and even that time when he watched her curled tightly in sleep. She was a beauty, he realized, and the kind of woman he had searched through all of China to find.
Then he threw the bag of opium overboard. It hit the water and began to sink to the bottom of the Grand Canal. As Zhi-Gang slowly pulled off his glasses, he visualized the fascinating Sister Marie. And he watched her drown beside her illegal bag of opium.
* * *
"You lived here?" Jing-Li sneered. "What a pig's bottom!"
The two servants trailing behind them on this ox-track road nodded in agreement, but Zhi-Gang said nothing. Jing-Li was finally coming out of his post-opium stupor, which meant he would be critical and irritating for at least a day. As they were supposedly on an official government visit to the village of Huai'an in the province of Jiangsu, the man's disdain only backed up their story. It did nothing to alleviate Zhi-Gang's particularly black mood.
Huai'an was a pig's bottom of a village. Even without his glasses, Zhi-Gang could see the truth. It was muddy, shaped like a flea, and smelled of manure. The dirty-faced villagers gaped, expressions showing broken and foul teeth. Their minds were dull and their children naked. That he had been born in such a place revolted him. That he might still be here if his father hadn't committed a heinous sin twisted his thoughts into darker and darker veins.
"So, where did you live?"
He gestured vaguely to the north. There had been wealth in this village once, long ago. In his grandfather's time, or perhaps before. Before the rivers shifted and the favor of Heaven turned from the people here. Now it was nothing more than a pig-bottom village to Jing-Li and a place of nightmares to Zhi-Gang.
"The teahouse is that way." He gestured vaguely around a cluster of huts. In his mind, he remembered a palace of beauty and mystery: two stories tall, built of gleaming wood with painted designs, filled with the scents of fine cooking. It was a palace before he had seen what real majesty looked like. A place of glory before he had seen the Forbidden City.
And it was also where he had imagined his glorious return home. He was now a wealthy mandarin, the Emperor's Enforcer, a man feared and revered throughout China. And he intended to gloat about it in front of all who had ever tormented him as a boy.
"Pig-bottom," Jing-Li muttered as they rounded a corner and saw the inn. Zhi-Gang had to agree. How had he ever imagined this a palace? The wood was cracked, the painted dragon laughably childish. He thought it would look better as they came closer, but he was sorely disappointed. The stench reached him long before he could see clearly. He smelled cheap oil, rancid tea, and piss—animal or human, he couldn't tell. What was that thing on the floor? He squinted as he entered the tiny building. A hen, escaped from its pen and wandering about the main floor. He kicked it aside and forced himself to tromp through, careful of his footing on the slick floor.
"You can't be serious," Jing-Li muttered from beside him.
Zhi-Gang didn't answer. He moved by memory to the stairs, climbing quickly as he headed for the most elegant seat in the house. His childhood mind had magnified the chair on the second story to something that equaled the Dragon Throne. He had now seen the Dragon Throne with his own eyes, even touched it in a moment of true boyish daring. This overly large, badly carved wooden contraption in the exalted eastern corner was a joke.
He curled his lip as he kicked the wormy footstool aside and dropped into the chair. He knew he shouldn't be so disdainful of his surroundings. This was the best these poor people could afford, and they all thought it magnificent. And if a Tao Master were to point out the biggest fraud in this ugly place, it would not be the teahouse owner, but Zhi-Gang himself, who had built his entire life upon a crime. And if someone were to count riches, Zhi-Gang didn't even have an ox or a horse on which
Then he threw the bag of opium overboard. It hit the water and began to sink to the bottom of the Grand Canal. As Zhi-Gang slowly pulled off his glasses, he visualized the fascinating Sister Marie. And he watched her drown beside her illegal bag of opium.
* * *
"You lived here?" Jing-Li sneered. "What a pig's bottom!"
The two servants trailing behind them on this ox-track road nodded in agreement, but Zhi-Gang said nothing. Jing-Li was finally coming out of his post-opium stupor, which meant he would be critical and irritating for at least a day. As they were supposedly on an official government visit to the village of Huai'an in the province of Jiangsu, the man's disdain only backed up their story. It did nothing to alleviate Zhi-Gang's particularly black mood.
Huai'an was a pig's bottom of a village. Even without his glasses, Zhi-Gang could see the truth. It was muddy, shaped like a flea, and smelled of manure. The dirty-faced villagers gaped, expressions showing broken and foul teeth. Their minds were dull and their children naked. That he had been born in such a place revolted him. That he might still be here if his father hadn't committed a heinous sin twisted his thoughts into darker and darker veins.
"So, where did you live?"
He gestured vaguely to the north. There had been wealth in this village once, long ago. In his grandfather's time, or perhaps before. Before the rivers shifted and the favor of Heaven turned from the people here. Now it was nothing more than a pig-bottom village to Jing-Li and a place of nightmares to Zhi-Gang.
"The teahouse is that way." He gestured vaguely around a cluster of huts. In his mind, he remembered a palace of beauty and mystery: two stories tall, built of gleaming wood with painted designs, filled with the scents of fine cooking. It was a palace before he had seen what real majesty looked like. A place of glory before he had seen the Forbidden City.
And it was also where he had imagined his glorious return home. He was now a wealthy mandarin, the Emperor's Enforcer, a man feared and revered throughout China. And he intended to gloat about it in front of all who had ever tormented him as a boy.
"Pig-bottom," Jing-Li muttered as they rounded a corner and saw the inn. Zhi-Gang had to agree. How had he ever imagined this a palace? The wood was cracked, the painted dragon laughably childish. He thought it would look better as they came closer, but he was sorely disappointed. The stench reached him long before he could see clearly. He smelled cheap oil, rancid tea, and piss—animal or human, he couldn't tell. What was that thing on the floor? He squinted as he entered the tiny building. A hen, escaped from its pen and wandering about the main floor. He kicked it aside and forced himself to tromp through, careful of his footing on the slick floor.
"You can't be serious," Jing-Li muttered from beside him.
Zhi-Gang didn't answer. He moved by memory to the stairs, climbing quickly as he headed for the most elegant seat in the house. His childhood mind had magnified the chair on the second story to something that equaled the Dragon Throne. He had now seen the Dragon Throne with his own eyes, even touched it in a moment of true boyish daring. This overly large, badly carved wooden contraption in the exalted eastern corner was a joke.
He curled his lip as he kicked the wormy footstool aside and dropped into the chair. He knew he shouldn't be so disdainful of his surroundings. This was the best these poor people could afford, and they all thought it magnificent. And if a Tao Master were to point out the biggest fraud in this ugly place, it would not be the teahouse owner, but Zhi-Gang himself, who had built his entire life upon a crime. And if someone were to count riches, Zhi-Gang didn't even have an ox or a horse on which
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