The Imperial Alchemist

by A. H. Wang

  Amah shrugs, looking a little disappointed that she cannot enchant her granddaughter with another story-telling session. “Well, there’s a painting of Hsu Fu in the Gugong Museum. You can go see for yourself.”

  12

  Gugong Museum, also known as the National Palace Museum of Taipei, is home to the largest and finest permanent collection of ancient Chinese artefacts in the world. Located at the foot of a mountain in northwest Taipei, its expansive compound includes two exhibition buildings, a library, and just under two hectares of Chinese garden reflecting the classical styles of the Song and Ming dynasties. The exhibition areas are housed within the traditional Chinese architecture of Naples yellow walls and turquoise blue roof tiles, with large archways and a wide avenue leading up to the main building.

  Boasting a treasury of almost seven hundred thousand artefacts, it encompasses over eight millennia of Chinese history from the Neolithic age to the Republican period. Only around three thousand pieces of the collection can be shown at a given time, and it is speculated that there are still large reserves of treasure hidden in vaults under the mountain, precious antiquities that have never been shown to the public.

  It is also one of Georgia’s favourite places in the world.

  Every time she sets foot in this building, she gives her silent thanks to Chiang Kai-Shek. Despite the controversy around the generalissimo’s martial ruling in Taiwan, and the widespread corruption of his army and government, he also gave the world an enduring gift by preserving the heritage and legacy of the Chinese culture.

  Taiwan’s National Palace Museum shares its roots with the Palace Museum of the Beijing Forbidden City in China. The original collection of the Beijing museum was split in two after Chiang Kai-Shek lost the civil war to Chairman Mao. The Chinese Nationalist army retreated to Taiwan, taking with them some of the best pieces of Chinese heritage. Almost three thousand crates of artefacts were transported covertly with military escort during this time, though they only accounted for twenty percent of the crates originally transported out of Beijing. The rest were seized by the Communist army in 1949.

  China has long claimed that the collection was stolen, but Taiwan insists it was a necessary act to protect the valuable treasure from destruction; especially during the Cultural Revolution, in which Mao encouraged his people to purge all remnants of ‘capitalist and traditional elements’ from society. Between 1966 to 1976, Mao’s Red Guards destroyed countless ancient buildings, temples, relics and antiques. Mao persecuted thousands of intellectuals and scholars, and conducted frequent book burnings. He abolished the use of traditional text, introducing the use of simplified Chinese characters instead and effectively negated thousands of years of literature and culture that had evolved out of the art of Chinese calligraphy. The practice of many traditional customs and culture were also greatly weakened as a result. Indeed, some would argue that Taiwan became heir to the true Chinese legacy after the decade of ruination.

  As Georgia walks into the main building of Gugong Museum, she is affronted by its transformation in the three years since her last visit. Gone is the serene place of reflective thought as one gazes upon the legacy of a great civilisation. Instead, she feels as if she has just walked into the local wet market, with the throng of Chinese tourists making so much din and commotion it is difficult to navigate her way through the expansive foyer without having to push her way through the crowd.

  Horrified, she walks up the wide staircase, having a near-miss with a group of screaming children playing tag. She sighs in exasperation. In the past decade the hostility between Taiwan and China has gradually thawed, and the two countries have opened their borders to cross-strait tourism. Understandably, over half a century of segregation from each other breeds a certain level of curiosity on both sides. It is estimated that every day, over ten thousand Chinese tourists land in Taiwan, most of them fascinated by the island and its history, and especially by its former head of state, the infamous Chiang Kai-Shek. As a result, anything associated with the previous martial ruler is extremely popular with the Chinese tourists, especially the museum housing the collection he supposedly stole from China.

  She heads directly to the west wing of the second floor, where the painting and calligraphy section resides. There are fewer people here, as the section is less popular with the tourists. The permanent collection is usually rotated every three months, and Amah has assured her that the painting of Hsu Fu is currently on display. Amah has been a volunteer guide at the museum for only a few years, but her knowledge of the museum still never ceases to impress Georgia.

  She walks through the west wing methodically, examining every painting before moving on. There are six areas of exhibits in total, and it is not until she reaches the fifth room that she comes across what she is looking for.

  Standing in front of it, she draws in a breath. An ink and colour painting on a silk scroll, the work has yellowed with age and is frayed at the edges, but is otherwise in fair condition. It depicts two men, one of them obviously Emperor Qin, tall and stately. Qin is adorned in a black robe with strips of gold embroidery beneath the waist. As a crown, he wears a black coronet decorated with strings of beaded jade hanging in front and at the back of his head. One arm is extended towards the other man, as if to provide instructions. The other man, tall and thin, is leaning forward towards the emperor, his hands clasped within the wide sleeves of his pale robe. He has an unusually long, narrow face with square jaws. A goatee extends from his chin, and above his lips rests a thin moustache and an aquiline nose.

  But the most striking feature of all is his strange green eyes.

  Georgia looks down at the label next to the silk scroll:

  Qin Shi Huang and Hsu Fu, 100-200 CE.

  He watches her profile from the shadows of the dimly lit exhibition hall, furrowing his brow at this new development. Exhaling a sigh, the man runs his long, slender fingers through his matted hair.

  It appears that Georgia has found the painting of Hsu Fu and Emperor Qin.

  He knew she would find nothing at the Senkaku Islands. Those desolate islands are incapable of hosting anything but a few species of birds and rodents. It is a cleverly constructed detour designed to deflect and discourage any curious mind.

  A detour that has always worked. Until now.

  Knowing the kind of person she is, the man assumed she would have instantly dismissed the entire idea as a fantasy not worthy of investigation. But something, or someone, has managed to pique her interest.

  And at her current trajectory, he fears it is only a matter of time before she achieves her goal.

  13

  “This is all very fascinating, Georgia!” Amah exclaims, visibly excited as Georgia finishes her story.

  Georgia cringes at Amah’s enthusiasm, knowing Hank has warned her to keep quiet about the project. But after her discovery today, she felt as if she was bursting at the seams trying to keep this secret from Amah. Of course, her grandmother sensed this immediately, promptly interrogating her from every different angle until she finally relented and told her tale.

  Earlier today, Georgia walked out of the Gugong Museum, completely stupefied after she found the painting of Hsu Fu and Emperor Qin. Here was a third reference to Hsu Fu’s green eyes, confirming the information on Lambert’s oracle bone and in the Hata scroll.

  Could it really be possible that these pieces of information together prove that Hsu Fu’s expedition actually ended up in Japan? And what of Hsu Fu’s incredible healing abilities?

  Does the elixir really exist?

  The scientist in Georgia is in mutiny, violently rejecting the mere suggestion. But the part of her who grew up with Amah’s tantalising bedtime stories somehow finds the idea irresistible.

  “Yeah,” Georgia now replies to her grandmother, pushing the last bits of spaghetti around on her plate. “Yes it is. And very confusing and frustrating too.”

  They are sitting in a bustling, stylish vegetarian restaurant with an Italian twist. It
is Amah’s ninety-third birthday, and Georgia has decided to take her out for celebration. Amah is not accustomed to Italian food, but being who she is she has exclaimed in delight over every dish.

  “What do you mean?” Amah frowns at Georgia from across the table. “What’s so confusing and frustrating about it?”

  She shrugs, making a face. “Well, all the evidence I’ve found so far is weak at best and probably won’t stand up to scrutiny. Akiko Hata won’t let anyone examine the scroll properly for authentication; and really, the painting at Gugong doesn’t prove anything. The green eyes could just have easily been caused by a discolouration of the pigments.” She blows out a frustrated breath. “I mean, all this talk of the elixir, of immortality—I feel like I’m wasting my time. It’s just too far-fetched for me. I can’t believe in the possibility that Hsu Fu could still be alive after two thousand years. It’s just so—”

  “So… what?” Amah interjects, “So airy fairy, so fantastical, so unscientific?”

  “Yeah,” Georgia admits as Amah takes the words right out of her mouth.

  “Aiya, Georgia.” Amah shakes her head, clucking her tongue. “The concept of being able to fill a room with light with the flip of a switch was fantastical to someone two thousand years ago. The idea of flying in a metal bird from here to America within sixteen hours was unscientific to people just over a hundred years ago. There are so many unknowns, so many possibilities that are not within our grasp right now. What makes science so omnipotent, that anything it can’t prove is immediately impossible and untrue?”

  Amah reaches over to squeeze Georgia’s hand. “I know you’ve been raised and educated in the West. I know being a scientist is important to you. But you are also my granddaughter. You are the descendant of a culture which knows that the universe is far larger and more mysterious than a small human mind can fathom. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Georgia’s eyes well up as an unexpected ache spreads through her chest. Something about Amah’s words, the feel of her paper-thin skin against Georgia’s hand, and the way the older woman holds her gaze firmly but with kindness fills Georgia with a deep sense of longing. It is almost as if a part of her yearns to believe in the magic of her grandmother’s words again.

  Amah leans back into her chair, continuing, “So let’s suppose for a minute that it is possible that Hsu Fu had found the elixir, and that everything in the Hata scroll is true. Think of what this could mean, Georgia! To be able to cure sickness, to end suffering once and for all. Isn’t that something worth searching for? Isn’t it something that would actually help the advancement of science?”

  “Yeah,” Georgia replies, “Mark Lambert said the same thing. He promised that he’d use the elixir to end child mortality, amongst other things.”

  Amah flinches at Georgia’s tone. She frowns, placing a hand on Georgia’s cheek. “Georgia. Are you still having the same dreams?”

  “Like a broken record.” Georgia grimaces. “Sometimes it feels like this pain I feel is all I have left of her.”

  Amah nods, letting out a heavy sigh. “Sweetheart, it hurts, I know. But you can’t go on blaming yourself over it. Life is cruel sometimes, and there isn’t anything anyone can do about that. You did everything you could. With Lucas too.”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t enough, was it?” Georgia lets out a bitter laugh. “Jacqui is gone. And now so is Lucas. Nothing I did was good enough.”

  Amah falls silent, looking as if Georgia has slapped her in the face. Georgia bites down on her tongue, feeling self-indulgent with what she has said. This is Amah she is talking to, after all; and she has never heard her grandmother complain about anything in her life, even though Georgia knows she has been through some extremely challenging times. Amah’s generation has always remained indomitable in the face of the brutality of life, and they never utter their grievances, much less wallow in their own misery. Instead, they are forever grateful to be alive.

  After a long period of silence, Georgia almost feels the ridiculous need to apologise for what she has said. Before she does, though, a look of determination crosses Amah’s face, and she pushes her chair back to stand.

  “Come, Georgia.” Amah holds her hand out to her. “I want to show you something.”

  Her granddaughter follows her into the elevator of her apartment building like a dutiful child, silent and brooding. All the way home, they have not said a word to each other, each engrossed in their own thoughts.

  Amah wrings her liver-spotted hands, anxious about the tale she is about to share with Georgia: a story she has not told for decades. Not even her own daughter—Georgia’s mother—knows of this part of her life. It was a past Amah had buried in the deepest corner of her heart, and were it not for the look on her granddaughter’s face tonight, she would have happily left it there.

  But sometimes, the past must be revisited.

  The truth of this became clear to her at the restaurant tonight. Amah has not seen her precious granddaughter in person for years, and she was astonished to notice the change in her when the young woman showed up at the door: the gaunt, pallid face, the weight of pensive sorrow that seems to hover over her soul. Amah worries that if she doesn’t intervene soon, the grief that Georgia is holding down like a balloon under water will soon snuff out the light in her eyes.

  They finally enter her apartment, and gesturing to the settee in the lounge, she instructs Georgia as she heads for the bedroom: “Sit.”

  Inside the room, she reaches under the single bed, her hand encountering the familiar shoe box. She re-emerges into the lounge room with the package in hand, sitting down next to Georgia, who is looking at her with wide eyes. Without a word, Amah lifts the lid of the container, rummaging through its contents.

  “Ah,” she says when she finds what she’s looking for.

  She places it in Georgia’s hands, watching as her granddaughter stares at the black and white photograph, its corners yellowing and the edges worn with age. Amah cannot see so well anymore, but she can picture the photograph vividly in her mind: an attractive young woman clutching a baby boy in her lap. She is wearing a qipao—a traditional Chinese dress commonly worn by women in the early 1900s. The one-piece dress is simple, with a mandarin collar and an opening from the neck to the underarm buttoned with a Chinese knot. There are dark trimmings around the collar and sleeves, but it is otherwise without any embellishments. The young mother’s hair is pulled back, and she stares at the camera with a hint of mirth, as if she is holding back a smile. The baby boy in her lap has plump limbs and chubby cheeks, and grins unabashedly at the camera.

  They look happy.

  Georgia turns to her, eyes questioning.

  “That’s me, when I was very young,” Amah explains slowly. Then, tracing her index finger over the boy’s flushed cheeks, she murmurs, “And this… was my son.”

  “Your son?” Georgia asks with surprise.

  “Yes.” Amah nods, continuing to caress her finger softly over the boy’s face. “Yes, my son.”

  “Mum never told me.” Georgia frowns. “I thought she was your only child.”

  “She doesn’t know.” She finally peels her eyes away from the photograph to look at Georgia. “I had him when I was fifteen, with my first husband in China.”

  Georgia arches her eyebrows, clearly unsure of what to make of another sudden revelation. She didn’t know her grandmother had been married to another man, either.

  Amah closes her eyes, the decades of her youth come rushing back. She searches through her mind, trying to order her thoughts and calm the rising emotions in her throat. After a few moments, she finally draws in a long breath, then starts to speak. She can scarcely recognise her own voice as she begins her story.

  “My parents arranged our marriage,” she says, “I didn’t even meet him until our wedding night. That was the tradition at the time. My husband was much older, but he was very kind to me. A year after we married, I gave birth to our baby boy. We named him Yu-Lin.

 
“My husband owned a photography business in Nanjing at the time. He was the one who took this photo, you see, and life was good for us for a while. When the war started with the Japanese, we heard about the bloody battle in Shanghai. Everyone was nervous. I told my husband we should leave Nanjing, since it was the capital of China back then and everyone thought it was only logical that the Japanese would attack Nanjing next. He was hesitant at first about leaving his business behind, but eventually we decided to head for Hangzhou, where my family is from.

  “But by the time we finally made the decision, the Japanese army was marching towards Nanjing, and our own army began burning buildings and houses, destroying anything that might be useful to the enemy. They also destroyed boats, blocked the roads and the port to prevent civilians from leaving. We became trapped in our own city.”

  Amah pauses as she detects the tremor in her own voice. She takes a drink of water, her hand unsteady.

  She can tell from the look of dread on Georgia’s face that she knows exactly where this story is heading. Her granddaughter knows the history of China as if it is her own, and she knows that Amah is about to describe her own experience of the Nanjing Massacre: arguably the most horrific incident during the war between Japan and China. It is estimated that across a six-week period, the Japanese soldiers murdered over three hundred thousand unarmed combatants and civilians. And yet, to this day, Japan denies that the incident ever took place.

  “There was a Safety Zone established by the last of the Westerners living in the city, and some refugee camps were set up,” she continues, her voice soft. “We moved into one of them, the University Middle School, along with thousands of other people. Even though no shells were meant to be dropped on this part of the city, the Japanese soldiers would enter the Safety Zone every day—looting, raping, murdering.