by Qiu Xiaolong
‘Who is Xuanji?’ Yang asked the moment the messenger vanished out of sight.
‘I’ve heard something about the Xuanji case. She is a young, beautiful, and talented poetess and courtesan – in her early or mid-twenties. If I’m interested at all in her case, to tell the truth, it’s because I’ve read a lot of poems written by her. Much better than my own, that I have to admit, but with so much political trouble on my hands of late, I have not paid any serious attention to the murder case.’
‘What kind of a murder case, Master?’
‘About ten days ago, on the third day of the month, as a well-known poetess and a much-sought-after courtesan, Xuanji was entertaining several guests at a lunch party in the Xianyi Nunnery—’
‘A poetess/courtesan entertaining her guests at a lunch party in the nunnery? It’s absurd.’
‘That’s something intriguing in itself. The nunnery was where she stayed, but she’s there not exactly as a Daoist nun. How she ended up being in a nunnery – I would have to do more research about that. Anyway, after lunch, one of her guests walked out into the backyard, where he was struck by a weird scene – a bevy of blue-headed flies buzzing, circling around a spot in a corner of the backyard. Nothing suspicious appeared on the surface. He waved at the flies, which flew away but immediately came buzzing back. He tried several times without success before he leaned down and noticed that the soil around the spot looked newly loosened.
‘Then Xuanji hurried over to his side, sweating profusely, her face bleached of color. It was not a warm day, but she kept on wiping sweat from her forehead.
‘The guest did not say anything about her strange reaction, but after he left the nunnery, he lost no time reporting it to his cousin, an assistant in the mayor’s office, who then came over to the nunnery in the late afternoon with a search warrant issued by Mayor Pei.
‘So they started digging in the corner of the nunnery backyard. To their consternation, it was the body of Xuanji’s maidservant, Ning, buried under the surface soil there. They removed the white cloth that had been wrapped around her welt-and-bruise-covered body, which was not decaying yet in spite of the weather, so the maidservant must have been buried just the day before.
‘Xuanji failed to give any explanation for it. According to her, Ning had told her the day before about going to visit her family for two or three days, so Xuanji went out shopping by herself that morning. Apparently, Ning had not left as she had told Xuanji. Instead, she stayed on and was beaten to death in the nunnery and buried in the corner of the backyard.
‘Consequently, Xuanji was taken into custody, but in spite of the brutal bludgeoning at the courtroom, she insisted she did not know anything about Ning’s death. A couple of days later, however, she suddenly confessed in prison, saying that on the second day of the month, she had gotten so drunk that she started beating Ning for some provocation she could not remember, kicking and whipping her violently until the latter passed out, and then she herself passed out, too. Once she was sober again, she saw there was no sign of life in the maidservant lying cold on the floor.
‘Panic-stricken, Xuanji dragged the body out into the backyard and buried her under the cover of night. She thought that no one would notice a missing maid like Ning, and then she could make up a story of the maid quitting her service, and no one would have suspected any foul play in the nunnery. Little did she think that the flies circling above the corner of the backyard would give her away the very next day.’
‘The body was not properly buried – not deep enough. A courtesan might not have had enough strength to do a good job of digging deep enough for the burial,’ Yang said, nodding. ‘Those blue-headed flies must have smelled the blood oozing underneath the surface soil.’
‘In her statement made in prison, she provided some new details about the burial, saying she had a hard time finding the right tool for it, and that she was too frail a woman to have done the job properly in the dark of night.’
‘That makes sense,’ Yang said, ‘but why has the murder case not yet been concluded even though she made the confession in prison?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Judge Dee said, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps the confession does not sound so convincing. And the mayor needs to look further into it. Anyway, a very strange case indeed.’
‘But there must be something else in the case. For a special messenger to come overnight to you from Minister Wu, it’s more than strange. It’s like the old proverb about a skunk sneaking over to say “Happy New Year” to a rooster. It was definitely not done with good intentions. We cannot be too careful, Master.’
‘Don’t worry too much about it, Yang. It’s not our case, nor am I intrigued by it.’
That was not exactly true, though. Judge Dee was intrigued. For a murder case involving the number-one poetess of the Tang Empire, it actually presented a personal challenge to him as well.
Not to mention the knife note and the message from Minister Wu.
Outside, the night watchman was making another round, beating the wooden knocker in a monotonous pattern against the night as it retreated further into the darkness.
Judge Dee knew he would have to do such a lot of work before he could get anywhere in the investigation, for which he had neither the time nor the authority.
‘What are you thinking about, Master?’
‘No, it does not have to be our case. And it is not our case. Now you go back to sleep in your room. I, too, have to doze for a little while if I want to get up in a decent condition in the morning.’
‘It soon will be morning anyway, Master.’
After Yang went back to his room, Dee lit another candle, sat up straight with his back stiff like a bamboo stick, and took out the case report along with a new authorization note signed by Minister Wu earlier in the day.
It is stated that the bearer of this document hereby has the full authorization of the Internal Ministry to investigate the Xuanji case.
But Judge Dee did not think he had promised the minister anything. It would have been a different story if it had been an imperial order from the empress. As it was, in spite of Wu’s assurance and the authorization note, Judge Dee could not help seeing something suspicious in the request.
He started reading the case report in earnest. For the moment, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. Rubbing his eyes, he glimpsed a moth-like insect whirling around like crazy, circling and circling the candle flame.
The case report hardly offered anything new, however, to add to what Judge Dee had already learned from other sources.
He had read quite a number of Xuanji’s poems, so he thought he might have a better understanding of the complicated poetess than the author of the case report.
Still, it was a puzzling case. The lack of a convincing motive on her part was something much discussed by people. But that was probably only one of the main reasons why the murder case remained unclosed.
In the case report, some of her neighbors actually attributed the murder to the evil influence of a bewitching black fox spirit that haunted the neighborhood of the nunnery, and in a paradoxical variation of that theory, she was the black fox spirit incarnate, revealing her true nature when she was dead drunk.
How such a superstitious assumption could have been woven into the official case report puzzled him.
A cricket started chirping eerily outside the window, from the backyard of the hostel – or from the very beginning of a poem by Xuanji.
The crickets chirruping in confusion
by the stone steps, the crystal-clear
dewdrops glistening on the tree leaves
in the mist-enveloped courtyard …
That was a poem composed for one of her lovers named Wen Tingyun, also one of the most prominent poets of the contemporary Tang Empire, but Judge Dee was unable to recall the title of the poem or the lines that followed.
He had read her work piece by piece, but in a far from systematic way. It took time and money to have a poetry collec
tion published these days, and it was almost out of the question for a poetess to do so, he supposed, in the days when the Confucianist orthodoxy claimed that a woman’s virtue comes in the absence of any intellectual talent.
It was then that an idea came flashing through his mind. There was something for him to do, it dawned on him. Something meaningful in itself.
He would have a collection of her poems compiled, and in the course of the compilation, he would be able to learn a bit more about her life.
For all he knew, what he had been achieving in the official world would eventually sink into oblivion. But Xuanji’s poems would not. Judge Dee had reached an age when he could admit to himself what he was capable of doing or not. For one thing, he knew he would not be able to write such exquisite lines as hers, so the compilation of a volume for the beautiful, ill-fated poetess would probably be a project worth attempting in itself.
What’s more, it would serve at the same time as a plausible cover for the investigation – or for the non-existent investigation. At least it could prove to be something for him to give Minister Wu to show that he had tried.
A sparkle sputtered from the candle that was burning out in the hostel room. He could not help nodding to the reflection of the old, bookish man in the bronze mirror, which he usually used to adjust his official black cap.
It brought about another inexplicable wave of weariness that overwhelmed him.
The next morning, he might be able to think a bit more clearly, he reflected, nodding again.
Finally, he began to doze off, still sitting stiff like a bamboo stick in the hard wooden chair. The first gray of the morning appeared to be peeping in through the paper window like a soft-footed fox.
Heavy-eyed, Dee became aware of another man entering the room, heading straight to the seat opposite, across the table from him, the knife still trembling in the pillar overhead between them.
The newcomer turned out to be another candidate at the capital civil service examination, a close friend whose surname was Qiao, in his early twenties, who began talking with Dee in high spirits. Confident of their success with flying colors in the capital examination, they were trying to compose poems about what they were going to do for the Great Tang Empire.
Young men’s aspiration should be catching the cloud in the high skies …
In the skies, all of a sudden, they saw their years flying away like a forsaken kite with its string snapped … Now, both of them with their hair streaked with white, they begin debating heatedly in retrospect.
‘But what have you really become, Judge Dee?’
‘A fat, old, obsequious survivor in the system, I admit. But give the devil her due, Her Majesty is a capable empress, and the contemporary Tang Empire under her rule is enjoying a better, more prosperous time than ever before.’
‘How could a nun-turned-imperial-concubine have justifiably turned into the supreme ruler on the throne in light of the orthodox Confucianism? Alas, you have studied all the classics for nothing!’
‘But one has to do things within the system, Qiao. The empress is a wise benevolent dictator, so to speak, and capable of listening to the good, capable people who care about the welfare of the country.’
‘But aren’t you ashamed of standing side by side with those people capable only of pleasing her in bed?’
‘What’s the point of dwelling so much on her private life? After all, she never mixes the private with the public.’
‘The empress knows you are loyal to her, but at the same time, to the Li family as well. The double allegiance is not something she would easily forget or forgive, Judge Dee. You’d better brace yourself for the consequences.’
‘I understand, Qiao.’
‘You don’t understand. Be aware of the signs of dragons you have just seen, Judge Dee—’
Another knife came flying in, aiming not at the pillar, but at the dragon soaring in the snow, stretching across a long scroll of classical Chinese painting on the wall …
TWO
Judge Dee woke with a start. The scenes from his dream began fading fast like ignorant armies shouting, clashing in confused alarms of fighting in the fast-retreating night. Rubbing his eyes, disoriented, he found his blue cotton gown drenched in cold sweat.
The candle had burned itself out on the table, with white wax drops scattered around the stub, and a faint smell still lingering in the air.
The bare, crumbling wall presented no painting of a dragon soaring across the swirling snow, nor was there any visitor from his younger days sitting opposite at the table. The light of the early morning began streaming into the hostel room.
Dee did not believe in the interpretation of dreams. But the reappearance of the dragon signs in association with the earlier ones from the Book of Changes filled his heart with an uncanny trepidation.
He started to contemplate the feasibility of finding a different approach to the murder case, though he kept reminding himself that he’d better investigate under the cover of something else.
Pulling away the sweat-soaked blue robe, he put on a black one with a subdued pattern, adjusting his cap again in the bleary reflection of the bronze mirror. It represented an apparition of the figure both strange and familiar, totally unlike the one in that nearly forgotten dream.
He was trying to recapture some details in the dream scene, taking a small sip at the cold tea, when he heard a light knock on the door.
Turning over his shoulder, he saw Yang pushing the door open soundlessly, carrying a wooden breakfast tray, and frowning at the sight of the unslept-in bed, before his glance swept around to Judge Dee who was still sitting stiffly at the table.
Yang, too, might not have slept a wink after their discussion about the knife message.
‘Nothing really tasty from the small hostel kitchen, Master,’ Yang said, placing the tray on the table. ‘So I’ve bought for you an earthen oven cake and salty soybean soup from a street-corner vendor.’
‘Well, a cup of Dragon Well tea would be perfect for the moment, preferably fresh and hot from a cotton-padded teapot warmer.’
It would be too much of a luxury to have hot water all the time at the shabby hostel, Judge Dee knew.
‘But you have to eat something, Master. Especially after such a long night. The steaming soybean soup strewn with chopped green onion and purple seaweed tastes quite delicious. Then it’ll be high time for you to leave Chang’an. It’s a long trip ahead of you today.’
Apparently, Yang saw no point their staying any longer in the capital. It appeared to be a legitimate move for Judge Dee to set off despite the request made by Minister Wu. After all, Judge Dee had the imperial decree issued directly from the empress for him to go to the new post.
‘Yes, let’s move,’ Judge Dee said reflectively, rubbing his temple with a finger, ‘but to a temple in the Fang Mountains first. Dingguo Temple.’
‘What!’
‘It’s a small temple, but well known for its fabulous vegetarian meals. A lot of gourmet tourists go to the Buddhist temple for that reason. It’s on the way. So we shall make a visit there first.’
‘Very well, then, we’ll stop for lunch there. Have something light and nutritious,’ Yang said with a suggestion of relief in his voice. ‘That’s exactly what you need.’
‘And we may as well stay at the temple for a day or two. I’m thinking of arranging a Buddhist service in the temple for my late parents. I don’t know when I can possibly make it back to the capital, you know.’ Judge Dee added after a short pause, ‘It’s quite close to Xuanji’s nunnery, just about a mile or two away. You and I can also take a look there.’
‘But we don’t have to do anything for the case, as you said last night – surely not for the sake of Minister Wu.’
‘Well, it does not hurt to make a show of doing something about it as requested by Minister Wu. We don’t really have to go out of the way for it. In fact, there’s something else I would like to do, Yang.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve read a number of her touching poems, and heard a lot of anecdotes about her colorful life. A very intriguing character, that celebrated poetess named Xuanji. So I’m toying with the idea of compiling a poetry collection for her. A temple will be quiet and convenient for that purpose. After the knife message last night, staying in this hostel is no longer a good idea.’
‘Whatever you say, then, Master.’
A short while later, stepping out of the hostel, Yang abruptly turned and said, his eyes squinting in the sunlight, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to the temple, Master. The temple is still very much on the outskirts of the capital.’
‘You are worrying too much,’ Judge Dee said, stepping up into the carriage prepared for him.
It was out of the question for him to conduct the investigation openly, but a short stay at the temple for a Buddhist service as well as for the compilation of a poetry collection would sound like a plausible excuse for the judge, who was known among his colleagues for his passion for poetry, though hardly known as a poet compared with Xuanji.
As an integrated part of the civil service examination, poetry-writing in the Tang Empire was more than a fashion among men of letters. Success in the examination spelled a promising official career for the candidates. Successful or not in the examination, however, excellent poems alone could also bring the poets a sort of recognizable social status, and made their names remembered for ‘thousands of autumns.’ For those less talented writers of poetry, the compilation of a poetry collection would therefore make a considerable alternative.
‘What’s up …’ Yang did not finish the question – perhaps with the words ‘your sleeve?’ He had encountered unexpected changes of plan on Judge Dee’s part numerous times. ‘Whatever you decide to do, you don’t have to stay at a temple for that, Master. It’s not difficult to find a better hostel nearby.’
‘Like hostels, Dingguo Temple provides room and board for its visitors. For men of letters, a stay in the temple is also considered far more desirable, and fashionable, too. You may not know that well-known poets like Meng Haoran or Wang Zhihuan wrote poems on the temple walls, and then people came to the temple for the purpose of reading and copying the poems.’