That smile was one of the reasons people thought he was simple-minded. It was the same smile he’d worn, week after week, as his parents raged at him about his refusal to take the bride they chose. He’d even smiled when they’d threatened to throw him out of the house.
And that smile had worked. He’d worn them down. Mei-Ling knew it. He’d worn them down because, against all reason, he wanted to marry her.
“You made a good marriage for my older brother. Be content with that.” He said it calmly and quietly.
For a moment his mother was silent. They all knew that her elder son’s marriage to Willow would be perfect—as soon as she produced a male child. But not until then. She turned her attention back to Mei-Ling. “One day this Nio of yours will be executed. The sooner the better. You are not to see him. You understand?”
Everyone looked at Mei-Ling. Nobody spoke.
“Mah-jong,” said Mr. Lung calmly, and scooped up all the money on the table.
—
It was Willow who noticed the figure in the entrance, and she signaled to her mother-in-law, who with both her sons and their wives immediately rose in respect.
Their guest was an old man. His face was thin, his beard long and white as snow. His eyes had narrowed with age and turned down at the corners, as if he were almost asleep. But he was still the elder of the village. Mr. Lung went forward to greet him.
“I am honored that you have come, Elder.”
They served him green tea, and for several minutes they made the customary small talk. Then the old man turned to his host. “You said you had something to show me, Mr. Lung.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Lung rose and disappeared through a doorway.
At the back of the big room was an alcove, occupied by a large divan upon which two people might easily recline. The women now set another low table in front of the divan. By the time this was done, Mr. Lung re-entered, carrying his prizes, which were wrapped in silk. Carefully he unwrapped the first and handed it to the old man for inspection, while the three neighbors gathered around to watch.
“I bought this when I went to Guangzhou last month,” Mr. Lung told the elder. “If you go to an opium parlor, they are made of bamboo. But I bought this from a dealer.”
It was an opium pipe. The long shaft was made of ebony, the bowl of bronze. Around the section below the bowl, known as the saddle, was a band of highly worked silver. The mouthpiece was made of ivory. The dark pipe gleamed softly. There were murmurs of admiration.
“I hope this pipe will suit you, Elder, if we smoke together this evening,” said Mr. Lung. “It is for my most honored guests.”
“Most certainly, most certainly,” said the old man.
Then Mr. Lung unwrapped the second pipe. And everyone gasped.
Its construction was more complex. An inner bamboo pipe was enclosed in a copper tube, and the copper had been coated in Canton enamel painted green and decorated with designs in blue and white and gold. The bowl had been given a red glaze and decorated with little black bats—the Chinese symbol of happiness. The mouthpiece was made of white jade.
“Ah…Very costly.” The old man said what everyone was thinking.
“If you recline on the divan, Elder, I will prepare our pipes,” said Mr. Lung.
It was the signal for the neighbors to retire. This smoking of opium was a private ceremony to which only the elder had been asked.
Mr. Lung brought out a lacquer tray, put it on the low table, and began to set out the accoutrements with the same care a woman would use to prepare a tea ceremony. First there was the small brass oil lamp with a glass funnel on top. Then two needles, a pair of spittoons, a ceramic saucer-sized dish, and a little glass opium jar, beside which lay a tiny bone spoon.
Taking one of the needles, he first poked in the bowl of each pipe to make sure they were completely clean. Next, he lit the little brass oil lamp. Taking the bone spoon between finger and thumb, he extracted a small quantity of opium from the jar and placed it on the ceramic dish, and using the spoon and the needle, he carefully rolled the opium into a pea-shaped ball.
Now it was time to heat the ball of opium. This required care and skill. Picking it up with the point of the needle, he held it gently over the lamp. Slowly, as the old man watched, the little bud of opium began to swell, and its color changed, from dark brown to amber.
Then, as the two men watched, the bud of opium turned to gold, and Mr. Lung placed it in the bowl of the elder’s pipe. The old man adjusted his position so that he was lying on the divan with his head towards the low table and the lamp. Mr. Lung showed him how to hold the bowl of his pipe close to the lamp so that the heat would vaporize the golden opium within—but not too close, or the opium would get burned. And after the old man had done this successfully and drawn on the pipe correctly, Mr. Lung started to prepare his own pipe.
“Did you know, Elder, that the opium increases a man’s sexual staying power?” he asked.
“Ah. That is very interesting,” said the old man, “very interesting.”
“Though your wife died two years ago,” his host remarked.
“All the same, I might find another,” the elder replied. His face was already wearing a seraphic expression.
Out in the courtyard, Mother sat with her family in silence. Whether she approved of the opium, it was impossible to know. But as a display of the family’s wealth that made the other folk in the hamlet more
