Elephant Song

As a child he had recognized Wu as his main rival and in consequence he hated him with a single-minded malevolence.

While she had been alive, Cheng's English mother had protected him from his half-brothers.  But after she died he had been at their mercy.

It had taken all these years to learn to hold his own and insinuate himself ever deeper into his father's favour.

Cheng recognized that this would be his chance, his only chance for supremacy.  His father was old, more than old, he was ancient.  Despite his seemingly boundless strength and energy, Cheng sensed that his father was near death.  It might come at any moment of any day, and he went cold at the thought.

He knew that unless he consolidated his accession while his father still lived, Wu would wrest it from him with the help of his two full brothers, the moment his father died.  He sensed also that his father was on the point of deciding on the Ubomo project.  He knew that this was his moment.  This was the slack water of the tide of his fortunes, and now they must turn and begin to flood, or he would be for ever stranded on the mudbanks.

Honourable Father, I have something for you.  A small and humble token of the respect and gratitude I feel for you.  May I present it?

Fortune seemed to conspire with Cheng to provide an appropriate opportunity.  The old man was spry today, his mind quick and his waning bodily strength in some measure restored.

He had eaten a ripe fig and an apple for breakfast, and had composed a classical stanza while Cheng walked him down to the shrine.  It was an ode to the mountain peak that stood above the estate.  The poem began: Beloved of clouds who caress her face .  . .

It was good, although not as good as his father's paintings and ivory carvings, Cheng thought.  However, when the old man recited it, Cheng clasped his hands.  I am awed that so much genius resides in one person.

I wish only that I had inherited a few grains of it for myself.  He thought he might have overdone it a little, but the old man accepted the praise and for a moment tightened his grip on Cheng's arm.  You are a good son, he said.  And your mother his voice trailed off mournfully, your mother was a woman He shook his head and Cheng thought incredulously that the old man's eyes had moistened.  It must have been his imagination.

His father was not prey to weakness and sentimentality.

When he looked again his father's eyes were clear and bright, and the old man was smiling.

That morning Heng stayed on at the shrine much longer than he usually did.  He wanted to inspect the work on his own tomb.  One of the most famous geomancers on the island had come to position the tomb precisely and to orientate it so that it stood neither on.  an earth dragon's head nor on his tail.  That would have disturbed the old man's death sleep.

The georriancer had worked with a compass and a magic bag for almost an hour, directing the efforts of the priests and the servants to get the marble sarcophagus laid properly.

All this preparation for his own funeral put Heng into a pleasant relaxed mood, and when they were finished Cheng seized the moment and asked to be allowed to present his gift.

Heng smiled and nodded.  You may bring it to me, my son.  Alas, father, the nature of the gift makes that impossible.  I must take you to it.

Heng's expression changed.  These days he seldom left the estate.  He seemed about to refuse.  However, Cheng had anticipated his reaction.

All he needed to do was lift one hand and the Rolls that was parked behind the clipped privet hedger, beyond the lotus pools slid silently forward.

Before the old man could protest, Cheng had helped him into the back seat and settled him comfortably with a cashmere rug over his knees.

The chauffeur knew where to take them.  As the Rolls came down the mountain road on to the littoral plain, Heng and Cheng were isolated and protected from the heat and humidity, and from the teeming humanity that clogged the Toad with Vespa motorcycles and buses, wild chicken taxis and heavily laden trucks.

When they entered Chung Ching South Road in the Hsimending area of the city the chauffeur slowed and turned in through the gates of the Lucky Dragon company's main city warehouse.

The guards jumped to attention as they recognized the couple in the back seat.

One of the warehouse doors stood open and after the car drove through, the steel shutter doors rolled closed behind it.

The Rolls parked on one of the loading ramps and Cheng helped his father out of the back door and took his elbow to lead him to a carved teak chair that stood like a throne, covered with embroidered silk cushions, overlooking the floor below the ramp.

As soon as his father was comfortable, Cheng signaled one of the servants to bring freshly made tea.  He sat on one of the cushions lower than Heng and they drank tea and talked quietly of unrelated subjects.

Cheng was drawing out the moment, trying to spice his father's anticipation.  If he succeeded, the old man did not show it.  He barely glanced towards the floor belok.

Ten brawny workmen knelt in a row facing the throne.

Cheng had dressed them in black tunics, with red headbands, and the emblem of the Lucky Dragon embroidered on their backs also in red.  He had rehearsed them carefully and they were motionless, heads bowed respectfully.

Finally, after ten minutes of talk and tea, Cheng told his father, This is the present I have brought you from Africa.  He indicated the rows of chests, arranged behind, the workmen.  It is such a poor little present that now I am ashamed to offer it to you.  Tea?  Heng smiled.

Cases of tea?  Enough tea to last me the rest of my lifetime.  it is a fine gift, my son.  It is a poor gift, but may I open the cases for you? Cheng asked, and the old man nodded his permission.

Cheng clapped his hands and the ten workmen sprang to their feet and ran to seize one of the tea-chests and bring it forward.  They worked swiftly, efficiently.  With half a dozen blows of a slap-hammer and a twist of a jernmy bar, they lifted the lid off the first case.

Heng showed the first sign of animation and leaned forward in the high chair.  Two of the workmen lifted out the first tusk from its bed of caked black tea.

Cheng had long ago arranged that it should be one of the largest and most finely shaped tusks in the entire shipment of stolen ivory.  He had asked Chetti Singh to mark the case that contained it before the.

shipment left the Indian's warehouse in Malawi.

The tusk was long, over seven feet long, but not as thick and blunt as one of the typical massively heavy tusks from further north than Zimbabwe.  Yet from an entirely aesthetic point of view this one was more pleasing, its girth more in proportion to its length and the curve and taper were elegant.  It was neither cracked nor damaged and the patina above the lip was creamy yellow.

Involuntarily Heng clapped his hands with pleasure and exclaimed aloud.

Bring it to me!  Two of the workmen, struggling under the burden, climbed the concrete steps and knelt before him offering the lovely tusk.

Heng stroked the ivory and his eyes sparkled in the cobweb of wrinkles that surrounded them.

Beautiful!  he murmured.  The most beautiful of all nature's creations, more beautiful than pearls or the feathers of the brightest tropical birds.  He broke off abruptly as his fingers detected the rough patch on the tusk.  He leaned closer and peered at it and exclaimed again.  But this tusk bears a government stamp.  "ZW".  That is a Zimbabwe government number.