Uncle Ming reminded me of Father, in that they differed in almost every way. In those days Uncle was at the height of his wealth. Fat hung in folds from his body. His pale, round face resembled the moon; especially his benign, empty smile. Honoured Aunty chose his clothes, so naturally they were extravagant and as ill-fitting as her own.
This aspect of Uncle’s appearance often worked to his advantage, particularly among the nobility, who at once felt superior to him, and at ease.
His appetites were tremendous, both for food and drink, but also singing girls. He maintained a pavilion full of such beauties beyond the city walls. It was rumoured some of these girls had died or disappeared suddenly, as soon as they gained a hold on Uncle’s affections.
Naturally, Honoured Aunty was blamed. Perhaps she circulated these rumours as a way of saving face.
Even though I lived beneath his eaves, Uncle Ming remained a mystery. Having discharged his duty to Father by arranging for my education, he ignored me apart from beaming with goodwill. But then he smiled like that to everyone. At last, a week after my arrival, he summoned me. It was dusk, his office full of shadows. The room smelt of spirits and he had a coarse, earthenware wine cooler by his side. His eyes were over-bright, and his smile somehow too fixed.
‘Ah, Nephew! Come! Come!’
I kneeled, touching the dusty floorboards with my forehead, aware he was watching. At last Uncle Ming leaned forward.
‘When your father asked me to take you in, I could hardly refuse,’ he said. ‘You will find me quite generous, Nephew. Quite generous. But let us understand one another. You are here to pass examinations. Nothing else.
That is what I promised your Father. Do not shame me by failing, or, Little Nephew, you shall find me far from amiable.’
I crawled out like a cowed puppy.
Another time our paths crossed in a way which made him notice me. It was a year after my arrival in the capital. I was wandering the streets and passed an alley notorious for a certain restaurant. It served an unusual, though by no means illegal, type of meat, cooked in the manner of lamb. All varieties of two-legged mutton could be bought there, from old to younger flesh, and each dish had a special name. In times of famine such restaurants did a brisk trade, but during plenty they were frequented only by connoisseurs. A banner hung above the entrance, bearing the words ‘Lucky Bowl’.
As I hurried past a familiar figure emerged, bowed out by several waiters. He had a singing girl on each arm.
Both girls were garlanded with pink lotus blossom. Uncle Ming took one look at me and his customary smile lapsed.
*
He summoned me over and sent the singing girls on ahead. I flinched.
‘Nephew,’ he demanded. ‘What are you doing here?
Why are you not studying for your examinations?’
‘Just walking, Uncle.’
He surveyed me unsteadily.
‘I take it you have already forgotten my dining companions?’
For a moment I was confused. Did he mean the people he had dined with or on?
‘You are alone, Uncle,’ I said, quickly. ‘I do not understand.’
His usual smile reappeared. Extracting a string of cash from his belt, he took hold of my hand and deposited the coins there. Then he slowly closed my fingers round the money, and patted my arm. His own fingers were greasy.
As he leant forward, his breath fascinated and appalled me.
‘Buy yourself something to eat!’ he winked. ‘I can recommend the Lucky Bowl, but don’t tell Honoured Aunty.
She might get strange ideas about who should be on the menu! Ha! Ha!’
It was the nearest thing to a joke I ever heard him utter.
Of course, I followed his first suggestion and ignored the latter.
An ox must tirelessly haul the plough to earn its feed; a scholar must gain success to retain his distinctive blue robe. If the ox shows weakness, he is eaten, right down to his hooves. So it was for me. Once established in Uncle Ming’s household my days formed a pattern of toil which endured for years, broken only by festivals or illness.
I would arise at cock-crow and struggle into my blue scholar’s gown, ink-stained and threadbare at the elbows.
After a breakfast of millet porridge and salty pickles, I hurried to the front gate. Here would be assembled an entourage several strong, supervised by Honoured Aunty, her face a mask as she barked out orders and rebukes. The entourage was not for myself, but Cousin Zhi. One flunkey to carry his scrolls bound with rhinoceros hide, another for inks and brushes, a third bearing a large wicker box containing meats and dishes known to nourish the brain. The fourth anxiously angled a huge, tasselled parasol. I would bow low, satchel on my back, and hurry past them to the wine market where my own escort awaited.
Why Cousin Yi-Yi chose to accompany me to the Provincial Academy each morning, I could not say. He was, however, a simpleton, so I didn’t enquire too deeply.
Yi-Yi had been blessed by nature in one regard only.
Everything about him was outlandishly large, especially his amiable, misshapen face. I later heard his other organs were proportioned the same way.
We would proceed through the streets in silence, nimble boy and ambling giant, past bridge and canal, hawker and street-cry, scents of night-soil, wood-smoke, fried food seeping from buildings several stories high. Voices surrounded us like mist.
At last we entered the many courtyards of the government enclosure; soldiers and officials bustling, some with scrolls under their arms, others in polite debate. I should add we passed a palace where lesser courtesans intended for the use of visiting ambassadors were housed.
Sometimes we spied a curtain parting suggestively, though we never saw the ladies themselves. I finally realised these glimpses were the sole reason Yi-Yi accompanied me.Cousin Hong once informed me – he thought it a great joke – that Yi-Yi would spend the entire morning masturbating in his room after seeing a curtain twitch. So for all his idiocy, Yi-Yi possessed imagination. He was faithful to the dominant sentiment of his family: desire.
Each morning I took my place in that long, bare room full of boys. All were from good families, or at least, wealthy ones. The fees were beyond most people’s means, including my Father’s. Only the goodwill of Uncle Ming enabled me to study at the Provincial Academy.
We sat on the dusty floor, writing blocks on our knees, mixing ink in preparation for the day’s lesson. Teachers and their assistants prowled up and down with bamboo sticks, vigilant for murmurs or disrespect. Cousin Zhi sat near the front among a small group of merchants’ sons, laboriously following every instruction from the teacher.
Beside me knelt a thin, feeble-looking boy with a sharp, inquisitive face who I came to know better than myself.
His wide eyebrows were of noble proportions and his large nose indicated a formidable character. His name was P’ei Ti. I soon learned that, for him, the Provincial Academy and First Examination were a tedious formality.
His family had been scholar-officials for generations, some achieving great honour. He never acknowledged me except to whisper among his friends the nickname
‘Mountain Goat’, in a voice loud enough for me to hear.
The reason for his mockery was plain. Each monthly examination in the Five Classics ended the same way. I came first and he second, unless we were studying the Book of History, at which he excelled. From the start he showed an aptitude for governance.
Success gained me few friends, partly because of my strange accent, and also, I suspect, because P’ei Ti influenced the other boys. Who was I, after all? My father might well be a brave soldier (the tale of his heroism had even reached the capital), but in those days, as now, it was the fashion to despise soldiers until they torched your house.
Memories of our school-room. . . paper-winged flies. . .the drone of a voice reciting passages from the Book of Changes or the Book of Rites. . . moments of fear when students were beaten for falling asleep. . . copying characters outmod
ed a thousand years ago, every brush stroke charged with the exhilaration of magical power. . . squatting by myself in the courtyard for a midday meal of rice and salt-fish, while Cousin Zhi was served by his lackeys, poorer boys hanging round, hopeful for leftovers. . .angles of sunlight catching flocks of dust motes. . . the mid-afternoon gong releasing me into the city, a thousand fascinations, as I walked home.
All these things existed. And are no more.
Of course, there were those who wished to send me back to the mountains. My success had provoked Cousin Zhi’s ill-will. His own marks were unexceptional. Indeed, he fluttered between pass and fail as a moth flaps round a lamp, scorching itself but never quite destroyed. Had I not been part of his household, he could have ignored me. As it was, my presence continually reminded him of disappointing his mother, an unbearable thought. Yet he dare not act against me openly because of Uncle Ming’s protection. Thus he resorted to guile.
One midday break, before an examination for which he had prepared zealously, three of the lesser merchants’ sons approached me as I sat eating. I had noticed Cousin Zhi whispering to them earlier, passing round a large basket of honeyed buns.
‘Hey, Mountain Goat! Who are you to come here and insult our families!’ the leader shouted. ‘Go back where you belong! You’re not welcome here.’
I continued to dip my chopsticks.
‘I hear your father is too poor to own a pig!’ squealed another, smaller boy.
The weak are always behind every fight. His companions roared with laughter at his wit and he seemed to grow an inch. Still I ignored them.
‘Hey, I’m talking to you, Mountain Goat!’ shouted the first. ‘Explain yourself!’
I finished my meal and closed the wooden lid of my rice box. In truth, I was shaking inside. The punishment for fighting was five strokes of the bamboo. Far worse, I would forfeit my right to sit the afternoon’s examination, thereby losing months of study. I didn’t care to think what Uncle Ming would say. Cousin Zhi had set a cruel trap. It was obvious his friends wished to provoke me into throwing the first blow.
‘I hear your father is a Mongol coward,’ shouted the leader desperately, looking over at Cousin Zhi for approval.
The significance of his look did not escape me. Yet I was snared. This I could not ignore. I rose, my fists bunched.
‘Pah!’ I said. ‘Cheap singing girl! For a steamed bun you sing anything!’
*
I prepared to follow up my words with a punch.
Suddenly there was laughter all around us. P’ei Ti and his cronies had formed a circle.
‘What do you say to that, Steamed-Bun-Singing-Girl?’ he jeered.
The boy glowered at me, then turned sheepishly away.
Quite unexpectedly, I had won. In a moment P’ei Ti stood beside me.
‘Why didn’t you hit him?’ he asked, excitedly. ‘He insulted your father.’
‘Ah, but I did.’
And it was true. Ever after my persecutor was known as Steamed-Bun-Singing-Girl. That afternoon I gained a slightly lower mark than Cousin Zhi, so perhaps his plan worked after all.
When the gong signalled the end of our last lesson, I was free until supper-time. The City of Heaven lay at my disposal. Where did I go? A place Cousin Zhi or Honoured Aunty would never find me.
In any life, energy and contradiction form patterns you never choose. So it was with Su Lin.
It was summer when we met. The city panted in the heat. Dog-days without a single breeze to dispel torpor and freshen hope. I found her in an alley behind the Wine Market, where I had gone at twilight to escape the closeness of Uncle Ming’s house. My spirits should have been high, having come first in another monthly examination, yet I was troubled by a sense of emptiness. Success came too easily. I longed to challenge myself in new ways.
She sat on a wooden doorstep, fanning herself as she sang, her girl’s voice sad and wistful, innocent and knowing. I might have passed by, except her song made me ache. It was a melody from the mountains, and her accent was my own.
As she finished a verse I began the next. Her mouth opened in surprise, then she laughed that light, scornful laugh of hers. I finished the verse, standing awkwardly. At last I noticed her beauty, and frowned, as though she had challenged me in some way. Her ivory skin covered a perfect, tear-drop face, made enticing by plump lips and almond eyes. Her breasts and legs and thighs, though hidden by robes of the cheapest pink silk, were easily imagined. I cleared my throat.
‘It is too hot!’ I said.
‘Don’t you mean, how is it I know the same songs as you?’ she replied.
She was older than me, fourteen to my twelve. At that age such distinctions are worlds. She yawned and stretched. I peeped shyly at her chest.
‘Seeing you interrupted my practice, small sir, have you nothing to say?’
‘Only this,’ I countered. ‘Why have you so little politeness?’
She watched me languidly, her fan clicking.
‘You are from Chunming Province,’ she said. ‘I can tell from your accent. So am I.’
I felt wrong-footed, and provoked. In truth, I suppressed an unaccountable desire to wrestle with her, to prove my superior strength.
‘Of course,’ I said, haughtily. ‘I am the son of the Lord of Wei Valley.’
*
This seemed to impress her. Encouraged, I added solemnly: ‘One day I will pass the Imperial Examination.
That is why my father sent me here, that is why. . . I am.’
She looked at me pityingly.
‘Is that all?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that is why,’ I said, doggedly. ‘My father sent me here to add to our family’s honour.’
She sighed. Her pout fascinated me.
‘Then we are just the same,’ she said. ‘When I was eleven years old, my father sold me to a broker, a most horrible man, who then sold me to Madam, who owns this house. I, too, must pass many examinations.’
Only then did I realise she was an apprentice singing girl.
‘We are the same in that,’ I conceded, lamely, and hurried on my way.
The next evening drew me back to the alley. Her doorstep was empty, the plain wooden door closed.
One cold, autumn morning Cousin Hong sent a servant to fetch me. He was enthroned in a small gatehouse at the rear of the family enclosure, alongside a table where a clerk was collecting rent from Uncle Ming’s many tenants.
They formed a respectful line right out into the street. The clerk’s abacus clicked and cash coins clinked on the scratched wooden table. Cousin Hong was eating almonds from a silver bowl, dipping them in rice brandy for sauce. He airily offered me one.
‘Eat it slowly,’ he advised. ‘It comes all the way from Tashkent.’
A miserable, sick-looking man shuffled up to the clerk’s table. Wringing his hands, he bowed low and started to explain why he could not pay the rent. A shameful sight, and one I have never forgotten, though poor men were nothing new to me. Perhaps Cousin Hong’s response fixed his pinched face in my memory.
‘Pay or find your belongings on the street, you dog!’ he roared. ‘If you have a daughter, sell her! Get out, you thief!’
The line of tenants murmured anxiously. Cousin Hong motioned to dismiss the clerk. While we talked, the tenants waited in the wind-picked street. Cousin Hong warmed his hands before a small charcoal brazier, then wagged a reproachful finger.
‘So, Little General, what is this I hear about you offending my brother Zhi? This will never do.’
‘I have done nothing,’ I protested.
‘Ah, but you have. You should understand our ways here. As Eldest Son I will inherit Father’s business. As for Yi-Yi. . . well, never mind him. But Little Brother Zhi is destined for great things. My mother has already decided which duke’s daughter he will marry when he is a great official. It would be unwise to upset such plans.’
‘How am I at fault? Please explain.’
‘Little General, is it sensible to k
eep beating Zhi in the examinations? Of course not. Why not come second more often, then everyone will be happy.’
‘Even if I came tenth, Cousin Zhi would not beat me,’ I said. ‘Is Uncle Ming displeased?’
‘Not in the least. But that doesn’t matter.’
His advice appalled my pride. Yet I knew he meant it kindly.
‘My father sent me here precisely so I would pass,’ I said.
‘That is not my concern. Take this business with the boy who tried to pick a fight with you. My little brother complains he has lost friends because of it. It seems some of the other boys blame him for spreading rumours and causing trouble.’
It was true Steamed-Bun-Singing-Girl no longer talked to Cousin Zhi, but that was hardly my fault. Hong offered me another almond.
‘And I hear,’ he continued. ‘You have made friends with boys of good family who should really be the companions of Zhi. One day those boys might be useful to him.’
‘P’ei Ti has become a friend,’ I admitted. ‘At least we always talk at midday.’
‘Exactly! Such a one should be talking to Zhi, not you.’
‘But why?’
Cousin Hong considered, then shrugged.
‘Why? There is no good reason why. Why was that wretch unable to pay his rent? Why are we enjoying almonds harvested by pretty barbarian girls with plump thighs and he is deciding which of his daughters to sell?
Only fools ask why. Better to ask what is.’
I had never suspected Hong of philosophy, but all men need some principle to guide them. I also took the hint that I might end up like the poor tenant if I continued to offend Honoured Aunty and Cousin Zhi.
I wandered the streets in disgust for an hour, eventually finding myself in the alley where I had met the singing girl.
The piercing, autumn wind could not reach me here. A pool of cold sunshine lit the doorstep where she had sat.
As I passed, the door opened and, to my surprise, she poked her head out. I halted. We examined each other in silence. Then she smiled.
Taming Poison Dragons Page 7