IT WAS a gala night in Fen Shi’s place under the wall of Kashgar. In the first moon of the New Year all Chinese pay their debts, and, having paid, hold the festival of a clear conscience. And a clear conscience, even to an old rascal like Fen Shi, is more to be esteemed than silver, which they desire more than gold.
Fen Shi’s house, like its owner, is two-faced. That is, on the alley side, it is a curio shop where Kashgar’s few white tourists can buy old coins, old weapons and old manuscripts, dug out of the Gobi desert by Fen Shi; behind the curio shop and separated from it by a screening mat is the rum shop. Here Afghan chieftains can buy wine, f*******n to Moslems; derelict Russians can procure vodka, also illicit; those who desire can taste hashish or opium, toasted by one of the seve
