Pearl Buck - Kinfolk

Outside the open door of the hotel lobby he stepped into one of the pedicycles which had taken the place of old-fashioned rickshas on the streets of Shanghai. A thin lackadaisical man, still young, grunted at the directions James gave him and pedaled dangerously into the traffic of streetcars, wheelbarrows, busses, cars, and carriages. Far more dangerous than vehicles were these thousands of people who came and went upon the streets. They spilled over the sidewalks and flowed among the traffic in a dark stream, cursed by drivers and cursing in return. The streets were a continuing brawl. Most of the people looked poor and their faces were strained and anxious, but among them were also the well dressed and complacent, winding their way unobtrusively among the others.

The pedicycle rider flung a hand toward a building as they went on and James leaned forward to catch what he said. He heard the two words Wing On, and remembered what Mr. Li had told him. The building had been rebuilt and it was a thriving department store again. Lili ought to see it, he thought. Then she would forget the horror of the day when it had nearly carried her to death in its destruction. There was little sign of that now. He craned to look at the great ornate structure, cheaply built and yet somehow effective in the strange hybrid design an architect had given it.

The driver stopped before a gate, sweating and mopping his face. “The Li Palace,” he announced loudly. James got out and bade the man wait. He would not stay long. It was a palace, he supposed. He could see nothing except the high gray brick wall, topped by green dust-laden trees. A row of broken glass was set into the cement which covered the ridge of the wall. The driver beat upon the gate with his closed fists and a uniformed gatekeeper opened it.

James spoke in his best Chinese. “I am a friend of the Li family, who are now in New York. I should like just to look at the home where they used to live.”

But the gatekeeper was surly. Whether he spoke only Shanghai dialect or whether he had orders to let no one enter, who could tell? He growled a refusal. James looked over his shoulder and saw an immense square brick house surrounded by deep verandas, set in a green lawn and palm trees. Then the gate shut in his face. There was nothing to do but go back to the hotel.

He was awakened by the raucous telephone and still half asleep he took up the receiver. The clerk’s voice purred in his ear. “Cah donstaahs waiting you.”

“Coming!” James cried.

Six-thirty — impossible! But so it was. He leaped up, and realized that he had slept all afternoon, needing sleep upon solid earth after the interrupting rise and fall of the ship. He felt rested, and before the mirror, brushing his stiff black hair into its usual pompadour, he saw that fatigue had faded from his eyes. He looked forward with mild interest to the evening, expecting amusement, at least.

Yet where had Mrs. Barnabas hidden this car during the war? A White Russian chauffeur held the door for him and he stepped into cushioned comfort. A silver vase of roses, attached to the seat, scented the stillness. For when the doors were closed no noise penetrated their insulation. The jabber and chatter of the streets, the wails of beggars, were shut away. Even the smooth monotone of the engine could not be heard. Between him and the chauffeur was a wall of glass and he had not the courage to lift the speaking tube at his right hand and ask who Mrs. Barnabas was and how she had this princely car.

In silence he was carried through the summer evening, through the crowds who stared at him with hatred in their eyes, as he soon perceived. They were asking who he was and how came he to be riding in such splendor and alone. He looked away from them and wished that the Russian did not honk the horn so loudly and constantly and he longed for darkness to hide him.

Before darkness fell, however, the car paused at a great gate which swung open to receive it, and he was carried up a broad driveway between high magnolia trees to a great house of gray brick, as solid as a bank. At white marble steps under a wide porte-cochere the car stopped, and the door was opened by a Chinese manservant in a red silk robe tied with a wide soft girdle of crushed blue satin.

“This way, please,” he told James and led the way into a huge hall filled with heavy Chinese tables and chairs of blackwood.

“Oh, Dr. Liang!”

James heard the rushing dominating voice of the telephone, and he saw his hostess. His first impression was of a tall slender brilliant bird. Her middle-aged face was negligible. Small-boned, highly colored, it was merely a spot upon which to focus for a moment. Above it was a brilliant turban of cloth of gold, the same fabric that made her high-necked, semi-Chinese costume. She held out thin jeweled hands to clutch his and he felt her hot and tenacious fingers dragging him toward an open door.

“Come in — come in — we’re all here waiting—”

“I’m afraid I slept—”

“And why shouldn’t you sleep — why shouldn’t the son of Liang Wen Hua do whatever he likes—”

They were in an enormous glittering room. Thirty or forty men and women, most of them Chinese, were sitting or lounging on low chairs, divans, and hassocks upholstered in brocades. A stout tall American, bald-headed and red-faced, was mixing cocktails.

“My husband, Barny—” his hostess announced, “and the others — the Dialectic Society of China—”

He was introduced to one after another, always as the son of his father, and he met cold eyes, cynical eyes, coy eyes, careless eyes, envious eyes, and when it was over he sat down on the end of an overcrowded sofa.

Mr. Barnabas strode toward him. “Hello, Dr. Liang. Glad to welcome you home to China — have a Martini — I’m the only person in Shanghai who can make ’em taste like New York—”

James accepted the glass and held it without tasting its contents. He felt overwhelmed, drowned in color and noise, as everyone began to talk exactly as though he were not there. Mrs. Barnabas was smiling coquettishly at a handsome young Chinese. She laid her brightly ringed hand on his for a moment. Mr. Barnabas stood gazing at this and at everything, swaying a little on his black patent-leather toes, smiling vacantly as he sipped his cocktail. Then he sat down on the floor beside James, his long legs tangling.

“Well, how does it seem to be home?” he asked.

“I cannot realize it yet,” James replied.

“You won’t find it so different from New York,” Mr. Barnabas said proudly. “This bunch now — every one of ’em talks English. Don’t know any Chinese myself — don’t have to. Mrs. Barny, now, goes in for art and literature and so on, but I’m just a plain businessman. Course I like her to have a good time.”

“What is your business, sir?” James asked.

“Export — furs, racing ponies — I get ’em from Manchuria — native oils, tungsten, anything.”

“The war did not hurt your business?”

Mr. Barnabas laughed. “Not a bit! I made a deal, of course. The Japs let me alone. I didn’t like them, mind you — rather have the Chinese any time — but what I say is you can always make a deal.”

“Dr. Liang!” Mrs. Barnabas sang her high notes. “Please come here—”

She patted a seat beside her on the divan. James rose and sat down beside her. She turned her small, pale-green eyes upon him.

“Now you really must settle this for the whole Dialectic Society. We’ve debated so often — do be the judge!”

“The question?” James asked smiling. How absurd this woman was!

“Do you think that Robert Browning’s work improved or deteriorated after his marriage to Elizabeth Barrett? Now wait — let me say it — of course hers improved — really, she had written nothing — she caught the flame from his lighted torch! But he was the true genius, don’t you think — and the real inner meaning of the question is — does the true genius flower alone out of its own solitary power, or can it — must it — have the sunshine of great love — or great suffering, or something on that order?”