So Dragonfly’s mother persuaded the vermilion dragon-carp to disguise itself, first as the queer-eyed beggar who gave warning to young Wu, and then as a beautiful woman, a singer. In this latter guise, the scaly creature took up life in the Entertainment Quarter of Liang-jou. Soon enough, young Wu encountered the otherworldly warbler, who called itself White-caps, at an official banquet, and fell under the spell of its unnatural charms.
In this. Dragonfly’s mother’s plans went awry, for what she thought would be the final strengthening test of the young man’s honour became instead a seduction. This was nothing other than the work of the troublemaking hungry ghost of Dragonfly’s nanny: Having learned by eavesdropping on the mother’s conversations with the carp that she hoped to make a good marriage out of her daughter’s shameful affair, the jealous ghost had immediately begun to seek a second mistress for the attractive young Wu. It also cast about for another possible lover for poor Dragonfly. And so, in order to stimulate itself with prurient sights, it turned the young man’s carnal interests to the singer Whitecaps. More must be said later of these things.
As for Wu, in Whitecaps he had been given a test that no mortal man could pass. He failed to notice that the lake-born monster of whom he was now so enamoured cast no shadow, even on the brightest day. The spiteful ghost egged him on, willingly letting Dragonfly’s heart be broken, that it might enjoy the lust-provoking sight of Wu’s meetings with the fishy seductress. And Wu, fallen under this enchantment, quite forgot his beloved, and pledged to take Whitecaps with him when he left Liang-jou for Chang-an, as he had recently received orders to do.
When Dragonfly’s mother learned what had happened, she chided her husband’s uncle, as boldly as she dared, for seducing her daughter’s lover. But the wilful creature protested that she had told it to give the young man a proper test and that Wu had responded so readily it seemed almost as if he were under the spell of some malevolent spirit – as indeed, good listeners, he was. When his new mistress disappeared, poor Wu was far too ashamed to return to Dragonfly at Lutegarden, for he knew that word of the affair must surely have reached her, and so, travelling by day and stopping at night, he went on to Chang-an by himself.
Members of the audience, when you hear of Wu’s behaviour, perhaps you will remember the old proverb.
Heedless of oaths and heaven’s destiny.
The rake runs off, and leaves the girl to pine.
And yet, when you look at it, you will see that such actions are not entirely blameworthy in a spirited young man who was spoiled by his parents and five elder sisters, and who had to contend with the interference both of Mama Chen on earth and of the misguided mother and the licentious ghost from another realm.
Now, keep your ears clean while I tell how the mother of Dragonfly, heedless of Wu’s virtues, took a terrible revenge on the young man who had made a fallen woman of her daughter. The days and nights passed like an arrow, and Collator Wu’s family arranged his marriage to a young lady of Chang-an, whose name – just as the vermilion dragon-carp in its guise as a crippled old man had foretold – was none other than Fairy Maid. But alas, Wu had forgotten all about the strange warning he had received that long-ago night in Liang-jou.
One morning, Wu was walking near his fishpond in Chang-an with his new bride when a large ruddy carp leapt up among the lotus leaves. Of course it was the spy of Dragonfly’s mother, come to the human world to report on the doings of the young man. When the mother learned that Wu had married Fairy Maid despite the vow he wrote out for Dragonfly on that length of white silk, she begged the dragon-carp to disguise itself again, and that night it appeared in Wu’s garden, in the form of a comely youth who crouched outside the bedroom window and called Fairy Maid’s name in the piercing whisper of a clandestine lover.
In a frenzy, Wu ran into the courtyard, but the vermilion-clad youth had changed back into a fish and leapt into the pond. Returning to Fairy Maid, Wu interrogated her, but of course even when he slapped her she could not explain the presence of the youth. This happened night after night, with the dragon-carp taking many different guises, until Wu hovered on the brink of madness. The servants gossiped, spreading the tales of his jealousy, until the people of the neighbourhood began to think.
If there’s chaff in the courtyard.
Someone’s been threshing grain.
Taking him for a cuckold, they called him Turtle Wu, which made him even more convinced that his beautiful young wife had broken her marriage vows. Soon his friends stopped visiting him, so unpleasant were his jealous fits, and he abandoned his official duties altogether that he might stay at home and keep watch over her.
When the dragon-carp reported all this to Dragonfly’s mother, she rested content and told the creature to leave Wu alone. But when the youths stopped beckoning at the window, Wu only decided that the lovers had become more secretive. His grip on Fairy Maid grew tighter, and his questionings grew more brutal, until one night, sleepless and crazed, he beat her to death.
Now, all actions have their consequences, and the ghost of the unjustly murdered Fairy Maid returned to haunt Wu. As for him, he was already racked with remorse over killing his wife, and this stirred up once again the guilty remembrance of breaking his vow to Dragonfly. Every time he closed his eyes to sleep, Wu was greeted by the appearance now of Fairy Maid, now of Dragonfly, moving slowly through the bed-curtains towards him, gaze fixed beyond his shoulder, looking through him as if he were only an apparition. Sometimes the two of them merged into one figure, whose preternatural beauty was even greater than that of either woman. This doubled being had the unearthly paleness of one whose heart has long ago left this common world. Except for the hectic flush on her cheekbones, this strange blend of Fairy Maid and Dragonfly had a skin so fine it was nearly translucent. Wu stared and called out the name of the first woman and then the other’s, but she refused to meet his eyes and all he saw was
Willow brows arched fine over glittering eyes;
Clammy shadows soft in cavelike cheeks.
A drifting fairy, a hovering dragonfly.
Her hands silk-white as summer’s deserted fan.
And so, as the sun and moon flew like a weaver’s shuttle, Wu fell into a decline and died. But let us leave such talk at rest and tell instead how, back in Liang-jou, Dragonfly languished desolate as any forgotten woman still faithful to her man. Her one remaining desire was to take the veil, becoming a Lady of the Tao, and so retire in solitude to a place outside the city.
But if you want to know whether she accomplished this (my young assistant is passing among you now, should you feel inclined to make a contribution), or what became of the enmity between the girl’s chaste mother, held beneath Cavegarden Lake (my gratitude, madam, for your generosity), and the wandering lascivious ghost of her nanny (ah, even the little urchin has contributed his mite! thanks, my lad), you will have to return to listen when I continue the tale.
PARROT
SPEAKS:
9
‘Have some more tea. Parrot,’ said Nephrite, pouring me another warming cup before I could refuse. We sat in the garden, the afternoon following my sleepless night of longing for Ghalib, and Wu – and Nanny, too, I suppose. Clouds blanketed the sky; it was the end of the eighth month, and the dark yin principle, ruler of the cold months, rose daily in ascendance over the sunny yang. Nephrite liked this sort of weather, but she had sensed my low mood and took pains to cheer me up as best she could. I told her who Ghalib was, but she merely shrugged off the coincidence of our meeting when I suggested there might be some strange sort of reason for it. ‘What land route would a Persian trader take into China, Parrot, if not the Silk Road?’ she said. ‘And what caravan doesn’t stop a while in Liang-jou? Anyway, put your mind on other things. The Amah will look after you, if you devote yourself to her.’
She often lectured me like that, reminding me of the powerful Western Motherqueen, who watches over her worshippers as a faithful amah watches over a child and doesn’t know the sub
servience of good daughters and wives. I never knew what to say when Nephrite talked about those things; the ideas seemed dangerous, and yet somehow attractive.
This time Bellring arrived and saved me from having to answer. ‘Bellring,’ Nephrite said, switching out of Khotanese, ‘come and have some chrysanthemum tea. I was just discussing a poem of Tao Chien’s with Dragonfly. My guest last night taught it to me. It’s a lovely thing for an autumn day.’
‘And I suppose it’s all about the peace of life in retirement from the world,’ said Bellring, laughing as she sat beside me. ‘Just the thing for you. Nephrite. And Dragonfly, if it’s like the Tao Chien poems I’ve heard, it reminds us of the virtues of endurance. Not bad advice, though I don’t suppose Old Tao ever suffered from a broken heart.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Delicious! What a pity we can’t all be brave as chrysanthemums in the autumn frosts. Well, I’d like to hear it, please.’
So Nephrite recited the poem, and Bellring teased her gently about last night’s guest. ‘I’d never have known, to see you with him, that you wanted him to stay the night. However do you keep yourself so uninvolved, dear one? And how can you give Dragonfly a bit of your forbearance?’ She tilted her head in her slow way and turned to face me. ‘You really mustn’t mind about that fellow Wu, you know. One’s first real lover is rarely the only one. Besides’ – her voice changed to a more playful tone – ‘who knows? Perhaps someday you’ll be the heroine of a story like one of Mama Chen’s – a virtuous musicienne betrayed by a man driven by demons into faithlessness!’
We all three laughed then, and Nephrite added, ‘And in the end of course she’ll give up her musician’s life, and take the veil, and the man will come to some suitably awful end.’
It was a rare moment, sitting there with Nephrite and Bellring treating me more like an equal than a younger sister or a student. My throat was warmed with the tea and the laughter. I said that I wondered what else such a story would distort, adding, ‘At least it’s true that Whitecaps woman is some kind of monster,’ which made them laugh again, and so warmed me more.
Whoever tells of the women of the entertainments districts, I thought then, lies unless it is acknowledged that beside every conniving Little Pink and flighty Glory there stands a Saffron who must hide genuine feeling beneath glittering poetic wit, a Bellring caring for her unfortunate sisters, and a Nephrite who only protects herself as she can from the onslaughts of this dusty world. Perhaps I should have added that behind every Dragonfly hard at work to learn the silent language of enticement lingers a Parrot who would like only to speak the truth.
But Bellring broke into my brooding, taking me into the house and showing me how to twist up my hair in a new style from Chang-an. By the time the kitchen maids had lit the red gauze lanterns outside our gate, I was playing happily at Double Sixes with Baby in my room.
Then Mama Chen bustled in. ‘Are you presentable. Dragonfly?’ she asked, as if I hadn’t spent much of the morning bathing and making up as always; that day I had dotted a blue floret beauty spot on each cheek, just to fill a few moments more. ‘Baby, clear these things away,’ she said, ‘and tidy up the room. Quickly now! A gentleman’s come to call on Miss Dragonfly, and she’ll be dining with him here.’
Baby’s face showed no feeling at all, not even a natural annoyance at the abrupt end to our game. Mama Chen hurried off to keep the man entertained in the reception room while we made ready, leaving me to wonder who had come that she would show him directly to my room.
‘Do you think it’s Wu?’ I said to Baby. But she only shrugged, swept the pieces off the game board, and rubbed the fingers of her free hand together, signifying money.
So – Wu if he had been generous enough to get back in Mama Chen’s good graces. But when Mama Chen returned, the man behind her was taller than Wu, and his nose arched too high for any Chinese man’s. Mama Chen would let someone skip the preliminary courtship before a private meeting if she knew he was bound to leave town soon – and if he made it worth her while.
‘Why, the silly girl’s forgotten to light incense, sir!’ she exclaimed in Soghdian, snatching up the golden-duck brazier by my bed. ‘Please do sit down. I’m off to the kitchen to oversee your supper – I’ll order some specialities of the town, if you like, sir – and the little apprentice here will bring it up. Well, don’t just stand there gawking. Dragonfly. Ask the gentleman if he’d like to hear yoaplay a song. Baby, come along!’ With that, the two of them departed, and I stood alone before Ghalib.
‘You said you’d be off for Chang-an by now,’ I said. Had he only meant to tease me?
‘Umar’s taken sick. They’re looking after him at the caravanserai, but I’ll have to stay in Liang-jou for a while. Shall I sit over there by the little table?’ He looked as if it amused him to remind me of my duties as a hostess.
The truth was that I felt this outsider saw much too easily beyond the subtle dance of word and gesture we trod with our guests at Lutegarden House. Yet his nature – unaccustomed though he was to Chinese ways, he was still refined – prevented his taking me for a whore, as his companions seemed to do. Still, his amusement angered me; did he suppose my life allowed sincerity?
Mama Chen rushed in with the fragrant burner wafting long trails of smoke and looked askance at me. I asked him, in a shy tone that I knew she would approve of, what song he would like me to play. On her way out she nodded, satisfied.
‘No worn-out words about true love that you sing to every stranger,’ he replied.
My cheeks blazed, though I could only swallow my anger. He was, after all, a guest. ‘Perhaps that’s all I know,’ I said, staring fixedly as he reclined on a cushion and made that graceful bend of his leg.
Then he apologized, saying he had been rude. ‘I’ve a clumsy tongue in Soghdian, Little Parrot,’ he said. ‘Not everyone has your gift with foreign words.’
Simple flattery, perhaps, but in that moment it reminded me of the times when Baba had praised me for saying something childishly clever. I felt the anger dissipate like incense from the brazier. I asked again, meaning it, if he wanted me to play.
He said he did, adding, ‘Can you give me a song with words you wrote yourself? I’ve heard you’re quite talented.’ His cheeks rose as he smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter about the language. Later you can tell me what it means.’
Love-Longing Tarries
Leafless willow withes.
Silken threads of rain –
She lifts the blind to watch grey twilight shade into the night.
A west wind rises, scatters heavy clouds.
Incense floats up slowly
Towards a jade-hook moon.
After midnight’s watch is struck: on fall’s last flowers, frost.
Alone, she waits to see them in dawn’s light.
Within the Incense Vapours
And so the dizzying vapours rise from their brief burning coals in the metal brazier. The strings of the lute, one for each season of the year, cease their melancholy twanging. Autumn swells towards fullness; the damp, womanly yin principle reigns over human emotions as well as over the weather now. A hawk-nosed traveller sits up and takes a singer barely more than girl onto his lap, as a father might his child. At first she holds herself apart, fearing his scorn, a thought she never had with earlier lovers. He feels weary from the long months over dry lands and lonely in the way of men nearly always alone. He has sensed that same fastidious loneliness within her and begins to touch her very slowly, like a tribesman of the mountains come to tame a wild, exotic bird. There is, of course, a purpose to that taming, but sometimes that is also what the bird desires.
They make a game of it, teaching one another words in their differing tongues: and this means ‘throat’ and this is ‘breast’ and these are ‘waist’ and ‘hip’ and ‘thigh’. Then language fails, or is cast aside, and they move through fragrant smoke to the wide low bed. He takes uncommon pleasure in their joining, but not a pleasure he has never known. For her, though, the long night hol
ds something new: not the urgent wanting – her mouth has tasted that – but its fruition. Blood suffuses her delicate skin, her body seems to deliquesce, soft sounds lift from her throat. For a moment, hearing her, he supposes this last is merely acted out, another of the songs she has been taught to sing. Then he decides, correctly, that he is wrong.
In the morning, he will wake quickly, and she will already be awake, watching him like one struck dumb, unable to be charming, or witty, or bright. Passion will have wiped away the languages she has so carefully learned, or if not passion, then some deep impulse towards self-protection; his power to move her, for all that she wants to be moved, is the power to hurt. Perhaps he will take her silence for dullness, or indifference. In any case, he will feel the coldness of the little dancer come to bring the lovers tea and air the room. He will rise and leave at once.
But now, in the night, the ghost of the woman’s nanny comes, drawn helplessly by the fumes of musk. The ghost takes no perverse pleasure in its disembodied hovering over the lovers’ bed, though it feels a kind of happiness that the child has at last grown enough to brave those fleeting carnal joys. Indeed, the ghost suffers a great anguish for what it has lost. And the mother of the woman is drawn, too, to gaze into a mirror cloudy with aromatic smoke and see the two, and know. Her heart divides: she believes she should feel shame at the unwed shamelessness; she fears for her daughter’s future sorrow in a world where women are said to fall; she wants for her the free-breathing tenderness of her own unlawful bed.
Silk Road Page 13