Peach Blossom Paradise

by Ge Fei

  Han Liu asked Xiumi if she had eaten.

  “Where would I get food with you gone?” Xiumi asked.

  Han Liu laughed. “Isn’t the rest of the corn still in the pot?”

  Reaching into her bamboo basket, Han Liu removed a blue cloth covering a terra-cotta pot that contained cooked wood grouse. Not having eaten all day, a starving Xiumi grabbed the grouse and started to stuff her face. Han Liu watched her eat and smiled, occasionally patting her on the back and reminding her not to choke.

  Han Liu said that she had arrived in Huajiashe during the wake. Wang Guancheng’s body had been displayed on top of his coffin, but there was no cauldron or vase for incense, or candles or a ceremonial table. Two bowls on the floor contained enough lamp oil to sustain a few embers the size of mung beans; that was the extent of his funerary flame. An offering of a few pieces of ordinary fruit sat beside the bowls. The body was clothed in a tattered robe with patches, like a begging monk’s cassock, and the cloth shoes on his feet had holes in the soles. The decor was embarrassingly spare. The handful of young boys and maids who stood in attendance were themselves dressed in rags.

  It was Han Liu’s first time seeing Wang Guancheng in the flesh, and she was shocked to see the chief was merely a wizened old man with a patchy beard and a worried expression on his face. Extensive blood loss had turned the face a paraffin yellow. Han Liu knelt on the prayer mat before the coffin, kowtowed a few times, and started to recite the sutra.

  Soon, a woman in her mid-fifties emerged from the house with a heavy needle and a roll of thread. Han Liu recognized her as Wang Guancheng’s governess. For some reason, perhaps out of fear, her hands began to tremble violently. The older woman handed needle and thread to Han Liu while gesturing with her head toward the body. Han Liu understood that she was being asked to sew up the wound on his neck.

  The blade that struck him must have been dull, judging from the shards of bone she found in his long gray hair. By her own count, it took her sixty-two stitches to sew his head and neck back together. As she looked around for a place to wash her hands, the governess addressed her. “Teacher, if you could close his eyes while you’re here.”

  Han Liu replied nervously, “Look at those eyes—they’re open as wide as a water buffalo’s. Only a close relation can close them properly. I am neither a friend of his nor family, how could I be so presumptuous?”

  The governess sighed. “The Boss had no children and lived totally alone. Though a few of us served him for many years, he barely ever said a word. Besides, we don’t understand the rituals. If you would take charge of the rites, Teacher, we would be very obliged.”

  Han Liu hesitated for a moment before agreeing. “Did he have a jade pendant?” she asked.

  “The Boss was extremely frugal in his lifetime,” the matron replied. “I never saw a polished rock in his house, let alone a jade pendant. Even the cheap timber for his coffin was paid for with donations from his neighbors.”

  “Did he have any prayer beads?”

  The old woman shook her head once more.

  Han Liu looked around the room and noticed a bunch of freshly picked cherries among the fruit offerings, beads of dew still shining on the ripe skin. She picked one, pried open his mouth, and dropped the cherry in before closing his mouth again, and then attempted to close his eyes. But Wang Guancheng’s eyes would not close, even after six attempts. All Han Liu could do was remove a yellow silk handkerchief from her pocket and lay it over his face. When she asked the governess to bring her a clean set of his clothes, a maid stepped forward and said, “We’ve never seen the chief wear anything except the clothes on his body. He does have a heavy cotton robe for winter, but that would indicate the wrong season.” Han Liu agreed.

  Outlaws and villagers from all over gathered outside the courtyard to observe the funeral. The other leaders came to pay their respects, accompanied by a personal retinue of watchful bodyguards with hands on their swords. Each man made a hurried obeisance before the corpse, then retreated into the open courtyard. Han Liu could see from the dark suspicion etched in every man’s face that Wang Guancheng’s sudden demise had them all on guard. When the obeisances ended, Han Liu ordered the burial procession to begin. A handful of workmen awkwardly lifted the corpse into the coffin and were about to nail down the lid when Han Liu blurted out, “Where’s Number Two?”

  The matron stepped over to her and whispered, “He won’t come. We sent people over there three times today. At noon, his servants told us he had gone fishing on the lake. No need to wait for him now.”

  Han Liu allowed the workmen to secure the lid by driving in the wooden nails and knotting the hempen ropes tight. When all was ready, a voice called out from the courtyard, “Raise the coffin!” She watched the pallbearers carry the casket slowly out the door, through the courtyard, and down the road west.

  •

  After Han Liu finished her story, the two women sat in dull silence for a moment. Then Xiumi told her in detail about her dream encounter with Wang Guancheng.

  Han Liu smiled. “Everything turns into a ghost story when it passes your lips, doesn’t it? Generally, we think of dying as no more than an unpleasant last thing you do with your life, so there’s not much to be afraid of. But when you describe it, it all sounds terrifying, as if the whole world around us is fake.”

  “It’s all fake to begin with, anyway,” Xiumi morosely replied with a sigh.

  6

  OCTOBER 24, 1901

  Heavy rain. Meeting at the Xue estate in Xia village to discuss the Ten Capital Crimes in the afternoon. Current consensus is to kill (1) those who possess hereditary estates larger than five acres; (2) those who practice usury; (3) court officials with a history of corruption; (4) prostitutes; (5) robbers; (6) those afflicted with leprosy, consumption, or other infectious diseases; (7) those who abuse women, children, or the elderly; (8) women who bind their feet; (9) human traffickers; (10) matchmakers, witches, monks, and Taoists. All members present were in agreement over every item except number eight. The staunchest opponent was Wang Xiaohe, whose reason was that a majority of the women in Xia village and Puji bind their feet, including his own mother, wife, and two younger sisters. After group discussion, the item was changed to women who bind their feet after the success of the revolution.

  Returned to Puji late in the evening as the rain continued. Felt an overwhelming bodily exhaustion. Meiyun came upstairs late in the night and pestered me until I had no choice but to muster my strength and give her what she wanted. I had lost interest in her long ago, and felt it poor entertainment. Forced intercourse without passion is truly the most unpleasant of activities. My spirit ailing, I came before my task was completed. Meiyun asked suspiciously, “What made you so soft? Did some vixen in Xia village suck out all your energy?” I swore up and down that had not happened, coaxing and cajoling her, but she was not convinced. After a brief respite, I gathered what remained of my energy to give her what she wanted and prove there was no one else. But the sight of the wrinkles on her neck, the hanging flesh on her back and arms, killed my ardor; it was like beating a dead horse.

  Meiyun started to sob, then turned angry. “You’re thinking of someone else, don’t imagine I can’t see it!” I tried to object, but she raised a cold eye to me and hissed, “If you so much as lay a finger on her, I’ll tear your limbs off and feed them to the dogs.”

  My flesh turned cold and my hair stood on end. By “her,” Meiyun obviously must have meant Xiumi. Strange. Xiumi and I have barely talked since I came to Puji, how could she have guessed my feelings? Truly astounding to see how connected a mother’s mind is with her daughter’s. A woman’s eyes are a hundred times sharper than an eagle’s talons; I must make sure not to be careless.

  Thinking of Xiuxiu infused me with such thirst that I mounted Meiyun like a bull; she sweated and moaned, her eyes rolled. How magical it would be if this old lady should suddenly transform
into Xiumi! Oh, my girl, my girl! As Meiyun breathed heavily, I teased her, “I wonder if the girl’s body is as white and soft as yours, like a fresh-baked bun?” Meiyun pretended not to hear me and kept on whimpering. Then we heard a noise from the doorway; Meiyun opened her eyes and recoiled, pulling her clothes to her chest. Then she went to the window and looked into the courtyard. It was Baoshen’s son, Tiger. The monster just arrived from Qinggang.

  Zuyan and his concubine have become inseparable; they have eyes only for each other. I worry he will come to grief one day very soon.

  • • •

  Only when she read Zhang Jiyuan’s diary did Xiumi feel she was living in the real world. Back in Puji, every rock and tree and blade of grass seemed be an impenetrable and inscrutable veil between her and a trove of dark secrets. Now she knew the truth about what had happened; it all seemed uninteresting, even distasteful to her.

  A handful of questions remained. How did Mother know Zhang Jiyuan? Did Father know about them before he went crazy? Why did he miswrite the character for “toad” as “cicada” in the poem he sent to Ding Shuze? Did that connect in some way to the golden cicada brooch that Zhang Jiyuan had left for her? Though she read each page of the diary multiple times, she could find no clue to these mysteries.

  •

  The village was silent, no sign of activity. Xiumi lost track of time in the deathly quiet and had to guess the hours based on the shadows cast by the old bridge posts on the lake surface. The summer heat had become unbearable, and there were no bamboo sleeping mats or mosquito nettings in the hut. Even a short stroll in the evenings attracted clouds of mosquitoes around her cheeks. Nor did she have any summer clothes. Han Liu did the best she could for her by cutting the sleeves off her long robe. Summer could be endured, but what would she do when winter came?

  Xiumi knew she probably didn’t need to think so far ahead. Chances were good she would never see winter. It felt as if long centuries had passed since Wang Guancheng’s death, yet Han Liu told her he had died just over a month ago. Utter boredom nearly suffocated her. One day at dawn, when she spied a fishing boat penetrate the morning mist, heading for their island, she cried out in excitement.

  The boat made it to shore and several men disembarked, each carrying a sealed earthenware vessel of ale that they brought into the house and deposited in the kitchen before departing without a word. At noon, a second boat from the village arrived, this time with fresh fruits and vegetables, two green perch, brined pig offal, a basket of fresh shrimp, and two live chickens. A man with two cleavers wearing a white apron didn’t leave with the boat but went straight into the kitchen and ordered Han Liu to clean the stovetop so he could start preparing dinner.

  Han Liu immediately pulled Xiumi aside and whispered, “You’re going to have a bad night tonight, my dear.”

  “Who’s coming to the island?”

  “Qingfu—Number Three,” Han Liu replied, “the amateur intellectual. He only studied for a few years when he was young, but he puts on an act of being one of the greatest minds that ever lived. He has extremely refined tastes; even the water for his tea has to be brought from the village. Then there’s the poetry recitation and the operatic singing. It’s going to be a long evening.”

  The news made Xiumi nervous. She didn’t move, unsure of what to do.

  “But at least he’s easy to satisfy. And he likes his liquor. So just make a few extra toasts this evening so that he gets really drunk; then it will be easier for you later,” Han Liu comforted her, before heeding the call of the cook and hurrying off toward the kitchen. Yet a thought stopped her in her tracks, and she turned to whisper to Xiumi: “Just pretend it’s someone else’s body and let him do what he wants with it. I have a trick of my own, it’s just too bad you can’t use it.”

  “What’s your trick?”

  “Reciting sutras. The moment I start reciting, I go numb to the outside world.”

  Qingfu arrived just as the lamps were being lit. He brought no one with him, save two young maids. He was dressed like a Taoist priest, in a black cloth hat, an adept’s robe tied at the waist with a tasseled belt of yellow silk, and straw sandals on his feet. He walked toward the hut with a slow, erudite swagger, waving a wide black fan embossed with gold leaf. Crossing the threshold, he didn’t speak, but regarded Xiumi closely with beady eyes, then smiled and nodded. His smile grew until his eyes receded into slits and a glimmer of saliva collected in one corner of his mouth, as he said with a sigh, “Little Sister truly resembles an apricot tree in spring rains, a sweet olive bough hung with shadows, her spirit of autumn waters and her cheeks of hibiscus; sweet like white jade, a flower that understands speech, utterly amazing, utterly amazing . . .”

  Stepping toward Xiumi, he made a deep and mannered bow. Her stony silence didn’t appear to trouble him. Smiling foolishly, he took her hand and massaged it for a long moment, still murmuring. “Little Sister’s quiet virtue and elegant gentility are matched with such austere beauty. I confess I am transported at first sight. Please accept your servant’s rude invitation to take you to the lakes and marshes of paradise this evening, that I may quench my heart’s deep thirst. What do you think, Little Sister?”

  Han Liu interrupted his babbling with a tug on his arm, as she ordered the maids to set the table. He followed her obediently, leaving Xiumi behind as he found his place. He snapped his fan open once more and began fanning himself assiduously.

  Xiumi refused to sit down at first, but after a series of hard tugs and dark looks from Han Liu, she tucked a pair of scissors into her robe and approached the dinner table. Qingfu’s hungry gaze fixed on her, and she felt the shame growing inside her to the point of wanting to leap across the table and stab him to death with the scissors. One quick glance at his face was enough unpleasantness. The sight of his rude demeanor and the sound of his whispered “Little Sister, Little Sister” brought tears to her eyes.

  Several dishes were spread on the table. Before the cook could place a cup of filtered ale before Qingfu, the latter raised his fan and snapped, “But stay!” with such vehemence that the cook spilled the drink all over his apron.

  “Please stay,” repeated Qingfu, who then turned to his maids: “Crimson. Turquoise. Which one of you will sing us an air to spice up our banquet?”

  One maid bent close to him and asked, “Which play and scene would you like, master?” Qingfu considered for a moment, then ordered, “Sing ‘I Sigh over Days That Pass as Cattails Sway.’ ”

  The maid cleared her throat, opened her cherry lips, and sang in a high, girlish tone:

  Old rouge floats downstream;

  Slender the branch that holds the plum.

  At times like this, who will paint

  The faded brow?

  Spring heartache surely visited,

  But when spring left, why did it still remain?

  At this line, Qingfu rapped his fan on the desk and reprimanded her: “Wrong, you’re wrong again! ‘When spring died, why did it still remain?’ One wrong word ruins the whole image.”

  The flustered maid took a moment to regain her composure before trying again:

  But when spring died, why did it still remain?

  Now you’re gone, rivers and mountains seem so far away.

  Counting days till your return, painting

  The edges of these brows.

  I sigh over days that pass as cattails sway;

  Everything, even imperial willows, empty.

  I don’t know where I am, trapped

  Beneath a lowering sky.

  Total silence greeted the end of the song; even Qingfu touched his cheek and looked mournful. The cook brought more drink over and was about to serve him when Qingfu raised his fan and commanded, “Stay.” The cook trembled once more.

  Qingfu picked up his ale bowl and inspected it closely beneath the lamplight before passing it to Han Liu. “I’ll trou
ble you to wash this again, then rinse it with boiling water and bring it back.” Han Liu paused in bewilderment, but got up and took the bowl into the kitchen without a word.

  Upon receiving his cleaned bowl, Qingfu inspected it carefully again. Then, as if remembering something, he smiled and said, “No, I should wash it myself.” He rose from the table.

  “Could it be you fear someone has poisoned your cup, sir?” Han Liu asked facetiously.

  “Precisely,” Qingfu replied, and his expression darkened. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you. Trouble is stirring in the village, and everyone fears for their own safety. I have to take precautions.”

  Xiumi thought of Magpie, and how her fear of arsenic made her wash her rice bowl over and over. It was surprising to find a head outlaw with the same fear-inspired habit. She felt herself transported back to Puji again. The total darkness outside the window of the hut enveloped their solitary lamp and its flickering shadows, unbalancing her senses and creating an illusionary scene: Could it be that she had never left Puji, and that these people were really just animal spirits who had lured her into an empty tomb and cast a spell on her?

  As she stared at the floor, lost in thought, Xiumi heard Han Liu say, “You’re thinking too much, sir. No one ever comes to this tiny island, and the cook is your cook; nothing could possibly happen. Even if we take a step back and presume that someone did want to poison you, they would surely do it through the ale . . .”