Did I intend irony? I’m sure I didn’t know myself.
‘One must start somewhere,’ he said, yawning. ‘Very good. Off you go.’
I left with all marks of submission. Whether it might be called arrogance or futile impudence on my part, his tone of voice (and he had a rather squeaky voice) rankled with me. Yet I owed Lord Xiao a thousand obligations. So you might simply call me ungrateful.
On the day I left Uncle Ming’s house I surprised myself by weeping. It was a morning like any other in the Wine Market. Porters strained to balance jars suspended from poles. Hawkers of every degree proclaimed their wares.
Smells of roasting meat mingled with the fumes of strong spirits.
My entire possessions filled a single handcart. Uncle Ming waited by the gate, a look of strange triumph on his fat face.
‘Uncle,’ I said, brushing away tears as rapidly as they fell. ‘You have been a father to me.’
Even he, his core so hidden from the world, appeared moved.
‘Nephew,’ he said. ‘You have brought me great satisfaction.’
‘How, Uncle?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.
His kindness, in truth, had never been directed at me.
‘When I next meet your father,’ he said. ‘Whether in this world or the next, I’ll have something to tell him.’
‘Is the wine cooler paid for, Uncle?’ I asked.
‘You’re sharp, boy! Of course it is! And that’s why I’m happy.’
Then I turned to Cousin Hong, who waited behind his father.
‘Little General, you’re on your way! Who’d have thought it! I might even miss you, now and then.’
I knew how to please him best, and wanted to please him. For Cousin Hong had been a friend when I needed one most.
‘Remember, I owe you,’ I said. ‘Write it down so you don’t forget.’
He snorted.
‘Writing is why we hire clerks. I prefer numbers.’
‘Remember,’ I said, clasping his hand.
‘Of course I will! Don’t be a fool, Little General.’
Then I came to Yi-Yi. He slobbered over my new uniform, and if he said anything intelligible, no one heeded it.
As for Honoured Aunty and Cousin Zhi, there was no sign. This time not even a paper curtain stirred. Yet I had not seen the last of them. Malice can endure as well as goodwill.
That brave morning, walking in advance of my handcart, I swam through crowds on the Imperial Way until I reached an estate adjoining the West Lake. Here, in the midst of a large park where short-horned deer fed at twilight, lay my first house, half-hidden by a semi-circular thicket of bamboo, pine and willow.
How do I remember Goose Pavilion so well? I might almost be there now, my bare toes padding across its earthen floors.
I had rented the place from a noble family fallen on hard times, their ancestry as glorious as their fortune was small. I never saw them, for they preferred to live cheaply in the country. The park was always quiet, their mansion empty except for a few old servants. In the midst of the greatest city on earth I might have been a country-dweller, and this suited me well.
The house was called Goose Pavilion because flocks of waterfowl congregated on the nearby West Lake. It consisted of three small rooms. One for sleep, one for entertainment, and one for washing and cooking. Every room plain and simple. An old woman came from the mansion to fulfil my domestic needs each day and it was only later, in quite remarkable circumstances, I acquired a servant of my own.
Plain words describe rich feelings best. Oh, the first night I spent there, the pleasure of my freedom! Each room seemed to house a host of spirits, all smiling to greet me! I had escaped the coils of Honoured Aunty and Cousin Zhi, and was at last safe. When I leant against the lintel of my front door, the West Lake lay before me, forming ripples and delightful patterns until the moon’s reflection danced.
Few appreciate good fortune until it has gone. Was I so?
Certainly I recall moments of depression, yet my life was a circle of diversions, the most notable being my friends.
How effortlessly one gathers friends when young! Later, they come more rarely, and always with reservations, for the years teach one to be suspicious. At nineteen, I was not so inhibited.
Confucius speaks of three advantageous friendships: with the upright, the sincere, and the man of much observation. I was lucky to find all three in a score of fellows my own age, many of whom later went on to gain high renown, their portraits hanging in the Hall of Assembled Worthies. At least, I assume they are. Decades have vanished since my final stay in the capital. Everyone has heard their names – Pan Ch’ao, Wang Chen, Cheng Kuo, above all, P’ei Ti – to recall but a few. I was considered in every way their equal. Perhaps they never think of me now.
We were blossom, bright and in our prime, promising to bear fruit one day. Or perhaps just butterflies, fluttering from one amusement to the next, dazzled by our superiority. Walks through public gardens where we improvised verses at the slightest provocation, praising an unusual rock or gnarled tree; trips to theatre and tea-house; letters and poems exchanged to express eternal delight over a long-forgotten conversation; our exaggerated fondness for each other, and displays of sadness when official duties took a much-loved companion from our midst. In this we were entirely conventional.
Most of all I loved those parties where scrolls of poetry were removed from their boxes, ink mixed, brushes raised in amiable challenge. Delight at passing half a verse to be completed by a friend, then receiving it back, its rhyme subtly altered, back and forth until food and wine and paper ran out, or dawn surprised us. Sometimes we carried on into the morning, breakfasting on laughter. I loved, too, gathering in a monastery or pagoda to greet the moon. Naturally, we filled our vigil with ribaldry and song. I often took my lute and played gentle airs before passing it to the next man, who sought to embellish my theme. Or we would visit the studios of painters, vying to read as many symbols as possible in a landscape.
Twice a week I wandered to the Library of Imperial Records and set a few scrolls in order, before drinking tea with the Head Librarian. Then I would spend a pleasant afternoon reading whatever took my fancy while the eunuchs went about their business. Civilised pleasures, incomprehensible to a barbarian.
Years passed in this way until I neared my twenty-fourth birthday. By now P’ei Ti was already commencing the arduous studies required for the highest test of all, the Imperial Examination, and urged me to do likewise.
Perhaps I might have turned my thoughts to the future had I not met Su Lin for a third, fateful time. Once again I had Lord Xiao to thank, though his generosity was far from intended.
It was Lord Xiao’s custom to organise a large boating party each year for those who depended on his patronage.
Several hundred officials and their principle wives, not to mention concubines, servants, musicians, jugglers, singing girls and acrobats, some of whom specialised in somer-saulting from prow to prow without wetting their toes.
Such a party required a fleet of craft. Lord Xiao would hire every available paddle boat on the West Lake, some a hundred feet long. Writing out the invitations was no small matter and, because my calligraphy was considered exceptionally fine, I was summoned by Lord Xiao’s secretary to assist. For several days I toiled, copying out invitations on the finest paper, and even silk. Some were several pages long. Naturally, I had no choice. Refusal on my part would be shortly followed by a posting to some dismal province and a lifetime’s reputation as an ingrate.
I used the opportunity to compose another letter requesting three months’ leave to visit my parents in far off Wei. As usual, I received no reply. In truth, the long separation from my parents had begun to trouble my peace of mind. Sometimes I considered resigning my post and setting off for the mountains. Only fear of Father’s reaction stopped me. Had he not spent a dozen miserable years on the frontier when he was young, dodging barbarian arrows and shivering in garrison towns? He would cons
ider me a worthless puppy to throw away the career he had ordained.
So my mood was not one of gaiety when I boarded the paddle boat to which I had been assigned. I found myself among a sweating host of low officials and their gaudily attired wives. To my chagrin, P’ei Ti had been granted a place on a boat bearing a better sort. He waved across water churned by countless paddles and oars, evidently amused. It was the first indication that our destinies were diverging.
Still, the short trip was pleasant enough. We toasted Lord Xiao’s health frequently, admiring the exertion of the boatmen as they cranked away at the paddles. A friendly clerk pointed out the best places to catch carp.
Nevertheless, I felt snubbed.
At last we reached an island in the centre of the West Lake, hired by Lord Xiao for the day. Among clumps of willow and fine pavilions, food had been laid out and a dozen entertainments diverted his guests. Fire-eaters and jugglers circulated through the crowd, many on stilts. The island was full of musicians competing for tips, the low drone of a thousand voices speaking decorously, afraid of revealing too much, lest word get back to a superior. I wandered through the crowd, seeking P’ei Ti. I had already composed some amusing epithets about my fellow-passengers on the paddle boat, and could not wait to share them.
Then I saw P’ei Ti in an enclosure marked off by red, silken cloth. The more ambitious of Lord Xiao’s followers watched from outside the barrier, occasionally bowing when a particularly fine uniform drew near.
I made my way to the entrance, joining a small queue.
One by one, high officials and their wives shuffled up to a wooden gatehouse decorated with dragons, where secretaries consulted a long list, before granting them admittance.
Why did I assume entry? Was it the thoughtlessness of youth? Or merely arrogance? Yet when I came to the gate, the secretaries consulted their list and found my name missing. Decades have passed since that moment. I still feel the humiliation as if it was yesterday. Contemptuous glances from those in the queue. Frowns from Lord Xiao’s secretaries, one of whom I recognised as Secretary Wen, who had visited Uncle Ming’s house to assess me. How thinly he smiled at my discomfort.
I could have argued, but that would only double my shame. So I nodded with the muttered words, ‘No doubt there has been some misunderstanding,’ and withdrew a dozen feet from the gatehouse to compose myself. When I looked up, P’ei Ti was, thankfully, nowhere to be seen.
But there was a familiar face watching from within Lord Xiao’s enclosure, dressed in night-blue silks, her lute cradled on one shapely arm. Su Lin. And she had witnessed the whole scene.
My blush deepened. Never had I known such mortifi-cation. I nodded a cold greeting to her, and hurried away.
Finally I found a jetty made of rotting planks, concealed by a line of willows and bushes. There I sat and gazed at the distant hills, inwardly raging against Lord Xiao’s secretaries.
Two hours later, my mood had mellowed a little. I had liberated a large flask of wine and a cup from a trestle table and was contriving my own solace. After all, the lake was full of light and shadow, the distant hills rimmed by fire from the setting sun. My soul opened its arms like the wind, to brush all it touched with a sigh.
I did not care that I must appear odd, sitting alone. Let them think what they liked. I had half-decided to resign my post and live as a hairy hermit in the hills, contemplating the Ineffable Dao. . .
‘Yun Cai. Is that you?’
I looked round, startled. Dusk lay across the island.
Soon it would be time for the paddle boats to return their cargoes of revellers to the city.
She appeared perfect in that light. Her oval face and high forehead like purest porcelain; her eyebrows subtly curved like willow leaves. She lowered her almond eyes at my frank gaze.
‘I have been looking for you,’ she said.
I said nothing. What was there to say? She had witnessed my embarrassment.
‘May I sit beside you?’ she asked, boldly. ‘I am tired.’
She struggled in her elaborate clothes to sit, wobbling precariously on raised heels, so that I thought she might fall into the lake. I leapt to my feet and steadied her. Her smile of gratitude banished old resentment. I laughed.
‘This jetty is almost as comfortable as a doorstep,’ I said.
And then she laughed, too.
‘So you remember Madam’s back door,’ she said.
‘Most fondly.’
Something seemed to trouble her.
‘Madam sold me hurriedly, you know. I had no choice.
And my new Madam was strict. When I asked permission to write to you, she refused, and I did not dare disobey her.’
I waved my hand nonchalantly, as if to say that fire was doused. We sat side by side in silence.
‘Is that a flask of wine?’ she asked, innocently.
‘Do you know, it does look like one,’ I said. ‘In fact, it even smells like one.’
‘And is that a bowl?’ she asked, in the same guileless tone.
‘Let me see. Well, it is certainly round and hollow. I believe you are right. It is a bowl!’
‘May I have some?’
As usual her boldness filled me with admiration.
‘I only have one bowl and I have polluted it with my foul, unworthy lips,’ I said.
‘Then we must share like good friends,’ she said. ‘We are still good friends, Yun Cai, are we not?’
I smiled and bid her pour.
‘Why have you left Lord Xiao’s enclosure,’ I asked. ‘Is that wise?’
‘My duties are done for now. I was hired to play and so I have. For a while I can come and go as I please. Ah, this tastes good. And the lake is so pretty from here! How clever you are to watch the fire-flies instead of talking to stupid people.’
‘There is something I must know,’ I said. ‘Are you Lord Xiao’s concubine? If so, your presence here is a great danger to us both.’
It was an urgent question. Lord Xiao tolerated no trifling from his inferiors. There were rumours of underlings who had displeased him being sent to bandit-ridden provinces, never to return. Others were dragged before magistrates only too willing to apply the harshest punishments for imaginary crimes. Su Lin laughed gaily.
‘Of course not! I am a singing girl, belonging to no one but myself.’
‘I thought. . .’
‘He asked for me by name when he hired the other girls.
That is all.’
‘Then you are not?’
‘No.’
‘Or . . ?’
‘Not that either. Whatever it is you had in mind.’
Her reply pleased me to an absurd extent.
‘Where do you live?’ I asked. ‘This is all so strange.’
‘I am no longer an apprentice, if that is what you mean.
Indeed, you should be very polite to me. I have my own little cottage now, and a maid to tend my make-up and hair, and strings and strings of cash saved up already. You really ought to treat me with some reverence.’
‘But I do! Can’t you tell?’
‘I hope so. Or I will grow offended like the Empress Lu.
Do you remember telling me about her? A horrible woman! Horrible! To answer your question, I live on the shore of the West Lake, near Turtle Hill Monastery, and a dozen other girls have cottages there, too.’
I was surprised by her news. Without doubt she had risen honourably in her profession. Turtle Hill Monastery lay near the foot of Phoenix Hill and one could not rise higher than that. Indeed, she probably earned more than I did.
‘Then we are neighbours,’ I said, and told her of my own small house. Even then the possibilities of our situation were apparent. Except for the small matter that I could not afford her services.
We sat in silence while she sipped. I sensed her tiredness.
‘So Lord Xiao asked for you by name?’ I said, at last.
‘Yes, his secretary wrote to my broker. Perhaps he likes the way I sing Wave-washed S
ands. It is always popular, especially at weddings.’
‘You always sang well,’ I said, lightly.
But the first traces of foreboding had taken root. A loud, sonorous gong echoed across the island. We glanced at each other. I contained a desire to reach out.
‘How tiresome!’ she said. ‘I am expected to play in Lord Xiao’s own barge all the way back to the city. And I was just starting to enjoy myself for a change.’
I found it hard to swallow.
‘Do you still remember the characters I taught you?’
‘Of course, Yun Cai! I am not stupid.’
‘Then you will remember how to write to me. There is no strict Madam to stop you now, if that is your wish.’
Perhaps I sounded earnest. Yet she flushed beneath her white make-up.
‘We shall see. I must go now.’
She hesitated.
‘You are not sad about what happened today at Lord Xiao’s enclosure? Pah! Such stupid men! I could have boxed their ears!’
‘Not now,’ I said, smiling. ‘In fact, I am glad. Otherwise we would not have spent this hour together on a rotting jetty! I might even learn to prefer jetties to doorsteps.’
She giggled tipsily as I helped her to her feet. The gong sounded again and she hurried through the willows. I sailed home with a clenched heart. Sleep was impossible that night.
Later I heard my name had indeed been withheld from Lord Xiao’s list by mistake, and that he was displeased by the error. After all, one does not rear a sow to have it not breed. He expected a return from all his two-legged investments, and gained nothing from us unless we rose.
P’ei Ti was outraged on my behalf. Yet the fragility of my position had been revealed. A bitter draught I would not forget. Nor did I forget whose sweetness softened its taste.
P’ei Ti was right, of course. At twenty-four years of age I should have already commenced my studies for the Imperial Examination, moderated my incessant versifying, and paid countless visits to influential dullards who might further my career. Yet even he could be tempted from the steep path. I led him to areas of study his father, recently returned from a posting in uncouth Gunggu Shan, no doubt thought fatuous.
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