Yi frowned. ‘What do you mean? It’s a bloody good act, keeps ’em in a roar all night.’
‘Yes, but they’ll tire of it. We should get something new on the way, ready to throw in when it happens.’
‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Well, something that we can take further, change a bit each night.’
‘What’s that?’
‘How about, “A foreign devil learns about Chayna”?’
He let it sink in then added, ‘We can have him learn chopsticks, dress in the wrong toggery, take what the ladies say amiss.’
Then he added casually, ‘And most hilarious, have to learn Chinese words, getting ’em all askew and wrong meanings, that kind of thing.’
‘Ha!’ Yi said. ‘I think you’ve got something there. Chinese, why, it’s like no other lingo you ever heard. Listen to this: ma, ma, ma, ma. Get it?’
‘No, what does it mean?’
‘The same word! You sings it four different ways, it’s got four different meanings. What I just said was “horse, mother, curse, well?”. See?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re a foreigner, that’s not surprising. Listen again – I’m going to say a word. Twice. But in different tones. Ready? Mai… Mai. Hear the difference? Mai, Mai.’
He could – the first tone started low and rose up higher, the second descended down. ‘Yes. What does the word mean?’
‘Well, there you have it. You now have two words! The first means to buy, the other to sell. Get it?’
Nicander’s brow creased. How odd – singing a language to get meaning. If ever he was going to get into business in this country he’d better be careful with his tones.
‘It must be very tough to learn.’
‘It is,’ Yi agreed. ‘But it’s got a good side. You Greeks have got words big enough to choke a horse. Chinese only has one beat, one word. You just string ’em along in a line to make your sentence.’
‘I think we’re on to something, Beastmaster,’ Nicander enthused. ‘Sing the wrong note, get a crazy meaning! We can really have fun with this…’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Nicander, a trader who was comfortable among the many tongues of the Mediterranean, took to Chinese quickly. Hearing it spoken on every side from morning to night immersed him in the sound and feeling of the musical language – and he began developing an ear for it.
On show evenings his deliberate same-word-different-tone efforts brought the house down. Marius could only learn his lines by rote but his rough Latin manner got just as many laughs.
The act became more daring: some in the audience, like Kuo, were beyond teasing but a number of the more pompous officials were easy targets and one night Nicander even went so far as to take the Crown Prince himself as his mark.
Kao Yeh, Prince of Ch’i, was fat and witless. He had little to do, as the Emperor had no intention of dissipating power, and spent his hours in pleasuring, both public and private. He and his sycophantic followers were regulars at every evening performance, their presence marked by unrestrained chortling.
Nicander crafted a not too subtle routine involving him as a drunken reveller meeting another and completely mistaking the tone value of ou, the word meaning to vomit. The prince duly fell about in mirth.
Then the acid-faced Hao was the victim of an earnest enquiry about a taxation form – or was that a wireworm larva?
But he saved his most cunning confection for the beautiful woman who never missed a performance but always stayed in the shadows. He had never seen her smile – the Ice Queen, he’d privately named her. But there was something about her…
His sketch centred on a happy-go-lucky man about town coming upon such a paragon. In a series of loud asides he debated whether he should approach the lady in question and what he should say.
She must have known what was to follow but gave no sign of it, remaining cool and motionless.
He worked up to his climax – a play on ping, ice, but also ailment.
Turning to her, he prepared to deliver his line but saw in her features a starkness, a dark void of the soul – and the words came out weakly.
Then her attendant came forward and beat at him with her fan in a shrill invective that was too fast for him to follow. The audience was delighted but he’d been put off balance by the woman.
Afterwards Yi was unsympathetic. ‘O’ course! You know why? She’s the highest o’ the high, talking to the lowest o’ the low. Can’t expect anything else, can you? We call her “The Porcelain Doll” and wonder why she’s not married off.’
He sniffed. ‘Now just as you’re getting laughs with this wordplay, I’m thinking you can land yourself – and the act – in a lot o’ bother if you get rude with the customers without you know it. What I’m saying is, this court is a dangerous place and even if you don’t mean it, if you hand out insults to the wrong man, well, who’s to say what’ll happen?
‘So what I’m going to do is lend you Ah Lee, my brightest stable boy. He’s getting the same orders as you – if you’re not up to speed in Chinese in a very short while you’re both for the chop! You can play the fool kuei lao as much as you like, but now you’ll know what not to say.’
They scuttled off in a high storm of applause.
‘By glory but I think some of ’em wet themselves with your last act!’ cackled Yi. This was Nicander’s deliberate mispronouncing of the number nine to become the male appendage, at a crucial point in an interchange between a man and a maid.
As Nicander and Marius helped each other out of their costumes, a gong sounded.
‘Must be another act,’ Yi said. ‘Let’s see if they can do better!’
The hum of conversations and occasional laughter died away. Peeking around a column Nicander saw an old man shuffling in, helped by a younger. He reached the centre and insisted on a full kowtow.
‘Ah, that’s Ts’ao Fu. A famous poet but too heavy going for me,’ Yi whispered. ‘Haven’t seen him for a while. The Emperor’s got no taste for it but if he’s going to be mistaken for a scholar he has to put up with it.’
When the man rose he was handed a scroll which he held up proudly in a trembling hand and began reading. It was a thin, reedy voice – and barely audible.
There was an irritated shout from behind the gauze. ‘That’s better,’ Yi murmured. ‘He’s called for the court cantor. That’s their job.’
To Nicander’s astonishment the crowd gave way for the Ice Queen.
‘She used to read Confucius and stuff to the old emperor every morning. This one doesn’t like to be reminded, like.’
‘That’s why she’s here all the time?’
‘Her duty, isn’t it?’
She moved with a studied grace and after an impeccable kowtow took the scroll. With a respectful bow to the poet she stood to one side to read it.
Her voice was high and silvery, the correct delivery for an imperial court, but as she read her face blossomed into a transcendent radiance.
The poem was in quatrains; she gave it an artistic lilt and expression that brought it to life in a way that was truly enchanting. Nicander could only understand one word in five but he was held enthralled.
It went on until at a particular place she faltered, and glanced at the poet who drew himself up and nodded gravely.
She resumed but the words brought a sudden ripple of unease about the room.
‘Be buggered, but the old man’s treading on thin ice!’ Yi muttered.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘Why, not for your ears, really, but he’s waking up the old ancestors and comparing them to this one.’
There was a sudden bellow and savage words from the yellow gauze. She stopped instantly and lowered her head.
The poet shuffled forward.
‘That’s torn it – inviting Ts’ao Fu to change his words. He’ll never do it.’
Suddenly the gauze was ripped aside and for the first time Nicander laid eyes on a Chinese emperor.
He was magnificently dressed in the richest silks, pearls, jade, rubies and sapphires and wore headgear of an impossible elaboration but was grossly corpulent, his pig-like eyes nearly sunk into a fleshy red face.