after seeing the treaty and the emperor’s seal, had promoted Hsin to be the head of the diplomatic service. Hsin’s first act in charge was to demote Zhou from diplomat to bureaucrat. Despite his father-in-law’s pleas and his campaigning of other government officials the decision could not be overturned. Hsin’s rising power was too great. The building of the road had begun and Zhou had been shipped out to manage and account for the work of the advance crew.
“Why did you argue with him?” His wife had asked again and again. Zhou could not muster a defence. He was broken.
The small paunch that Zhou had developed during his teaching career had dwindled to nothing during the weeks on the road. Zhou returned to his tent and sat heavily on the wooden framed bunk. The only other furniture was a small chest that doubled as a writing desk and a stove that provided a meagre heat through the night - it was more than many of the workers had. He dipped a hand under his pillow and unfolded the artist’s drawing of his son he had commissioned before he left. The little round face, dark almond eyes and innocent smile had been captured perfectly and Zhou gazed at them, sighed, and placed it back. He patted the pillow.
He took the map from the cylindrical case he always carried now. Flattening it out on the bed he traced the route of the road from Wubei to the Yaart capital. His finger rested on Yaart, it was supposed to be the place where he realised his true worth and potential but it had, instead, been the site of his downfall. Angrily, he shook his head and returned his finger to the point on the map the road had reached. A few more weeks in the foothills and then it would be out onto the plains. The winter weather was spreading colds and illness amongst the men of the road crew, work was getting slower and days were being lost. There was no doubt that the final build would be behind schedule unless more men came to help the advance crew out.
Zhou moved over to the writing desk and put a fresh piece of paper on top of the pile. Dipping the brush pen into the inkwell he began to form the characters of a letter. His lines were clean and graceful, each character formed to perfection but the message half-hearted. When he had finished, he placed the brush back onto its lacquered stand and held the letter up to the light to read it back. His eyes moved up and down the columns, ensuring the meaning was clear. Satisfied that it was correct he screwed it up into a ball and threw it into the corner to land alongside the other three he had written today. All of them asking for more men and resources, pointing out the troubles of building in winter and the need to get the foundations of the road completed on time. The road surface laying crew were bound to catch up his advance crew somewhere in the plains and then he would have failed again. There was little point in sending the letters though. All the others he had written and sent had been returned with notes of refusal and exhortations to get on with it. The letter writing was now more a method to work out his own stress than any actual attempt to reason with the bureaucrats above him, each of whom reported to Hsin.
He left his tent and headed to the mess tent. It had become his evening ritual. Write a letter, throw it or, on occasion watch it burn in the little stove, and then head off to get some food. As usual, at this time, the mess contained a good number of builders getting their evening meal before they stumbled off to bed. None of them waved, spoke or in any way acknowledged his presence. He was pushing them hard, he knew it, but they were paid to work, it was their livelihood and they should think themselves lucky not to be pressed into service for a pittance of pay. At least here, they were getting reasonable pay for a hard day’s work.
The crew’s cook, Zhou would never call him a chef, handed over a bowl of steamed rice and waved laconically at the selection of meat
AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker