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- The Drum Singers
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.