you develop an exaggerated sense of your abilities or worth, and when you open your mouths, all that comes out is wild talk and nonsense.” Yuan nonchalantly fired a round into the ground in front of them; the smell of gunpowder suffused the air around them. Then he raised the other pistol and fired into the air, sending a bullet whistling into the clouds. He lowered the gold-handled pistol and said, with a cold edge to his voice, “The truth is, a weapon is just a weapon. It is not one’s woman, and it is assuredly not one’s mother.”
He stood, head bowed, and responded, “I gratefully accept Your Excellency’s instruction and will alter my viewpoint. As you say, sir, a weapon is just a weapon. It is not one’s woman, and it is assuredly not one’s mother.”
“There is no need for you to climb high using my pole. While I do not agree with your comparison of a weapon to a mother, there is something to be said for comparing it to a woman. Here is a woman, a gift from me.” Yuan Shikai tossed him one of the pistols, which he grabbed as if catching a live parrot. Yuan Shikai tossed him the second pistol. “Another woman for you. That makes two sisters.” This one, too, he grabbed as if catching another parrot. And now, with the gold-handled pistols in his hands, it seemed as if all his veins and arteries had expanded. It had pained him to see Yuan Shikai fire those two shots so offhandedly; to him that was like schoolgirls being manhandled by a coarse, boorish man. But there was nothing he could do about that. He gripped the pistols, feeling them tremble in his hands and hearing them moan softly. Even stronger was the feeling that they had immediately given themselves to him. Deep down, he had already abandoned his shocking metaphor of a weapon as one’s mother, so why not treat them as beautiful women? The end result of the debate over weapon metaphors was a realization that Yuan Shikai was not only a military genius, but a man of considerable leaning.
“Show me what you can do,” Yuan Shikai said.
After blowing on the mouths of both barrels, he tested their heft for a few seconds. They sparkled in the sunlight, as fine a pair of pistols as he had ever seen. He took a couple of steps forward and, seemingly without taking careful aim, fired a total of six shots from the two weapons in less than thirty seconds. The guard ran up to the target and brought it back for Yuan’s inspection. Six bullets had hit the bull’s-eye in the shape of a peach blossom. Applause broke out from the men around Yuan Shikai.
“Nice shooting!” His Excellency said approvingly, a genuine smile on his face for the first time during the audience. “Now, what would you like?”
“I’d like to own these,” he replied unflinchingly.
Taken by surprise, Yuan Shikai stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter.
“Go ahead,” he said. “You can be their husband!”
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4
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As he recalled those moments, he reached down and stroked the handles of the two pistols on his belt. They had been chilled by gusts of cold wind. “Don’t be frightened, my friends,” he said encouragingly as he warmed them with his hand. Then he pleaded: “Help me, my friends. When I have done what I came to do, I will be shot dead, but the tale of the gold-handled pistols will live on for generations.” They were, he could feel, beginning to warm up. “Yes,” he said to his pistols, “we must be patient as we await the man’s return. A year from today will be the first anniversary.” The mounted contingent behind him was getting increasingly restless—they were freezing cold and hungry, horses and riders. With cool detachment, he surveyed the two ranks of senior officers. They presented an amazingly ugly sight, all seemingly on the verge of falling off their horses, which nervously nipped at one another. There was no calming the mounts behind him, with one agitated wave coming hard upon the other. Heaven is on my side, he was thinking. Weariness has claimed everyone here, dulling their senses. I could not ask for a better time to act.
At last he, and only he, heard the faint toot of a steamship upriver. Instinctively, as his nerves grew taut, he tightened his grip on the handles of his pistols, but only for a brief