10

The　second　night　they　were　at　South　Warm　Springs　the　Jap　planes　bombed　Chungking　again.　The　Fangs　joined　the　villagers　listening　in　the　streets.

Pao　Ching　could　not　sleep　that　night.　What　had　happened　to　his　theater？Had　it　been　hit？Was　everything　he　had,　lost　forever？

He　was　out　early　before　the　family　were　up,　on　his　way　back　to　Chungking　by　bus.　He　had　to　see　what　had　happened　to　the　theater.　He　also　wanted　to　know　the　fate　of　the　Tangs.　If　he　started　a　show　in　South　Warm　Springs　he　could　use　Jeweled　Lute　and　Little　Liu.

The　bus　was　almost　empty.　Everyone　was　going　the　other　way,　quitting　the　city.　The　people　hurrying　away　from　Chung_king　looked　at　him　as　if　he　were　crazy.　He　held　his　head　high　and　smiled,　and　saw　himself　a　hero.

It　was　midday　when　he　arrived.　Overhead　the　sun　hung　in　the　sky　like　a　burning　brazier.　New　rows　of　buildings　had　been　destroyed,　and　there　were　fresh　piles　of　unburied　bodies.　The　streets　were　empty,　the　pavements　blacked,　waterlogged　and　bloodstained.　And　overhead　the　sun　roasted　everything.　He　felt　as　if　he　were　walking　in　hell.　He　had　never　been　so　hot　in　the　city,　and　he　had　never　smelled　such　odors.　He　wanted　to　go　back.　How　foolish　to　leave　South　Warm　Springs.　And　what　was　he　here　for？

I'm　the　only　one　alive　in　this　hell,　he　thought　as　he　walked.　From　the　blackened　frame　of　a　house　a　small　cat　mewed.　Pao　Ching　went　over　and　stroked　the　furry　little　thing.　The　animal　responded　gratefully.　He　would　have　liked　to　take　it　with　him,　but　what　could　he　do　with　it　？Poor　little　creature.　What　sights　had　it　seen,　and　what　was　its　future？A　cookpot,　perhaps,　for　when　people　were　hungry　—　Pao　Ching　shuddered　and　walked　on.

In　a　back　street　he　saw　three　dogs　gnawing　at　what　he　thought　was　food.　Perhaps　he　could　take　some　back　to　the　little　cat.　But　he　stopped　short　as　he　realized　what　the　dogs　were　chewing.　They　were　growling　ferociously,　their　jaws　tearing　at　a　corpse.　Sick　at　heart　he　turned　and　ran.

Again　there　was　that　awful　stench　of　burning　flesh.　He　wanted　to　vomit,　but　his　stomach　merely　quivered.　He　turned　around,　away　from　the　smell,　only　to　have　a　worse　smell　assail　him.　He　looked　at　the　houses,　as　if　wanting　to　go　in　one　to　take　shelter.　They　were　mere　shells　—　the　walls　standing,　with　hollow　windows　—　and　behind　them　fires　still　burning.　And　he　could　not　tell　where　he　was.　A　sudden　panic　struck　him.　He　was　lost　in　a　desolate　smoking　hell.

Finally　he　reached　the　main　street.　The　crossroad　there　was　bare　and　flat.　And　in　the　middle　stood　a　traffic　policeman　with　no　traffic　to　direct.　When　he　saw　Pao　Ching　he　saluted　him,　obviously　thinking　him　an　important　person.　Pao　Ching　smiled　and　nodded,　and　went　on　his　way.　The　policeman　had　been　as　pleased　to　see　him　as　he　was　to　see　the　policeman.　A　live　man　in　this　world　of　the　dead　was　indeed　a　welcome　sight.

Pao　Ching　walked　faster.　He　dared　not　stop　to　look　for　fear　of　what　he　might　see.　A　corpse　was　a　corpse,　but　a　burnt　corpse　was　worse,　and　hundreds　of　them　were　too　much.　Even　to　look　at　the　shattered　buildings　made　him　shudder.　And　he　had　the　illusion　that　it　was　not　right　to　be　whole,　alive　amid　all　this　destruction.　His　guilt　oppressed　him　suddenly.　He　had　come　to　this　city　of　the　dead　to　look　after　his　property　and　think　of　his　career.　And　all　these　people　were　slaughtered.

But　he　consoled　himself.　I　work　hard　to　support　my　family.　I　created　this　theater　—　it's　quite　natural　that　I　should　want　to　see　what　has　happened　to　it.　And　the　hope　that　the　theater　had　been　spared　was　high　in　his　heart　like　a　bright　banner.　I　made　it　with　blood　and　sweat,　he　kept　telling　himself　as　he　hurried.　Perhaps　it　hadn't　been　hit　after　all.

At　the　corner　of　the　street　leading　to　the　theater　he　came　to　an　involuntary　halt.　Strength　drained　from　him.　The　familiar　stores　were　all　burned　down.　There　was　a　pile　of　smoking　lumber　in　the　middle　of　the　street.　Of　one　store　all　that　remained　was　a　door　post.　And　hanging　from　the　post　was　the　brass　sign,　still　bright,　still　golden,　reflecting　the　sunshine.　Was　it　a　good　omen？He　dared　not　look　at　his　theater.　He　stood　like　a　man　bewitched.　The　theater　was　somewhere　behind　him.　He　had　only　to　turn　his　head　to　look,　but　he　had　no　strength.　His　brow　was　deeply　furrowed.　Rivulets　of　perspiration　ran　down　his　nose.　How　foolish　to　come　all　this　way,　and　turn　back　without　seeing　what　he　had　come　to　see.

With　a　great　effort　he　turned　around.　The　theater　was　still　standing.　His　heart　leaped　to　his　throat.　He　wanted　to　cry　out,　but　he　had　lost　his　voice.　He　started　to　walk,　then　burst　into　a　run,　and　soon　he　was　standing　at　the　gate　he　had　locked.　The　walls　were　standing,　but　there　was　an　air　of　desolation　about　the　place.　The　playbills　with　their　gold　letters　on　red　paper　had　fallen　down.　The　one　nearest　read:FANG　LOTUS　CHARM.　Tenderly　he　picked　up　the　playbill　and　rolled　it　under　his　arm.

The　lock　on　the　gate　was　still　intact,　but　the　hasp　itself　was　shattered.　He　walked　through　and　opened　the　door.　From　inside,　a　wave　of　damp　air　came　out　to　meet　him.　Although　he　had　turned　off　the　lights　the　theater　seemed　to　be　brightly　lit.　And　then　he　saw　why.　The　roof　had　been　blown　off.　Broken　tiles　and　rafters　lay　all　over　the　floor.　His　precious　tea　sets　were　in　a　thousand　pieces.　The　few　banners　and　scrolls　he　had　left　on　the　wall　looked　like　torn　pieces　of　faded　wallpaper.

Slowly　he　walked　through　the　sorry　debris.　He　wanted　to　get　down　on　his　knees　and　piece　together　the　broken　china.　But　what　was　the　use？He　sat　down　on　a　small　chair　mournfully.　After　a　while　he　raised　his　face　and　whispered　to　himself,　“All　right,　all　right."　His　theater　might　be　damaged,　but　he　was　still　alive.

He　went　outside　and　nailed　shut　the　door,　using　a　broken　tile　as　a　hammer.　The　sound　of　the　hammering　was　a　tonic.　He　was　doing　something　again.　Work　was　good　medicine.　His　mind　was　saying:“With　a　new　roof,　some　new　tea　sets,　the　best　that　money　can　buy,　we　can　start　again.　The　chairs　and　tables　are　not　broken."　He　looked　at　the　sorry　ruins　across　the　street.　He　had　been　lucky.　But　even　those　shops　could　be　rebuilt.　When　the　foggy　season　returned,　they　would　be　open　again　and　business　would　be　good.

He　had　gone　a　little　way　toward　the　bus　station　when　he　remembered　that　he　still　had　some　things　of　value　in　the　theater.　He　ought　to　go　back　and　look　them　over.　Some　he　might　take　with　him　to　South　Warm　Springs.　But　he　laughed　at　himself.　Doing　that　would　be　like　putting　tiny　seeds　through　a　sieve.　The　more　you　put　in,　the　more　you　had　to　pick　up.　He　walked　on.

He　was　feeling　better.　He　knew　what　he　had　lost.　Now　he　could　take　an　objective　view　of　the　bombed　city.　Perhaps　he　could　write　a　ballad　entitled　“Chungking,　the　city　that　could　not　be　killed."　That　would　be　topical　and　should　be　a　great　success.

He　walked　to　the　area　where　the　Tangs　lived,　hardly　aware　he　was　going　that　way.　Their　hotel　was　still　standing　because　it　was　built　behind　a　huge　wall　that　had　stopped　the　fire.　The　wall　kept　light　out　of　the　rooms,　but　it　had　saved　the　hotel.　All　the　other　buildings　were　burned.　The　hotel　looked　like　the　only　intact　button　on　a　ruined　dress.

And　the　Tangs　were　safe.　Fourth　Master　Tang　greeted　him　with　tears　in　his　eyes.　“My　old　friend,　we　thought　you　were　dead,"　he　whimpered.

Mrs.　Tang　had　lost　weight.　The　flesh　hung　in　gray　wattles　on　her　pale　face.　But　she　had　not　changed　her　temperament.　“Why　didn't　you　come　to　see　us？"　she　grumbled.　“We　were　here　all　alone.　We　might　have　been　dead."

“But　I'm　here　now,"　said　Pao　Ching.　“I　couldn't　come　any　sooner.　I　couldn't　walk　through　fire."

Jeweled　Lute　came　out　of　the　bedroom.　She　looked　pale　and　ill,　her　hair　falling　over　her　face,　purple　rings　under　her　eyes.　“Don't　take　any　notice　of　mother's　nonsense,"　she　said　to　Pao　Ching.　“Get　us　out　of　here."

“My　nonsense,　indeed,"　snapped　Mrs.　Tang,　and　she　kept　on　repeating　her　first　question　—　why　hadn't　Pao　Ching　come　to　see　them？

Pao　Ching　asked　for　Little　Liu.　When　no　one　answered,　he　wondered　if　the　accompanist　had　been　killed.　He　looked　from　one　to　the　other,　the　unspoken　question　in　his　eyes.

Finally　Fourth　Master　Tang　said,　“That　lazy　fool.　He　wouldn't　go　to　the　air_raid　shelter.　He　stayed　in　bed　till　the　bombs　started　to　fall　.　.　."　then　he　ran."

“Such　a　noise　they　made,"　interrupted　Mrs.　Tang.　“Bombs　scream　like　devils　as　they　fall."

Pao　Ching's　eyes　were　wide　with　horror.　Poor　Little　Liu,　his　brother　before　Heaven,　his　precious　accompanist.

“Yes,　he　ran　with　the　bombs　falling,"　continued　Fourth　Master　Tang,　“and　fell　downstairs.　He　missed　a　step,　and　hit　his　head.　Now　he's　got　a　bruise　like　an　apple　on　his　forehead,　the　stupid　loafer."

“Where　is　he？"　asked　Pao　Ching,　relieved.

“In　bed　as　usual,"　squeaked　Mrs.　Tang,　“He's　always　in　bed."

Then　Pao　Ching　told　them　that　he　might　set　up　a　new　troupe　in　South　Warm　Springs.　H　explained　the　town　was　small,　that　it　would　only　be　a　bare　living,　and　that　the　local　people　thought　themselves　dignitaries　and　would　want　free　tickets,　but　that　could　be　got　round　somehow.　He　was　sure　the　two　families　could　make　enough　to　eat.　In　the　foggy　season　they　could　come　back　to　Chungking.　He　had　already　planned　the　program.　Just　three　numbers:　Jeweled　Lute,　Lotus　Charm,　and　himself.

Mrs.　Tang　was　about　to　make　a　complaint.　So　Pao　Ching　said　quickly,　“Let　me　tell　you　the　worst.　It's　all　a　gamble.　We　may　not　be　able　to　earn　three　meals　a　day.　Don't　blame　me　if　it　doesn't　work　out.　Perhaps　I　shouldn't　ask　you　to　come　under　such　circumstances."

Fourth　Master　Tang　spoke　up　before　his　wife　could　catch　her　breath.　“You　are　our　lucky　star,　dear　brother.　Whatever　you　say,　goes."

Mrs.　Tang　said,　“I　don't　mind　where　I　sleep.　I'd　rather　lie　in　a　pig　pen　than　stay　here."

As　it　turned　out,　South　Warm　Springs　was　too　small　to　support　a　full_fledged　theatrical　group.　But　Pao　Ching　made　up　his　mind　that　while　the　war　continued　they　would　spend　the　summer　in　this　little　town,　and　go　back　to　Chungking　in　the　winter　to　make　money.　He　already　had　plans　for　rebuilding　and　improving　his　theater.

The　Tangs　were　grateful　to　him　for　bringing　them　to　the　village　—　but　only　for　a　short　time.　Then　they　all　began　to　grumble:　the　town　was　too　small　for　them;　they　did　not　like　the　tea　house　where　Jeweled　Lute　sang;　the　money　she　earned　was　too　little;　their　room　was　a　pig　pen.　And　it　was　all　Pao　Ching's　fault,　they　were　never　tired　of　reminding　him.

Finally　Pao　Ching　concluded　he　had　seen　enough　of　the　Tang　family.　His　tolerance　and　good　nature　were　exhausted.

His　main　worry　concerned　Lotus　Charm.　Often　he　asked　her　if　she　wanted　to　move,　if　she　was　happy.　He　asked　her　so　many　times　that　she　became　anxious.　One　day　when　he　put　the　same　question　to　her,　she　turned　on　him　and　asked,　“Why　do　you　keep　asking　me　this？What　is　wrong？"

“Well,　it's　like　this,"　he　ventured.　“You　and　I　don't　come　from　theatrical　families.　Sometimes　I　wonder　if　we　should　get　out　of　show　business.　Perhaps　we　are　not　suited　to　it,　after　all."

Lotus　Charm　regarded　him　round_eyed.　“Don't　you　want　to　be　a　singer　any　more？"

“Oh　yes,　I　like　to　sing　myself.　I　mean　.　.　."　He　paused　in　confusion.　“Well,　since　we　are　singers,　perhaps　we　can't　help　acting　like　other　singers.　Taking　on　their　bad　habits,　I　mean."

Lotus　Charm　ignored　his　confusion.　“I　like　this　place　and　I'd　like　to　stay　here　always,"　she　said.　“I　like　staying　in　beautiful　places.　It's　much　better　than　always　moving　about."　She　extended　her　slim　rounded　arm.　“Look　at　that　lovely　hill.　So　permanent　it　is,　so　green,　and　so　beautiful.　If　we　could　only　be　like　that."

Pao　Ching　smiled.　He　liked　to　hear　Lotus　Charm　talk.　When　she　said　things　such　as　this,　it　was　as　if　she　had　opened　a　window　on　her　mind.　Now　he　knew　she　was　not　the　sort　that　liked　to　drift　round　the　country.　She　had　no　showpeople's　blood　in　her.

“Sweet　thing,"　he　whispered　to　himself.　And　his　mind　went　on　to　the　future:he　would　save　for　her;　he　would　open　a　theatrical　school　to　perpetuate　his　name;　he　would　train　a　generation　of　show　people.　Never　would　he　or　Lotus　Charm　slip　into　the　bad　habits　of　the　profession.