Barry Hughart - Bridge of Birds

I later learned that the wineshop of One-Eyed Wong was the most notorious in all China, but at the time I merely noticed that the low dark room was swarming with vermin and flies, and that a thug with a jade earring that dangled from one chewed earlobe did not approve of the product.

“You Peking weaklings call this watery piss wine?” he roared. “Back in Soochow we make wine so strong that it knocks you out for a month if you smell it on somebody's breath!”

One-Eyed Wong turned to his wife, who was blending the stuff behind the counter.

“We must add more cayenne, my turtledove.”

“Two hundred and twenty-two transcendent miseries!” wailed Fat Fu. “We have run out of cayenne!”

“In that case, O light of my existence, we shall substitute the stomach acid of diseased sheep,” One-Eyed Wong said calmly.

The thug with the earring whipped out a dagger and lurched around the room, savagely slashing the air.

“You Peking weaklings call these things flies?” he yelled. “Back in Soochow we have flies so big that we clip their wings, hitch them to plows, and use them for oxen!”

“Perhaps a few flattened flies might add bouquet,” One-Eyed Wong said thoughtfully.

“Yours is genius of the highest order, O noble stallion of the bedchamber, but flies are too risky,” said Fat Fu. “They might overpower our famous flavor of crushed cockroaches.”

The thug did not approve of Master Li. “You Peking weaklings call these midgets men?” he howled. “Back in Soochow we grow men so big that their heads brush the clouds while their feet are planted upon the ground!”

“Indeed? In my humble village,” Master Li said sweetly, “we grow men so big that their upper lips lick the stars, while their lower lips nuzzle the earth.”

The thug thought about it.

“And where are their bodies?”

“They are like you,” said Master Li. “All mouth.”

His hand shot out, a blade glinted, blood spurted, and he calmly dropped the thug's earring into his pocket, along with the ear that was attached to it. “My surname is Li and my personal name is Kao, and there is a slight flaw in my character,” he said with a polite bow. “This is my esteemed client, Number Ten Ox, who is about to strike you over the head with a blunt object.”

I wasn't quite sure what a blunt object was, but I was spared the embarrassment of asking when the thug sat down at a table and began to cry. Li Kao exchanged a bawdy joke with One-Eyed Wong, pinched Fat Fu's vast behind, and beckoned for me to join them at a table with a jar of wine that was not of their own manufacture.

“Ox, it occurs to me that your education may be deficient in certain basic aspects of human intercourse, and I suggest that you pay close attention,” he said. He placed the thug's jade earring, which was quite beautiful, upon the table. “A lovely thing,” he said.

“Trash,” sneered One-Eyed Wong.

“Cheap imitation jade,” sneered Fat Fu.

“Carved by a blind man,” sneered One-Eyed Wong.

“Worst earring I ever saw,” sneered Fat Fu.

“How much?” asked One-Eyed Wong.

“It is yours for a song,” said Master Li. “In this case a song means a large purse of fake gold coins, two elegant suits of clothes, the temporary use of a palatial palanquin and suitably attired bearers, a cart of garbage, and a goat.”

One-Eyed Wong did some mental addition.

“No goat.”

“But I must have a goat.”

“It isn't that good an earring.”

“It doesn't have to be that good a goat.”

“No goat.”

“But you not only get the earring, you also get the ear that is attached to it,” said Master Li.

The proprietors bent over the table and examined the bloody thing with interest.

“This is not a very good ear,” sneered One-Eyed Wong.

“It is a terrible ear,” sneered Fat Fu.

“Revolting,” sneered One-Eyed Wong.

“Worst ear I ever saw,” sneered Fat Fu.

“Besides, what good is it?” asked One-Eyed Wong.

“Look at the vile creature it came from, and imagine the filth that has been hissed into it.” Master Li bent over the table and whispered, “Let us assume that you have an enemy.”

“Enemy,” said One-Eyed Wong.

“He is a wealthy man with a country estate.”

“Estate,” said Fat Fu.

“A stream flows through the estate.”

“Stream,” said One-Eyed Wong.

“It is midnight. You climb the fence and cleverly elude the dogs. Silent as a shadow you slip to the top of the stream and peer around slyly. Then you take this revolting ear from your pocket and dip it into the water, and words of such vileness flow out that the fish are poisoned for miles, and your enemy's cattle drink from the stream and drop dead on the spot, and his lush irrigated fields wither into bleak desolation, and his children splash in their bathing pool and acquire leprosy, and all for the price of a goat.”

Fat Fu buried her face in her hands.

“Ten thousand blessings upon the mother who brought Li Kao into the world,” she sobbed, while One-Eyed Wong dabbed at his eyes with a filthy handkerchief and sniffled, “Sold.”

In the country my life had been attuned to the rhythm of the seasons, and things happened gradually. Now I had entered the whirlwind world of Li Kao, and I believe that I was in a state of shock. At any rate, the next thing that I remember was riding through the streets with Li Kao and Fat Fu in a palatial palanquin, while One-Eyed Wong marched ahead of us and bashed the lower classes out of the way with a gold-tipped staff. One-Eyed Wong was dressed as the majordomo of a great house, and Fat Fu was attired as a noble nurse, and Master Li and I dazzled the eyes in tunics of sea-green silk that were secured by silver girdles with borders of jade. The jeweled pendants that dangled from our fine tasseled hats tinkled in the breeze, and we languidly waved gold-splattered Szech'uen fans.

A servant brought up the rear, dragging a cart filled with garbage and a mangy goat. The servant was a thug of low appearance with a bandage around his head, and he kept whimpering, “My ear!”

“The house of Miser Shen,” said Fat Fu, pointing ahead to a large unpainted building in front of which cheap incense burned before the statues of the Immortal of Commerical Profits, the Celestial Discoverer of Buried Treasures, the Lord of Lucrative Legacies, and every other greedy deity in the Heavenly Ministry of Wealth. “Miser Shen owns eight flourishing businesses, six houses in six different cities, one carriage, one sedan chair, one horse, three cows, ten pigs, twenty chickens, eight savage guard dogs, seven half-starved servants, and one young and beautiful concubine named Pretty Ping,” said Fat Fu. “He acquired all of them by foreclosing mortgages.”

Ahead of us was an old peasant with a mule that was hauling a stone-wheeled cart that belonged in a museum.

“Manure!” he shouted in a quavering melancholy voice. “Fresh manuuuuuuure!”

Inside the house a rasping voice exclaimed, “Stone wheels? Stone wheels in Peking?” Shutters flew open and an extraordinarily ugly gentleman stuck his head out. “Great Buddha, they are stone wheels!” he yelled, and he vanished inside the house. A moment later I heard him scream, “Cook! Cook! Don't waste a second!” And then the front door crashed open and Miser Shen and his cook raced outside and fell in behind the ancient cart.

They were carrying armloads of kitchen cutlery, which they began to sharpen against the slowly revolving stone wheels.

“At least two copper coins saved, Master!” the cook cried.

“What a bonanza!” howled Miser Shen.

“Manure!” cried the peasant. “Fresh manuuuure!”

Another pair of shutters flew open, and Fat Fu pointed toward a heart-shaped face and a pair of luscious almond eyes.