In Peking, the leafy tendrils of the willow trees whispered to the waters of the Grand Canal and the moat around the Forbidden City. Pendulous white flowers hung off the cedrela. The markets were ripe with stacks of Indian corn and melons. A racket of cicadas welcomed Morrison home. After the oppressively moist heat of Japan, Morrison revelled in the blazing aridity of Peking.
The moment his mafoo collected him from the station, Morrison had a premonition. ‘Where’s Kuan? Kuan tsai na-li?’ He mulled over the mafoo’s hesitant answer, a Chinese phrase that translated as ‘there is no relationship’ or ‘there’s nothing to be concerned about’, an ambiguous saying that only deepened his apprehension.
Kuan and Yu-ti had run away together. No one knew where they had gone, but there was a rumour it was to Shanghai to join the revolutionary anti-Ch’ing underground. Morrison professed himself shocked. But then he thought about it and it began to make sense. It was clear enough that Kuan and Yu-ti had been childhood sweethearts. And then there was the admiration Kuan held for Professor Ho and, more tellingly, the interest Ho and the others took in Kuan. Not surprisingly, Cook was furious and humiliated by his wife’s betrayal. He had refused to speak to anyone for more than a week now. The household, Morrison learned, was much relieved at his return.
On his desk, hidden under his blotter, Morrison found a letter from Kuan, written in careful English and requesting him to destroy it after reading. Kuan apologised for not saying anything about his plans and for leaving without saying goodbye. He told Morrison he and Yu-ti would always remember his kindness. They hoped that one day they would see him again, in a China that was free of the curse of the Ch’ing, a China that was strong and sovereign. He trusted that Morrison would understand and forgive. In a postscript, couched in the politest of terms, he hoped that Morrison’s faith in Japan’s good intentions towards China were not misplaced.
As Morrison burned the letter, he couldn’t help feeling a grudging admiration for his Boy. He has followed his heart.
Ten days after the battle for Liaoyang, Lionel James’s report reached the paper:
A sleet of lead…Japanese infantry is not to know failure…mown down in hundreds…dressing stations of the field hospital. All were filled with double their capacity…casualties…at the lowest computation were not less than 10,000…many bodies will never be found until the crops are cut…the Japanese army, after five days of the fiercest fighting the world has seen since the American Civil War…were in occupation of Liaoyang.
The baking heat of summer departed. The earth cooled. A sweet melancholy settled over the capital, sung into being by the plaintive cries of the grape-sellers roaming the hutong with the fat purple fruit stacked in leaf-lined baskets on their carrying-poles. The light grew sharp and lucid. As the Harvest Moon gave way to the Chrysanthemum Moon, wealthy Chinese donned sable-lined satin gowns and undervests of lambskin, and the poor dressed in thick jackets and trousers of cotton wadding. Fear grew in the eyes of the poorest: it would soon be the season for the mule carts to make their daily dawn rounds of the enceintes to collect the frozen bodies of the homeless. In north China now, there were more homeless than ever, thanks to the war.
Dumas came to the capital with his wife for a visit. They informed Morrison that she was expecting. Morrison congratulated them, eyes misting with joy and envy.
‘Have you heard?’ Mrs Dumas asked. ‘That nice American correspondent Martin Egan is engaged to be married.’
‘To whom?’ Morrison’s heart slammed in his chest.
‘I believe you know her.’
Dumas hastened to clarify. ‘Eleanor Franklin.’
‘Miss Franklin?’ Morrison thought of their conversation that night in the Yoshiwara and smiled.
‘You look surprised,’ Mrs Dumas remarked. ‘And don’t you ever think of taking a bride? They say married men live longer, you know.’
His eyes met those of Dumas, and he knew that his friend was thinking of the same quip: Or does it just seem that way?
‘What’s the secret?’ Dumas’s wife asked, looking from one to the other.
‘I wish I knew,’ Morrison replied.
When his visitors left, he opened the glass front of the rosewood curio cabinet in his parlour and wrapped his hand around the piece of imperial jade he had looted from the palace during the siege. As it warmed in his hand, he felt for the crack in its surface. It was a flaw that endeared it to him even as it confounded him, proof of the elusiveness of perfection.