them could tell that he was a happy man.
Managing to steal a minute out of the busy morning, he leaned against the counter, lit his pipe, and breathed in deeply. Looking out through the double door, he watched his wife and children mingle with the crowd as they headed to the market.
A rich man with big ears was sitting at the window table. His family name was Zhang, and while he had both a formal name—Haogu—and a style name—Nianzu—everyone called him Second Master. For a man in his early fifties, he had a healthy, ruddy complexion. Perched atop his rounded head was a black satin skullcap into which a rectangular piece of green jade had been sewn. Second Master was Northeast Gaomi Township’s preeminent scholar, a man who had purchased an appointment to the Imperial College. Having traveled south to the Yangtze Valley and north beyond the Great Wall, he told of spending a night with Sai Jinhua, the notorious courtesan of Peking. No one who started a conversation with him ever found him unworthy of bringing it to an end. A regular at the Sun Family Teashop, he monopolized every conversation for as long as he sat there. Picking up his glazed porcelain teacup, he removed the lid with three fingers and made the leaves on top swirl a bit before blowing on the surface and taking a sip.
“Proprietor,” he called out after smacking his lips, “why is this tea so bland? It has hardly any taste.”
After hurriedly knocking the ashes out of his pipe, Sun Bing trotted over and, with a bit of bowing and scraping, said:
“Second Master, it’s the same tea you always drink—the best Dragon Well.”
Second Master took a second sip.
“No, it still lacks taste.”
“Why don’t I make some in a gourd?” Sun Bing said, anxious to please.
“Scorch it ever so slightly.”
Sun ran back behind the counter, where he stuck a silver needle into an opium pill and held it over a bean-oil lantern that burned all day long, turning it round and round. A peculiar odor spread throughout the shop.
After drinking half a cup of the strong, opium-infused tea, Second Master was clearly invigorated. His gaze swept the faces of the other customers like a pair of lively fish, and Sun Bing knew that he was about to launch into one of his voluble monologues. Gaunt, sallow-faced Young Master Wu Da opened his mouth to reveal teeth stained black by tea and tobacco.
“Second Master,” he said, “any news of the railway?”
Second Master put down his teacup, puckered his upper lip, emitted an audible snort, and, having formed a response, declaimed:
“Of course there is. I have told you people about our family friend Jiang Runhua of the Wandong District, the lead editorial writer for the Globe, who has installed two teletypes to receive the latest news from Japan and the West. Well, yesterday he received an urgent message that the Old Buddha Cixi received Kaiser Wilhelm’s special envoy in the Longevity Hall of the Summer Palace to discuss the construction of the rail line between Qingdao and Jinan.”
Young Master Wu clapped his hands.
“Second Master,” he said, “don’t tell me, let me guess.”
“Go ahead, guess,” Second Master said. “If you’re right, yours truly will pay for everyone’s tea.”
“Second Master is a forthright man who is unafraid to show his emotions,” Young Master Wu said. “No wonder the people all love him. Here is my guess: Our mass petition worked. They are going to alter the planned route.”
“Glory be! Great news!” muttered an old man with a white beard. “The Old Buddha is wise, truly wise.”
But Second Master shook his head and said with a sigh:
“Sorry, gentlemen, but today you will have to pay for your own tea.”
“They’re not going to change it?” Young Master Wu said, his hackles rising. “Our mass petition was a waste of time, is that it?”
“Your mass petition was probably used by some official as toilet paper,” Second Master said resentfully. “Just who do you think you are? The Old Buddha said, ‘We can alter the course of the Yellow River, but not the course of the Jiaozhou-Jinan rail line.’ ”
Dejection settled over the room, punctuated by long sighs. County Scholar Qu, he with the facial blemish, said:
“Well, then, did the German Kaiser send his envoy to pay restitution for the destruction of our burial grounds?”
“Scholar Qu has finally touched upon something,” Second Master said animatedly. “When the special envoy was led into the Old Buddha’s presence, he prostrated himself three times and