The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [240]
“I have, Your Excellency, a piece of Ming myself that you might care to see. A statue that has been in my family for over seven generations.”
“I should be honored,” said the minister.
“It is I who would be honored, Your Excellency,” said the little man, who thereupon scampered out of the back door, nearly falling over a stray dog, and on to an old peasant house a few yards behind the workshop. The minister and the mandarin remained in the back room, for Sir Alexander knew the old man would never have considered inviting an honored guest into his humble home until they had known each other for many years, and only then after he had been invited to Sir Alexander’s home first. A few minutes passed before the little blue figure came trotting back, pigtail bouncing up and down on his shoulders. He was now clinging to something that from the very way he held it close to his chest, had to be a treasure. The craftsman passed the piece over for the minister to study. Sir Alexander’s mouth opened wide, and he could not hide his excitement. The little statue, no more than six inches in height, was of the Emperor Kung and as fine an example of Ming as the minister had seen. Sir Alexander felt confident that the maker was the great Pen Q who had been patronized by the emperor, so that the date must have been around the turn of the fifteenth century. The statue’s only blemish was that the ivory base on which such pieces usually rest was missing, and a small stick protruded from the bottom of the imperial robes; but in the eyes of Sir Alexander nothing could detract from its overall beauty. Although the craftsman’s lips did not move, his eyes glowed with the pleasure his guest evinced as he studied the ivory emperor.
“You think the statue is good?” asked the craftsman through the interpreter.
“It’s magnificent,” the minister replied. “Quite magnificent.”
“My own work is not worthy to stand by its side,” added the craftsman humbly.
“No, no,” said the minister, though in truth the little craftsman knew that the great man was only being kind, for Sir Alexander was holding the ivory statue in a way that already showed the same love as the old man had for the piece.
The minister smiled down at the craftsman as he handed back the Emperor Kung and then he uttered perhaps the only undiplomatic words he had ever spoken in thirty-five years of serving his queen and country.
“How I wish the piece was mine.”
Sir Alexander regretted voicing his thoughts the moment he heard the mandarin translate them, because he knew only too well the old Chinese tradition that if an honored guest requests something the giver will grow in the eyes of his fellow men by parting with it.
A sad look came over the face of the little old craftsman as he handed back the figurine to the minister.
“No, no. I was only joking,” said Sir Alexander, quickly trying to return the piece to its owner.
“You would dishonor my humble home if you did not take the emperor, Your Excellency,” the old man said anxiously, and the mandarin gravely nodded his agreement.
The minister remained silent for some time. “I have dishonored my own home, sir,” he replied, and looked toward the mandarin, who remained inscrutable.
The little craftsman bowed. “I must fix a base on the statue,” he said, “or you will not be able to put the piece on view.”
He went to a corner of the room and opened a wooden packing chest that must have housed a hundred bases for his own statues. Rummaging around, he picked out a base decorated with small, dark figures that the minister did not care for but that nevertheless made a perfect fit; the old man