Silver

WHERE SILVER IS CONCERNED, don’t think that our perception of it is limited to its monetary value.

You will never understand us if you equate our worship of silver with a love of wealth. That would be much the same as the bewilderment felt by Charles when he saw us reject Wangpo Yeshi’s beliefs after we had turned down his. “Why would you prefer a bad religion to a good one?” he asked, then added, “If, like the Chinese, you are worried about the intentions of Westerners, then wouldn’t Wangpo Yeshi’s religion be a good one for you? Isn’t his derived from the teachings of your religious leader, the Dalai Lama?”

But enough about religion. Let’s return to silver.

Our ancestors mastered the skill of mining precious metals, such as gold and silver, a very long time ago. The yellow of gold is associated with religion, like the glittery powder on the Buddha’s face, or the silk chemises the lamas wear under their purple cassocks. We know that gold is more valuable than silver, but we like silver, white silver. So never ask a chieftain, or a member of a chieftain’s family, if he likes silver, because not only will you get no answer, but he will be wary of you. The answer you’ll get is: We like our people and our territory.

One of my ancestors was a dedicated writer. He once said that you had to be either the smartest fellow in the world or an idiot if you wanted to be a ruler, a king. To me that was a very intriguing idea, because I, well, I was a certified idiot. My brother began his studies as a child, in order to become a smart person, since he would be Father’s successor as Maichi chieftain. And I was content to enjoy the benefits of being considered an idiot. My brother treated me well, since he wouldn’t have to guard against me, unlike brothers of earlier generations.

My brother liked me because I’m an idiot.

And I liked him because I’m an idiot.

Father had said many times that he was spared much of the trouble encountered by earlier chieftains in this regard. He had had to part with a large sum of silver to pacify his own brother, the uncle I’d yet to meet. Father said repeatedly, “My sons won’t be a worry to me.”

A pained expression appeared on Mother’s face whenever he said that. She knew I was an idiot, but deep down she retained a sliver of hope, and it was precisely this tiny bit of hope that caused her so much pain, desperation even. I think I mentioned earlier that I was conceived when Father was drunk. Too bad the ancestor who wrote about how chieftains govern hadn’t considered this method of preventing power struggles between sons of later generations.

That day, Father mentioned the same thing.

A pained expression appeared on Mother’s face again. But this time she rubbed my head as she said to the chieftain, “I didn’t bear you a son who causes you to lose sleep. But what about that woman?”

Yes, there was the woman called Yangzom on our estate who was now carrying the chieftain’s child. No one doubted that Yangzom would be a source of trouble. She had already caused the death of one man, and we wondered who would be her next victim. But no one died, and people began to feel sorry for her once she fell out of favor with the chieftain. They said she was guilty of nothing, and that the downturn in her life was a result of bad karma and retribution.

After several bouts of nausea, Yangzom told the steward that she was carrying the old master’s baby and that she’d present him with a future chieftain. The chieftain not visited her room for a long time, and that is where she waited for her pregnancy to reach full term. People said she would give birth to a crazy baby, since the mad, raging love between her and the chieftain had nearly turned them both to ashes. So many people were talking about them that she refused to leave her room, saying that someone wanted the son in her belly dead.

Now I really ought to talk about silver.

But first, the whiteness dream.

Many years ago—we don’t know exactly how many years ago, but it was at least more than a thousand—when our ancestors came here from far-off Tibet proper, they met with strong resistance from the natives, whom our legends described as sprightly as monkeys and ferocious as leopards. There were many of them, and few of us, but we were there to be their rulers, so we had to conquer them first. One of the ancestors had a dream in which a silver-bearded old man told him that they had to use white quartz as a weapon in the next day’s fight. The old man also gave the natives a dream in which he told them to fight us with snowballs. And that was how our ancestors became the rulers of this land. The person who dreamed about the silver-bearded old man became our very first gyalpo, the first king of the Maichi family.

Later, when the Tibetan kingdom fell, nearly all the aristocrats who had come here had forgotten that Tibet was our homeland. And we gradually forgot our mother tongue. We spoke the language of the conquered natives. Of course, there were still signs of our own language, but they were barely perceptible. We were the rulers of our territory with the title of chieftain, bestowed upon us by the Imperial Court in the Central Plains.

Quartz has another important use. Carried in a pouch around a man’s waist, along with sharp pieces of crescent-shaped metal and wicks, it can be struck to start a fire. It always gave me a wonderful feeling to see white quartz strike a shred of gray metal. As sparks flew, I felt myself burning happily like the soft, dry wicks. Sometimes I thought I’d have been a great figure if only I’d been the first Maichi to see the birth of fire. Of course, I’m not that Maichi, so I’m not a great figure, and all this was just the idle ruminations of an idiot.

What I wanted to know was, was I the stupidest person ever since the appearance of the Maichi family? I knew the answer, and had nothing more to say on the matter, except that I believed I was the descendant of fire. Otherwise, how could I explain why I felt such an affinity with fire, as if it were my own grandfather or great-grandfather? But when I said that, everyone—Father, my brother, the steward, even the maid, Sangye Dolma—laughed. Mother was upset, but she laughed too.

Dolma said, “Young Master should go see the murals in the sutra hall.”

Of course I knew there were murals in the sutra hall. The paintings told everyone in the Maichi family that we were hatched from the giant eggs of wind and fantastic birds called rocs. According to the paintings, when heaven and earth were a void, there was only the howling wind. Then a god appeared in the wind, and said, “Ha!” A world was created out of the blowing wind, which swirled in the void around it. The god said, “Ha!” and new things appeared. I had no idea why the god had to say “Ha” all the time, but when he uttered his last “Ha,” nine chieftains were hatched from a gigantic egg laid by a roc at the edge of the sky. The nine chieftains, staying close to one another, intermarried, and were all related. At the same time, the land and the people turned them into mutual enemies. Moreover, even though they considered themselves kings, they still had to kneel before those in power in Beijing and Lhasa.

Yes, I know, I haven’t yet spoken about silver.

But didn’t I start already? Anyway, silver, whose function is similar to gold, was our favorite. We especially liked it because its whiteness had brought us good luck. That makes two excellent reasons to like silver, and I can add another. Silver can be made into all sorts of ornaments, small ones like rings, bracelets, earrings, scabbards, milking hooks, fingernail caps, and tooth straighteners, and big ones like belts, sutra cases, saddle fittings, dinner services, and ritual accessories.

Silver mines were scanty in chieftains’ territory, and completely absent on Maichi land, though there was gold in the sand by the river. The chieftain had people pan the gold, some of which we kept for our own use, but most of which was exchanged for cases of silver, which we stored in a cellar near the dungeon. The key to the silver storage was placed in a multileveled chest, whose key in turn hung at Father’s waist. This key, over which a lama had read a sutra, was connected to a part of his body, and when it was missing, it felt to him as if an insect were gnawing at his flesh.

One of the reasons Living Buddha Jeeka had fallen out of favor with the chieftain in recent years was that he’d once said that since we now owned so much silver, we should stopping panning gold by the river in order to preserve our feng shui. He said that having a treasure in the house doesn’t mean anything; our land is the true treasure. With treasure in the land and good feng shui, the chieftain would enjoy a promising and solid future, because only the land can sustain generations to come. But of course, it was not easy for the chieftain to heed his words. As the silver piled up, our estate emitted a sweet, silvery fragrance. But for years we weren’t considered particularly wealthy, especially when compared to other chieftains.

Now all that was changing. As the harvesting of poppies came to an end, our wealth was about to eclipse that of all the other chieftains. The opium processors sent by Special Emissary Huang did a rough calculation; the figure absolutely shocked us. Who’d have thought that such a skinny old Han could bring such incredible wealth to the Maichi family? “How could the god of wealth turn out to be a spindly old man?” the chieftain wondered aloud.

Special Emissary Huang arrived amid our anticipation.

Rain was falling from deep in the sky the day he came. Winter was almost upon us. All that morning a freezing rain poured out of the gray clouds high above; in the afternoon it turned to snow that melted as soon as it hit the ground. The horses carrying Special Emissary Huang and his attendants rode up through the slush; the only snow that hadn’t melted was the little bit piled on top of the special emissary’s felt hat. The steward rushed out to begin the welcoming ceremony, but Special Emissary Huang waved him off. “We’ll skip all that,” he said. “I’m freezing.”

He was escorted to the fireside, where he sneezed twice. He shook his head at the various cold therapies proffered to him, saying, “The mistress is a Han, so she’ll know what I need.”

The chieftain’s wife handed him her opium paraphernalia. “Please try the opium that came from the seeds you gave us and was processed by the men you sent.”

Special Emissary Huang’s eyelids drooped after he sucked in the smoke and swallowed it. When he finally opened his eyes, he said, “Terrific stuff! This is truly terrific stuff.”

The chieftain asked anxiously, “How much silver do you think we can get?”

Mother signaled Father to be patient, but Special Emissary Huang just smiled. “Don’t worry, Mistress. I prefer the chieftain’s straightforward style. He’ll receive an undreamed of quantity of silver.”

The chieftain pressed him to say just how much.

“Tell me how much is in the chieftain’s estate at this moment. Please be precise. Don’t exaggerate and definitely don’t give me too low a figure.”

After sending the servants away, the chieftain divulged how much silver we had.

Stroking his yellow beard, Special Emissary Huang mulled this over for a moment. “That is not a small amount, nor is it too great. I will double the quantity for your opium, provided that you use half of one half of the amount to buy new weapons from me to arm your people.”

The chieftain gladly agreed.

After Special Emissary Huang had enjoyed a meal and a round of musical entertainment, the chieftain’s wife sent a maidservant up to him to share some opium and his bed for the night. Then the family was called together. For what reason? To hold a meeting. Yes, we held meetings too, except that we didn’t say, Well, there’ll be a meeting tonight, or, The agenda for tonight’s meeting will be such and such. In any case, we decided to expand our silver storage. Messengers were sent that night to summon stonemasons and workers from all the headmen’s fortresses. The family servants were also summoned from their quarters, while the chieftain ordered that the prisoners in the dungeon be consolidated to make room for the large quantity of silver that would soon arrive. Squeezing prisoners from three of the cells into others that were already occupied led to considerable grumbling. One fellow, who had been locked up for over two decades, was especially unhappy. He said that the current chieftain must be worse than his predecessor. Otherwise, why would he have to give up the spacious cell he’d occupied for so many years?

His complaint was quickly reported upstairs.

The chieftain took a sip of wine, and said, “Go tell him not to be so insolent just because he’s been there longer than anyone else. One of these days I’ll send him to a place with nothing but space.”

The Maichi family was about to possess more silver than the other chieftains could ever imagine. We would soon be richer than the wealthiest chieftain in history. But of course the prisoner knew none of this. “Don’t tell me what tomorrow will be like,” he said. “It’s not even daybreak, and I’m already doing worse than I was at early nightfall.”

The chieftain smiled at his words. “He can’t see daylight? All right, get the executioner over to send the prisoner to that ultimate spacious place.”

By then my eyelids were getting so heavy that I couldn’t have propped them open with house beams. The night may have been filled with excitement, but I couldn’t stop yawning. Mother looked at me with disappointment in her eyes. I didn’t feel like apologizing. Even Dolma didn’t want to get up and help me to bed, but she had no choice but to walk me back to my room. I told her not to leave me because I knew I’d be frightened when I thought about mice. She pinched me. “Why didn’t you think about mice earlier?”

“I wasn’t alone then. I only think about mice when I’m by myself.”

She laughed despite herself. I really liked Dolma, especially the bovine smell that came from between her legs and from her bosom. Of course, I didn’t tell her that, since that would only have gone to her head. Instead, I pointed out that she needn’t get excited like Father and the others over the silver that would soon be added to our coffers, because not a single piece of it would be hers. That did the trick. She stood in the dark by my bed for a long time before sighing and lying down beside me fully clothed.

When I got up the next morning, the prisoner who had complained about his crowded cell had already been executed.

Every time someone was executed, our household was shrouded in a strange atmosphere, even though everyone looked as normal as any other day. For instance, the chieftain would cough loudly before breakfast, while his wife would place her hand over her chest, as if unable to withstand the beating of her heart, which might fall to the floor if she let her arm drop to her side. My brother always whistled before breakfast, and that morning was no different. But I could tell they were disturbed. Killing people was nothing we shied away from, but afterward, our hearts would still be uneasy. It would be wrong to say that the chieftain enjoyed killing people, but sometimes he simply had to. The commoners lived with things beyond their control, and so did the chieftain. If you don’t believe me, then tell me why we retained an executioner if the chieftain himself enjoyed killing so much. And if you still don’t believe me, then you should share a meal with us after the execution order is given. You’d see that we drank more water than usual and ate less food. The meat was hardly touched, maybe a symbolic bite or two at most.

I was the only one whose appetite was never affected. This morning was no exception.

I was a very noisy eater. Dolma said I sounded like someone sloshing through mud. Mother said I sounded like a squealing pig. That just made me eat more loudly. Seeing a frown on Father’s face, Mother said, “What do you expect from an idiot?” That shut him up. But how could a chieftain simply keep quiet? So after a while he said crossly, “Why isn’t that Han fellow up yet? Do all you Han people laze around in bed in the morning?”

My mother was, as we know, a Han and, on mornings when she didn’t have anything to do, she slept in, skipping breakfast with the family. But she just laughed, and said, “Don’t get so worked up. That silver hasn’t fallen into your hands yet. Instead of getting up early and coughing your heart and lungs out, why not spend some quiet time in bed?”

At moments like that, it would be wrong to assume that the chieftain and his wife were on bad terms. It was when their conversation dripped with politeness that they were unhappy with each other. They carped only when they were getting along.

The chieftain said, “You see, it’s our language that has taught you how to talk.” What he meant was, a good language makes a person articulate, and ours is a good language.

“I’d show you what a sharp tongue can do if you knew Chinese,” Mother said, “and if your language weren’t so simple.”

Dolma whispered to me, “You know, Young Master, the master and the mistress did you-know-what last night.”

After swallowing a big slice of meat, I opened my mouth wide and burst out laughing.

My brother asked what I was laughing at. I said, “Dolma said she wanted to go wee-wee.”

Mother fumed. “What kind of talk is that?”

I said to Dolma, “Go wee-wee. Don’t be afraid.”

My hoodwinked maid, Dolma, left the table blushing. The chieftain laughed. “Well, my idiot son has grown up.” Then he turned to my brother. “Go see if the workers are here. Blood has been shed, and it would be inauspicious if the work didn’t start today.”