Chapter Sixty-Seven: At the Widow's Door

The expansion of the French Consulate had been completed, and since this was no secret, Yang Xiaolin had inquired around and learned there were still thirteen days left. He needed to infiltrate Dongjiaomin Lane within those thirteen days; only then could he seize the best opportunity to cast his net.

He returned an hour earlier than usual today, feeling it was inappropriate to be knocking on a widow’s door at midnight, despite the neighbors understanding his reasons for lodging there. If others saw him, it would still lead to troublesome misunderstandings.

So he arrived just as night was falling. He never expected that as he reached the Zhao family’s doorstep, he would find a crowd gathered there, loud and agitated, as though something had happened.

A wave of tension swept through him—not because he was timid, but because he knew well the dangers of his situation. If his cover were blown, or if any of his brothers’ whereabouts were exposed, the consequences would be dire.

Biaozi, too, was taken aback. “Big brother, could something have happened?”

Yang Xiaolin shook his head, scanning the area for any soldiers or constables. Finding none, he felt a bit more at ease. “It’s probably trouble for the Zhao family. Trouble always seeks the widow’s door. Looks like we never should’ve rented this place.”

Biaozi nodded. “We’ll have Lu Mozong handle the move.”

Yang Xiaolin said nothing more, edging around the crowd to peer inside. As expected, he saw a burly man blocking the Zhao family’s gate, arguing with a young man, while the young mistress of the house stood at the door, her face flushed with anger.

The young man stood between her and the intruder, hands on hips. “Lu Er, Master Zhao treated you well when he was alive. You can’t behave like this. Get out of here right now! If I ever catch you making trouble again, I’ll break your legs!”

Lu Er shook his head, grinning. “Is that so? I’ll have you know, I’m working as a cook in a foreigner’s embassy now. Try hitting me! You’re just a petty neighborhood head—what, you think you can defy the sky?”

The young man’s chest heaved as he grabbed Lu Er by the collar and shoved him against the wall. Lu Er, however, was unfazed, adopting the stance of a consummate rascal. “Go on, hit me! I’m right here. Dare you lay a hand on me?”

The headman trembled with rage, as did the watching crowd, but none dared intervene. Such was the temperament of Beijing’s people in those days—they were afraid, for there were too many things to fear.

Assaulting someone who worked at a foreign embassy carried grave consequences. It was not unlike how, in later times, no one dared help an old man who had fallen in the street—not because they lacked morals, but because so many things stood in the way of their conscience and made them hesitate.

Lu Er, feeling triumphant, brushed off the headman’s grip. “If you don’t have the guts, then let me go!”

Still, the headman refused to release him, pushing him back. “How much money did you make off Master Zhao while he was alive? And now you come for these scraps, calling it interest! What kind of man are you?”

Lu Er shook his head. “I know I’m no gentleman, but none of you ever treated me as one, either. Take that Zhao fellow, for instance—once, when my food was a bit salty, he smashed my plate. And you, headman—how many times have you caused trouble in my tavern? Bet you never thought I’d have my day, did you?”

His petty gloating was nearly too much for the headman to bear; Yang Xiaolin, now closer, could see veins bulging on the man’s neck.

“Sanwa, let him go,” the young mistress finally spoke, making her way through the crowd, which parted to allow her passage.

“Lu Er, how much does my husband owe you?”

The headman released Lu Er, who straightened his rumpled clothes. “Not much. The day Master Zhao died, he hosted twenty tables at my tavern and didn’t pay a single coin—a total of four taels of silver. With interest, it’s six taels and three qian.”

The young mistress frowned. “Could you give me half a month’s time?”

Six taels and three qian—a paltry sum for the Zhao family in better days, nothing more than a tip for the servants. But now, she could not muster even a single coin.

“Half a month? Easy for you to say. What if I come back and find you gone? If you want me to wait, you’ll have to put up your deed to this house as collateral.”

At last, Lu Er’s true intentions were revealed. The young mistress looked up at him. “This house will never be yours.”

Lu Er sneered. “Don’t say I’m heartless, madam. Let’s be clear: I never really wanted that bit of money. The one who’s truly interested in your house is Mr. Robert, the British comprador. I’m just running an errand. If you agree, I could even squeeze a bit more money out of them for you—everyone wins.”

He had barely finished speaking when the young mistress, calm until now, suddenly lost control and charged at him, ramming him with her head. “Get out! Get out of here! I won’t let any foreigner live in my house—I’d sooner burn it to the ground!”

Lu Er stumbled back several steps, barely regaining his balance before the headman kicked him hard in the lower back. “I’ll beat you to death, you scoundrel!”

Lu Er went sprawling, and, realizing the headman meant business, scrambled away in terror, not daring to linger.

“Madam, you don’t know what’s good for you! You can’t keep what the foreigners want!”

The young mistress tried to pursue him, but an old man nearby restrained her. “Let it go. It’s not worth your trouble.”

The villagers took the stance that less trouble was better than more, and their advice was for her own good. How could a lone woman stand against the foreigners?

Yang Xiaolin caught Biaozi’s eye, and Biaozi, understanding, led a few brothers to quietly follow in the direction Lu Er had fled.

The villagers paid no attention to the strangers’ movements, their focus entirely on the young mistress, who, regaining her composure, smoothed her disheveled hair and retreated into the house.

She was as sorrowful and desolate as ever. Her back seemed weighed down by endless bleakness. Yang Xiaolin sensed she wanted to weep, but she held back, knowing tears would do no good. Perhaps she had none left to shed.

The headman called out, “All right, that’s enough. Disperse, everyone.”

Lu Er’s house was small, and he rarely stayed there now. When the foreigners first entered the city, he, too, had been frightened. But then a Frenchman dined at his tavern, found his cooking delicious, and so, while other Beijingers suffered, Lu Er not only escaped harm but also profited handsomely by currying favor with the foreigners.

He now considered himself someone of importance; wherever he went, people called him Master Lu. So when the British comprador mentioned an interest in the Zhao residence, Lu Er volunteered to handle it without hesitation.

To him, it seemed a simple matter—a dead master, a lone widow, and a sprawling, empty house. With a little pressure, wouldn’t she yield? But he never expected the headman to stand up for the Zhao family and dare to strike him.

Clutching his aching back, Lu Er flopped onto his bed. “Oh, my, that Sanwa is ruthless! Tomorrow I’ll be sure to teach him a lesson.”

He spoke with confidence. Now that he worked for the foreigners, even the local officials treated him with deference. Wasn’t the headman just a nobody? Taking care of him would be as easy as plucking a scallion.

He was pondering which magistrate he should visit the next day when the door suddenly swung open. It was already dark, and all he could see were a few dark shapes in the doorway, sending a chill of fear through him. “Who’s there?”