The Promise Bird

by Zhang Yueran

  This was how Master Zhong ended up staying on the boat — though it’s hard to say if it was Tsong Tsong’s wine or Tsong Tsong herself that so enraptured him. When they first met, Master Zhong was still a young man. His full name was Zhong Qian. He spent days and days and days on the boat, amongst the good-time, hard-drinking crowds, until one journey when Tsong Tsong finally realised his face was familiar, and smiled directly at him. At the time she was on stage, and he was in the outer fringes of the crowd watching her, dressed like a labourer.

  Zhong Qian wasn’t much of a drinker, but he couldn’t get enough of Tsong Tsong’s mandala wine. That first night, the two of them sat on deck talking late into the night, the candle between them flickering out periodically and having to be relit, his pale face taking on layer after layer of red. He was a shy boy, habitually silent; after a few cups of wine he spoke a lot more, but with a stammer. Tsong Tsong liked his sweet bashfulness. None of the many people she’d met on the boats had been as neat as Zhong Qian. His skin was as white and shiny as a woman’s. He had long, delicate nails, and when he lit the candle his little finger fluttered elegantly. Even the coarse shirt he always wore wasn’t off-putting — he always kept his clothes thoroughly clean, even slightly scented with the fresh smell of seaweed, appealing.

  Once he got drunk. Even with his mind foggy and his words slurred, he was refined. Looking at him slumped on the table, Tsong Tsong realised that he was like her, desperate for oblivion. Perhaps he was an orphan too, or had also lost a lover. Thinking about it, she drank the rest of his wine.

  She roused him and tried to get him back to his room. His steps were as slow and measured as always, and he was quiet, unlike the other drunk men she’d encountered. He apologised the next day, standing before her timid and polite, not daring to meet her eyes. She wanted to laugh, but instead kept her voice serious. “Of course it won’t happen again. I’m never giving you any more wine.”

  “Don’t do that. What meaning would life have?”

  “So you are a drunkard,” she mocked him.

  They frequently drank together after that. She could be herself with him — no need to paste a smile on her face, to agree with everything he said. In his presence was the only time she felt safe, able to fully enjoy herself. Even drunk, he was never unseemly towards her. Zhong Qian gradually became her confidante. On his part, he treated her like a princess, always just behind her, like a small devoted animal.

  The passengers who liked Tsong Tsong grew jealous of him. He was the sort of delicate-featured, fine-boned man that young women are fond of, added to which his gentle, well-mannered temperament ensured he was always surrounded by girls, but it was Tsong Tsong, the most beautiful songbird, who was closest to him. He was always in the way. When other men pressed drink after drink on her, he stepped in and offered to drink a cup on her behalf, defusing the situation. He worried about her, refusing to leave her even for a moment, afraid someone might get her drunk and take advantage.

  They called Zhong Qian her shadow. When she walked past a group of drunken men and they called her over to join them, she’d laugh and say, “You’d better ask my shadow. If he agrees, then I’ll drink with you.”

  “That’s what you always say, “they’d grumble. “He’s not your man, is he?”

  “Yes. When I’ve earned enough, I’ll marry him, and we’ll go ashore.”

  Zhong Qian understood that Tsong Tsong was just joking, but still his whole face flushed bright red, and he was forced to lower his head to hide it.

  8

  Zhong Qian’s secret was discovered after one of the passengers happened to see him through a door accidentally left ajar, having a piss. That was all it took. Soon afterwards, someone stole his trousers as he bathed, for further proof. The next time Zhong Qian sat drinking with Tsong Tsong, that person asked Tsong Tsong, “Is this your man?” And as always, she said he was.

  That person responded by laughing wildly. “Everyone, come and look! Tsong Tsong’s lover is a eunuch! Tsong Tsong’s going to marry a man with no balls.”

  “Shut your mouth! That’s nonsense,” Tsong Tsong shouted back.

  “If you don’t believe me, let’s take off his trousers and see!”

  Everyone’s eyes were now on Zhong Qian. He began to tremble, cupping his hands protectively in front of his trousers.

  Other people began joining in, while someone dashed in from the cabin, holding a small object aloft. “Look what I found under the little eunuch’s pillow!”

  A gilded wooden box about the size of a fist, delicately carved with magpies and plum blossoms, cutting a gold-coloured scar through the air.

  The crowd was agog. It wasn’t that they’d never seen a eunuch before — those were easy to spot with their courtly robes, so finicky about food and drink, speaking in peculiar voices. No one had ever seen a eunuch like Zhong Qian. His voice was refined, but ordinary. He wore regular working clothes, like a normal peasant boy. It must have taken a huge amount of effort, but up to now he had successfully concealed his identity. Now, in the scalding light of day, he was revealed. There was laughter, but much more regret — such a clean, good-looking boy, so seemingly perfect. A eunuch.

  Tsong Tsong stood frozen. Zhong Qian’s face flushed with shame and anger. He rose from Tsong Tsong’s side and darted down the stairs to the lowest level of the ship, with its dark, trash-strewn corners he could hide in. Brushing aside spider webs, he burrowed into a concealed spot, and only then felt safe again.

  Tsong Tsong snatched the box, which hardly weighed anything. Something so important ought to be heavier, she thought. The thief had left a couple of grey dusty fingerprints, which she carefully wiped off with her handkerchief. Now the lacquer was shiny as ever, but a corner had been knocked off the box, and the little splinters poking from the wound seemed to signify the beginnings of decay.

  Around midnight, a drowsy Zhong Qian heard Tsong Tsong calling his name. He ignored her, but she squirmed past the spider webs until she was close enough to tap him on the shoulder. Only when it was unavoidable did he raise his head and say, “I’m sorry.”

  “What do you have to be sorry for?”

  “I lied to you.”

  “It was your secret. Of course you couldn’t tell me.”

  “Now they’ve used it to humiliate you too.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter.” She pulled him to his feet. “I’ve never considered getting married.”

  “Really?” he asked in a small voice. Hearing her say this increased his sorrow.

  “That’s how it is. I’ve never wanted to get married,” she answered with certainty.

  “But why? Don’t all the boat-girls want to find a good man to marry them?”

  “Maybe. But I’m not like them.”

  “You’re right. You aren’t.” Zhong Qian looked straight into Tsong Tsong’s eyes, clear as water.

  She took his hand and led him up the stairs, to the empty deck. From behind her, he suddenly said in a low voice, “But I always thought you liked me. I thought you wanted to marry me.”

  Without looking back, she knew his face was bright red. She gripped his hand tightly. “Zhong Qian, I’m not interested in men or marriage.”

  “Why?” He stopped walking.

  “Men are selfish, cruel tyrants. Violence and killing follow them around.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t have time to differentiate the good ones from the bad. I’d rather be with a soft, gentle woman.”

  “You — you like girls?”

  “I like a girl.”

  “Is she on the boat?”

  “We were separated. I’ve been looking for her.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m saving up. When I find her, we’re going to live well together.”

  A thought flashed into his brain: if Tsong Tsong found this girl, she might not need him any more. After a while, he said, “You know, I used to be like those other eunuchs, in court dress, tr
avelling on official business. But then I saw you, and I liked you so much — I hid my true self so I could be with you.”

  She nodded and took him in her arms, comforting him. “Don’t worry. This doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

  “Will you let me stay with you?” His reedy voice quivered with joy.

  “Of course.”

  They stood on the deck for a long time, embracing. She slipped the gilt box back into his pocket. He felt its weight like a recovery. Its contents were, after all, precious to him, and he would never again be separated from them until his death many years later.

  9

  Two years after they were separated, Tsong Tsong met Chun Chi again.

  Chun Chi stepped off a small boat. She’d just returned to Lian Yan from one of the other islands. Tsong Tsong was at the docks entertaining a group of sailors from a Chinese merchant ship. She was tired, having kept the men company all this way, drinking, playing cards. If only night would come, and she could finally sleep. But outwardly she was all forced smiles and laughter. She’d gotten used to pleasing men.

  Then Chun Chi appeared, the woman who occupied her thoughts every minute of the day, but no longer the same young maiden. Now she walked with a stick, her body bloated, her hair loose — still solemn, as if her surroundings could not touch her. Laughing with the sailors, Tsong Tsong’s eyes suddenly overflowed with tears. She was suddenly awake, ashamed of the way her life was, her numb body finally feeling pain.

  Tsong Tsong rain across to grab hold of Chun Chi, who raised her head quizzically, her eyes staring straight ahead, so weak that the effort made them wet. Tsong Tsong dabbed away the tears. Was she crying because of what she had done, or overcome by the joy of their reunion? It didn’t matter, at that moment. Tsong Tsong forgave her everything. She wrapped her arms around Chun Chi, stroked her dry, straw-like hair. The girl in her arms didn’t move, allowing herself to be manhandled.

  They were standing on the same beach where Tsong Tsong found Chun Chi that first time. A complete cycle. The runaway girl would finally learn how to return her love. Tsong Tsong felt a hundred emotions all at once. Then suddenly, the girl in her arms raised her head and said, gently, “Who are you?”

  And so there was no time for happiness. Everything was different. Here was a blind girl who couldn’t even recognise her voice, couldn’t feel her breath. Her voice cold, she said, “I’m Tsong Tsong. Come with me.”

  Chun Chi followed her to the boat-house. As they passed through the garden, she detected a familiar scent and knew that Tsong Tsong had planted mandala flowers.

  Back at the shelter, the first time she and Tsong Tsong walked into the mandala grove, the strong floral smell assaulted her, leaving her body weak. It was irresistible, making them reluctant to leave. They lay against a fusang tree and drifted into sleep. Chun Chi woke, covered in sweat, to find Tsong Tsong clutching her, her lips pressed against her temples like fallen mandala petals. It was like falling into a fairy land, lying in a fairy’s arms.

  That breathstopping embrace lingered in her body like a long nightmare. It was warm and extravagantly beautiful, of course, but the beauty was that of a dazzling, uncomfortable gown, constricting, like walking into flame. She tried to struggle free of it, but it simply drew tighter around her.

  Then she realised Tsong Tsong’s eyes were open, staring at her unblinking. Her lips moved from her forehead down over her face, inhaling the dew from her cheek and then down, little teeth nipping her chin, ticklish, suddenly open, over her mouth. Chun Chi wanted to turn away, but Tsong Tsong’s mouth was honeyed. She didn’t want to wake up, drunk on honey. Tsong Tsong’s hand burrowed like a woodland animal into her breast, stroking her thumping heart. Chun Chi finally came back to herself and pushed her away.

  They were both very thirsty, staring at each other with open mouths. The dream was over now, and they were both wide awake.

  The whole episode felt like it really had been a dream. Now, walking into the garden, smelling the flowers — the sickly scent stronger now than in the grove — Chun Chi felt the mandala coming to her like a nightmare, wrapping tendrils around her. Cold sweat prickled her.

  “Do you like it?” Tsong Tsong’s voice seemed to come from very far away.

  “It’s like being in a fantasy.”

  “I want to live in a fantasy. That way time might go by faster.”

  They walked on in silence. The mandala flowers grew more thickly now, the drooping blossoms spanning the stone path, little gaping mouths crying to be fed.

  “These flowers have a deadening effect. If you’re in pain, rub them where it hurts, and you’ll feel better,” Tsong Tsong suddenly said. “I use them to make wine. When I drink it, my heart grows numb, and I don’t feel so much pain.”

  As night fell, the red lanterns around the boat-house bobbed in the sea breeze like human heads displayed by some savage tribe. They sprayed the ground with a bright vermillion sheen. Who could have shed so much blood?

  Tsong Tsong poured Chun Chi some mandala wine. They sat together in the twilight, alcohol helping the words to form.

  “Do you like it here?” Tsong Tsong asked.

  “It’s not bad.”

  “Everything here is the way you like it. You see I’ve kept my promise to you, to give you the kind of home you wanted.”

  “The mandala flowers are yours.”

  “No, you like them too. They’re ours.”

  Chun Chi took a deep swallow of wine. “Thank you for doing this. It can’t have been easy to build a home like this.”

  “I became a song-girl, in the end,” said Tsong Tsong frankly.

  Chun Chi’s heart sank. “All to build me a house like this?”

  “No, I liked the life at sea. Two years passed just like that, in a muddle.”

  Another long silence that Tsong Tsong finally broke. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was imagining what you looked like, singing on the boats.”

  “What do you think I looked like?”

  “You must have enchanted those men. I bet they danced around you.”

  “More or less. And?”

  “I think you wore a beautiful dress as you sang.”

  “Yes, and each time I thought how you’d have liked it, if you’d been there. What else?”

  “You got drunk and danced on the deck.”

  “And what about all the dreams I had about you, these last two years?” Tsong Tsong finally couldn’t resist. She was always doing this, putting Chun Chi on the spot. Chun Chi was silent.

  “Tell me what you’ve been doing for the last two years,” said Tsong Tsong.

  “There’s nothing to be said about that. It’s over.”

  “Tell me. Call it an apology.” Tsong Tsong raised her voice.

  “I’m blind. Take pity on me.” Chun Chi tried to laugh. Her wide eyes were limpid, so wet they seemed insincere. She sat shrivelled on the mahogany bench, arms wrapped around her knees. Tsong Tsong noticed that her nails were gone; her fingers ended in thick scabs, and when intertwined resembled a ghastly, rotting flower. Someone must have tortured her. Tsong Tsong ground her teeth at this thought.

  Chun Chi’s feet were bare, her toenails blackened and filled with dirt. Some of them had peeled off and were bleeding freely, more thick scabs forming on the wounds. Tsong Tsong remembered how beautiful those feet used to be. Plunged in sea water, they were the bright red of coral.

  Tsong Tsong studied Chun Chi’s many wounds with care, each injury chipping away her resentment and hurt, and in this way forgave her. She hugged Chun Chi, her struggling heart falling into clarity. Chun Chi’s body was as warm as ever, and she was still alive. The fire that burnt inside her body could not be put out.

  The mandala flowers seemed to take effect, and this time Chun Chi did not resist. Tsong Tsong took her face and kissed her ruined eyes. She tidied her hair and tucked it away neatly, then tenderly stroked the raised red swelling on the back of her neck.

  “Let’
s not talk about the past. You’re home now, my Red Child.” Tsong Tsong’s voice was like wormwood.

  Countless bright butterflies flew before Chun Chi. Her face flushed, she giggled, “I’m drunk.”

  10

  Chun Chi’s return caught Zhong Qian off guard. All the time he’d helped Tsong Tsong furnish the boat-house and search for Chun Chi, he’d never believed this was any more than a dream of hers that would evaporate with time. On the day that Chun Chi turned up, he realised that the shattered dream would be his, not Tsong Tsong’s.

  Zhong Qian stood outside the garden, peering through a gap in the brick wall. The two women lay in the mandala grove, carefree, complete, the fruition of Tsong Tsong’s hopes. The garden was dense with trees and flowers, surrounded by gurgling water. Rosewood chairs and tables of superb craftsmanship, still unused, leaned against the walls. The setting sun shot through the open bedroom window and polished a brass mirror as bright as the moon. Beyond it, the bedspread was made of new cloth from local weavers, so soft, such delicate needlework you’d be hard-pressed to find its equal anywhere. The embroidered satin pillows, their deep crimson matching the red rosewood bed, were brought over from China by a merchant — the Lian Yan Islanders didn’t know how to work silk. Light seeped through the peacock-feather screen and onto the carved bed-head, giving it a blue-green sheen on rainy days or damp mornings.

  Such a shame that Chun Chi would never see any of this, never know how many objects in the house had been obtained with her in mind. More than that, she would never learn that these beautiful follies were brought here with the help of a man named Zhong Qian. He had been utterly forgotten. From the moment she laid eyes on Chun Chi, Tsong Tsong had not given him a single thought.

  Zhong Qian felt acute shame at his own superfluity. He would have gone away, but hesitated when he looked into the garden and thought he detected tension in the air, something hard spoiling the picture of the two women’s intimacy.

  The more he observed, the stranger it seemed. In his imagination, the girl that Tsong Tsong loved would be meek and unworldly, a gentle tributary to Tsong Tsong’s raging stream. Chun Chi may have had a calm exterior, but it concealed a wild energy. She had suffered too much, been through too many shocks, and now kept herself on a tight rein, responding carefully to each new situation. Next to Tsong Tsong’s ardour, she was ice. Zhong Qian could see she was going through the motions; her mind was not with her body by Tsong Tsong’s side. She refused Tsong Tsong’s intimacy. When Tsong Tsong absently reached out to stroke her face, she flinched away like a wildcat. Tsong Tsong could only sigh and withdraw her hand.