Are you not finished? Well, you shall get no dinner till you complete the sandals.” With that he put down a silver tray and began to eat. On the tray was roast duck. There was celery and tea-soaked eggs and rice and bean sprouts and brine-aged cabbage and almonds and garlic and many another dish of equal goodness. Weng Fu’s teeth clicked busily. Every few seconds he grunted his satisfaction. Ah Tzu braided straw.

The silver tray was emptied long before Ah Tzu completed his task. Finally, “Here, my father, are the sandals, and I hope they will be to your liking,” Weng Fu gazed. “They are not very well braided. But perhaps in time you will learn. Reach in the cupboard and get a bean cake for your dinner.” Ah Tzu searched in the cupboard and found a small, hard, dry bean cake. “Here, give me half of it,” ordered the queer father. “I am still hungry.” The old fellow took at least three-fourths of the cake—all but a portion that had been nibbled by mice. Then he put on his new sandals, took up the tray and departed. “Do not go out,” he admonished Ah Tzu. “Stay here and guard the house against thieves.” The door closed behind him. Just what a thief could have desired in that house would be hard to decide. Nevertheless, Ah Tzu stayed close at home, that night, and the following day, and the night that came after.

During the second night three men came to the door and tried to gain entrance, saying that they must have gold. Ah Tzu fanned about him so earnestly with a cudgel that all three were piled in a heap on the threshold. They went away limping and howling, one holding his hands to his pate, as if troubled with _nao tai teng_ (as if troubled with head aching badly).

The next day saw Weng Fu’s return. He asked Ah Tzu many questions, and Ah Tzu answered them. But the boy showed no inquisitiveness about the large bandage round Weng Fu’s head, nor did he ask questions about Weng’s bundle. The beggar finally opened his bundle and from it took food. He shared the food with his son—and this time he himself ate little. This time Ah Tzu had sufficient.

When the meal was finished, the beggar again opened his bundle and disclosed garments such as very young babies wear. “Put on these garments, my son. They will make you look many years younger. And I, seeing my son so young, will feel the years drop from my shoulders and be again in the prime of my manhood—at least ten years younger.” Ah Tzu did as he was told. “_Cha, Tieh tieh_ (Certainly, Papa).” On went the small garments. “Now, Ah Tzu, we’ll go for a walk. Here is a calabash for you to rattle.”

They went into the street. Ten steps and a crowd gathered. Such jeering. Such laughter. “Ho. Ho. Ho. Here is old _back of the hands turned down_ (a beggar) and his infant son. What a pretty baby. _Tieh tieh_, has your baby cut his teeth?” Ah Tzu rattled his calabash and tried hard to keep from blushing. Weng Fu sauntered on in utter unconcern. When they reached Seven Thieves Market, all shopkeepers boarded up their stalls, thinking a mob had come to plunder.

At home once more, Weng Fu produced more food and told Ah Tzu to eat. Then he cupped his hand to his ear as if listening. “I thought I heard someone shout my name. There it is a second time.” He dashed out. At the door a bag fell from his girdle. The bag flew open and from it rolled rubies and pearls, to a value of at least ten bars of gold. Ah Tzu called to his father, but receiving no answer, he hastily gathered up the baubles and hid them.

Night came, but with it no father. When the moon had been set for an hour, a noise brought Ah Tzu to his feet. The thieves? Let them come. The boy was expecting some such visitation. He had a stouter club and a kettle of hot water in readiness. . . . There was little short of murder done in the Street of The Place Where The Cow Lost Her Horn. Ah Tzu had eaten strengthening food that night. Though he wore the clothes of an infant, that is no sign that his arm was the arm of an infant. Such howling.

Old Weng Fu merely grunted when he received the bag of rubies and pearls. Counting them he said, “I thought there were fifty large pearls.” And he gazed keenly at Ah Tzu. If he expected to see a guilty flush, he was disappointed. “I did not count them, my father. All that I found I put in the bag.” The beggar grunted. “So—here is the missing one. . . . But perhaps there were fifty-one. Look outside the door. You may find another.”

As Ah Tzu sifted the earth, his nostrils told him of a smoke. Even as he straightened up Weng Fu rushed from the house. No need to yell “Fire.” Flames were darting like dragons’ tongues out of the thatch, out of the walls. The old beggar ran in a circle, screaming: “Now what shall I crack nuts on? What? What? Oh. Oh. Oh. Ah Tzu, my son, get me the brick that lies on the floor in the northeast corner. The brick. The brick.” Ah Tzu thought it strange that his father should set such high value on a brick. But strange or not strange, an order was an order—to be obeyed. Shielding his face with a sleeve he entered the house. Wisps of burning straw fell upon him. Smoke seared his eyes. Smoke griped his throat, periling his life. Straight he went to the farthest corner. He stooped. A quick dash. He was safe, beyond the door. Ah Tzu’s task had been accomplished. He handed to his father a brick . . . a worthless yellow brick . . . a chipped and fissured brick. For that he had been made to risk his life.

Weng Fu spoke no word of praise. He did not so much as look at Ah Tzu. Only a close observer could have noticed that his lips quivered ever so slightly. Finally he said: “I have one more errand for you, my son, then you may rest. See—I have lost the string that bound my queue. Go you to the Emperor and ask His Majesty for an old ribbon. Tell the Emperor you wish to borrow a queue ribbon for Weng Fu, the beggar.”

Sadly troubled, Ah Tzu hastened toward the palace. He had every reason for thinking that his impudent request would gain him not a ribbon for Weng Fu but a rope for his own neck . . . and death for Weng Fu.

It was the hour when Shang Tien Hao, The Emperor, sat in public audience. Any citizen might approach the throne. The aspen leaves never tremble so violently as Ah Tzu trembled, kneeling before his monarch. With much stammering, he stated the business that brought him. All the time his forehead was tight pressed to the floor.

Strangely enough, the Emperor made no beckon to the executioner. Instead, he smiled and said: “No, my son, I sha’n’t give you a ribbon for old Weng Fu. He no longer exists. However, I shall give you ribbons a-plenty and fine clothing for your own wear. You must learn that I, being without heir, dressed as a beggar and wandered the streets to find me a son brave as Meng, pure as Pao Shu, and devoted as Wei. Such I found in you. No longer are you Ah Tzu, the orphan. Henceforth you are Lieh Shih—hero—and beloved son of Shang Tien Hao, The Emperor.”

FOUR GENERALS