The Pavilion of Forgotten Concubines

by Wiersinga, Pim;

‘Qianlin,’ I cry after him. Briskly, he turns around. This is what he’s been waiting for.

  ‘Master Qian,’ I say, ‘You deceived your Emperor!’

  Startled, he puts a finger to his lips. ‘Not here, Baoqin! Come with me.’

  He looks like a scarecrow. He neglects himself; he will go for days without a shave. The queue, the symbol of loyalty to Manchu rule, unravelled now, stands out in all directions; he daren’t cut it off. He daren’t commit that ultimate high treason, which is why his appearance is so odd and repugnant to me.

  ‘My good Qian, if not here, then nowhere.’

  He whispers, ‘What do you mean, “deceived the Emperor”?’

  ‘Long ere you resigned from the lofty position of Chief Censor, you secured Xueqin’s original manuscript, did you not? If so, the findings you penned to the Son of Heaven—that no one knew about the original—were misleading, if not downright mendacious.’

  He slyly smiles. ‘I never intended to fool the Emperor; I merely fooled Heshen!’

  I don’t understand what he’s saying. He relishes my astonishment, bows, and leaves.

  

  I’m sitting at the small pond. Meilong squats by my side, stroking my back, fingers touching my scars. ‘What does the Censor want of you, dearest Lady?’

  ‘What he always wants. To join forces—or so he calls it.’

  I cast her a sideway glance; her cheeks betray a blush. Then she’s brave and retorts: ‘But don’t you want that too?’

  The Censor has sacrificed power and prestige to the Cause. This young girl thinks of him as a hero, a proud and noble rebel; she fancies him. Fourteen she is (as old as I really was when Cao Xueqin deflowered me ‘at the age of sixteen’), and she bristles with a seducing innocence. Fourteen years, Isaac: the time that has now lapsed since we first met. And when my eye takes in Meilong’s alluring appearance, I cannot help thinking, What if you and I, on Deshima… Imagine we had… Isaac, don’t you see?! Well could this girl have been our child! Why not? Well, whatever it was that stopped us, didn’t stop your Ceylon paramour from giving you a son! You once told me, Isaac, that your soul was as wide as the universe itself. Ha! So wide that she fitted in as well! Did you ever think of me while courting her?

  ∞

  Apologies, dear friend! The last thing I want is to overwhelm you with mean-spirited abuse. I would rather cheer you up with tales of markets brimming with tropical spices and the sweetest of fruits, of Portuguese sailors or black-robed Jesuits bewitching the mob with their miracle faith. I want to make you privy to our lantern riddle contests, our performances, Chun Xian’s vibrant ghost stories—oh, and my debut. I read an excerpt from my novel-in-progress to a gathered crowd, whipping up their enthusiasm. Neither do I wish to ignore the theatricals offered by Weigong: skits that cheer us, but not him—not at all.

  Night falls. Now, illuminated by lanterns and lights, the eunuch intones the saddest of songs, his voice deep, deeper than I had imagined possible. And he chants in heartrending unison with his reunited love—the girl he gave up when his father had him emasculated. Their voices merge in a sweet and painful duet, a song about the everlasting passion that torments them both—a passion that refuses to die and yet refuses to live. And while all in the audience, including Chun Xian, shed tears in honour of dear, cruel life, my thoughts linger with you, my beloved Isaac. I miss you. Disappointed in love, and yet I miss you so. Those ink stains are my tears, and I am not ashamed of them! And to show my affection—indeed my Love! Why shun the word?—is sincere, I will tax you with the greatest gift I can offer.

  Yes, tax you!

  For in this package, which will reach you via Deshima if all goes well, Xueqin’s lifework is hidden. The Dream his family would not allow him to publish. The only true version.

  No, no version: the real Dream, in which girls and boys of the Jia-clan at last revolt against the Forbidden City, because the Imperial concubine, their dear sister, their beloved Yuanchun, has been languishing for years on end in a chilly pavilion.

  I am, if truth be told, not cognizant of the story’s particulars. Much as I would like to read it at leisure, I’m running out of time: tomorrow the caravel will sail to Deshima, and the next one will not depart for another month. I can’t wait that long, so the box must go your way unopened, unread by me, accompanied by this letter, and an explanation to Deshima’s current chief. This man is unknown to me, and it is uncertain whether he’ll forward the manuscript to you or no, despite the generous cheque that will accompany it. Assuming that you receive this manuscript intact, dear Isaac, mention this man (I couldn’t trace his name) with honour in the preface of translated editions. And even if the current Deshima chief can be relied upon, there are still the dangers of customs inspections, pirates, and fortune hunters.

  Old Concubine Chun Xian thinks I should write a faultless copy of those million characters and then post the manuscript to Deshima. Should I really? It’s less the effort of re-inscribing Xueqin’s words than the emotional impact: when I merely cast a glance upon this box, I feel exhausted. Drained. As if I carry the weight of all those lives, those real and imagined memories, on my shoulders. I want to open the box, leaf through Cao Xueqin’s writings and keep the manuscript for myself, and at the same time, I wish to be rid of it, as I must be rid of Lin Daiyu. I am no face in a book; I am a creator of faces, writing a book myself. I am a novelist and therefore I write—not in studios inhabited by lusty males, but in haunts of my own choosing: the broom-closet if need be!

  To Chun Xian I say (and the lie comes easily, fluently) that the shipment must not be delayed; it’s only a matter of time ere Heshen learns that it has been smuggled into Macao. The manuscript is a threat to us all!

  She nods, disgruntled. She is, like me, devoured by curiosity, and this is a heavy burden on my conscience. Chun Xian is old; her days are numbered. Sending the manuscript over to you, Isaac, may mean that she’ll never read it, that I am depriving her of that last opportunity.

  ‘Baoqin,’ she asks insidiously. ‘Tell me. Does Grandmother Jia, in the original version, die ten chapters prior to the book’s ending?’

  Believe it or not, Isaac, but Cao Xueqin fooled even me, his one-time love: he never unveiled the true Dream of the Red Chamber to his last mistress. Until recently, I wasn’t even aware Xueqin had actually completed it. For all I knew, he just dreamt about the Ming-loyalist version his family never wanted him to write—for fear of reprisals. Hour after hour, I fight the urge to rip up wrappings, break the lacquered lid, and devour the literary treasure within. No. I can’t do it. Time’s running out. Tomorrow I’ll entrust Xueqin’s treasure to these sailors. If I start reading now, I will be unable to disentangle myself until I am finished, and then another month or two would have passed. By then, I might not want to part with the manuscript at all. Besides, I would never succeed in getting that staggering pile of paper neatly packed and boxed again.

  To Chun Xian, I reply that eighty was a decent age for Grandmother Jia to die; why should she have to reach her ninetieth year, like Xian herself?

  ‘Your words are dripping with honey; don’t do that to me, Baoqin! I’m too old for theatricals!’

  I tease her, tell her I regard her as a second Grandmother Jia. As I foresaw, this gibe kindles her anger. She deems Baoyu’s grandmother to be an insufferable hag, and the Jia-clan matriarch’s decision to protect the youthful Baoyu against his father never fails to enrage her. ‘What if I had spoiled young Hongli in such a way? Things would have gone awry with him from the start!’ This tirade is followed by an irritable gesture, as if she tosses orange peels on a dung heap. ‘Don’t pay heed to my prattle, dear; Hongli erred all the same.’

  ‘The Emperor fell into the hands of Heshen, Lady Chun! Little could be done to prevent that. After all, you were not his mother!’

  ‘Of course I was not his mother; I’m not that old. The Emperor and I differ by a me
re six years! Ha! I was the youngest of Yongzheng’s concubines; they all envied me, you know.’ She puckers her lips into a wry smile. ‘But I was the one who looked after the boy Emperor, the one who kept watch over Hongli like an older sister. And, if necessary, I gave him a hiding. Officially, the brat was never to be gainsaid, no matter how foul his mood. Well, I was impervious to petty strictures, let me assure you of that much!’

  ‘And by way of a thank you, they put you in the Pavilion––’

  ‘Hey, hey! Don’t you ever mention that hell-hole again! Do you tire of life, Daiyu? I don’t!’ Her eyes, colourless with age, glaze over: for the first time in untold years she’s happy. Then she asks: ‘How does Dream of the Red Chamber truly end, Baoqin?’

  Now I must keep on pretending that I read it all. ‘Well… They are restive, you know; rebellious––’

  ‘Of course they are! Nobody in his right mind believes one word of the Gao E version; his ending merely serves to please the Emperor. What of Lin Daiyu, does she die in the original version, and does Baoyu marry Baochai? I hope not.’

  The Old Lady likes happy endings, I realize with a jolt. Just like Heshen—or so he said while receiving me at his home.

  ‘Jia Baoyu doesn’t marry.’

  One half of me regrets having left the box unopened, its contents unread. I am sick with curiosity, Isaac, and green with envy: you will read it before I do, if only in translation.

  ‘Not marry? A dire fate!’ Chun Xian remarked. ‘How will his qing fare?’

  ‘Small or capital letter? Oh well…’

  We laugh.

  ‘Daiyu doesn’t marry either,’ I venture. ‘Leading a band of archers, she conquers the Great Within.’

  ‘And she’s not dying, you say. Despite her frailty.’

  She stares at me, intently. I remain silent.

  ‘Or does she? Does she?! Tell me, Baoqin! The one thing I still desire in this life is to read the real Dream.’

  What can I do but oblige? ‘Well, she’s leading Blue Dragonfly, a squad of young warrior-heroines, battling as if possessed…’ I frantically improvise. ‘She mows down seasoned fighters with arrows like thunderbolts. Soon, the Imperial Guard is cornered. And all of a sudden, she stands face to face with the Emperor Himself.’

  Chun Xian listens, enthralled.

  ‘A stumbling, humiliated old man, clad in yellow-and-blue brocade. She may redeem him forever from shame: in fact he begs for redemption. For at first glance the old Monarch is enchanted with her comeliness; in a flash of insight he senses all he ever aspired to was ugly and vain, now that he, for the very first time in his life, looks Beauty in the face. But ere she overcomes her awe and thrusts at Him with her weapon, another’s stealthy sword causes her premature death.’

  Old Concubine Chun nods, perplexed, as if she only half believes it. And then she prophesies: ‘As will happen to Meilong.’

  I shudder. Dismayed, we look at each other. The thought of it—Meilong, killed by banner men! And all of a sudden there’s Meilong herself, asking permission to visit the Censor.

  ‘Permission!’ Chun Xian snaps. ‘Did you say the word, Meilong? Never will I give permission! As long as I live, any Lotus, even you, is free to come and go as she pleases.’ And then, the old Lady squeezes her eyelids half-closed. ‘You know this. Why bring it to our attention?’

  The girl blushes, but her tongue is locked. The old Lady leaves the girl to me, saying that she is exhausted, then adds: ‘Forget about copying the Dream. Better put some effort in your own book, Baoqin!’

  Once Chun Xian is gone, I tell Meilong she must never be dependent on anybody—not on Old Lady Chun, not on the Censor, not even on me, though I present my life, for lack of anything better, as the very pattern of an independent stance. ‘Truly, to compose poetry you need no Censor!’

  Meilong blushes. Her eyes are unfathomable pools. A peacock-blue dragonfly lands on her temple, near an earlobe. Did this ear catch Chun Xian’s fatal prophesy?

  ‘But then,’ I tease, ‘the Censor is a handsome man…’

  The pools glimmer. With the back of my hand I caress her cheek, smooth like silk; she welcomes the gesture with an impish smile. What words would Confucius deem fit to describe Meilong? Void? Honey? Youth? Dazed? Her blush deepens. Words no longer matter, let alone the right ones. She is slipping out of my reach; I am losing her; I have lost her already. I see it happen in front of me and say to myself: She will travel the road I travelled, reckless and headstrong. Meilong is blooming: nothing will stop her! If only the world wouldn’t trample this flower…

  ‘You don’t like the Censor!’ she says.

  ‘Does it matter? As long as you like him, Meilong.’

  She looks at me with a piercing gaze. ‘And who, Lady, owns your heart?’

  I am taken by surprise, but come up with an answer of sorts. ‘You know what a man once said to me? Since we met, Baoqin, my soul is as spacious as the universe. Now, would the Censor ever say this to you?’

  Her eyes no longer speak of unfathomable mystery; they’ve turned restless. Without sensing it, I have wounded her feelings.

  ‘My dear,’ I stutter. ‘I have…I’ve grown fond of you; you know that, don’t you? If anything is…I mean, if you run into trouble… No matter what sort of trouble… You know that I…’

  ‘Oh hush, Lady Baoqin! I know…’ Proud young laughter, followed by a fierce and intimate embrace; her tyrannical, girlish fragrance reduces me to silence.

  Next morning, Weigong draws a rolled-up paper from his sleeve: an invitation. Censor Qian Qianlin wants me to come to his studio; he intends to disclose something of vital importance.

  I refuse: the package must be brought to the port immediately, I have rented a wheelbarrow to get it there. Tomorrow is Sunday and those stupid bells—I’ll never get used to them—will smother Macao, kill all activity, and during the next four weeks of waiting that would ensue, I should be direly tempted to open the package and read it, and perhaps copy it after all. If I procrastinate now, if just for a day, the Dream will never reach Deshima!

  According to Weigong, one month will make little difference.

  Resentfully, I ask him whether he serves the White Lotus or the Censor, upon which the eunuch coolly replies that he is proud to serve both. Outwardly he remains composed, but at his temples the veins swell. He and Censor Qian have struggled to smuggle me out of China, he says, and Qian finances the White Lotus: what sort of gratitude is this?

  I relent, and enquire whether it would be possible to postpone the appointment until next day. Until tonight, if need be. No, Weigong insists, it cannot wait; the Censor’s revelation must be made prior to the dispatch of Dream of the Red Chamber: disclosure and manuscript hang together. We indulge in a showdown of mutual gazes. Then the eunuch relents. He knows I’ll acquiesce when my curiosity is sufficiently whetted. And so I ask: ‘Why this hasty disclosure? Why this imperative to pay that visit now?’

  ‘Dear Lady, I apologize for being so agitated; we won’t force you into anything. Whether you accept or decline Qian’s invitation is entirely up to you.’

  ‘All right, I accept! But why the rush?’

  ‘It’s a testament. The will that accompanied the manuscript when Censor Qian received it.’

  ‘A testament by Xueqin!’ I couldn’t believe it—after all these years! ‘Well, it is bound to be a forgery; else I would have received it in the wake of his decease.’

  ‘Not in the least. I speak of the will issued by his cousin, Cao Tianyou.’

  Cousin Tianyou, my erstwhile rival! ‘I wish to know nothing about it!’

  

  Childish of me, Isaac, I admit; but I was overwhelmed. This was the last thing I had expected. For all I knew, Tianyou had wished me dead: hadn’t I ousted him from Xueqin’s deepest affections? What business could I have with Tianyou’s will? Once upon a time, Xueqin a
nd Tianyou—known to history as “Red Ink-Stone” only—had been lovers; Xueqin had spurned him for me.

  The eunuch smiled. ‘You cannot walk away from it, Lady; master Tianyou dedicates the testament to you!’

  Upset, I followed the eunuch to the Jesuit monastery on the hill; the studio is next to it. There the eunuch announced that he must go to the market to purchase victuals—or so he claimed. His conduct was jittery; mumbling about his many errands (meaning, in all likelihood, the nearest opium den), he retreated into a downhill alley. Now I had to enter the studio alone—alone in Qian’s lair!

  The Censor poured me tea: the brew, dank and cold, had been stagnant for too long. Everything in the studio was squalid. Outside’s brightness, creeping in through a skylight, turned stale upon entry, and the light of the sky beyond was muted by shelves, books, and scrolls. Far away, we heard shrill voices, the clamour of porters and hawkers, the braying of a donkey or mule. The skylight was covered with cobwebs; a bundle of rays pierced them and illuminated a kang, a raised bed, covered with jade bowls, books, curios, underwear even, and happiness dolls. The clutter was reassuring: the more obstacles on that bed the better.

  Next to the bed was a desk, littered with papers. And behind the desk sat the king of this murky cosmos. Stubble of days obscured his chin. Hair strands, springing from the back of his head, sorry remainders of the Manchurian queue, stood out on all sides. He rubbed his forehead, darkened by an outcrop of bristly hairs: did he have lice? For all his wealth, he lived like a beggar. His pitiable state inspired disgust.

  This Censor Qian is no rebel, I mused. He wants no uprising; he’s in mourning. He mourns for his Emperor, for the grandeur that fails him now.

  Can you, Isaac, envision his former lofty position? I doubt kingdoms in the West have officials who wield so much power as do the members of the Censorate in China. One who holds power will use it, sooner or later. Prior to the change of heart which prompted his undoing, Qian must have acquired the testament through extortion, threats at least: who would willingly hand such a document to a Chief Censor, a man who doesn’t flinch from setting poetry aflame? At first he decided—or so I guessed, still startled by the accumulation of dirt and decay—to keep Tianyou’s will to himself instead of submitting it to the Imperial Archives as was his duty. Perhaps he clung to it due to a collecting mania or as a provision against future hard times. A will by someone closely affiliated with the renowned Cao Xueqin—now that would seem a coveted item indeed, one that could supply him with ready silver on any black market. Or perhaps he doesn’t need any income, I pondered. Perhaps he was intent on regaining my sympathy.