by Anchee Min
“I have thirteen divisions of land forces and thirteen divisions of water forces, plus local Braves. Every division has five hundred men.”
Sitting through audiences like this, I entered the Emperor’s dream. Working together, we became true friends, and lovers, and something more. Bad news continued, but Hsien Feng had become calm enough to face the difficulties. His depression didn’t go away, but his mood swings became less dramatic. He was at his best during this period, however brief. I missed him when business kept him from me.
Thirteen
I HEAR PROMISING BEATS.” Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice came through my curtain. “It tells me that you have a sheemai.”
“What’s a sheemai?” I asked nervously. The curtain separated the doctor and me. Lying on my bed, I couldn’t see the man’s face, only his shadow projected by candlelight on the curtain. I stared at his hand, which was inside the curtain. It rested on my wrist, with its second and middle fingers pressing lightly. It was a delicate-looking hand with amazingly long fingers. The hand carried with it the faint smell of herbal medicines. Since no male but the Emperor was allowed to see the females in the Forbidden City, an Imperial doctor based his diagnosis on the pulse of his patient.
I wondered what he could examine while the curtain blocked his eyes, yet the pulse alone had guided Chinese doctors to detect the body’s problems for thousands of years. Sun Pao-tien was the best physician in the nation. He was from a Chinese family with five generations of doctors. He was known for discovering a peach-pit-sized stone in the gut of the Grand Empress Lady Jin. In terrible pain, the Empress didn’t believe the doctor but trusted him enough to drink the herbal medicine he’d prescribed. Three months later a maid found the stone in Her Majesty’s stool.
Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice was soft and gentle. “Shee means ‘happiness,’ and mai means ‘pulses.’ Sheemai—happy pulses. Lady Yehonala, you are pregnant.”
Before my mind recognized what he said, Doctor Sun Pao-tien withdrew his hand.
“Excuse me!” I sat up and reached to pull at the curtain. Fortunately An-te-hai had clipped it closed. I was not sure whether I indeed had heard the word “pregnant.” I had been suffering from morning sickness for weeks and didn’t trust my hearing.
“An-te-hai!” I cried. “Get me the hand back!”
After a busy movement on the other side of the curtain, the doctor’s shadow returned. Several eunuchs guided him to the chair and his hand was pushed in. It was obviously displeased. It rested on the edge of my bed with the fingers curled inward like a crawling spider. I could care less. I wanted to hear the word “pregnant” again. I picked up the hand and placed it on my wrist. “Make sure, Doctor,” I pleaded.
“There is success in all fields of your body.” Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice was unhurried, each word spoken clearly. “Your veins and arteries are beaming. Beautiful elements blanket your hills and dales …”
“Eh? What does that mean?” I shook the hand.
An-te-hai’s shadow merged with the doctor’s. He translated the doctor’s words for me. The excitement in his voice was unmistakable. “My lady, the dragon seed has sprouted!”
I let go of Sun Pao-tien’s hand. I couldn’t wait for An-te-hai to remove the clips. I thanked Heaven for its blessing. For the rest of the day I ate almost continually. An-te-hai was so overjoyed that he forgot to feed his birds. He went to the Imperial fish farm and asked for a bucket of live fish.
“Let’s celebrate, my lady,” he said when he came back.
We went to the lake with the fish. One by one I freed the fish. The ritual, called fang sheng, was a gesture of mercy. With each fish that was given a chance to live, I added to my stock of goodwill.
The next morning I woke up to the sound of music in the late-summer sky. It was from An-te-hai’s pigeons, flying in circles above my roof. The sound of wind pipes took me back to Wuhu, where I had made similar pipes from water reeds, which I tied to my own birds and to kites too. Depending on their thickness, the reeds would produce different sounds. One old villager tied two dozen wind pipes to a large kite. He arranged the pipes in such a way that they produced the melody of a popular folk song.
I got up, went to the garden and was greeted by the peacocks. An-te-hai was busy feeding the parrot, Confucius. The bird tried out a new phrase it had just learned: “Congratulations, my lady!” I was delighted. The orchids around the yard were still in bloom. The flower’s long slender stems bent elegantly. The leaves stood like dancers holding up their sleeves. White and blue petals stretched outward as if kissing the sunlight. The orchids’ black velvety hearts reminded me of Snow’s eyes.
An-te-hai told me that Doctor Sun Pao-tien had suggested that I keep the news of my pregnancy to myself until the third month. I took his advice. Whenever possible, I indulged myself in the garden. The sweet hours made me miss my family. I ached with the desire to share this news with my mother.
Despite my “secret,” before long the Imperial wives and concubines in every palace learned about my pregnancy. I was showered with flowers, jade carvings and good-wish paper cutouts. Every concubine made an effort to visit me. The ones who were unwell sent their eunuchs with more gifts.
In my room the presents piled up to the ceiling. But behind the smiling faces lay envy and jealousy. Swollen eyes were evidence of crying and sleepless nights. I knew exactly how the rest of the concubines felt. I remembered my own reaction toward Lady Yun’s pregnancy. I hadn’t wished Lady Yun bad luck, but I hadn’t wished her well either. I had been quietly relieved when Nuharoo told me that Lady Yun had given birth to a daughter instead of a son.
I was not looking forward to what was coming. I feared that numerous traps would be set for me. It was only natural that the concubines should hate me.
As my belly began to swell, my fear increased. I now ate little in order to narrow the risk of being poisoned. I dreamt of Snow’s hairless body floating in the well. An-te-hai warned me to be careful every time I drank a bowl of soup or took a walk in the garden. He believed that my rivals had directed their eunuchs to lay loose rocks or dig holes in my path to make me stumble. When I pointed out that he was overreacting, An-te-hai told me a story about a jealous concubine who instructed her eunuch to break a tile on her rival’s roof so that it would slip down and hit the rival on the head, and it did!
Before I got into my palanquin, An-te-hai always checked to see whether there was a needle hidden inside my cushion. He was convinced that my rivals would do anything to shock me into a miscarriage.
I understood the cause of such viciousness, but I wouldn’t be able to forgive anyone who tried to destroy my child. If I delivered safely, my status would be elevated at the expense of the others. My name would go into the Imperial record books. If the child should be a male, I would rise to the rank of Empress, sharing the title with Nuharoo.
• • •
The night was deep, and His Majesty and I lay side by side. He had been cheerful since learning of my pregnancy. We had been spending our nights at the Palace of Concentrated Beauty, north of the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. I slept better in my palace because no one came to wake us with urgent business. His Majesty had been living in both palaces, depending on how late his work kept him. An-te-hai’s warnings troubled me and I asked His Majesty to increase the night guards at my gate. “Just in case,” I said. “I would feel safer.”
His Majesty sighed. “Orchid, you are ruining a dream of mine.”
I was startled by this and asked him to explain.
“My dreams of building a prosperous China have been repeatedly crushed. Increasingly, I cannot help but doubt my abilities as a ruler. But my power encounters no resistance in the Forbidden City. The concubines and eunuchs are my faithful citizens. There is no confusion here. I expect you to love me and to love one another. I especially desire serenity between you and Nuharoo. The Forbidden City is poetry in its purest form. It is my spiritual garden where I can lie among my flowers and rest.”
But is it possible to love here? The atmosphere in this garden had long been poisoned.
“That wonderful evening when you and Nuharoo walked together in the garden,” His Majesty said in a dreamy tone. “I remember the day clearly. You carried the light of the setting sun. You were both dressed in spring robes. You had been picking flowers. With armfuls of peonies you walked toward me, smiling and chatting as sweetly as sisters. It made me forget my troubles. All I wanted to do was to kiss the flowers in your hands …”
I wished I could tell him that I was never part of it. His picture of beauty and harmony did not exist. He had woven Nuharoo and me into his fantasy. Nuharoo and I might have loved each other and been friends if our survival hadn’t depended on his affection.
“Nowadays when I see something beautiful I want to freeze it.” Rising from his pillow, His Majesty turned to me and asked, “You and Nuharoo cared for each other before—why not now? Why do you have to ruin it?”
In the third month of my pregnancy the court astrologers were ordered to perform pa kua. Wooden, metal and golden sticks were thrown on the marble floor. A bucket containing the blood of several animals was brought in. Water and colored sand were spread onto the walls to create paintings. In their long, star-patterned black robes, the astrologers squatted on their heels. With their noses almost touching the floor they studied the sticks and interpreted the ghostly images on the walls. Finally they pronounced that the child I carried possessed the proper balance of gold, wood, water, fire and soil.
The ritual continued. Unlike fortunetellers in the countryside, the Imperial astrologers avoided expressing their true views. I noticed that everything said was aimed at pleasing Emperor Hsien Feng, who would issue rewards. Trying to look busy, the astrologers danced around the stained walls all day long. In the evening they sat and rolled their eyeballs in circles. I found excuses and left. To punish me, the astrologers passed on a dire prediction to the Grand Empress: if I didn’t lie absolutely still after sunset, with both of my legs raised, I would lose the child. I was tied to my bed, and stools were placed under my feet. I was upset but could do nothing. My mother-in-law was a strong believer in pa kua astrology.
“My lady,” An-te-hai asked, noticing that I was in a sour mood, “since you have time, would you like to learn a bit about pa kua? You can find out whether your child is a mountain type or an ocean type.”
As always, An-te-hai sensed just what it was I needed. He brought in an expert, “the most reputable in Peking,” my eunuch said. “He got past the gates because I disguised him as a garbage man.”
With the three of us shut up in my chamber, the man, who had one eye, read the sand paintings that he drew on a tray. What he said confused me and I tried hard to comprehend. “Pa kua will not work once it is explained,” he said. “The philosophy is in the senses.” An-te-hai was impatient and asked the man to “cut the fat.” The expert was turned into a village fortuneteller. He told me that there was a very good chance that my child would be a boy.
I lost interest in learning more about pa kua after that. The prediction set my heart racing. I managed to sit still and ordered the man to continue.
“I see the child has everything perfect except too much metal, which means he will be stubborn.” The man flipped the rocks and sticks he had spread out on the tray. “The boy’s best quality is that he is likely to pursue his dreams.” At this point the man paused. He raised his chin toward the ceiling and his eyebrows twitched. He squeezed his nose and blinked. Yellowish crust flaked from his empty eye socket. He stopped talking.
An-te-hai moved closer to him. “Here is a reward for your honesty,” my eunuch said, putting a bag of taels into the man’s large sleeve.
“The darkness,” the man immediately resumed, “is that his coming into the world will place a curse on a close family member.”
“Curse? What kind of curse?” An-te-hai asked before I could. “What will happen to this close family member?”
“She will die,” the man replied.
I drew a breath and asked why it was a she. The man had no answer for that and could tell me only that he had read the signs.
I begged him for a clue. “Will the she be me? Will I die in childbirth?”
The man shook his head and said that the picture was unclear at this point. He was unable to tell me more.
After the one-eyed man was gone, I tried to forget about the prediction. I told myself that he couldn’t prove what he had said. Unlike Nuharoo, who was a devoted Buddhist, I was not a religious person and never took superstition seriously. Everyone in the Forbidden City, it seemed, was obsessed with the idea of life after death, investing all their hopes in the next world. The eunuchs talked about coming back “in one piece,” while the concubines looked forward to having a husband and children of their own. The afterlife was part of Nuharoo’s Buddhist study. She was quite knowledgeable about what would happen to us after death. She said that after reaching the underworld, each person would be interrogated and judged. Those whose lives had been stained with sin were sentenced to Hell, where they would be boiled, fried, sawed or chopped to pieces. Those who were considered sinless got to begin a new life on earth. Not everyone came back to live the life he or she desired, however. The lucky were reborn as humans, the unlucky as animals—a dog, a pig, a flea.
The concubines in the Forbidden City, especially the senior ones, were extremely superstitious. Besides making yoo-hoo-loos and chanting, they spent their days mastering various kinds of witchcraft. To them, belief in the next life was itself a weapon. They needed the weapon to place curses on their rivals. They were very ingenious about the various fates they wished upon their enemies.
Nuharoo showed me a book called The Calendar of Chinese Ghosts, with vivid, bizarre illustrations. I was not unfamiliar with the material. I had heard every story it contained and had seen a hand-copied version in Wuhu. The book was used by storytellers in the countryside. Nuharoo was especially fascinated by “The Red Embroidered Shoes,” an old tale about a pair of shoes worn by a ghost.
As a child I had seen fortunetellers make false predictions that ruined lives. However, An-te-hai wanted to take no chances. I knew he worried that the ill-fated “she” would turn out to be me.
For the next few days his worry grew. He became melodramatic to the point of silliness. “Each day could be your last,” he mumbled one morning. He served me carefully, observing my every move. He sniffed the air like a dog and refused to shut his eyes at night. When I napped, he left the Forbidden City and came back to report that he had spent time with older village bachelors. Offering money, he asked the bachelors if they would like to adopt my unborn child.
I asked why he was doing so.
An-te-hai explained that since my boy would bear a curse, it was our duty to spread the curse to other people. According to The Book of Superstition, if enough people were to bear the curse, it would lose its effect. “The bachelors are eager to have someone carry on their family name,” my eunuch said. “Don’t worry, my lady. I did not reveal who the boy was, and the adoption is an oral contract only.”
I praised An-te-hai’s loyalty and told him to stop. But he wouldn’t. The next day I saw him bowing to a crippled dog as it passed by the garden. On another day he got down on his knees and kowtowed to a bundled pig on its way to the temple to be sacrificed.
“We must undo the curse,” An-te-hai said. “Paying respect to the crippled dog acknowledges that it had suffered. Someone had beaten it and broken its bones. Such animals serve as a substitute, reducing the power of the curse, if not transferring it to others.” After the pig was slaughtered, An-te-hai believed that I would be released, for I, in the spirit of the pig, had become a ghost.
Early one morning news broke throughout the Imperial household: Grand Empress Lady Jin had passed away.
An-te-hai and I couldn’t help but conclude that there must be something to pa kua. Another strange incident took place that morning. The glass housing of the clock
in the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing shattered when the clock struck nine. The court astrologer explained that Lady Jin’s death was brought on because she had been too eager to invest in her longevity. She loved the number nine. She had celebrated her forty-ninth birthday by draping her bed with red ropes and silk sheets embroidered with forty-nine Chinese nines.
“She had been sick but was not expected to die until she got weighted down by the nines,” the astrologer said.
By the time my palanquin arrived at Lady Jin’s palace the body had already been washed. She was moved from her bedroom to lin chuang, a “soul bed,” which was in the shape of a boat. Her Majesty’s feet were tied with red strings. She was dressed in a full-length silver court robe embroidered with symbols of every kind. There were fortune wheels, representing the principles of the universe; seashells in which one could hear the voice of the Buddha; oil-paper umbrellas that protected the seasons from flood and drought; vials that held the fluid of wisdom and magic; lotus flowers representing generations of peace; goldfish for balance and grace; and finally the symbol , which stood for infinity. A golden sheet printed with Buddhist scriptures wrapped her from chest to knees.
A palm-sized mirror with a long handle was placed beside Her Majesty. It was said to protect the dead from being disturbed by mean-spirited ghosts. The mirror would reflect the ghosts’ own images. Because most ghosts had no idea what they looked like, they would expect to see themselves as they were when alive. Instead, the evil things they had done in the past would have transformed them into skeletons, grotesque monsters or worse. The mirror would shock them into retreat.
Lady Jin’s head looked like a big pile of dough from all the powder on her face. An-te-hai told me that in her last days boils had erupted all over her face. In the record, her doctor wrote that the “buds” on Her Majesty’s body “bloomed” and produced “nectar.” The boils were black and green, like a rotten potato sprouting shoots. The whole Forbidden City gossiped that it must have been the work of her former rival, Empress Chu An.