Breaking Bamboo by Tim Murgatroyd Page B

market and a proclamation was being read. It appears we are again at war.’
    He regarded her significantly. Cao wasn’t quite sure of the correct reply. As usual he provided it.
    ‘The rulers want us all to become peasants or soldiers! So we can till the fields and feed their armies.’
    In his youth, Hsu had met a travelling holy man who taught him the outmoded thoughts of Mo Zi. He had grasped this wisdom fervently but imperfectly and, ever since, regaled the world with Mo Zi’s odd views. Sometimes Shih and Cao wondered whether they would be punished for not reporting his opinions to the authorities.
    ‘Madam, I am not a scholar like your honoured husband, but I know it is best to be happy. Our humble fans bring no glory to anyone, but they cool many a hot head.’
    Cao tried to appear interested. An insect landed on Old Hsu’s cheek and he brushed it off angrily.
    ‘If we could but love each other, and consider ourselves one great family,’ he continued, ‘there would be no more strife between nations.’
    ‘Of course, you are right,’ said Cao. ‘But do the barbarians share your view?’
    ‘That I cannot say,’ conceded Old Hsu. ‘But I am certain the people worry about three things – hunger, cold, and rest when they are weary. Those are the only struggles we should wage.
    Never war, Madam Cao, never more war.’
    His upset was not hard to explain. Old Hsu’s eldest son, a young man of unusual goodwill and humour, had been conscripted five years ago. Nothing had been heard of him since. It was assumed he had died on the battlefield though Old Hsu insisted on setting aside a place for him at dinner each dusk, in case he returned unexpectedly.
    Cao bowed and made her way to Widow Mu’s dumpling shop.
    She found Mu preparing a fresh stock of fried dumplings. The work was urgent as nearly all the walnut-sized dumplings on her wooden tray had been sold. Usually this was a quiet hour for gossip, the breakfast trade having passed and the brisker dinner trade still hours away. Cao wondered if she should return later, but Mu waved her inside.
    After they had bowed, making enquiries concerning each other’s health and the health of their families, Mu returned to work, dicing cabbage with a large knife. The blade tapped like a persistent drip. Cao took a seat nearby, fanning herself.
    ‘Let me help you,’ she said.
    The widow pursed her lips. The click of her knife did not pause.
    ‘You are my guest,’ she said.
    ‘Then you must pander to me,’ replied Cao. ‘I will prepare the garlic sauce.’
    As Widow Mu fried a stuffing of pork and cabbage, crispy egg and ginger, Cao peeled and minced cloves of garlic.
    ‘I have heard new things about your Honoured Guest,’ remarked Widow Mu. ‘Hey, Lan Tien! Come and help with the dough!’
    Mu’s eldest daughter, an awkward girl of fourteen almost ready for her hairpins, emerged from the room at the back of the shop. It was a tiny room. Widow Mu shared it with her two children and the family shrine. The foremost tablet belonged to her dead husband, who frequently advised her through dreams.
    Widow Mu said she could hardly miss him when he never went away. He had died quite suddenly of a mushroom in the brain and Dr Shih had declared the disease incurable.
    Fortunately he left Mu enough money for the equipment needed to establish her business. Hard work from dawn until midnight provided the rest. But the profit on each dumpling was small and competition among food sellers was ceaseless.
    One might easily lose a loyal customer, who in turn might tell a friend that Widow Mu skimped on pork or ginger. She often feared the landlord’s men putting them on the street.
    Lan Tien sulkily began to detach balls from the melon of dough her mother had prepared earlier, rolling them out into small circles.
    ‘What have you heard about Honoured Guest?’ asked Cao, as though there had been no interruption.
    ‘One of my regulars came by and stayed while he ate. It would be