Read Online The Last Mandarin by Stephen Becker - Free Book Online

two days have eaten but one bowl of noodles,” the squatting man said angrily. “I have killed many men and now cannot keep myself alive!”
    â€œWhat is your esteemed name?”
    â€œMy miserable name is Feng. It is not a lucky name.”
    â€œWell then, Feng,” Burnham said, “we will walk to a bicycle shop and buy you a new tire, and have the wheel repaired.”
    Feng stood quickly. His chin rose, his eyes narrowed. “And then what? What does the gentleman want of me?”
    â€œI want to go to the Beggars’ Hospital in Rat’s Alley,” Burnham said reasonably.
    Feng wiped his face with his sleeve. The bones of his face were strong; he reminded Burnham of the hardy Manchurians up by the Russian border. “The gentleman means this,” Feng said.
    â€œI mean it,” Burnham said. “Without the poor, there would be no rich; the rich are therefore indebted.”
    â€œBy the lord of all under heaven! I have lost a sheep and found an ox!” Feng drew himself up even straighter: “Foreign gentleman, I am yours to command.”
    Peking was dotted with bicycle shops; they were like bars in San Francisco. Burnham wondered how many pedicabs the city supported. Many thousands. The two men walked only two blocks. “My ricksha barn is over by the East Station,” Feng said. “Fortunately, that is too far. They would only kick me and tell me not to return.”
    â€œThen the san-luerh is not yours?”
    â€œMine!” Feng went so far as to laugh. “Good sir, if I worked for a year, and did not eat, and went naked, and did without a roof, then perhaps I could buy a san-luerh. But by then,” he added gloomily, “the money would be worthless.”
    â€œWell, you are in luck.”
    â€œâ€˜When bad fortune reaches its natural limit, good fortune must follow,’” Feng said. “Though I do not believe that. It sounds well, but I do not believe it.”
    â€œIt is the remark of an educated man,” Burnham said.
    â€œI learned it from my father,” Feng said. “My father was a tiler.”
    â€œAn artisan.”
    â€œAnd a good one.”
    â€œWhat became of him?”
    â€œThe Japanese,” Feng said. “My father would not lick piles, so they killed him.”
    There were times when Burnham preferred English: “kissing ass” was so much more genteel. “A tragedy,” he said. “And your mother?”
    â€œWe had no money and no food and no nothing,” Feng said sadly. “Shortly she went to the dark dwelling.”
    â€œBad,” Burnham said. “Defile them all, it is bad. Good men and women plant a willow slip and do not live to enjoy the shade of the tree.”
    â€œâ€˜The morning cannot guarantee the evening,’” Feng said. “But here we are. ‘Tun Kuan-kuang, bicycles and repairs.’”
    Together they opened the wooden door and pushed the san-luerh into the shop. “Busy, busy!” cried a voice from the back. “Not today! Too busy.”
    Unabashed, Burnham enjoyed the fruits of imperialism. “Nevertheless,” he said loudly, “you will repair this san-luerh immediately.”
    â€œDogs defile your get!” the voice called. A figure loomed out of the shadows. “Moreover, be off—But sir!” Tun bowed. “If I had known! Please. You do infinite honor to my contemptible shop.”
    â€œI will do even more honor by paying in foreign money,” Burnham said.
    â€œA dazzling notion,” said Tun, and then asked swiftly, “Of what country?”
    â€œAmerica.”
    Tun bowed low. “‘The flowers blush, and the moon hides her face.’”
    â€œYou fool!” Burnham said. “That was said of a beautiful woman, not of a rich man.”
    Tun bowed again. “You are no American, sir, and not even a foreigner. You are of course a scholar.”
    â€œâ€˜He who