My Last Empress

by Da Chen

  A game of poetry making ensued with each brushing a worse entry than the other, producing an array of limericks, sonnets, and stanzas filched somewhere, ranging from quasi brilliant couplets—“A drunken poet wades deep into a river, foggy; he wonders if it pours asunder from a sky, high”—to frivolity—“Three monks sit side by side nude in the bathing sun; six heads swing right to left without a stir of peeping wind.”

  Ink bled and brushes flew, soiling rolls of rice paper. Jars poured and cups emptied, filling full the throats of fools. It was then when the muse of poetry possessed us both.

  Haunted, drunk, and self-absorbed in his glee, one was prone to act in roles of his invention. Gripped, one could reach the moon, climbing the lanky ladder of darkness: many prior poets had perished falling off bridges and cliffs, their heroism lauded by similarly inclined souls. This state of airy consciousness was likened to a state of transcendence by monks and poets alike and deemed a glimpse of the Isle of Bliss promised by Guanyin, a lotus-leaf dwelling deity.

  S slipped away, only to return singing Peking opera arias rather expertly, costumed as a woman in a trailing gown, vivid with soft hand gestures and supple with a hippy gait.

  Eerie? To be sure. Alarming? Not at all.

  Noble-blooded and augustly descended he might be, S was no more or less than an odd elk of my very own ilk, a novel chip off the aged and rotten block; madness and singularity were twins conjoined, inseparable. He bloomed into a full blossom, as a peacock would fan its tail.

  Absorbingly, S inched toward me, singing a throat-swelling number while dancing a notoriously arousing routine known as Floating Lotus Leaves with his feet squirming forward, toes touching, heels gliding like a silkworm, other body parts unmoving. His hand faked a porous fan as he swiped a subtle wrist, urging a wordless breeze. Lyrics strained from his pursed lips smeared with red. Sorrow and anguish—the melodic widow’s remembrance of her dead spouse—were arced and raised between his freshly painted brows in the slender shape of two willow leaves. Genuine tears trickled down his faltering cheeks as he clicked his teeth and smacked his lips, enunciating each and every weighty word of widowhood, singing a requiem ending with his slowly falling forward, reaching to grasp my left knee with his trembling fingers as if holding onto the ghost of that sung operatic hero crushed under a rock rush from the Great Wall of his own ancestors’ making.

  S remained in such posture long after the last note was voiced and my applause receded. Then feebly he raised his head, gazing forlornly into my eyes, and uttered the closing lyrics of the aria in a singsong tone, “Don’t take her away. She is all that I’ve got, and all that I will ever have in this life and the next. Please …”

  Since the Mandarin language makes no distinction between a he or she in sound, when he uttered the above plea, I mistook him to be restarting another musical stanza, complete with the gesture of falling, weeping, tearing, and knee jerking that was unfinished from his last solo act, taking he to mean a flat he rather than a new she, a suddenly ascended syntactic phoenix.

  Sensing no reply from me, he shook my knee some more and this time cried out the following: “You do fancy my Qiu Rong, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “And she fancies you. I saw it—her kisses, her hugs. It all means nothing. She is all mine, do you know? I will conquer her, that wild child, just you see. I saw the way she looks at you—Big Man—that nonsense.” He sneered. “You don’t think I could be a Big Man, do you? I’ll show you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I could kill you with this silver stick.” He picked up a chopstick, pausing to examine it.

  “But you won’t!”

  “Servant!” S shouted.

  Dome Head availed himself, bowing before S.

  “Bring Qiu Rong here for her bedding duty this very moment,” S ordered.

  “The first empress has been readied for you. It is not Qiu Rong’s turn,” Dome Head said with head lowered. “It’s by Grandpa’s order.”

  “I am the emperor, can’t you see?” S demanded, looking hardly imperial: his makeup was soggy, running down his cheeks, one brow blurred into an enlarged olive leaf big in the middle.

  “I shall speak to the chief eunuch; the set order is not to be altered,” Dome Head replied, bowing low.

  “You are not to tell another soul. Out you go, you useless rat!” Rising on his knees, S lunged at him, chasing the eunuch out of the dining chamber, leaving In-In standing behind a marbled column, his shadow thin.

  “I, too, can be a Big Man,” S said, shuffling along, his feet heavy.

  Leaning on my In-In’s bony shoulder, I was just as clumsy. The length of a long corridor seemed to wiggle. Hung lanterns gleamed like monstrous eyes, flaming with hatred, flickering at our passage.

  S stormed into his sleeping chamber, modest in size, dull in decor, lit poorly by chandeliers of candlelight hanging from the pointed roof. He rushed to one end of his chamber where a boat-shaped bed stood draped under a red mosquito net. Forcefully, he lifted up the front of the net, finding nothing. He searched the back end, leaning feebly on the bedpost. There, with a girlish yelp of fright, leaped up a thin figure, frail and slightly hunched, her hair loosened and bony shoulders slanting, not a shred of clothing worn, rendering her pale and tender under the lights that flickered with the rustled net.

  “Your Eminence, pray forgive me,” cried the girl pitifully.

  “You lowly servant, how dare you come in here for favor without my permission!”

  “But this is my night. I am, after all, your first consort.” Shaking with plea, her hands covering her budding chest, the girlish figure squatted before the enflamed S.

  “Tell me who it was that let you in here! Tell me or I will pull out all of your hair.” He reached for her loosened coif, grabbing a bundle, which he yanked with great force causing her to let out a yelp of fright and pain.

  “It is Grandpa’s will. It is all her doing. You cannot blame me for wanting—”

  “It’s all Grandpa’s fault,” he sneered, slurring his words. “None of your own flesh-and-blood base wantonness and greed.”

  “It’s your fault as well!”

  “How dare you accuse me of any fault?” It was enough to stop S from yanking her hair and pause to hear what she had to say.

  “You … you haven’t even mated me, not once s-since our wedding night. Am I that ugly? Is Qiu Rong that pretty, taking up all our time?”

  “How dare you speak of me—of her—this way!”

  Grabbing a palm-leaf mosquito sweeper, S savagely slashed her bare back, along her chest, down her thighs and buttocks. The sweeper cut through the air with whipping sounds, each lash punctuated by her fearful cry.

  The scene nearly incensed me to leap forward in defense of the damsel in distress, when the petrified consort, sensing no reversal of fortune or softening of his manly wrist, fled out the corridor, a frightened child.

  “How I detest that girl,” S said, teeth clenched. “Someday all will end.” He sank his thin frame onto his wooden bed, batting away the languid net, a dazed stare in his eyes. “I will make her a woman. Take this.” He reached under his pillow, producing a folded silk bag tied with string, and passed it to me. “Now go fetch Qiu Rong. Tonight is the night of happiness of flesh and blood, of legacy and heir; tonight you will see this. I want you to witness my manliness. I am not what she claims. I am capable of doing my duty. I will make good that promise. The Qing Empire will have its own heir from this man, and no others. The legacy is mine to uphold, the dynasty is mine to prolong.”

  “You shouldn’t have beaten your empress,” I snarled, and I hurled myself at the prone S, only to be thrown aside with his easy left elbow, a glimpse of his warrior art on display.

  “You know not half of what I am enduring. Now hurry.” He threw the silk bag at my side. Readily I was helped up by In-In, who led me away in search of Qiu Rong’s residence, several high-walled courtyards to the west.


  “What is this silk bag for?” I inquired, leaning on In-In like a blind’s cane.

  “It contains silver ingots, marital favors of Ru Fan—entering chamber,” In-In explained in a low, rattling voice.

  “Enter what chamber?” The liquor, fine or foul, was dancing in my own dwelling now.

  “Her chamber.”

  “Why can’t you take this favor while I rest my feet?” My knees were buckling, my head bobbing, as we neared a set of stone stairs. “I’m exhausted.”

  “I am not allowed to go in your stead. Such task is a sacred and secretive one,” said In-In, yanking me forward by my hands. “Only those high in ranking and trustworthy are allowed to carry it out.”

  “What is to be done besides delivering the silk bag?”

  “Bei dai.”

  “Carry a sack?”

  “Empresses are carried in this body sack by a chosen eunuch to accept favors from the emperor, and they are allowed to crawl under his quilt into his august bed.”

  A shadowy sentry of three night guards armed with spears and daggers passed us quietly by. Ten yards later, they hit a bronze gong—one, two, three—three beats intimating the depth of night.

  Her residence soon came to view under a pale moon, an elegant house fronted with a garden and surrounded on all sides by a roofed porch from which guan hua, the leisure of appreciating flowers, could be pursued by the dweller, and pin cha, tea drinking, could be brewed and brooded upon for her visitors.

  A puppy came running and jumping up to sniff In-In’s hand as he knocked on the door, announcing our arrival. In-In, to whom the pet seemed familiar, fished out something from his robe pocket and threw it. The puppy trotted away, munching fiercely. A bone it must be from the feast, uneaten and ignored.

  “Who is it?” Q’s voice was heard, though it was her servant, a girl named Lin-Lin, who answered the door, sticking her head out for inspection.

  “We are here to take the empress to the emperor,” In-In replied.

  “How can it be? It’s not Missy’s night … and what is he doing here?” Lin-Lin asked, giving me an eyeful.

  “It is the emperor’s wish that Pi-Jin carry over his bride.”

  “Is he drunk or smoking again?”

  “Both.”

  “How about him?” Lin-Lin asked, pointing her finger at me. By now I was leaning rather feebly against a column lest I collapse onto the dark rosary bed.

  “They were feasting together. The emperor, in a rage, threw the first out, giving silver back to your Missy. It is a favor. Be quick to wake her.”

  “Favor, my foot. He hardly does anything to her anymore.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Missy. She is all restless, smoking more every day.”

  “Here, take this to her and get her ready now,” In-In urged, passing her the silk bag, “or the emperor will climb the chimney, the way we left him.”

  “See,” Lin-Lin pointed out in disgust, “it’s even embroidered with first empress’s name.”

  “Speak no more nonsense,” In-In said curtly.

  “Wait, then.” Lin-Lin shut the door, sending out a puff of fragrance that could only be opium, which the rich and powerful all indulged in as a favored pastime.

  “The silver is given, what shall we do now?” I asked, inhaling the minced air, a mirage of a narrow-laned bordello swimming in my head.

  “We wait for her to be ready, and then you carry her to our master.” Holding my right hand, he pinched the web between my thumb and forefinger. A surge of sharp pain charged up my shoulder, leading me to shake off his grip.

  “What was that?”

  “An acupuncturist’s trick. A single pressing of this nerve hub will make your head alert and feet steady again.”

  “Come now, Pi-Jin,” Lin-Lin said, opening the door for me. “Empress is ready to enter the bag.”

  I stumbled inside under dim light, amidst hazy smoke. Q sat nude on the floor, her clothing strewn all around her while a pipe dangled from the corner of her mouth. Her thighs were long, skin jade-like, and shoulders bare and bony, a still portraitist’s dream. Her breasts were peach-round and nipples upturned. Her hair was loosened, cascading down one shoulder, shadowing over her left bosom. Smoke spiraled, contouring her face, rising along her forehead to linger among her hair roots like summer hay caught up in a smoldering fire.

  “Have you seen enough, Big Man, or should I remain this way for you?” she asked, blowing a puff my way as she turned to face me, her thighs parting as she spoke.

  Oh, you evanescent Eve, my pubescent siren. Another moment of truth and I would be condemned per palace laws or just layman’s conscience.

  It might be the wine or a sniff of O, but this Pickens presently felt no fear or remorse, for she was for my taking. She was that promised reward, that pledged pavilion in the wind, upriver on the narrow horizon. I wanted to drop on my knees, submitting to certain, eternal death just for a lick of her sweat beading down her left breast, but before I could do so, Q’s servant slapped her mistress’s thighs together and yanked the pipe out of her lips, rendering Q to roar with anger, “You will be punished, you worthless maid!”

  Minding not her mistress’s curse, Lin-Lin squatted by Q’s side, lifting her up by her arm. “It’s time to go accept the favor. Get into the sack.” On the floor was spread the bag with string loosened around its mouth.

  “Favor? I want to see if he can get his diao zi hard enough for me, or I’ll have to cut it off next time he teases me.”

  “Never mind her gibberish; you really shouldn’t take what she says to heart. She means no such harm. She is just a little bubbly. Please tell no one of her state, Tutor Pi-Jin. Had we known she was to be called on, I would never let her have what she desired,” said Lin-Lin, pressing a bag of said herb into my robe pocket.

  One foot at a time, Q stepped within the fallen sack to sit at its bottom. Slowly Lin-Lin pulled tight the draw string then passed the end of the rope to me.

  Like a thief, I swung her over my left shoulder and stumbled along the path shone bright by In-In’s lantern. Q’s softness warmed my back; her shallow groans rhymed with my gait. Fate tempted me every step I ferried; destiny urged me on. How I yearned to leap away from here, my loot in tow, vanishing from this seraglio, usurping his as mine—mine in celestial design, foretold by that puff of urgent summer flame in the long-ago land where initial love sparked, was kindled and ignited.

  Under a low moon the palace was icy, though heat hung still in the midnight air. The sovereign lay stiff and flat on his back, his mouth murmuring Buddhist psalms to calm his own nerves, his nebular mosquito net shielding his secrecy and shame. Loquacious red lanterns were lit, feigning festive cheer. S, however, looked the part of one dying, shivering in fear of his imminent demise.

  All his servants were out of sight. I could, in one swipe, knock akimbo the walled lanterns and set the chamber aflame via the burning mosquito net, trapping the despot in his bed surrounded by heated fury, ending this fiasco before it could ever begin.

  Gently I lay down my supple ward at the foot of his meager bed, so that she, by strident etiquette, could duck low and crawl humbly under his cold quilt. It reminded one not of a congenial congress but some tunneled and testudineous thievery.

  Q stirred slightly when I untied the sack.

  “What took you so long, Pi-Jin?” the sovereign uttered from his bed. “Did you take the first dipping already?”

  His acrimony needed no reply.

  I peeled the sack down Q’s sleek form. Lamely, she leaned against the bedpost, her eyes half closed, head drooping to the side, a dazed daffodil.

  S pointed to a partitioned screen. “Sit behind there and watch.”

  Casting a final glance at her, that urge rose again. All I had to do was leap on S leopard-like and I could muffle him to a baffled death with his own quilt.

  Discreet, Pickens.

  I sulked to the seat assigned me behind that folding screen, lacquered and ludicrous. In dark
ness, I watched them through the cracks as S rose up, gourd and thistles swinging, to tower over the supine Q. He shook her shoulders till she was awakened, muffled shouts were exchanged.

  Q struggled to her feet, facing the discourteous cuckold, slapping him across his cheek. “You spineless child. Look at you. You want to be a Big Man? Where is your MAN? I can’t see any, can you?” She ducked her head, faking a search of his midsection.

  This time it was the emperor who empowered his bare palm, delivering a forceful pair of smacks across her cheeks, throwing her rustled blond hair awry, nearly bringing her off her feet.

  “How dare you slap me!” she cried, covering her face with both hands. “I am not your other whores, you filthy drunk.”

  “And you, yan gui,”—smoke ghost or addict—“your breath reeks of opium.” S sneered. He lifted her up like a caught fish and threw her onto his tumbled blankets, before assaulting her with mad thrusts while shouting curses of royal variety. “You are useless womanhood! Good for nothing but this! Where is your …?”

  “If you have to ask!” Q screeched.

  “I’ll punish you … till you bleed to death!”

  “If you know how,” she taunted.

  “Where is your thing?” He paused to investigate, peering between her thrashing, upright thighs.

  “Even a blind bull could find his mare’s cave,” fumed Q, letting him fumble some more. “Why are you doing this? To impress your tutor?”

  “No, to show you what I got!”

  “You haven’t gotten much there or anywhere, believe me.”

  “You are an ill-bred whore!”

  “The way you like it.”

  “Don’t you tease me!”

  “You’re making a fool of yourself trying to do what you cannot.”

  “Don’t you want me to sire an heir so you could be a legita— … Ouch!”

  “Why don’t you ask Grandpa to show you how? She knows plenty such tricks. Enough to get herself knocked up as a lowly palace concubine.”

  The emperor suddenly paused, lying still on Q’s bare belly, panting. “Did you have to utter her name? See what you have done. I am weakened.”