Mr Ma and Son Read Free Page A

they’re wearing two-inch stiff collars and their necks have no chance whatsoever of slumping, and as they wave their big, fine, lily-white, hairy hands, they’re shouting with might and main, ‘Down with the socialists!’, ‘Down with the unpatriotic traitors!’, heaping blame for all the world’s wickednesses on the heads of the workers. Even the fact that it rained this morning, and that the egg boiled for breakfast turned out to be a bad one, was all a consequence of the workers’ troublemaking.
    Right next to that group stands the Salvation Army flying a blue and red flag, bashing tambourines, blowing little pipes and singing hymns nonstop. The more ecstatically they praise the Lord, the more powerful grow the bellows of the workmen beneath the red flag. Sometimes, however, when they’re filled with the Holy Spirit, they shudder all heaven and earth so much with their singing that our red-flag friends yonder are forced to resort to swearing, with words not found in any dictionary. Just next to the Salvation Army is a Catholic preacher, and, beyond him, any number of other groups with various causes to promote: independence for India, rapid elimination of China, the revival of the Liberal Party  . . . and some groups not really promoting anything at all – just a crowd surrounding a wizened old man with a red beard, looking at one another and laughing.
    Almost without exception, the men standing under the red flag have small clay pipes dangling from their mouths, and their hands stuck in their pockets, and they nod their heads in approval of whatever is uttered by their leader. The listeners who stand beneath the Union Jack mostly wear little black bowler hats. They nod their heads, smack their lips appreciatively and murmur, ‘Hear, hear!’, ‘Absolutely!’ Sometimes, when two of them simultaneously come out with the words ‘Hear, hear!’, they give each other a wink, and squeeze a tenth of a grin from one side of their mouths.
    The smaller gatherings aren’t as well ordered and spiritually united as these big ones. For the most part their primary raison d’être is discussion and disputation. Heads press together, like those of huddled sheep, as principles are bandied to and fro in subdued tones. In addition, there’s a flock of fierce-browed fiery-eyed youths, caps rakishly askew, who circle round these little groups, cracking clever jokes and scattering quips, all for no other motive than to make everyone laugh and to show off their own smartness. Round the outside of the groups there are bands of three or four policemen, uniformly tall and each with the same big hands and feet, as if London policemen were all brothers.
    Among these crowds of people, none stand out as much or excite as much admiration as the guardsmen in their red uniforms. Their backs are straighter than a drawing board, and the creases of their trousers are as stiff and straight as if held in place by a rod of iron. Every man jack of them is spick and span, with a perpetual smile on his face to display his snow-white incisors, and with his hair cut close to reveal a blue scalp. None are listening to anything – they’re just standing outside the groups, placing themselves where they attract the most attention, and letting their gazes rove all around. After one’s been standing there a few minutes, suddenly some girl’s pale wrist will curl around his arm, and the pair will spin sharply on their heels and go off onto the grass for a cosy private chat together.
    On the lawns, the various couples sit tête-à-tête, while others are lying with their arms around one another’s necks. Beside them are isolated men, sitting with an evening paper in their hands. These men’s eyes are not on the newspapers but on the girls’ legs. Masses of fat dogs are gallivanting about in wild ecstasy for no apparent reason. The little children present, some clad in suits of white velvet and others dressed from chin to toe in red-velvet