Pell Street Blues Chapter 1

Fate wrote the first chapter of this tale some centuries ago, when it planted the seeds of mutual hate in two kindred Mongol races: in Chinese and in Manchu, and by the same token, in patient, earthbound peasant and in hawkish nomad, hard-galloping across the land, conquering it with the swish of the red sword, the scream and bray of the long-stemmed war-trumpets, the hollow nasal drone of the kettle-drums—and overhead, the carrion-fed vultures paralleling the marauders’ progress on eager wings.
Fate wrote the second chapter sixty-odd years ago, when Foh Wong and Yang Shen-Li were boys in the cold northern town of Ninguta, where they threw stones at each other and swapped salty abuse; although it was Yang Shen-Li, the Manchu, the mandarin’s son, who did most of the stonethrowing, whereas Foh Wong, whose parents were Chinese coolies tilling the barren clay, did most of the cursing—from a safe distance. For he valued his skin—which, together with his shrewd brain, was his sole possession.
Fate wrote the third chapter a little over fifty years ago, when parlous times had come to China—with Russia at the western and Japan at the eastern border, both waiting for an excuse to invade the tottering Empire and tear it to pieces—and when, one morning, Foh Wong stopped Yang
Shen-Li on the street and said:
“A word with you!”
“What is it, mud-turtle?”
“Indeed,” replied the other, “I am no more than a mud-turtle, while you are an aristocrat, an ironcapped prince. And yet”—slowly—“today I have the whip-hand.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Yang Shen-Li.
He was startled. He wondered if Foh Wong knew, how he knew—heard him drop his voice to a purr:
“You were not alone last night. I watched from behind a tree. And should I proclaim what I saw, there would be your handsome head spiked on a tall pole in front of the Palace of August Justice.”
The Manchu shrugged his shoulders. He tried to speak casually:
“I do not fear death.”
“Of course not—since you are a brave fool. But being also an honorable fool, you would not wish to bring black disgrace on your father, to cause him to lose face. And—forgive the wretched pun—your father would lose a great deal of face, if you should lose your head. A murderer’s head—”
“I did not murder.”
“You killed.”
“In self-defense. He insulted me, struck me, drew his revolver and fired—the insolent
foreigner!”
“But—be pleased to remember—a most important foreigner. A high Russian official whose corpse you—ah—buried in back of Han Ma’s camel stables.” He stabbed out an accusing finger.
“I saw you.”
“Have you witnesses?”
“Not a one. I was alone.”
“Then?”
“There will be witnesses, when the time comes.
Three of my cousins. A dozen, if you prefer.”
“Lying witnesses!”
“Lying, only, in swearing they saw the deed. Not lying as to the deed itself. And though you are a mandarin’s son, the Dowager Empress, with Russia’s soldiers massed at the frontier, will give an order to her red-robed executioners, will have your handsome head removed, if I should—”
“IS there a price for your silence, coolie?” interrupted Yang Shen-Li.
“Is there not a price for everything?”
“How much?”
“No money. Not a single silver tael.” Foh Wong paused. “The price of my silence is—a word.”
“A word?”
“Yes. A mere word from you—to Na Liu. A word telling her I desire her greatly—wish her to be my wife.”
“But”—the Manchu stammered with rage— “she—”
“Loves you? I know. And I know, too, that, loving you, she will not relish the thought of your bleeding head grinning down at her from a tall pole, and will therefore marry me, the mud-turtle. . . . Hayah!” with sudden violence. “Go to her! At once!
For today I command, and you will obey!” Yang Shen-Li stared at the other.
“Yes,” he said heavily. “I shall obey.” He took a step nearer. “But—listen to me, coolie!” His words clicked and broke like dropping icicles. “I hate you. Ah—by the Buddha!—I shall always hate you.”
“You hate me no more than I hate you,” was the answer. “But”—and Foh Wong’s eyes gleamed triumphantly through meager almond lids—“you are helpless, O paper tiger with paper teeth. I am not. So—keep on hating me!”