2
Ming Ti had only five days to Eve. He sat in his cell, his back against the wall, meditating over the sweetness of life. He smacked his lips. He had found the world a juicy plum and it had not been hard to bite into it. Among thieves, Ming Ti was an emperor; that is why he had the colossal effrontery to assume the name of one of the most illustrious of all Chinese emperors. But then Ming Ti held nothing sacred. He was tall, handsome. No emperor had ever had better features, nor had there been one whose face more truly resembled that of a full moon. And his skin was of a fine golden texture, like the color of the young moon rising. His nose was a bit too flat, but his eyes were glittering. They seemed to be laughing, but it was laughter without warmth. His mouth was firm and his chin strong. But greater in perfection than any other of his features were his ears. Alas! that so soon he would no longer be able to hear the faint swish of the wind through the willows or the glory-song of a Chinese nightingale!
Yet he knew that at his death, many slender girls would weep, girls like flowers, girls from many different provinces. And their tears would fall to form a mighty river on which his soul might flow into the Celestial Heaven. Ming Ti had no desire for immortality. He had little fault to find with a world so constructed that he had money hidden away everywhere. Occasionally there were those who spoiled his play. They protested at his taking money to which he had no right.
Now and then it was necessary to inflict death upon these misguided strangers. Never did he kill with malice. It was merely in the routine of business. But those in authority had become vexed. Protestations had come from various legations. So much pressure had been put upon China that she winced. The result was that Ming Ti was scooped up and thrown into prison. His head was to be sliced from his body. Not in anger. That too was to be merely in the routine of business.
The contemplation of it spoiled the rhythm of Ming Ti's life, for more than anything else he was a poet. He liked to sing little songs to the moon, especially when a slender girl was standing in silhouette in front of it. Ming Ti was a born lover, a veritable emperor of hearts. It was his proud boast that no damsel had ever been able to withstand the ardor of his wooing. Even girls who became his captives ended up by being slaves of his love. Ming Ti knew all that there was to know about war and women. He was a braggart, a boaster, a swashbuckling buccaneer.
Through his life had passed a countless procession of women—women of every hue, women for every mood. Yet now the procession was about to end. The parade was over. Death would be his final mistress. Nor would she succumb to his charms. Rather would it be the other way about. He would join that endless procession of men upon whom death had smiled, then turned away.
Ming Ti sighed. How sweet life was! Life was a great melon. Women were the seeds.
But now the feast was over. In a few days his head would drop from his body, as the executioner demonstrated his skill before an assembled throng. Ming Ti drew his hand across his eyes and shivered. He hoped his head wouldn't roll when it fell to the ground.
And then came Doctor Wen Hsi. From his gracious and charming attitude no one would have imagined that his interest was concerned with trading. He was a merchant extraordinary, willing to trade a head for an ear.
