Storm in a Teacup

As the sun dipped below the horizon, its golden hues began to wane over the riverbank. The leaves of the Chinese tallow trees, just released from their parched state, were abuzz with a few mosquitoes dancing beneath them. The smoke from the farmhouse chimneys started to thin, signaling the end of the day’s cooking. Women and children sprinkled water on the earthen courtyards outside their homes and arranged small tables and low stools, a clear indication that dinnertime had arrived.

Elders and men seated themselves on the low stools, fanning away with large banana leaf fans, engaging in idle chatter. Children darted about with swift energy or squatted beneath the tallow trees, engrossed in games of pebbles. Women brought forth dishes of steamed, dark vegetables and mounds of fluffy, yellow rice, the food hot and billowy with steam. A boat carrying scholars glided by on the river, and the scholars, moved by the pastoral scene, were inspired to poetic musings, “No worries, no concerns, this is truly the joy of the rural folk!”

However, the scholars’ poetic observations missed the mark, for they had not yet heard the lamentations of Old Lady Jiu Jin. At that moment, she was seething with anger, tapping the leg of her stool with a tattered banana leaf fan, and grumbled:

“I’ve lived seventy-nine years, a life full enough, and I’ve no desire to witness the decline of our household—death would be a kinder fate. It’s nearly mealtime, and they’re still snacking on fried beans, driving us towards destitution!”

Her great-granddaughter, Liu Jin, clutching a handful of beans, was running over from the opposite side. Upon witnessing the old woman’s fury, she made a beeline for the river and hid behind a tallow tree, poking out her small head adorned with twin braids, and shouted, “This old woman who refuses to pass on!”

Despite her advanced age, Old Lady Jiu Jin’s hearing was still keen, yet the child’s words eluded her, and she continued to mutter to herself, “Truly, each generation is worse than the last.”

The village had a peculiar custom where newborns were weighed, and their weight in jin was used as their nickname. Since Old Lady Jiu Jin’s fiftieth birthday celebration, she had grown increasingly discontent with the world, often reminiscing about how the weather was not as scorching in her youth, nor were the beans as hard. In essence, she believed the times had changed for the worse. Moreover, Liu Jin, weighing three jin less than her great-grandfather and one jin less than her father, Qi Jin, was a testament to the old woman’s belief that “each generation is worse than the last.”

Qi Jin’s wife, known as Qi Jin’s sister-in-law, was approaching the table with a basket of rice when she slammed it down in frustration and retorted, “You’re repeating that again, old lady. When Liu Jin was born, wasn’t she five liang six qian? Your family’s scale is biased, heavier at eighteen liang; with an actual weight of sixteen, our Liu Jin should weigh over seven jin. I suspect even the ancestors and the father-in-law were not exactly nine jin or eight jin, and perhaps the scale they used was fourteen liang…”

“Each generation is worse than the last!”

Before Qi Jin’s sister-in-law could respond, she spotted Qi Jin emerging from a small alley and redirected her frustration towards him, berating him for his tardiness and questioning his whereabouts.

Although Qi Jin resided in the countryside, he harbored ambitions of rising to prominence. His family had not wielded a hoe for three generations, and he, too, had followed a different path, steering boats for others. He made a daily trip from Lutown to the city and back, keeping himself informed about current events. Among the villagers, he was a person of some repute. However, he still adhered to the rural custom of dining without lighting a lamp during the summer evenings, which made his late arrival home a justifiable cause for his wife’s scolding.

Qi Jin, clutching a six-foot-long Xiangfei bamboo pipe with an ivory mouthpiece and a white copper bowl, walked slowly with his head down and sat on a low stool. Liu Jin, seizing the moment, slipped out and sat beside him, addressing him as “Father.” Qi Jin remained silent.

“Each generation is worse than the last!” Old Lady Jiu Jin lamented.

Qi Jin slowly lifted his head, let out a sigh, and revealed, “The emperor has ascended to the throne.”

His sister-in-law, taken aback for a moment, then seemed to grasp the implications, “This is good news, isn’t it? Isn’t there to be a great amnesty from the emperor?”

Qi Jin sighed again and replied, “I don’t have a queue.”

“Does the emperor require a queue?”

“Yes, the emperor requires a queue.”

“How do you know this?”

“The people at Xianheng Hotel all say so.”

At this point, Qi Jin’s sister-in-law, feeling a sense of impending doom, questioned him urgently. The Xianheng Hotel was known to be a hub of information, and she could not shake off the feeling that something was amiss. Glancing at Qi Jin’s shaven head, she felt a surge of anger and despair, pushing a bowl of rice towards him with a sense of urgency, “Eat your rice quickly! Will moping grow your queue back?”

As the sun’s final rays disappeared, the river’s surface darkened, and a coolness returned to the air. The earthen courtyard filled with the clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversation. After finishing three bowls of rice, Qi Jin’s sister-in-law, upon looking up, felt her heart race. Through the leaves of the tallow tree, she spotted Master Zhao Qi, the distinguished and scholarly figure of the neighboring village, approaching from the wooden bridge, dressed in a long, blue bamboo cloth shirt.

Master Zhao Qi, the owner of the Maoyuan Hotel and a man of letters, was known for his vast knowledge, which included a collection of over ten volumes of Jin Shengtan’s commentary on “Romance of the Three Kingdoms.” He was adept at reciting the names of the Five Tiger Generals and even knew the courtesy names of Huang Zhong and Ma Chao. After the revolution, he had taken to wearing his hair in a topknot, resembling a Taoist priest, and often lamented the state of the world, wishing for the days of Zhao Zilong. However, Qi Jin’s sister-in-law noticed that Master Zhao Qi’s appearance had changed; his topknot was gone, replaced by a smooth scalp and dark hair, signaling a shift in the political winds. The sight of his rarely worn blue bamboo cloth shirt sent a chill down her spine, as it had only been worn on significant occasions of joy or sorrow.

Recalling an incident two years prior when Qi Jin, in his cups, had insulted Master Zhao Qi, she felt a pang of fear for her husband’s safety. As Master Zhao Qi made his way through the villagers, who stood to offer him their hospitality, he made a beeline for Qi Jin’s table, where he was greeted with a forced smile from Qi Jin’s sister-in-law.

“Such fragrant dried vegetables,” Master Zhao Qi remarked, standing behind Qi Jin and facing his sister-in-law. “Have you heard the news?”

“The emperor has ascended to the throne,” Qi Jin confirmed.

Looking at Master Zhao Qi, she forced a smile and inquired, “The emperor has ascended to the throne, but when will there be a great amnesty?”

“A great amnesty? It will come in due time,” Master Zhao Qi replied, his tone suddenly stern. “But where is Qi Jin’s queue? That is a pressing matter. You are aware: during the Longhaired Rebellion, it was a choice between hair and head…”

Qi Jin and his wife, unschooled in the classics, did not fully comprehend the gravity of the situation as described by the learned Master Zhao Qi. However, they understood that if such a man spoke with such certainty, the matter was dire and irreversible, akin to a death sentence. A buzzing filled their ears, and they found themselves speechless.

“Each generation is worse than the last,” Old Lady Jiu Jin grumbled, seizing the moment to voice her discontent to Master Zhao Qi. “The Longhairs of today merely cut queues, a far cry from the past. In my seventy-nine years, I’ve seen true Longhairs, their heads wrapped in bolts of red satin, trailing down to their heels; princes in yellow satin, the same. Red satin, yellow satin—I’ve lived enough.”

Qi Jin’s sister-in-law, rising to her feet, lamented the predicament they faced, “What are we to do? This family relies on him for survival…”

Master Zhao Qi shook his head, “There’s nothing to be done. The absence of a queue is a grave offense, clearly stated in the books. It matters not who resides in his household.”

The mention of the written laws sent Qi Jin’s sister-in-law into a spiral of despair. In her frustration, she turned on Qi Jin, accusing him of bringing disaster upon them. She berated him for his past decisions, now resulting in his queueless state, which left them in a precarious situation.

The villagers, having finished their meals, gathered around Qi Jin’s table, drawn by the unfolding drama. Qi Jin, conscious of his status, felt the sting of his wife’s public chastisement and attempted to defend himself, only to be cut short by her continued tirades.

Among the spectators, the kind-hearted Bai Yi’s wife, cradling her two-year-old posthumous child, tried to intervene, urging Qi Jin’s sister-in-law to let bygones be bygones. However, her words only served to fuel the fire, leading to a heated exchange that ended with Qi Jin’s sister-in-law lashing out at both her husband and the well-meaning Bai Yi’s wife.

The commotion drew the attention of Master Zhao Qi, who had been observing with a smile. However, upon hearing the mention of the lack of official notices from the yamen, he grew indignant and launched into a dramatic portrayal of the impending arrival of Zhang Dashuai, a valorous figure said to be a descendant of Zhang Yide. His performance sent Bai Yi’s wife fleeing in fear, and he followed, leaving the villagers to their thoughts.

The villagers, left in a state of unease, could not help but agree that they were no match for the legendary Zhang Yide. They felt a sense of relief, even satisfaction, that Qi Jin, who had once boasted so proudly of his city tales, was now facing the consequences of his actions. With nothing more to say, they dispersed, returning to their homes and closing their doors behind them.

Qi Jin’s sister-in-law, grumbling, cleared away the dishes and furniture, while Qi Jin himself, lost in worry, sat on the threshold, his pipe forgotten in his hand. The fire in his pipe’s bowl faded as his thoughts raced, grappling with the crisis at hand.

The following morning, Qi Jin continued his routine, steering his boat to the city and returning in the evening with his bamboo pipe and a mended rice bowl. Over dinner, he informed Old Lady Jiu Jin that the bowl had been repaired in the city, the large crack requiring sixteen copper nails, costing three wen each, totaling forty-eight wen.

Old Lady Jiu Jin expressed her displeasure, “Each generation is worse than the last. I’ve lived enough to see the changes. Three wen for a nail? Nails weren’t so expensive in my youth. I’ve lived seventy-nine years, and I’ve seen enough.”

In the days that followed, Qi Jin’s visits to the city became a somber affair, as the villagers steered clear of him, no longer interested in the news he brought back. His sister-in-law’s attitude soured, often referring to him as a “prisoner.”

More than ten days passed, and upon his return from the city, Qi Jin found his wife in high spirits. She eagerly asked if he had heard any news.

“I heard nothing,” he replied.

“Has the emperor ascended to the throne?”

“They did not say.”

“Not even at Xianheng Hotel?”

“No one mentioned it.”

“Then the emperor must not have ascended to the throne. Today, I saw Master Zhao Qi sitting and reading again, his queue coiled on top, not wearing his long shirt.”

“…”

“Do you think he didn’t ascend to the throne?”

“I think he didn’t.”

With this, Qi Jin regained the respect and treatment he had previously enjoyed from his sister-in-law and the villagers. Summer saw them dining as usual on the earthen courtyard outside their home, greeted with smiles from passersby. Old Lady Jiu Jin, having celebrated her eightieth birthday, remained as outspoken and healthy as ever. Liu Jin, her twin braids now grown into a single long queue, despite her recent foot-binding, still managed to assist her family, carrying a rice bowl with eighteen copper nails as she hobbled about the courtyard.

(October 1920.)