The Red Chamber

by Pauline A. Chen

  Looking down at Daiyu’s neck, she pictures Baoyu touching it and kissing it, and is filled, not with jealousy, but with disgust. She has no doubt that such scenes really do occur, and suspects Baoyu of sneaking to Daiyu’s bedroom under the cover of night. Now Daiyu’s freedom from constraint, which she had previously liked, strikes her as dangerous. She has broken the trust of the family that had taken her in, wantonly crushing the dignity and propriety of the household, and Baochai’s own feelings. Didn’t she understand that belonging to a large household was like being suspended in a web? You could not move a muscle without feeling the cling of gossamer threads, without knowing that your movements sent reverberations up and down the entire structure. Didn’t she know how she would fall without those invisible threads to hold her safely aloft?

  She wrings Daiyu’s hair dry with the hair string, then gathers it into a lazy knot. “That’s better, isn’t it? Now it’s my turn.”

  9

  After slipping back to his own room from Daiyu’s the night before, Baoyu had hardly slept. He had resolved to approach his father after dinner before his crammer came. He is afraid of his father’s anger; but despite their constant conflicts, he trusts his father more than anyone else in the family. His father doesn’t play favorites. He is principled, despite his blustery temper and old-fashioned ideas. His decision made, Baoyu lay awake till dawn rehearsing various speeches, trying to figure out how to convince his father that marrying Baochai will result in a lifetime of misery for the two of them, and Daiyu as well.

  At dinnertime, his father does not appear. His father’s absence is not unusual. What is strange is that he has not sent a message excusing himself and telling them to eat without him. Granny delays dinner forty-five minutes, grumbling the whole time, before growing impatient and ordering the meal to be served. By then, the whole evening’s schedule is off. A page comes in to announce the crammer, and Baoyu has to rush off to his study in the outer part of the mansion without exchanging a word with Daiyu.

  He muddles through the lesson, so distracted that the tutor threatens to tell his father. At the end of the lesson, he rushes out to look for his father at his apartments. Jia Zheng is still not home. Only Auntie Zhao is there, playing dice in her nightclothes with one of her maids.

  “Hasn’t my father sent a message?” he asks.

  “No.” Apparently unconcerned by Jia Zheng’s lateness, she climbs off the kang. “Why don’t you stay here and wait for him? Fivey here can prepare some snacks and wine.”

  He knows that Auntie Zhao hates him and slanders him behind his back, but to his face, she is sugar sweet. In order not to offend her, he stays and has a little wine and a few cakes. Under the best of circumstances he finds it hard to make conversation with such a harsh-tempered and narrow-minded woman. He does his best to nod and smile at whatever she says, while surreptitiously watching the progress of the hands on the West Ocean clock.

  When the clock strikes ten thirty, he takes his leave, telling Auntie Zhao he is going to bed. Instead, he goes to the Inner Gates. They are shut at this hour, and he has to call the gatewomen to open them. They look at him in surprise when he tells them he is going out to his father’s study. He lights the lamp in the silent, empty room, examining his father’s things to distract himself from his worry. On the corner of the desk he notices a well-worn book. Careful not to let the bookmark slip out of its pages, he finds that it is a copy of Mencius. He smiles despite himself. Most officials, after passing the Exams, never open the Classics again; but here is his father, reading Mencius in his spare time.

  At last he hears footsteps outside and glances at the clock. It is almost midnight.

  “Father, I need to speak to you—” he begins, but breaks off at the sight of his father’s face. “What’s the matter? Why are you home so late?”

  His father does not answer. Baoyu pushes a chair towards him. “Here, sit down.”

  Jia Zheng slumps in the seat, staring blankly before him. Baoyu forces himself to go on, afraid his courage will fail him. “I must talk to you about something important. I want to break my betrothal to Baochai and marry Daiyu. I don’t care for Baochai. If I don’t marry Daiyu, it will break my heart and I will—”

  His father shakes his head, raising both hands as if trying to thrust Baoyu’s words away.

  “What’s the matter?” Baoyu cries. “Why won’t you say anything? Aren’t you feeling well?”

  Jia Zheng’s face twitches. Baoyu realizes that his father is trying to keep from bursting into tears.

  “Father.” Baoyu sinks to his knees, taking his father’s hands. “Tell me what the matter is.”

  “His Highness is dying.”

  “What! But I heard today at school he was getting better.”

  “He had some kind of seizure this evening at dinner.”

  “Isn’t there anything the Imperial Physician can do?”

  Jia Zheng buries his face in his hands, shaking his head. “They say he is in a coma and may never wake up.”

  Baoyu stands there, strangely unmoved by the Emperor’s plight, his mind racing. Prince Yinti is not yet back in the Capital; perhaps there will be a struggle for the succession. The prospect of unrest in the Capital makes him more determined to resolve the issue of his betrothal, so that if anything happens, he will be able to take care of Daiyu.

  “Father.”

  Jia Zheng ignores him, still sobbing.

  “Father, I know that you are worried about His Highness. I am, too. But this can’t wait. I need to speak to you about my betrothal.”

  After a moment, Jia Zheng lifts his face up from his hands. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to help me break my betrothal to Baochai. I want to marry Daiyu.”

  Jia Zheng’s face is red and puffy, but his tear-swollen eyes seem to focus on Baoyu. He pauses, then repeats, “You want to break your betrothal?”

  “Yes.”

  “And marry Daiyu?”

  “Yes.”

  His father slumps back in the chair and shuts his eyes. He seems to be absorbing what the words mean with an effort. Finally, he opens his eyes. “I understand, but this is not the time to talk about it. You can bring it up with me later. I will see what I can do.”

  Baoyu slips into Daiyu’s room and wakes her with kisses.

  “What is it?” she says sleepily.

  “I spoke to my father tonight.”

  “Yes?” She rubs her eyes.

  “His Highness had some sort of attack and has fallen into a coma.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes.” He climbs under the covers. The night air has turned cool, and her body is warm against his. “My father was crying. I’ve never seen him so upset before.”

  “What will happen?”

  “I don’t know.” He puts his arms around her. He does not want to worry her. “Maybe His Highness will linger on until Prince Yinti comes back to the Capital.”

  “But he might not.” She lifts her head and looks into his face. “What do you think will happen?”

  “No one can know. But I spoke to my father about breaking my betrothal.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was very upset about His Highness, but when I pressed him about it, he said that he would see what he could do.”

  “You mean he doesn’t object?” He hears the joy in her voice.

  “No, he didn’t seem to.”

  “Then, that means … I’d hardly dared hope …” She flings her arms around him and buries her face in his neck. “I’m so happy!” One of the things he loves about her is her spontaneity. Other girls are too self-conscious ever to be unguarded.

  He puts his arms around her and squeezes her tightly. “But we shouldn’t let our hopes get too high. He still has to convince Granny,” he reminds her, though he, too, feels giddy with hope. As they lie in each other’s arms, she lifts her face to his and kisses him, a little timidly. At the butterfly-like touch of her lips, he kisses her back gently
at first, and then more urgently. He tangles his fingers in her hair. She returns his kisses, her mouth clinging to his. Her mouth is soft, with the faint, sweet-sour taste of the rice that she has eaten for dinner. Their kisses are bolder now, their mouths half open. He had taught himself to resist the urge to touch her, but tonight, he no longer holds back. He buries his face in the softness of her hair, scented with Oil of Flowers, and lets his hands move over her body, following the indentation of her narrow waist, feeling the curve of her buttocks. He touches her tentatively at first, but she puts her arms around him and draws him to her. He grows bolder, and slides his hand beneath her tunic. He hears the catch of her breath.

  Still kissing her, he feels the smoothness of her belly, the delicate tracery of her ribs and backbone. She reaches up and begins to tug at his gown. He shrugs it off so that he too is only in tunic and undertrousers. He presses his body against hers, and touches her small pointed breasts with his hands. She moans and her whole body stiffens and jerks against his. He loosens the waistband of her pants and lets his fingers travel down her slim hips. His hand moves slowly towards the damp, slick place between her legs. She wraps her legs around him and buries her face in his throat. He strokes her gently and she whimpers against him. Loosening the drawstring of his pants, her fingers close around his penis. At the feeling of her warm hand gripping him, he gasps and almost doubles over. She tugs on him gently, looking at his face. In the darkness, he can see the gleam of her eyes, although he cannot see her expression. He is amazed at her unself-consciousness. He feels like crying. He has never felt so close to another person in his whole life.

  He feels an irresistible urge to make love to her. He has made love to a woman only once before. On his sixteenth birthday Lian had taken him to a qinglou and arranged for him to sleep with one of the singing girls. The girl had been pretty enough, and had known how to make Baoyu comfortable, but somehow the act, though pleasurable in itself, had felt empty and sordid. Now he wants to become one with Daiyu, to erase any sliver of separation between them. He pulls his pants down all the way, and then tugs at hers. She lets him draw them down. He guides his penis so that its tip touches the wet spot between her legs. Both of them gasp and leap apart at the intensity of the sensation.

  “Daiyu.”

  “Yes?” she breathes.

  “Is it all right if I—if we …” He trails off in embarrassment, not knowing what words to use.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice is barely audible.

  “Do you—do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” As if embarrassed, she buries her face in his chest. The movement brings his penis in contact with her again. This time they do not jerk apart. Between his own gasps, he hears her quick, shallow breaths. “Do you want to?” she says.

  “Yes. Do you?”

  She is silent for a moment. “Yes.”

  He puts up his hand and strokes her hair. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” and as if to affirm her statement, she moves against him so that the length of his penis slides between her legs.

  With a groan he rolls her onto her back so that he is on top of her. For a few minutes, he rubs against her and the sensation is both exquisite and excruciating. Then he uses his hand to guide himself. His tip slides in and meets resistance. As gently as he can, he pushes past it. He hears her give a tiny whimper.

  “Did I hurt you?” he says, drawing back.

  “Just for a moment.” She pulls him back towards her, and he is deep inside her. She seems beside herself, shuddering almost as if in pain. He feels so overwhelmed by sensation that he is afraid he will not be able to control himself if he moves a single muscle. Slowly, their breathing calms, they look at each other, and he begins to move deliberately and rhythmically inside her. She puts her arms around his neck and starts to rock her hips, awkwardly at first, and then more smoothly, to match his movements. As he thrusts, smelling the sweat on her body, hearing her gasps, he feels as if a giant bubble of something, joy perhaps, is swelling up inside his chest so that he can hardly breathe. The room and everything else around them recedes until he feels like the two of them are the only two people in the universe. She clings to him, pressing his face to her breasts.

  Later, he looks down at her lying against his arm, and sees that she is falling asleep.

  “You can’t stay,” she murmurs.

  “No, I know. I’ll go back to my apartment after you fall asleep.”

  A few minutes later she is snoring gently. He strokes her face, touched by a sense of wonder and joy, before slipping away.

  10

  Daiyu wakes to bright sunshine. Instinctively she looks around for Baoyu, then remembers that he promised to go back to his own rooms. Slightly disappointed, she shuts her eyes again, imagining him touching her. She is startled by the sound of voices from the front of the apartments. Realizing that her trousers are not on, she jumps out of bed and pulls them on. She has just slipped back under the covers when Granny Jia, leaning on Xifeng’s arm, enters the room.

  “What is it?” she says, sitting up, surprised to see Granny, who rarely leaves her own apartments.

  Granny approaches the bed. “Give me the jade.”

  Her first instinct is to deny that she has it. Then she shakes her head. “No.”

  “Do you have the jade or not?”

  “I have it, but I won’t give it to you. Baoyu wants me to have it.”

  Daiyu expects Lady Jia to be angry, but her impassive expression does not change. She looks over her shoulder towards Xifeng. “So Baochai was right. Take it from her.”

  With a flash of anger, she realizes that Baochai must have seen the jade while washing her hair—had perhaps even manufactured the pretext as a means of discovering whether Daiyu had the jade. She puts her hands protectively over the stone as Xifeng advances towards her.

  Xifeng smiles a trifle apologetically. “Why don’t you just give it to me, Cousin Lin?”

  “No.” She grips the jade tightly.

  Xifeng tries to pull the cord over Daiyu’s head. It catches in Daiyu’s hair, and Xifeng’s tugs bring tears to her eyes. Xifeng’s roughness makes her afraid, but still she will not loosen her grip. “Baoyu gave it to me. You have no right to take it away.”

  Xifeng lets go, and looks questioningly at Lady Jia.

  “What are you waiting for?” Lady Jia snaps.

  This time, when Daiyu resists her, Xifeng uses both her hands to force Daiyu’s left wrist back. Daiyu cries out in pain, and lets go.

  “Give it to me,” Lady Jia says.

  Xifeng hands Lady Jia the jade.

  “Now pack up your things,” Lady Jia says.

  “Why? What are you going to do with me?” Daiyu jumps out of bed, her fear sharpening.

  Lady Jia looks at her coldly, and then turns back to Xifeng. “Have her things moved to that storeroom in the back of my apartments.”

  “You can’t lock me up,” Daiyu cries, but Lady Jia ignores her.

  Xifeng raises her brows. “A storeroom? Surely you can’t be considering putting her in a storeroom! If you don’t want Baoyu sneaking in to see her, why not have a maid guard her, or send her to Cousin Rong’s?”

  “You think a maid can stop him? And they don’t have room at Cousin Rong’s.”

  Xifeng sighs, avoiding Daiyu’s eyes. “If you insist on locking her up, there’s a storeroom in the back of my apartments with a high window she can’t possibly climb out of. If you don’t want Baoyu talking to her, you can post two maids to watch her.”

  Granny Jia nods. “I suppose that will do.” She turns towards Daiyu. “Now pack your things.”

  They speak of her as if she isn’t there. Struggling against a feeling of helplessness, she cries, “You can’t do this! Baoyu won’t let you.”

  Lady Jia does not deign to respond.

  “He wants to marry me.”

  Instead of being angry or surprised as Daiyu expects, Lady Jia gives a little laugh. “No doubt that’s what he told you
. What else would he have said if he wanted to sleep with you?” She turns to Xifeng. “I suppose the best way to avert a scandal is to arrange a match for her at once.”

  Xifeng frowns. “What sort of match did you have in mind? You’ll have to provide a dowry and—”

  Daiyu breaks in. “Baoyu won’t let you. He’s not afraid of you—”

  A deep bonging echoes through the Garden, drowning out her words.

  “What’s that infernal noise?” Lady Jia says.

  Xifeng holds up one finger for silence, an arrested look on her face. “It is the big iron chime bar by the Inner Gate. One. Two. Three. Four.” She counts the ominous strokes. “Four strokes for death,” she says, her face suddenly scared.

  The street to the Imperial Palace is clogged with vehicles. Jia Zheng, sweating in his mourning robes in the summer heat, fidgets at the slow progress of the carriage through the crowds. Wiping his eyes, he looks around at his weeping family. Across from him, Mrs. Xue and Xifeng are trying to comfort Granny Jia. Jia Lian looks stunned and a little scared, while Baoyu, his eyes bloodshot and his face pale, is looking out the window. Pushing aside the blind, Jia Zheng looks out to see a river of white mourning snaking up the street towards the Palace. White banners flutter sluggishly in the faint wind. Every vehicle, every person, every horse, has been swathed in the color of death. The tears prickle in his eyes, and he pictures His Highness’s face, with its fine wrinkles and expression of benevolence. He cannot stand to sit any longer in the carriage inching at a snail’s pace.

  “I’m getting out and walking,” he says.

  “Oh, Zheng, are you sure?” his mother quavers. He had not realized how shaken she would be by His Highness’s death. “The crowds out there are terrible.”