"Nothing," he said bitterly. "I think nothing."
Josef slipped into the kitchen like a shadow, taking a cake from the tray as he passed. Then, silently, unseen by the two figures who stood confronting each other in the cramped front room, he climbed the stairs and went into his room.
It was a tiny room, under the sloping roof, but big enough for him. Crossing it quickly he went to the shelves beside the bed and reached behind a stack of tape-books, his fingers dosing on the storage jar.
So far so good, he thought, recalling the choking noise the young man had made, the screams of the mother from within. But there was one further thing to do before his scheme could be brought to fruition. One final, necessary stage.
Downstairs they were arguing again, their voices carrying through the floor to where he stood.
Tucking the jar into the band of his trousers Josef went to the window and undid the catch, then stepped out onto the roof. It would take but an hour. Then he could come back here and sleep. Yes, and dream, perhaps, of what was yet to be.
CHAPTER-3
proclamation
Kung Chia, Wei, Chief of Security for Weisenau Hsien, stood before the gates of the Magistrate's Yamen, his feet spread, as he unfurled the proclamation. His men were formed up in a line in front of him, their visors down, their guns held threateningly across their chests.
Kung looked about him at the crowd of locals packed into the square, then, clearing his throat, began to read, his words echoing back to him from the speakers on the far side of the square. When he had finished there was a moment's shocked silence, then a great murmur swept through the crowd.
Turning his back on the mob, Kung Chia took a long, black nail from his pocket and, pinning the top of the proclamation to the gate, hammered it into the erwood with the pommel of his dagger. Taking a second nail from his pocket, he pinned it to the foot of the thick paper, then knocked it in, feeling the door judder beneath the heavy blows.
He sheathed his dagger then stood back, feeling a sense of profound satisfaction. It was about time Li Yuan did something. About time these miserable bastards paid for something other than their food. He looked about him at the shocked and angry faces and grinned. Let the fucking ingrates moan and argue, the thing was done - T'iehpipu kai, as it said at the foot of the edict - "The iron pen changes not". Yes, and if any of them thought they could change it, then he, Kung Chia, would make sure they changed their minds! The three new water-cannons had been delivered only a week back. They sat in the courtyard of the Yamen even now, their crews ready for action.
With a gruff laugh, Rung Chia pushed the gate open and marched back inside the walled enclosure, his men falling in at his back. He was still laughing as the big doors slammed shut behind him.
Outside, in Wen Ti Square, the crowd surged in, clamouring to read the edict for themselves, cries of dismay and anger piercing the morning air. Taxes! For the first time in Chung Kuo's history, a T'ang had levied taxes on the common people!
Emily had been standing at the very back of the crowd, beside a row of stalls, young Ji up on her shoulders so he could see. Like everyone there, she had heard what the Wei had said and had no doubt that he had read the proclamation word for word, but still people crowded at the door, keen to read it for themselves, to see with their own eyes what had been decided from on high.
She sighed and, bending, handed Ji down.
"What is it, Mama Em?" the four-year-old asked, staring up at her with his big hazel eyes.
"Trouble," she said, hugging him briefly, then stood and took his hand.
They hurried home. The boys were at school, the outer yard empty, but Lin was at his table in the inner yard, the ledgers stacked beside him, the latest of them open to the last few weeks' figures.
"You've heard, then," she said.
"I've heard," he answered, not looking up, his finger moving patiently across the lines of figures, as if deciphering some ancient language. "Old Wen was here. He said there are to be taxes. Ten fen in every yuan we earn."
"So it is. Beginning at Hsiao Man."
"So soon?"
Hsiao Man - "Small Fullness" - was the week of May 22nd. It was now a week past Li Hsia - "Summer Commences". The new tax would be introduced a mere nine days hence.
She went and stood beside him. "So, Papa Lin ... what are we to do?"
He half turned, looking up at her, his twisted face unchanged, an inexhaustible patience in his dark Han eyes. "We must work harder, Mama Em, that's what. And Chao .. . Chao will have to find a job."
"But. .."
She fell silent, seeing the determination in his face. He was right. Chao would have to get a job. It was the only way.
"It cannot be helped," Lin said after a moment, shutting up the ledger and pushing it aside. "Besides, Chao will understand. I'll talk to him. Help him in the evenings. He does not have to give up his studies, only the lessons."
She nodded, yet her heart sank at the thought of telling Chao. Chao was their eldest - the one they'd had the longest -and he had set his heart on graduating for the State College. This news would come as a great blow to him.
She sighed, then leaned heavily against the table's edge, suddenly tired. "Why now? Why now, when things are finally okay?"
The patient shrug epitomised Lin Shang. "We will make do. You know that, Mama Em. It is our way, after all. This here is our island, no? And we take care of those we love. As for the bigger world . . . well, how can we change the minds of kings? You tried that once and where did it get you?"
She laughed. It wasn't often Lin referred to her past life, yet when he did, as now, it was to emphasise the futility of action. At least, of the kind of action - terrorism and political activity - that she had once engaged in. For Lin Shang, wuwei -maction - was the key to life.
He gave a faint smile, the way he always did when he quoted the sages. "When the great storm comes, the big oaks try to stand against the wind and so fall, whereas the weaker reeds lay flat and, when the wind has died, raise up their heads once more. So it is. So it has always been."
She nodded, but at the back of her mind was the memory of the last great storm that had struck Chung Kuo a decade back, and of the billions of common people - reeds, every last one of them - who had died in it. Whereas the big oaks - Li Yuan, Ebert, Shepherd and the like - had come through unscathed. It was a fact that seemed to make a mockery of Lin Shang"s philosophy, but she said nothing.
Ji, standing at her side, had said nothing all this while. Now he yawned loudly. Emily looked down at him and smiled.
"Are you hungry, Ji?"
Ji returned her smile, then nodded.
"Good. Then come and help me make Papa Lin some lunch."
Ji hesitated, his face slowly forming a frown. "And the paper, Mama Em? The paper that the Wei nailed onto the Hsien L'ing"s door . . . Does it mean there'll be no more food, after today?"
"No more food . . ." Emily laughed, then knelt, holding Ji to her. "No, Ji. There'll be food. Maybe not as much as before, but we'll make do, neh? We always do."
Tom stood on the balcony of his father's rooms, looking out across the palace gardens toward a sheltered bower, where, part-hidden by the leaves of an ancient willow, three serving maids walked slowly back and forth, giggling among themselves, their heads pressed close together. He watched them, fascinated, reminded by their laughter of the girl, wondering what she was doing at that moment; whether she too would stop at moments and look up, thinking of him.