China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

interposed, “Yu the Great was not too proud to work with his hands alongside his laborers when they were building and dredging. So they say.”

“That was a long time ago,” his father muttered. He turned to the boy. “I’ll show you an even better view,” he said, and led them up the path towards the little Buddhist temple.

There was nobody there. But the view of the valley was breathtaking.

“It’s beautiful,” said the boy. “Has the temple been here long?”

“About three hundred years. We gave the money to build it, on our land.”

“Where are the monks?”

“They come from a big monastery about three miles away. Every few days one of them comes.”

“Are they Zen monks?”

“No.”

“Father’s taking me to a big Zen monastery where they practice martial arts,” said Bao-Yu. He punched his arms in the air. “Bam, bam…Hai…Za-bam.”

“I know,” said Shi-Rong. “It was my idea.”

“Really?” The boy looked at his grandfather in surprise. “That was a really good idea,” he said artlessly.

After a while, they returned to the house, where Shi-Rong showed them around, talking about his scholarly father and his old aunt. “She could have been a scholar or a musician herself,” he told them. “Here”—he showed them—“are the I Ching sticks she used.”

His grandson listened attentively to everything, though whether he was really interested, Shi-Rong couldn’t tell. It was Ru-Hai who finally suggested that, as they were both tired from the journey, they might like to rest a little.

—

About an hour had passed before, sitting in the room he used as a library and office, Shi-Rong suddenly became aware of his grandson standing in the doorway. He looked a bit sleepy, uncertain whether to disturb his grandfather.

“Come in,” said Shi-Rong. “They just brought me some tea. Would you like some?” The boy nodded, and Shi-Rong poured him a cup.

“It’s nice and quiet here,” the boy said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” I’ve lectured him enough for today, he thought. So he said nothing as the boy started to wander about the room, looking at things.

“What are these?” Bao-Yu asked, taking a bowl off a shelf. The bowl was full of little bones and broken shells.

“My father bought them in an apothecary’s. A farmer had found them on his land, thought they might be magical, and wanted the apothecary to grind them up to make a magic potion.”

“Oh.” His grandson sat down with the bowl in his lap and started turning the bones over. “Man,” he said suddenly.

“Man?”

“The writing on the bones. Man. House.” He turned a bone over, then inspected another. “Sun. River. Horse. It’s writing, isn’t it—on the bones?”

“That’s what my father thought. Very old writing. Thousands of years. The characters aren’t like ours today. They look primitive, you might say.” Shi-Rong paused. “Where did you find the character for horse?”

Bao-Yu showed him a splintered bone and pointed to a tiny scratching. “It looks sort of skinny and incomplete,” he said, “but the idea’s the same.”

“So it is,” said Shi-Rong. “I never noticed that before.”

—

They ate early that evening. Bao-Yu was getting tired and Ru-Hai told him to go to his room and sleep. Only when the two men were alone did Ru-Hai turn to his father to address the issue that was really on his mind. “I came at once when I got your letter.”

“You are a good son.”

“Are you unwell, Father?”

“I am getting old.”

“Not so old. You do not look ill.”

“Perhaps. But I believe the end is near. I feel a strange weakness. Other things also. Something similar happened to my father. I am certain this winter will be my last.”

“I hope you may be wrong.”

“I would not have sent for you otherwise,” Shi-Rong went on calmly. He gave a wry smile. “I want my grandson to remember me as I am now.”

Shi-Rong gazed at him. They hadn’t seen much of each other over the last ten years. It was nobody’s fault. Ru-Hai had been busy in Beijing. On the one occasion since Ru-Hai’s marriage when Shi-Rong had gone to the capital, his son’s wife and little children had received him respectfully and kindly, exactly as they should treat an honored grandfather. His daughter-in-law had several times said how much she wished they could spend more time at the family estate so that his grandchildren should know him better.

“The house awaits. I’m keeping it warm until you come,” he had told her with a smile.

Did his son respect him? He hoped so, but he wasn’t sure. That accusation, about the bribes he took, had been made a dozen years ago. But it still hung, silently between them, like a swinging pendulum in a clock.

He led the way into his small library, went to a cabinet, took out a big book of flat sheets bound together with silk, and put it on the table.

“You need not fear,” he said, “if that is still in your mind, that there are boxes of illicit silver, bags of bribes. If there had been, I might be a rich man. But these are the estate accounts. Everything is recorded, as it should be. You should really thank your grandfather, though I have continued his work. Two generations of good management and frugality have brought this estate into an excellent condition. I told you this a dozen years ago. Follow through the accounts and you will see exactly how, since then, I have through wise and honest work increased the size and value of our holdings much further.” He paused. “Here is a spare key to this cabinet. Please keep it and do not lose it.”

Was his little speech true? Judging by the accounts, it certainly was. Nor was there anything, anywhere, that would ever give the lie to what he said.

If there had been cash that could not be explained, it had been spent long ago in places that had absorbed it without trace: Bright Moon’s wedding, for instance; or the refurbishment of the little Buddhist temple on the hill. True, there were valuable objects in the house that he had bought.