Peach Blossom Paradise

by Ge Fei

  Qingfu chuckled drily. “You’re absolutely right. So I’ll need the rest of you to have a sip first before I do.”

  The cook poured a bowl for everyone at the table before pouring one for himself and drinking it down. Qingfu pointed at Han Liu, and ordered, “You.”

  Han Liu drank. Qingfu waited a moment before lifting his own bowl and draining it. Wiping his lips, he sighed and said to Han Liu, “You’ll have to forgive me. You know how clever a man Number Two was. His servants tasted every meal for him four hours before it was served, and he only ate when everything felt safe. Even then he died. As they say, the sage who thinks of everything will miss something eventually, and one in a million is more dangerous than a million and one.”

  “Number Two is dead?” Han Liu asked in surprise.

  “Dead,” Qingfu replied. “They buried him yesterday.”

  “But he was fine. What killed him?”

  “When the Boss was murdered, I suspected that Number Two had moved against him in a bid for leadership. But his own death proves that he didn’t do it. The killer is still out there, awaiting his chance to step forward.”

  “How did he die?”

  Qingfu drank another mouthful of wine and said, “How else? Someone poisoned his bowl. The assassin was as inventive as they were merciless; they knew Number Two had people to taste his food before he ate it, and so applied the poison to the bottom of his bowl. Once it dried, the servant who filled the bowl and tasted it was in no danger, but as soon as Number Two finished his meal, he vomited blood and his spirit ascended to the heavens. The assassin hides in the shadows and plans every move carefully. If he decides to kill you, you’ll never see him coming.”

  “And this person . . . do you know who he might be?”

  “Along with myself, the other three are all suspects. The Boss and Number Two dying in succession would suggest that I’m next on the list. But I don’t want to spend my life seeing doom in every corner and guessing at unanswerable riddles.” At this, Qingfu looked over at Xiumi and smiled. “So I hope Little Sister will take pity on me just this once. After this evening, I can die with no regrets. If I were to die on your pillow, it would be a reward beyond imagining.” Turning to Han Liu, he continued, “But if heaven refrains from cutting my life’s thread and allows me to keep drawing breath, I expect I’ll have to beg you to accept me as a disciple, so that we might find a quiet temple and live out our lives reciting sutras beside the eternal flame. How does that sound?”

  The poignant sadness of Qingfu’s words caused Crimson and Turquoise to reach for their handkerchiefs and wipe their tears away. Han Liu filled the silence with an encouraging word: “Take a broader view of the situation. Everything is fate, they say, and beyond our power to change. ‘Whenever there is wine, I drink, and count each day as twelve more hours lived.’ ”

  “Well said, well said,” Qingfu agreed. He downed three or four more bowls of beer in quick succession, then turned to his other attendant, who was standing by his side and fanning him, and said, “Let’s have a song from you as well, to make the drink more pleasant.”

  The maid called Turquoise had just put a ripe bayberry into her mouth; hearing his directive, she spat it into her palm, thought for a moment, then sang:

  I have no heart to raise the altar lamp

  Or light the ornate incense cake;

  Enduring one day, I lie down,

  And fear the hour I wake.

  I yearn to know when disaster will cease,

  when dawn will break.

  Thinking of it eats up my heart.

  O Mother, Father, I fear this trouble

  Will be chased by more heartache.

  Turquoise ended the song with a long, agonizing wail, followed by a fit of sobbing. Qingfu, at first mesmerized by this spectacle of pain, began to motion her to stop with a growing irritation that bordered on a verbal outburst. He grabbed the pitcher of liquor and poured himself a bowl but did not drink; he merely sat with his chin in his hands, lost in thought.

  Afraid that Qingfu’s sadness would harden into a fury she could not contain, Han Liu broke the paralyzed silence at the table by saying with a smile, “You know, Master Qingfu, when I was studying at the temple I learned a few tunes from Abbess Hua. If you can bear to listen, I can sing them for everyone now, and add some fun to the party.”

  One hand still on his chin, Qingfu regarded her with red, unblinking eyes and a smile that was not a smile. He appeared to be fairly drunk already.

  Han Liu’s song went thus:

  Sakyamuni, Indian prince,

  Abandoned hills of silver and gold,

  Fed himself to an eagle above

  The nesting dove, perfected himself

  Until nine dragons bathed his golden form

  And made him Mahayana Sagely King.

  When she finished, she toasted Qingfu with two more bowls of ale.

  “This drink must be poisoned,” Qingfu declared. “Otherwise my heart wouldn’t be racing so hard nor my chest feel so tight, as if I were about to meet my death.”

  Han Liu laughed and replied, “You’ve been drinking fast, and with so much on your mind to begin with, the alcohol is having a stronger effect, that’s all. If the wine were poisoned, wouldn’t all of us be dead already? Have a few bayberries and some tea to sober up—you’ll feel much better, I’m sure.”

  Qingfu plucked a bayberry from the fruit plate and popped it into his mouth. Then he turned to look at Xiumi. “Did you do much studying at home, Little Sister? Can you compose poetry?”

  When he saw she had no intention of replying, he continued, “Tonight’s moon shines purely overhead, and a cool breeze blows. You and I may as well take a stroll beside the lake and recite poems, match couplets for one another. How does that sound to you?”

  He stood up and walked around the table to Xiumi, reaching for her arm. Xiumi shrank away from his hand. Han Liu stood up quickly and hurried over to bring Qingfu back to his seat, saying, “Oh, but think of the weather outside. There’s no cool breeze out there—it’s suffocatingly hot; the bats are flying around in hordes, and clouds of mosquitoes and fireflies are everywhere. Imagine the two of you trying to recite those beautiful poems while you’re slapping mosquitoes—wouldn’t it be just awful, and such a waste of your literary talent? And what’s more, it’s pitch black out there; what if you tripped on something and broke your fan? That would be even more of a shame. Since the poetic muse is speaking to you, and the creative urge must be satisfied, why don’t the three of us fill our bowls right here and compose together?”

  Her suggestion inspired an assenting nod from Qingfu. Han Liu escorted him back to his seat and rubbed his shoulders a few times. Light returned to Qingfu’s eyes; he straightened his cuffs and announced in a loud voice rough with phlegm, “None of you ladies will be a match for me when it comes to composing poems. How about we match couplets together? I’ll give you the first half, and you match the second. I’ll tap my fan on the table for ten beats, and if you can’t match me before the time is up, you drink three bowls. How’s that sound?”

  “And what if we match you in time?”

  “Then I’ll drain a bowl myself.”

  Han Liu, Crimson, and Turquoise all agreed; only Xiumi looked at her feet and said nothing. Qingfu filled his own bowl and tipped it back all the way, then declaimed, “Orioles shuttle to and fro between the begonia’s branches.”

  After giving them the line, he really did start tapping the table with his fan. After the third beat, Turquoise replied, “Swallows chatter back and forth in the shadow of bamboo.”

  “Good line, good line,” Qingfu said admiringly. Then he shot Xiumi another rapacious glance and said, “Still, this ‘oriole shuttle’ of mine can turn hard as an oak sometimes . . .”

  Crimson and Turquoise blushed in embarrassment; Qingfu laughed loud and long, as if he wer
e alone. Then he gave them another line: “The hero carries a three-foot sword at his waist.”

  Qingfu raised his fan to begin the countdown, yet before the first stroke fell, Han Liu blurted out: “Wouldn’t that be ‘The true man holds five cartloads of books in his stomach’?”

  “That’s a fairly solid line, my dear, but far too conventional. And pairing ‘man’ with ‘hero’ makes for a boring couplet. Much better to change ‘true man’ to ‘real woman,’ no?”

  “How would you use ‘real woman’?”

  “Perhaps ‘The real woman bears two hills of snow above her heart.’ ” Qingfu giggled. “But ‘The true man holds five cartloads of books in his stomach’ is still a correct answer, so I must drink to it.” He tipped another bowl down his throat.

  As he was about to offer another line, Han Liu interrupted him: “You can’t be the only one to test us. We ladies need to test him, too, and make him drink three bowls if he can’t think of anything.”

  Qingfu cupped his fist with his hand in a gesture of invitation. “If that’s the decision, I humbly await your instruction. Who will go first?”

  “Miss Crimson, why don’t you give the master a hard one,” Han Liu suggested.

  Crimson furrowed her brow in thought, then offered: “A lone swan loses its way on a moonless night, high clouds and the outskirts far away.”

  “You think you can stump me with such an ordinary line?” Qingfu shot Crimson a condescending look. “I’ll match it with ‘A single dragon is lost in the cove amid dark peaches and pale pears along a smooth garden path.’ ” Snaking an arm around Crimson’s waist, he pulled her close enough to stick a hand up her dress and grope around wildly as he whispered, “Let me see how smooth the garden path really is.”

  Crimson giggled, but her body wriggled and twisted hard in an attempt to free herself from his grasp. While he fooled around and she struggled, the sound of a low chuckle could be heard outside.

  •

  The spectacle of Qingfu’s provocative words and lecherous demeanor had made Xiumi’s cheeks burn with shame. She couldn’t stay, and yet she couldn’t leave; she felt like no hole could be deep enough to hide her safely. Not knowing what to do, she kept her eyes down and dug at the embedded dirt in the table with a fingernail. Hearing that pitiless laughter outside, she initially thought her ears had tricked her. Then, raising her eyes, she found the entire party frozen with fear, their mouths wide open as if paralyzed instantly by a magic spell. She felt goose bumps rise on her skin.

  After a tense pause, Qingfu asked in a quavering voice, “Who just laughed? Did the rest of you hear it as well?”

  Everyone looked at each other without speaking. A breeze blew through the window, extinguishing two of the three lamps inside the hut; Han Liu covered the table lamp with her hands just in time to save it from going out as well. Xiumi couldn’t distinguish all the faces anymore. Before the guests could recover their calm, the sound of laughter repeated from beyond the door. Xiumi heard it with perfect clarity this time. It sounded like a decrepit old man who laughed with a toddler’s mouth. Xiumi inhaled sharply and shivered with cold.

  Qingfu had already unsheathed his sword and sobered up somewhat. The cook picked up his meat cleaver next to the hearth, and the two opened the door and walked slowly into the courtyard. Crimson and Turquoise hid behind the table, clutching each other and trembling so much that they made it rattle.

  “How can anyone else be on this island besides the two of us?” Han Liu asked, looking steadily at Xiumi, though she clearly did not intend the question for her. Meeting her eyes caused Xiumi’s heart to skip.

  A few moments later the two men returned. Qingfu’s body swayed unsteadily as he stepped inside; his sword left his grasp and clattered to the floor. With both hands he reached for one of the hut’s wooden pillars; it guided him down as he slowly collapsed. His panicked cook moved to help him back up, but Qingfu fell to his knees and began vomiting loudly. Han Liu flicked her handkerchief out and, while dabbing his mouth clean, asked the cook, “Did you see anyone out there?”

  “Not even a dead man’s shadow,” the cook replied.

  Han Liu said nothing more. Once Qingfu recovered a little, she helped him into a chair, then ran to the kitchen for a basin of water so he could rinse and wash his face. Crimson and Turquoise stood behind him to rub his shoulders and chest. It took a long time for him to get his breath back.

  “It couldn’t be him. Is it really him?” Qingfu’s eyes betrayed a deep uneasiness. He muttered to himself for a moment, then shook his head. “It can’t be him. Can’t be . . .”

  “Who is the ‘him’ you speak of?” Crimson inquired.

  Qingfu met the question with fury, shoving her violently to the ground. “How the fuck should I know?!”

  Crimson toppled backward so hard she nearly hit the corner of the table. She stood up and dusted herself off, not daring to swear, protest, or cry. Han Liu brewed some tea and passed a cup to Qingfu; he sipped it lightly, never taking his eyes off the front door or halting the sotto voce conversation with himself: “The voice sounds just like him. I’m drunk and unprotected, he could kill me easily. Why hasn’t he done it?”

  “If he hasn’t killed you, master, perhaps that means he respects you more than the others,” Han Liu offered. “Perhaps you may find fortune through others’ disaster.”

  “Certainly not.” Qingfu waved her off, his tone and expression numb. “He simply wishes to play with me first. This won’t do; I cannot stay a minute longer here.” He stood up again, looked over to Xiumi, and nodded inexplicably. “No, it won’t do,” he sighed. “I must leave. He won’t hold off, not even tonight.”

  He picked his sword up off the ground, bade them a quick farewell, and ordered his cook and maids to hurry back to Huajiashe.

  “He’s afraid,” Xiumi said coldly.

  It was around midnight. All was silent, and darkness concealed everything beyond the window. The two women had not bothered to clean up—plates lay in a messy heap on the table, the vomit remained on the floor, its stench permeating the room.

  “Anyone would be in his position,” Han Liu said. “I kept trying to get him drunk, just to make your night a little easier. I had no idea something like this would happen. Even now I feel like a kite in a strong wind, like I’ll never come back to earth—”

  “That man who . . .” Xiumi interjected, “that man he mentioned, could he be on the island still?”

  Han Liu rushed over to lock the door, securing the crossbeam before jamming it tighter with a short wooden post. Leaning against the door and breathing hard, she said, “Judging by Number Three’s tone, he seems to know who the murderer is but can’t quite believe it himself. That suggests regular people like us couldn’t easily guess who the murderer might be.”

  “Why bother guessing at all?” Xiumi took the scissors out of her robe and placed them on the table. “I was carrying these the whole time. If that old bastard had tried to jump me, I would have ended him right there. All this sudden drama at Huajiashe might seem terrifying, but it’s all pretty simple when you think about it. This must be what’s happening: Two of the six leaders are dead, and the third already has one foot in the grave. The others will die too, until there’s just one left, and that will be the new chief. No need for us to exhaust ourselves with guessing.”

  “You have a point,” Han Liu replied. “You think Number Three will make it till morning?”

  7

  NOVEMBER 19, 1901

  Clear and cool. Yesterday, Chen Xiuji, owner of Chen’s Rice Shop in Changzhou, sent an orderly to report that Lu Kan, missing for months, had been seen. Meiyun would set out at dawn with Baoshen and others to find out the truth. The prospect of several days at home with nothing to do inspired me to ask Baoshen if I could come along for a diversion. Who could imagine that just as we set off, Meiyun and Xiumi would get into a heated argument. />
  Xiumi didn’t originally want to go to Changzhou; only her mother’s persistent coaxing persuaded her. The moment Meiyun heard that I was accompanying them, she changed her mind and ordered Xiumi to stay home. How could Xiumi not get angry at such inconsistent behavior? Thinking back, I am sure that I was the cause of everything. Meiyun’s real reason for dragging Xiumi off to Changzhou in the first place was to allow me no chance to be alone with her. The minute I decided to go, she figured that there was no longer any need for Xiumi to come as well, especially given that rural customs frown upon an unmarried girl showing her face among strangers. Meiyun has a thorough, calculating mind. Xiumi knew something was amiss but didn’t understand. I simply watched from the sidelines.

  Xiumi stayed angry at her mother the whole way. She sulked and dawdled so far behind we nearly abandoned her. Meiyun and Baoshen walked ahead, while Lilypad and I followed in the middle. We would walk for a spell, then stop and wait for Xiumi to catch up. Yet every time we stopped, she stopped too. She was angry at all of us.

  The girl doesn’t say much, yet she has a sensitive, suspicious, and incredibly stubborn heart. Zuyan once said that while she might be cold, she could easily be won over. I thought to provoke her a little, to test her by throwing some fuel on the fire in the hope of its burning brighter, so I pretended to flirt with Lilypad.

  Lilypad has the easygoing sensuality and shameless bravado of a former prostitute. My initial forays led to more explicit innuendo, and we began to play my false game for real. She started by pinching my arm and breathing too loud, then leaned over to whisper, “I can hardly stand it.” I quietly lamented my own stupidity while pretending not to know what she meant. She was like a ball of wet dough—once it sticks to your fingers, it never comes off. If she dared to be this forward on a public road in broad daylight, who knows what she might do after nightfall. With those soft hips and full breasts, slender waist and perfumed skin, colorful clothing, honeyed voice, and tempting disposition, she really could be the consummate femme fatale.