“I have some other very fine pieces, very authentic, with some very pretty foxes. But they are pieces of great value, and I don’t keep them in the shop. We could arrange a meeting. ”
Ch’en said nothing.
“. I might even send one of my clerks for them. ”
“I’m not interested in the very valuable pieces. Unfortunately I’m not rich enough.”
Apparently he was not a thief; he did not even ask to see them. The antiquarian went back to the jade belt buckle, displaying it with the delicacy of one who specializes in handling mummies; but in spite of the words which passed one by one between his gelatinous lips, in spite of his concupiscent eyes, his customer remained indifferent, distant. Yet it was he who had picked out this buckle. Bargaining is a collaboration, like love; the dealer was making love to a board. Why in the world did this man buy? Suddenly he guessed: he was one of those poor young men who let themselves become childishly infatuated with the Japanese prostitutes of Chapei. They have a passion for foxes. His customer was buying these for some waitress or cheap geisha; if he was not interested in them it was because he was not buying them for himself. (Ch’en did not cease thinking about the arrival of the car, the speed with which he would have to open his brief-case, pull out the bomb, throw it.) But geishas don’t like objects from excavations. Perhaps they make an exception in the case of little foxes? The young man had also bought a crystal object and one in porcelain.
The tiny boxes, open or closed, were spread out on the counter. The two clerks were looking on, leaning on their elbows. One of them, very young, had put one elbow on Ch’en’s brief-case. Each time he shifted his weight from one leg to the other he pushed it a little closer to the edge of the counter. The bomb was on the right side, three centimeters from the edge.
Ch’en could not move. Finally he put out his arm, puUed the brief-case towards him, without the slightest difculty. None of these men had had the sensation of death, nor of the failure of his plot; nothing-a briefcase which a clerk has pushed towards the edge of the counter and which its owner pulls back. And suddenly everything seemed extraordinarily easy to Ch’en. Things, even actions, did not exist; they were dreams, nothing but dreams which take possession of us because we give them force, but which we can just as easily deny. At this moment he heard the horn of a car: Chiang Kai-shek.
He seized his brief-case like a weapon, paid, threw the two little packages into his pocket, went out.
The dealer was pursuing him, holding in his hand the belt buckle which Ch’en had refused to buy: “These are pieces of jade which the Japanese ladies are particularly fond of!”
Would he ever get rid of this fool?
“I’ll be back.”
What merchant does not know the formula? The car was approaching, much faster than usual, it seemed to Ch’en, preceded by the Ford of the bodyguard.
“Go to hell!”
The car, speeding towards them over the uneven gutter-stones, was violently shaking the two detectives on the running-boards. The Ford passed. Ch’en stopped, opened his brief-case, and took hold of the bomb wrapped in a newspaper. With a smile the dealer slipped the belt buckle into the empty pocket of the brief-case. In doing so he was barring Ch’en’s two hands:
“Pay me what you like.”
“Go to hell!”
Dumbfounded by this outburst, the antiquarian did not budge, merely gaped at Ch’en whose mouth was also open.
“Aren’t you a little ill?” Ch’en could no longer see anything, limp as if he were going to faint: the car was passing.
He had not been able to free himself in time from the antiquarian’s gesture. “This customer is going to be iU,” the latter was thinking. He made a movement to support him. With one blow, Ch’en knocked aside the two arms held up to him and started off. The blow left the dealer stunned for a moment. Ch’en was half run- rung.
“My buckle!” shouted the merchant. “My buckle!”
It was still in the brief-case. Ch’en was at a loss. His every muscle, his every nerve was expecting a detonation which would fill the street. Nothing. The car had
turned, had even passed beyond Suan no doubt. And this fool remained there. There was no danger, since everything had failed. What had the others been doing? Ch’en began to run. “Stop, thief! ” shouted the antiquarian. Other dealers appeared in the doorways. Ch’en understood. In sheer rage he wanted to run away with the accursed buckle, throw it somewhere. But more onlookers were approaching. He threw it in the antiquarian’s face, and only then noticed that he had not shut his brief-case. Since the passing of the car it had stayed open, right before the eyes of that imbecile and of the passers-by, the bomb visible, not even protected by the newspaper which had slipped aside. He finally closed the brief-case with caution (he was on the point of banging the flap down; he was struggling. with all his might against his nerves). The dealer was hurrying back to his shop. Ch’en walked on.
“Well?” he said to Pei as soon as he joined him.
“What about you?”
They looked at each other breathlessly, each wanting the other to speak first. They stood there, outlined in profile against the blurred background of the buildings- hovering on the verge of speech, seeming to be stuck to the pavement, in postures full of hesitations. The light of the early afternoon sun, very strong despite the clouds, set off Ch’en’s hawklike profile and Pei’s roundish head. Among the bustling and anxious passers-by, those two figures with trembling hands, planted on their fore-shortened shadows, seemed completely isolated. All three were still carrying their brief-cases. It would not be wise to remain there too long. The restaurants were not safe. And they had already met and separated too many times in this street. Why? Nothing had hap-
“To Hemmelrich’s,” said Ch’en finally.
They started off, picking their way through backstreets.
“What happened?” asked Suan.
Ch’en explained. As for Pei, he had been uneasy when he saw that Ch’en did not leave the antiquarian’s shop alone. He had betaken himself to the spot where he was to throw his bomb, a few meters from the comer. The cars in Shanghai drive on the left side of the street; ordinarily they make a short turn, and Pei had taken his post on the left sidewalk, in order to throw his bomb at close range. As it happened, the car was going fast; there were no carriages in the Avenue of the Two Republics. The chauffeur had made a wide turn, thus skirting the opposite sidewalk, and Pei had found himself separated from it by a rickshaw.
“So much the worse for the rickshaw,” said Ch’en. “There are thousands of other coolies who can live only by Chiang Kai-shek’s death.”
“I would have missed my aim.”
Suan had not thrown his grenades because neither of the bombs had gone off-he had supposed that something was wrong, that perhaps the general was not in the car.
They were advancing in silence between walls turned to a sickly pale shade by the yellowish sky, in a wretched solitude littered with rubbish and telegraph wires.
“The bombs are intact,” said Ch’en in a muffled voice. “We’ll try again in a little while.”