He started out the door, but I had one last point. “Harry, I’ve got one more stop to make. You can come with me or wait for me.”
“What stop?”
“There’s one more witness to the shooting. He’s the old man who runs the Chinese herbal medicine shop on Tyler Street. I’ve got to talk to him. This is as good a time as there’s going to be. I don’t want to have to come back here. We’re getting too well known.”
I could have predicted his decision. He pulled down his earflap.
“Let’s go.”
19
Tucked away down six worn, stone steps beside the Ming Tree restaurant on Tyler Street, we found the anomaly of the twenty-first century. It was a time warp. Those steps carried Harry and me out of the age of laser surgery into the middle ages of Chinese medicine.
This was no tourist haunt. The sign over the door was in untranslated Chinese. I would bet that mine were the first white feet to cross that threshold in a century. Dangling from a black, cloth-covered cord, a single weak bulb that wouldn’t have passed inspection in a chicken coop created shadows out of blackness.
I was aware of bundles of unidentifiable somethings or other piled up on both sides of the narrow shop. Faded Chinese newspapers were stacked intermittently with nearly biodegraded cardboard cartons that seemed to hold old Chinese magazines.
When we came in, I saw a shadow move in the back. It approached until I could make out an elderly Chinese man, somewhat stooped with age, but not emaciated as I would have predicted from the surroundings.
Thin, wispy strands of white face hair, which were about as close as the old gentleman could come to a full beard, sprouted below an otherwise hairless head. He wore Chinese-style pants and top which were sewn out of coarse black material. They had long since taken the permanent press of his natural folds and bends. He padded along on black cloth Chinese slippers. I was overwhelmingly grateful to have Harry along to translate for me.
I knew we were in a different world when Harry bowed. The old man returned it immediately. They exchanged what even I could tell were polite well-wishes in non-English. Harry must have used his full Chinese name, because I didn’t hear “Harry” in any of it.
The first words that I recognized came when Harry held out his hand toward me and said in Chinese “ Something… something… Michael Knight.”
It seemed perfectly natural to bow. I did. He returned it graciously. I figured it didn’t matter what I said as long as it sounded polite.
“Good morning, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He smiled at me with a warmth I could feel and said without a trace of an accent, “Good morning, Mr. Knight. The pleasure and the honor are mine. I thank you for gracing my humble shop.”
There was no condescension in it, just a very beautiful style of expressing welcome. So much for translation.
Harry added, “This is Mr. Qian An-Yong. He deals in a type of medicine that predates by centuries the time when the most scientific instrument of the West was a leech. Isn’t that right, Mr. Qian?”
He nodded. I wondered if the sparkle in his eyes that accompanied the smile was because someone of Harry’s age appreciated his art, or because he assumed that I wouldn’t.
“You have a familiarity with the ancient medicinal arts, Mr. Wong?”
Harry seemed at ease with the old gentleman. I was getting that way.
“I remember my mother used to go to the herbal medicine doctor before we left China. She had great faith in him. I don’t know whether or not she ever found one in this country.”
“Then you might not take offense at my noticing the obvious. You’re in great pain. I wonder if you would permit me to help you.”
“In what way, Mr. Qian?”
“Would you do me the kindness to excuse me? I’ll be just a moment.”
He bowed slightly and shuffled back through a curtain at the back of the shop.
I looked at Harry with an apology for getting him into an embarrassing situation. He seemed undisturbed.
In a few minutes, the old man was back. He had a handleless Chinese cup in each hand. The light caught steam rising from each of them. He handed one to Harry.
“I think you will find this more satisfying than anything you might have tried. By the time you leave, your pain will be substantially less.”
I’m sure he noticed the look on my face. I had no idea how Harry could refuse without offense. On the other hand, this brew could have ingredients that even Barry Salmon never tested. Equally disturbing was the likelihood that the other steaming cup was for me.
Harry had taken his first hot sip, apparently without qualms, before Mr. Qian said to me, “Don’t be afraid for your friend. It contains combinations of herbs that are perfectly natural. There is no narcotic. There is no need for a narcotic other than what the body produces for itself. These herbs will simply allow the body to produce its own cure.”
Harry finished the liquid and handed the empty cup back to Mr. Qian, who, in turn, held the second cup out to me. I took it, but only to hold. He was smiling an ingenuous smile.
“Mr. Knight, what you are holding is simply a cup of tea. Please permit an old man to be hospitable.”
The old gentleman affected me with his warmth. My fear of offending him grew stronger than my doubts about the contents of the cup. I stole a quick look at Harry. He was still standing. I took a sip, and the comforting warmth flowed through every quarter of my body. The second was just as good. I had finished the cup by the time I remembered what everyone’s mother tells them about taking food from strangers.
The old man looked pleased, and I could feel the warm tea untangling the knots of tense muscles.
“Thank you. That was wonderful, Mr. Qian.”
He bowed. Amazing how many thoughts a bow, properly done, can express. “It is only an inadequate effort at hospitality.”
I was coming to realize that I could sooner get this properly schooled Chinese gentleman to accept hemlock than a compliment without deflecting it with humility.
It was time to get to business.
“Mr. Qian, I’m an attorney. I represent the man who’s charged with killing Mr. Chen.”
He nodded. I felt a touch of sadness in his nod.
“I’m sorry for his death, Mr. Qian.”
He nodded again. “There is no doubt that we are diminished by the loss of his gentle presence. Others would have difficulty understanding…”
He seemed hesitant to go further, but I wanted to hear it.
“Would you finish your thought, Mr. Qian? I want to understand.”
He gathered his words for a moment. I think it was sensitivity to the feelings of this Occidental.
“We see old age not as a flaw but an accomplishment. We respect our elderly for suffering all that life can bring for their many years. They give us their patience and knowledge and even wisdom that are like our rock. Mr. Chen, with his patient love for our children of all ages-myself included-was our rock.”
I wanted to say something deep and understanding, but all I had was conflicting thoughts. I still represented the one whom he said killed his Mr. Chen. I simply said, “Yes,” in the kindest way I could, and moved on.
“Mr. Qian, I understand that you were a witness.”
He looked down, and a troubled look crossed those serene features.
“Am I right? Did you see the shooting?”
There seemed to be a sadness that settled in when he looked at me.
“An old man should be used to violence. It’s a part of life. It should no longer be disturbing.”
“I’ve been sorry to find so much of it in the Chinese community in the last few days, Mr. Qian. I didn’t realize it was here, too.”
“Oh, we have everything that every other culture has, Mr. Knight. Good and bad. In fact, we’ve had it longer. The form of medicine that I practice goes back not centuries, as Mr. Wong said, but millennia. As does a highly developed spiritual philosophy and morality. Do you know, Mr. Knight, why the Chinese still use chopsticks instead of your knives and forks?”