The boy's eyes stared back at him intently. "Yes, and by our law Fei Yen was never Han Ch'in's wife."
Li Shai Tung laughed, amazed. "How so, when the seals of Yin Tsu and I are on the marriage contract? Have you left your senses, Yuan? Of course she was Han's wife!"
But Li Yuan was insistent. "The documents were nullified with Han's death. Think, Father! What does our law actually say? That a marriage is not a marriage until it has been consummated. Well, Han Ch'in and Fei Yen—"
"Enough!" The T'ang's roar took Li Yuan by surprise. "This is wrong, Li Yuan. Even to talk of it like this . . ."
He shook his head sadly. It was not done. It simply was not done. Not only was she too old for him, she was his brother's bride.
"No, Yuan. She isn't right for you. Not Fei Yen."
"Fei Yen, father. I know who I want."
Again that intensity of tone, that certainty. Such certainty impressed Li Shai Tung, despite himself. He looked down into the pool again.
"You could not marry her for four years at the least, Yuan. You'll change your mind. See if you don't! No, find some other girl to be your bride. Don't rush into this foolishness!"
Li Yuan shook his head. "No, Father, it's her I want. I've known it since Han Ch'in was killed. And she'll take me. I know that too."
Li Shai Tung smiled bitterly. What use was such knowledge? In four years Chung Kuo would have changed. Perhaps beyond recognition. Li Yuan did not know what was to be: what had been decided. Even so, he saw how determined his son was in this matter and relented.
"All right. I will talk to her parents, Yuan. But I promise you no more than that for now."
It seemed enough. Li Yuan smiled broadly and reached out to take and kiss his father's hand. "Thank you, Father. Thank you. I shall make her a good husband."
When Yuan had gone, he stood there, staring down into the darkness of the water, watching the carp move slowly in the depths, like thought itself. Then, when he felt himself at rest again, he went back into his study, relaxed, resigned almost to what was to come.
Let the sky fall, he thought: What can I, a single man, do against fate?
Nothing, came the answer. For the die had been cast. Already it was out of their hands.
BAMBOO. A three-quarter moon. Bright water. The sweet, high notes of an erhu. Chen looked about himself, at ease, enjoying the warmth of the evening. Pavel brought him a beer and he took a sip from it, then looked across at the dancers, seeing how their faces shone, their dark eyes laughed brightly, in the fire's light. At a bench to one side sat the bride and groom, red faced and laughing,-listening to the friendly banter of their fellow peasants.
Two great fires had been built in the grassy square formed by the three long dormitory huts. Benches had been set up on all sides and, at one end, a temporary kitchen. Close by, a four-piece band had set up their instruments on the tailpiece of an electric hay wagon: yueh ch'in, ti tsu, erhu and p'i p'a—the ancient mix of strings and flutes enchanting on the warm night air.
There were people everywhere1, young and old, packing the benches, crowded about the kitchen, dancing or simply standing about in groups, smoking clay pipes and talking. Hundreds of people, maybe a thousand or more in all.
He turned, looking at Pavel. "Is it true, Pavel? Have you no girl?"
Pavel looked down, then drained his jug. "No one here, Kao Chen," he answered softly, leaning toward him as he spoke.
"Then why not come back with me? There are girls in the levels would jump at you."
Pavel shivered, then shook his head. "You are kind, my friend. But. . ." He tilted his shoulder slightly, indicating his bent back. "To they call me here. What girl would want such a man?"
"T'o?"
Pavel laughed, for a moment his twisted face attractive. "Camel backed."
Chen frowned, not understanding.
"It was an animal, so I'm told. Before the City."
"Ah. . . ." Chen looked past the young man, watching the dancers a moment. Then he looked back. "You could buy a bride. I would give you the means—"
Pavel's voice cut into his words. "I thank you, Kao Chen, but. . ." He looked up, his dark eyes strangely pained. "It's not that, you see. Not only that. It's . . . well, I think I would die in there. No fields. No open air. No wind. No running water. No sun. No moon. No changing seasons. Nothing. Nothing but walls."
The young man's unconscious echo of DeVore's words made Chen shiver and look away. Yet perhaps the boy was right. He looked back at the dancers circling the fires and nodded to himself. For the first time since he had been among them, Chen had seen the shadow lift from them and knew how different they were from his first conception of them. He saw how happy they could be. So simple it was. It took so little to achieve their happiness.
He stared about him, fascinated. When they danced, they danced with such fiery abandon, as if released from themselves—no longer drab and brown and faceless, but huge and colorful, overbrimming with their own vitality, their coal-dark eyes burning in their round peasant faces, their feet pounding the bare earth carelessly, their arms waving wildly, their bodies twirling lightly through the air as they made their way about the fire.
As if they were enchanted.
He shivered, wishing that Wang Ti were there with him, partnering him in the dance; then with him in the darkness afterward, her breath sweet with wine, her body opening to him.
He sighed and looked down into his jug, seeing the moon reflected there in the dark, sour liquid. In an hour it would begin. And afterward he would be gone from here. Maybe forever.
The thought sobered him. He took a large swallow of the beer, then wiped his mouth and turned to face Pavel again. "You're right. Stay here, Pavel. Find yourself a girl. Work hard and get on." He smiled, liking the young man. "Things will be much better here when Bergson is gone."
Yes, he thought; and maybe one day I'll come back, and bring Wang Ti with me, and Jyan and the new child. They'd like it here. I know they would.
He saw Pavel was watching him and laughed. "What is it, boy?"
Pavel looked down. "You think life's simple here, don't you? But let me tell you about my birth."
"Go on," said Chen softly, noting the sudden change in him. It was as if Pavel had shed a mask. As if the experience they had shared, beneath the fourth west bridge, had pared a skin from the young man, making him suddenly more vulnerable, more open.
"I had a hard childhood," he began. "I was born the fifth child of two casual workers. Hirelings—like yourself—who come on the land only at harvesttime. During the harvest things were fine. They could feed me. But when it was time to go back to the City, they left me here in the fields to die. Back in the levels they could not afford me, you understand. It is often so, even today. People here accept it as the way. Some say the new seed must be fertilized with the bones of young children. I, however, did not die."
Pavel licked at his lips, then carried on, his downcast eyes staring back into the past.
"Oh, I had nothing to do with it. Meifa tsu, they say. It is fate. And my fate was to be found by a childless woman and taken in. I was lucky. She was a good woman. A Han. Chang Lu was her name. For a time things were good. Her man, Wen, never took to me, but at least he didn't beat me or mistreat me, and she loved me as her own. But when I was seven they died. A dike collapsed on top of them while they were repairing it. And I was left alone."
Pavel was silent a moment, then he looked up, a sad smile lighting his face briefly.
"I missed her bitterly. But bitterness does not fill the belly. I had to work, and work hard. There is never quite enough, you see. Each family takes care of its own. But I had no family. And so I strove from dawn until dusk each day, carrying heavy loads out into the fields, the long, thick carrying pole pressing down on my shoulders, bending my back until I became as you see me now." He gave a short laugh. "It was necessity that shaped me thus, you might say, Kao Chen. Necessity and the dark earth of Chung Kuo."