by Sam Meekings
As soon as I set foot inside I realised that I wasn’t going to get the answers I was looking for. I was tempted to head downstairs to call Xiang and ask him what the hell he was playing at. There was no way the guy who lived here was a foreman. Near the entrance stood a two-metre-tall Ming vase decorated with beautiful paintings of concubines playing all manner of musical instruments. There was a squat, bronze Fu Lion on the counter, and a rug on the wall that looked as if it had come all the way from the deserts of Yarkand. There was a strange jade sculpture that resembled some kind of huge bird near one of the doors, and a fancy painting near the sofa. Not only was the place pristine, but it had more books than a library. There was a huge line of shelves against the far wall and a pile of books set out on the coffee table in front of the brown leather sofa. There were books stacked on the floor, and a few stray ones even piled up on the kitchen table. Now, I didn’t know much about mining, but I was pretty damn sure you couldn’t get much reading done deep in the bowels of the earth, even if you had one of those yellow hardhats with a torch stuck on the front.
It was pretty conceivable that there were two men with the same name in the west of the city. Xiang had obviously found the wrong one. But I was here now. I made my way over to the closest shelf to have a quick look around. I’d come all this way – it seemed a shame not to have a peek. Not that I’d heard of most of the books this guy had. Myth and Mysticism in the Age of Qin Shi Huang. Corvid Taxonomy. Comparative Linguistics and Social Semantics. The Untold Story Behind the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas in Mogao. Ornithology in the Age of the Warring States. Animism Among the Shiwei. An Archaeological Overview of the Neolithic Sites in Manchuria. The only explanation that made sense to me was that whoever lived here was a rich insomniac who bought books purely on their potential to put him to sleep.
As I wandered along, I caught sight of a framed photo near the top of one of the shelves. It showed a thin, wiry man with thick eyebrows that met in the middle and round glasses holding up a diploma or certificate and smiling shyly at the camera. Jing Ren? There was no way that scrawny guy could have hacked it in a mine.
I made my way over to the kitchen to see if he had anything decent to drink. There was nothing in the fridge apart from a bottle of soya milk, a few wilting cabbages and a couple of eggs. A quick survey of the cupboards and cabinets yielded better results – tucked away between the rice-cooker and the packets of millet and flour was a bottle of Maotai baiju, still in the fancy packaging. A gift from someone who needed a favour? Or something he saved for special occasions to impress his guests? I took the bottle out and, since it was already half empty, decided there wouldn’t be any harm in having a little taste. It was pretty potent – as if it had been squeezed straight from pure, fat clouds – and it left a warm, sweet tingle at the back of my throat. Not bad. But still – why bother wasting a week’s wages on the posh stuff when you can get the job done for a handful of change?
I was just slipping the bottle back into its little box when I heard the door creak open behind me. Shit. I knew I should have made a run for it when I saw all the antiques. Or at least locked the door behind me. Shit. I needed a good excuse, and quick, because all this expensive crap told me that the guy who lived here could probably afford to keep a few cops or lawyers in his pocket, and he was not going to be impressed to see me rummaging through his possessions.
‘Jing Ren?’
The voice was hesitant and frail. When I turned I saw an old man – and I mean seriously old, with white hair and thick bifocals and wrinkles so deep they looked as if they had been carved into his pale skin – clutching the door and peering into the apartment. I let out a sigh of relief: no one enters their own flat so tentatively. A friend? A relative? Some nosy neighbour? When he saw me, his brow furrowed into a frown.
‘Jing Ren? Is that you?’
‘No, kind uncle, I’m … I’m one of Jing Ren’s colleagues.’
‘Ah yes, of course, you’re from the university. I thought I recognised you.’
‘That’s right. I just came to check up on Jing Ren.’
‘As did I, my friend, as did I. He always seems to be out these days.’
‘Yes, it seems I’ve missed him again. I really must be going, uncle, but please tell Jing Ren that I was looking for him.’
‘Oh, everyone is always in such a hurry these days. Come, why not have a seat and wait a little with me? I’m sure Jing Ren will be happy to see us when he returns. And perhaps he will be back soon.’
Well, I couldn’t exactly leave then without looking shifty. So I pulled out a chair and sat down next to the old man at the kitchen table.
‘Now, tell me, are you also a member of the history faculty?’
‘Yes … yes, I am.’
‘Wonderful, wonderful. That’s what drew Jing Ren and me together, you know. Many a night we would while away the time nattering about the past. Of course, our areas of interest did not strictly overlap. I’ve always been fascinated by the Tang Dynasty, you see. The age of the great poets – Li Bai, Du Fu, Bai Juyi. In a thousand years, I don’t think they have ever been bettered. Maybe Jing Ren has mentioned my talent to you: I can rattle off hundreds of their poems from memory. And the great artists, the palace intrigues, the scheming eunuchs. Ha! A golden age, I do believe, and I think Jing Ren agreed, though he put up valiant arguments for the pre-eminence of his own beloved period, the age of Qin Shi Huang. But listen to me prattle on. How about you, are your interests ancient or modern?’
‘Modern. I’d definitely have to say modern.’
‘Ah, I see. Forgive me; I do not mean to offend, but I must admit that I am not a fan of more modern history. I find it somewhat depressing. You know, here’s a curious thing: the older I become, the further back I find myself looking. I find it terribly calming, to escape into the past. But I hardly need to tell you that! We must stick together, men like you and me, for I fear we are something of a dying breed. All young people today seem to want to do is look forwards. Blinkered. Why, even my own son seems more concerned about making money and moving upwards than paying attention to the traditions and customs of our ancestors. Sad, isn’t it? Between you and me, I can’t help thinking that the Japanese have it right. While we desecrated our temples and burnt down many of our sacred sites during the Cultural Revolution, they safeguarded their heritage. Take a look at the traditional tea ceremony or the enduring popularity of the kimono – both originally from China, of course – and you’ll see that they’ve protected their ancient culture while we have consigned much of ours to the scrapheap. Is there anything worse than turning your back on your history?’
I stared at him. The old man was clearly a raving loony. It was hard not to lose my temper with him. Insulting the work of the great Chinese Communist Party was one thing, but then to go and praise the Japanese too? Surely he was old enough to remember what they did up in Manchuria. If I ever get that old and stupid, I hope someone puts me out of my misery.
‘No, I’m not sure there is. Listen, when did you last see Jing Ren?’
‘Well, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since Monday. But that’s not unusual. He hasn’t had much time for our little chats since he started his sabbatical back in September. Always out and about, at all hours of the day.’
I looked around. Something was stirring at the back of my mind. I decided to bluff.
‘Hmm. You know, last time I visited, I don’t remember seeing that beautiful Ming vase. Has he always had it?’
‘Oh no. I’ve never seen it before either, to tell you the truth. In fact, the whole flat used to be pretty empty. Dusty and desolate. I used to tease him about it. Get yourself a wife, I told him – a good woman will soon make this place feel like a real home. No, he only started buying all this stuff recently. And why not? There are some fantastic pieces here. If I had the money, I’d do the same.’
‘Yes … me too.’ I stood up, and bowed my head. Something wasn’t right, but there was only one way to make sure.
‘I’ve had a lovely time chatting with you, uncle, but I’m afraid I have to go. I’ll have to catch up with Jing Ren another day. Afternoon lectures, you see. And exams to set. You know how it is.’
‘I understand. Please, don’t let me keep you. If I waffle on sometimes, it’s only because it is so rare for me to get the chance to converse with someone who shares my interests. I hope I will see you again?’
‘I’m sure we’ll bump into each other soon.’
I plastered a false smile on my face as I shook his hand and made my way out of the flat. Poor old git. Probably just wants someone to talk to. But something he said had stuck in my mind. Perhaps Xiang hadn’t sent me to the wrong Jing Ren after all. But what did that mean?
I was still trying to puzzle it out when I reached the bottom of the building and emerged into the sunlight. I bought a small bottle to calm my head, gulped down a few mouthfuls and then got into my car. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to go back to the scene of the accident.
I followed the road west, out towards the highway. I couldn’t stop thinking about what that old man had been saying. He must have been off his rocker. History? Give me a break. If you ask me, life is little more than a constant series of repetitions. You have a late night on the hooch, so you feel like shit when you wake up, so you start sipping again to ease the hangover. It’s as simple as that. The sun rises, then sets, then rises again. As the history teacher told us at school, China was disparate, then was united, then was broken up, then united once more. Civilisations fall while others rise. War follows peace just as inevitably as peace follows war. Boom then bust, birth then death, summer then winter; we start a job, we finish the job, then we move on to the new job. History? There’s no such thing.
The Whorehouse of a Thousand Sighs
PART 2 · 78–76 BCE
Silk’s eyelids soon glued shut against the hollow socket. She had a leather patch that the Empress told her she had to wear when guests arrived, but most of the time she didn’t bother with it. We soon got used to the sight of the sunken crater where her eye used to be, the dark lashes knotted across the middle like a badly stitched seam. It looked painful, and I wanted to ask her if she was still able to prise it open if she tugged on the lids, but the Empress had instructed us all not to mention it unless Silk did first.
By the time Silk first re-emerged from the wooden hut to eat with us, Tiger was already up and about, though she was still a little woozy and unsteady on her feet. Claws was eating with us too that day; as usual she and Tiger weren’t talking to each other, though I could not help but notice that Claws’ nails had been bitten down to the quick.
Silk sat down without a word, a forced smile fixed on her face. Claws reached across to the freshly fired nang and tore off a strip of hot bread. She passed it to Silk, who took it and started eating. And that was that. No apologies, no arguments, no mention of the fight; nothing. What good is sorry anyway? It doesn’t make a difference to anything at all, as far as I can see. They had both spent the last couple of moons holed up thinking the whole thing over, remembering every little detail again and again, and I don’t think either one had it in them to go back there.
A few weeks later, when we were collecting the camel dung for the cook’s fire, Silk told us that when she had lost her eye, she had gained the ability to see images of the future. Before, you’d have expected Claws to have pulled a face or made some kind of remark, but she just nodded, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘If I hold my hand up over my good eye, and really focus, I can see out of the missing one. It’s almost as if it’s still there. And everything slowly begins to take shape – like the clouds, little clumps of light swirling into different forms and patterns.’
‘Pictures?’
‘Pictures, signs, omens.’
‘Do you think they are messages from the spirits?’ I asked.
‘Maybe. I’m not sure where they come from.’
‘So what have you seen?’ Tiger asked.
Silk looked at her blankly.
‘I mean, what is the purpose of having a gift if you don’t use it? You have two legs, so you walk around instead of crawling on your hands, don’t you? So if you can see the future, then what can you tell us about tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Will we wake up and find ourselves married to princes? Will we suddenly find we look five summers younger and have new jewellery? Or will the camels puke in the washing basket again?’
Silk giggled, then covered her good eye. The sunken, empty socket on the other side stayed scrunched shut. Could she really see through that little crack between her eyelids? Or was the dead eye – wherever it might be – somehow sending its old owner reflections of everything that passed before it?
‘Ok. Tomorrow. Hmm, we’re going to meet something small. Maybe a bird or a dog or … yes, that’s it, a child!’
Claws looked up, her hands tightening around bunches of her robe.
‘I don’t think so,’ Tiger snorted. ‘I’ve had enough of that poison to make sure there’s nothing left inside of me.’
I tried to make light of the situation. ‘So either a baby bird is going to fall from its nest on us or a wolf cub is going to come and bother us for food, then.’
Silk smiled, but the other two just went back to scooping up the round pellets. No one wanted to talk about children. And besides, the idea was ludicrous. We’d had a few stray customers popping in from time to time, but we hadn’t had a full caravan stop over for many moons. What with Tiger and Silk hidden away in the wooden huts up in the cook’s courtyard, me bruised and Claws sulking, the customers hadn’t been much impressed with the place. Word had gone round, and our reputation had taken a bit of a battering, although Tall and Homely could still count on their regulars. So the idea of a child appearing, or of one of us getting pregnant, was about as likely as Silk’s eye growing back. But that didn’t stop it happening.
The Empress had been going a bit crazy. We’d had so little trade that she hadn’t been able to get much of the sweet tea or raisins she craved, and in the end she decided that if she was going to get the business back on track then she’d have to fork out for another resident. And so it happened that one morning Tall was sent to summon a donkey cart to carry her down to the bazaar. The four of us got on with our darning and took turns guessing what kind of girl she’d bring back. Claws thought she’d be looking for a really young one, while Tiger predicted she’d try to find a girl with yellow hair – even though Claws was adamant that there was no such thing. I thought she would look for one of those Xiongnu the official’s companion had talked about, though I wasn’t really sure what they looked like. None of us expected her to come back with a boy.
He was short and scrawny, with a greasy crop of hair and restless green eyes. Tiger said he could have been my baby brother. He can only have been ten or eleven, and the first couple of days with us he didn’t say a single thing. Not a peep. With her usual delight in bestowing ridiculous names, the Empress said we would call him Boy. Since he looked too small for any heavy work she’d got him for a bargain. Though he had to stay in the boys’ shared room across the courtyard with Tall and Homely, she didn’t want him picking up any of their bad habits just yet so she told us to look after him for the time being. Somehow, what with the others fleeing at the first sight of our new arrival, the responsibility fell to me.
‘So where are you from? No, don’t want to tell me? That’s all right. I reckon I can guess anyway. A little village on the edge of the desert? Am I right? Don’t look so surprised – it’s Silk that thinks she’s a visionary, not me. Just a lucky guess. I used to live down near the desert as well, you see.
‘I could introduce you to everyone down here right away, but I’ve got a feeling you’d rather meet our friends up the track first. It’s a bit steep, so mind your step. Do you want to take my hand? There we go.’
He grudgingly placed his clammy hand in mi
ne and I led him up the hill to the small courtyard where the cook was fanning the small dung fire with his makeshift bellows. The sick rooms, thank the spirits, had all been cleaned out and the place seemed calm. I led Boy over to the camels and showed him how to tickle behind their tiny tufty ears, how to stroke them gently and how to milk the smaller one. We took a clay cup and drank some of the watery yellow liquid, and I laughed as he screwed up his face at the sour tang. The hairy beasts ignored him as he ran his hands through their matted brown coats, and I even lifted him so he could trace the ridges of their hard hunchbacks. He seemed so taken with them that, after a few words with the cook, I hoisted him up and helped him wedge himself between the two humps of the shorter camel. For the first time, I saw his lips briefly curl upwards, before he realised what he was doing and promptly corrected his expression into a frown.
It was easy to talk to him as we walked around, his big green eyes staring up at me as I told him about my father and his schemes and all the other things I remembered from those lazy childhood villages, and I think I even started jabbering on about the stories my father used to tell about the crows. He never said a word, so I just kept on nattering. I said things I wouldn’t have said to the others. I told him that he had to keep a little clump of his hometown soil deep down in his stomach, and I promised if he did that a little bud would sprout and, if he kept tending to it and never let it tangle and knot his gut, then he’d always have a piece of his home growing inside him. No matter what else happened, I said, no one could take that away from him. He didn’t say a thing.
Later that night, I was tumbling through a sea of agitated dreams when I was woken by the sound of someone knocking on the door to our room. At first I thought it was one of the other girls unable to get back in, but when I saw all three of them sleeping soundly on their patches of straw I cursed my luck – it was probably a midnight customer wanting the quickest of treats. I pinned my hair up in a raggedy bun and pinched my cheeks to bring a bit of colour to them, then opened the door to see Boy standing there, his eyes staring down at his dirty feet.