The Lost Garden

by Ang Li

  Some people began to whisper among themselves.

  “Yes. Without Mr. Zhu, there would be no Lotus Garden today. If he hadn’t undertaken a total renovation in the early 1950s, this garden, which is over two centuries old and mostly made of wood, would have suffered major damage that could not be easily repaired and returned to its original state, since no modern carpenter possesses the required skills for restoration.”

  He continued with self-assurance:

  “Most importantly, Mr. Zhu, an avid amateur photographer, photographed every step in the renovation process, thus keeping a record of the old artisans’ work and leaving valuable information for future generations. Moreover, thanks to Mr. Zhu’s hobby, we have pictures of every detail and bit of scenery of the garden, which have enabled us to repair, with precision, major damage caused by weather and humans over the past three or four decades. Using his photographs as a basis, we are now able to present to you a completely restored garden. Which is why I said there would be no Lotus Garden without Mr. Zhu.”

  Applause erupted from the audience after a few seconds of silence. Tears began to well up and continued to stream down the face of Zhu Yinghong, who was sitting under a coral tree.

  Lin Xigeng, who was next to her, took out a linen handkerchief and handed it to Yinghong, who used it cover her mouth and nose, though she couldn’t stop sobbing.

  After the brief description of the garden, the guests set out on a tour, led by the relic-restoration expert, who brought everyone back to the entrance with its arch. He gave a detailed explanation of the different parts of the garden, which could be reached by three separate paths—by following the water, by crossing the man-made hill in the middle, or by walking down the winding loggia to the first structure, Square Kiosk. He looked up at the sky before making a choice for the guests:

  “It’s quite hot outside, so let’s take the loggia to Long Rainbow Lying by the Moon. After we finish, we can go boating in Lotus Pond under a setting sun.”

  As they walked into the loggia, the rocks, hill, and vegetation on the right blocked the view of the lotus pond, limiting their movements to within the posts and pillars of the loggia, but a few exquisite turns and several stone steps later, they were greeted by a lily-scented breeze blowing through an ornamental hexagonal window that framed a corner of Yinghong Pavilion. They could see the pavilion’s magnificent eaves with delicate upward curves, contrasting with willow branches that swayed in the wind. The giant lily flowers in the pond seemed to be leaping out of the water to hug stone pillars by the pavilion. Even from a distance they could make out the inked couplets in free-style calligraphy on the pillars:

  In a quiet little garden, startled geese soared into the sky with the wind,

  On the boundless green leaves, feathered friends frolicked in shadows of red

  Some of the guests cried out in admiration.

  Continuing on their crisscrossing journey through the garden, they stopped to admire the banana shrubs and firecrackers flowers, with the explosion of tiny clusters of red blossoms. Then they climbed to the second floor to check out the octagonal courtyard, with its skylight, followed by a hike to Sea-gazing Tower to gaze at the distant horizon, where the sky met the ocean. They also got to read the poems left by literati on the loggia and admire the exquisite dragon carved on the doors and partition walls. After watching mandarin ducks splashing in the water, they found themselves trapped between man-made forests and hills. Many stops later they finally arrived at Fascination Scene Stage.

  Separated by water and twenty feet from Yinghong Pavilion, Fascination Scene Stage opened on three sides and was encircled by short railings spaced between posts. Behind it was a towering wall with two ornamental doors featuring literary and military themes.

  The play that had been put on at lunchtime was long over, so the guests went up onto the stage to examine the double-sided carved screen wall. The front presented Chen San and Wuniang, a drama that had been in circulation for centuries. Regardless of their chronological appearance in the play, all the characters were painted on the six-foot-high wall: beautifully dressed Wuniang and her alluring maid high up in her private residence; Chen San, who had sold himself into bondage to be with her, standing next to a broken mirror; Wuniang’s enraged father being soothed by her mother. The only exception was Ma Jun, who would later come to carry Wuniang off in a sedan chair; he was standing to the side, slowly waving his fan, for he wouldn’t be on stage for a while yet.

  The rousing play was etched on the front side of the screen, while the backside was carved with slender window lattices to hint at the notion of “nothing in and nothing out,” which, with light pouring in through the lattices, highlighted the similarity of the play to human life.

  After viewing the screens, some among the guests sensed something stir on the other side, but forgot they were on a stage until they turned around to see Yinghong Pavilion across from them, lined up with chairs from the earlier performance.

  With the pond before them, they could still see the Cape lilacs by the pavilion, where the late-blooming plants blanketed the trees with tiny white flowers. The Cape lilacs seemed to be all stamens and pistils; with no solid petals, the flowers looked dispersed and illusory. The many white flowers were like layers of misty clouds and fog over Yinghong Pavilion, as if ready to descend and surround the small structure and make everything vanish without a trace.

  Under the hazy, melancholic Cape lilac flowers, the guests slowly came to Flowing Pillow Pavilion, recently renamed Zhu Zuyan Memorial Hall, its original furnishing intact and the photos he’d taken hanging on the walls.

  Scenes in the black-and-white photographs, which had been carefully stored away, were still clearly visible, though somewhat yellowed. By contrast, the colored photos, which had been sent for development in Japan, surprisingly showed little change in color and quality. Lotus Garden’s predominately indigo tone was elegantly reproduced over and over on the woodwork, giving the visitors an illusion that nothing had changed after so many years and that everything would continue the way it was for ages to come.

  Locked inside a large, purple sandalwood cabinet that had been fitted with glass doors were two hundred and thirty-two cameras, alongside two hundred and fifty-four lenses; on the wooden shelves of a large new cabinet were forty-seven stereo systems, accompanied by speakers of various size, turntables, and amplifiers.

  Naturally, another round of amazed cries erupted, intermingled with whispers among the guests.

  They left Flowing Pillow Pavilion and continued on the tour, traversing narrow spaces created by walls, buildings, small bridges, embankments, winding loggias, and ponds. Unable to take in the whole garden in one view, they spent three hours on the tour, one in which each step afforded them a new sight and each turn opened up a new vista.

  Some guests hung around; Lin Xigeng, who was taken by members of Lucheng gentry and officials to survey local construction and potential real estate investments, did not return to Lotus Garden until after the sun had set.

  Dinner was served in the banquet hall in Lotus Tower, with a nonfunctional kitchen, so the food, simple daily fare, was brought over from the Upper House. The aging Mudan, who remained table side to serve, was no longer capable of doing any household chores, so she supervised two female helpers and continued to be in charge this time when she returned to Lotus Garden with Yinghong. The similarly ancient Luohan, observing the old rules and absenting himself during mealtime, was sent by Mudan to wait outside Lotus Tower, where he would spring into action when needed.

  Yinghong and Xigeng sat on opposite sides of a large, round rosewood table in the main hall. Still feeling excitement from the tour that afternoon, he talked animatedly about Lucheng. Yinghong, now tired, was not paying much attention when he abruptly changed the subject:

  “The local gentry and elders all think you ought to donate Lotus Garden to the government, which would take over its management. You really needn’t go through so much trouble to set up a foundati
on. It doesn’t seem legitimate, and the garden doesn’t have what it deserves. That’s what they said.”

  Yinghong laughed softly.

  “How could I give my father’s garden to a regime that had persecuted him?” She paused and continued in a firm voice:

  “I can’t.”

  “That’s all in the distant past. What’s the point of bringing it up again?” Lin said with a rare tenderness in his voice.

  “Yes, it’s all in the past. That’s why I want this garden to belong to Taiwan, to the twenty million Taiwanese, not to any government that oppresses its people.”

  Lin went quiet, and they sat in silence as they ate. It was a while before he began again with some hesitation:

  “Quite a few people are also against your decision to include Zhu Feng in the clan history, saying that, no matter what, he was a pirate and did not deserve the amount of effort and money that you’ve spent in research and investigation.”

  She gazed at him with a look of surprise.

  “But the facts show that he was indeed our ancestor. We can’t disown him simply because he was a pirate, can we?”

  “That’s not the reason for their objection. Some families in the Zhu branch openly refuse to accept the family record you created.” He continued with his usual willful directness, “I think they’re afraid of Zhu Feng’s wife, the woman who swore a vicious oath of revenge.”

  He reminded her:

  “Don’t you remember the malicious vow that people still talk about?”

  She shook her head.

  “Didn’t the woman swear that whoever dares to include Zhu Feng in the family record will bring ruination to the Zhu clan?”

  She looked at him calmly.

  “Don’t tell me even you’re afraid.”

  He was quiet; a shy look that had long been absent flashed in his eyes briefly. It disappeared almost immediately, but in that instant Yinghong experienced a vague feeling that it hadn’t been all that many years since she met him.

  She looked at him silently. He hadn’t changed much, except that he’d put on a bit of weight; and yet there was something different about his expression. Gone were the poise and expansiveness; he now seemed more grounded, with more gloom showing between his brows. No longer coming across as insecure and fidgety, he seemed somewhat aloof but sure of himself, quite composed; gone also was the momentary apprehension and shyness that occasionally flashed in his eyes.

  They finished their dinner in silence. Afterward, she turned on all the lights in the garden, instantaneously flooding the darkness in the open space with a brilliant glow unique to the human world. Bathed in the light, the soaring eaves and winding loggias gained a patina of ancient warmth, like a familiar beacon in the Zhu family bloodline. Time and place seemed to have changed, replaced by a backdrop that framed famous ghost stories, in which a night traveler traversed boundless space in the dark and a splendid, well-lit manor suddenly rose up before him. He was not unsuspecting, but the cozy light was a lure for one’s most primitive need for home. It was so nice and welcoming, he couldn’t help but walk right into it even if it was a somatic trap, which gave the scene a lasting, dreamy sentiment that would die only with death, the ultimate romantic splendor that one would be willing to die for.

  As if mesmerized, they walked around the garden, with Yinghong leading the way most of the time, while Lin walked along at a leisurely pace. Once he insisted on a direction of his choice, only to find himself trapped amid a pile of rocks. Unable to continue, he had to circle back to where he had been and hurried to catch up with Yinghong, who had stopped to wait for him.

  “I keep getting lost in this garden when I walk alone,” he grumbled.

  After a few swift turns along stone paths, she quickly cut across the garden, where she opened the north-facing moon gate and arrived at the hill. Cassia trees grew big and tall, with abundant branches laden with thin, pointed leaves that did not block out the watery moonlight, no matter how densely they grew.

  “This was where I let down my guard and fell for you years ago,” he joked as he pointed to the grove of cassia trees.

  She did not respond, so they continued down the path flanked by cassia trees and walked slowly to the top of the hill, where she finally spoke with some hesitation:

  “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t proposed to me.”

  Now it was his turn to stay quiet.

  After a few moment of silence, he asked gently:

  “Do you regret donating the garden? In the future you can’t come back to live here, you know.”

  She nodded and then shook her head.

  “It’s not that I don’t regret it, it’s that I can’t. Otherwise, what would happen to this garden when I’m no longer Mrs. Lin?”

  He obviously knew what she was getting at, but changed the subject anyway:

  “Otherwise, I’d raze it to build an apartment complex when the price was right?”

  She smiled mirthlessly. Before returning to Lotus Garden, she’d heard he had a new woman, which was only one of many similar incidents in their marriage. A sudden rage rose up, and she said pointedly:

  “The garden will at least remain intact when I donate it as a historical site for the public to visit.”

  He took her into his arms.

  “So you’re worried, silly girl,” he said, holding her tight.

  “I thought you wouldn’t care no matter what I did, because this garden was all you wanted.”

  Closing her eyes, she felt herself stiffen. When was the last time he’d held her like that? Too long, so long she couldn’t even recall. He bent down to kiss her gently, his overpowering embrace forcing her to lower herself to the ground. Sensing his real desire, she began to respond slowly.

  Under the light from newly installed lamps along the path, she saw that the ground was covered in a layer of tiny, fuzzy cassia flowers, each no bigger than a mung bean, but together forming a dark yellow carpet.

  He undressed and caressed her, boasting as he readied himself:

  “Remember the last time we were here and I said it was as if your great-great-great-grandmother, the pirate’s wife, were watching us?”

  She looked up at him. Under the light from mercury lamps, the green cassia leaves were dotted with clusters of yellow flowers, as if to fill up the spaces between them; the lush trees with their abundant branches created enough shade to blot out most of the moonlit sky. Suddenly a cold wind blew over, flitting across the tips of the leaves and sending a loud roar over their heads. The leaves fluttered in the wind, and with help from the wind gusts, turned themselves into waves that pushed and crashed into each other; the slender blades offering crevices for the wind to whip through, creating a seemingly unending whiz as they turned in the gust, sprinkling the sky with dots of tiny yellow flowers.

  Surprised that a gust of wind could produce such an impressive sight, they stopped what they were doing; he resumed his movements only when the wind had died down. But at that instant, she realized that the man on top of her had gone soft.

  Uneasily he tried again and again, but nothing happened. They were both unnerved by the new development, when an idea came to her.

  It was the vow, from two hundred years before, that the clan would come to ruin in the hands of whoever dared to include Zhu Feng in the family chronicle. She was the one who donated Lotus Garden, which was a different form of ruination. She sat up, too agitated to worry about Lin, who continued to try in his frustration. Maybe she would never have another child by him, she said to herself. An urgent desire rose inside her; she wanted to see the garden one more time, for otherwise, it might vanish before her eyes, erasing everything that had happened and everything that she had owned.

  From where she sat on the hill, she could look down on all of Lotus Garden. In the darkness, the garden was lit up in all its glory, as if it were engulfed in a raging fire.

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