Breaking Bamboo (9 page)

‘I long to be such a commander,’ he said. ‘It is my fate.’

He glanced at Father, who was snoring on the bed.

‘Perhaps I may help in a small way,’ said Chen Song. ‘When we reach Nancheng, I shall inform the authorities of your valiant conduct.’

Guang looked downcast and poured more wine.

‘You would speak in vain, my friend. I lost my last commission for criticising a superior officer’s timidity. In short, I have been branded a hot-head.’

His new friend snorted contemptuously.

‘When the temporary peace ends we shall need bold officers.

Consider the indecision of the court! The Chief Minister veers between appeasing the Mongols and arresting their ambassadors. We must be decisive! They respect only force.

And Guang, consider how you have proved your courage! I have made enquiries about this Khan Bayke – who, by the way, is still scouring Chunming for you. He is only a minor commander, yet news of your revenge has been sent to the Great Khan’s court.’

Guang did not like this news.

‘How shall we escape if they are searching for us high and low?’

Chen Song spread his hands.

‘Tomorrow we shall board a boat I have chartered to take us east, performing in cities on the way. Your filial piety will be a guarantee of divine favour!’

The young man’s enthusiasm made Guang smile. It was both pleasing and novel to be treated with such respect. After Chen Song left he paced up and down the small room, thinking himself a splendid fellow indeed.

Father, who had been supplied a bowl of goldfish, took no notice. At intervals he reached into the bowl and tried to stroke the fish as they circled.

They boarded the chartered craft without incident and sailed down the rain-choked river. Guang sensed Bayke’s vengeance drawing close and glanced back uneasily. But the other boats were unremarkable, simple merchant vessels like their own.

By evening the river ahead began to roar and froth; soon they were riding rapids at night, white water churning in the starlight. The actresses screamed and the musicians begged the Immortal Lan Ts’ai-Ho for assistance, while Chen Song feverishly clutched a jade amulet. Only the boatmen seemed unconcerned, intent on steering and poling. Guang caught a glimpse of Lord Yun’s terrified face and sat beside him to steady his nerves. Beyond the rapids lay narrow gorges and darkness. Another three hundred
li
of hostile lands before they reached the Empire – assuming Bayke did not trap them first.

‘The people of Fouzhou and Nancheng differ greatly in character.

The explanation is simple: Fouzhou lies on the North bank of the Han River, while Nancheng occupies the South. Hence, the people of Fouzhou are naturally quiet and level headed, replete with cold
yin
and prone to sing the note
yu
in their traditional songs. The people of Nancheng, however, favour the note
chih
and prefer to laugh in a giddy manner. . .’

From
Remembrances of A Western Terrace at Twilight
 

Nancheng, Central China. Late summer 1266.

Cao paused to listen before closing the door of her bedchamber. The rhythmic thud of Shih pounding herbs in a mortar vibrated through the bamboo walls of the house. His intensity suggested he would be a while yet, emerging with damp hair and pungent fingers.

Cao strained her ears for faint noises from Honoured Guest.

She always referred to the girl in this way, conscious that guests eventually leave. Whenever Cao considered Lu Ying her thoughts drifted to the time before her arrival and then she grew confused, torn between the obligations of courtesy and something darker, harder to name.

As usual Wang Ting-bo’s former concubine made no sound.

Sometimes Madam Cao overheard a sigh or shuffle coming from her chamber and, once, sobbing. Otherwise Lu Ying might have been a proud, secretive ghost.

Satisfied she would not be disturbed, Cao opened a low wooden chest. It contained her most treasured possessions, many dating to the time when she still lived in the capital, Linan, with her father, old Dr Ou-yang. The capital lay more than two thousand
li
away, across half the Empire, and her girl-hood seemed even further off though she was only thirty years old. Yet it was strange to touch a comb or ribbon worn as a girl and momentarily be that vanished person again. Perhaps the years in between were dreams.

She took a small bronze mirror from the chest, rubbing it on her sleeve until it shone. Then she examined her reflected face.

As always, it did not satisfy. Her nose was inelegant, eyes too close together. Cao tried to arrange straying locks of hair, one hand balancing the heavy mirror. At last she gave up and stared deeply at her reflection.

Her mouth was all right. Shih had compared it to a flower on many occasions during their twelve years of marriage, pointing out that the mouth is associated with the spleen whose cardinal quality is trustworthiness. But she would never care for her nose. It was imperceptibly crooked, not quite aligned to the centre of her face.

Again, Cao listened to the house. More thudding. No sign the apprentice was stirring. Shih had instructed Chung to study a treatise on the pulse and the lad was probably taking a nap. Her father would have treated such a lazy apprentice harshly.

She deftly removed her clothes and stood naked, the mirror in her hands. She tilted it this way and that, examining her breasts, wondering if they were too large, angling the mirror to her black rose, which seemed unkempt. As for her thighs and arms, she needed no mirror to know they were overly broad, shaped by work like a peasant woman’s.

As usual she could not help examining her feet. Such large feet, any lady would be ashamed of them. Cao particularly envied their guest’s tiny feet, like perfect golden lilies, enough to drive a man wild. But her father had always scowled when she suggested binding and it was too late now, one had to start young. Shih maintained that bound feet did nothing for a woman except make her shuffle. Sometimes Cao caught his glance descending to Lu Ying’s tiny feet and wondered what he really thought. He was a man like any other, after all.

Her imperfections distressed Cao, but soon her thoughts drifted back to familiar, comforting concerns: the shop and patients reluctant to pay their fees; whether to buy fish for dinner. It was absurd, gazing at herself like an unmarried girl.

The bronze mirror grew burdensome in her hand and she felt a great urge to escape her reflection. Placing the mirror face down on her bed, she dressed hurriedly. Then she wiped its flawless oval face one last time before hiding it away in her special chest. She wiped her eyes, cloudy with foolish tears.

Opening the door to the central corridor running like a spine through the house, Cao listened once more. This time she imagined what could not be heard – the squeals and cries of noisy children, calling her name.

A little tea flavoured with a soothing herb made her feel better, and she stood by the kitchen door looking out. Apricot Corner Court was a rectangle of one-storey wooden buildings surrounding an earthen courtyard. In the centre stood the apricot tree, heavy with young fruit still too bitter to eat. Three families lived round the courtyard in houses of descending size.

Dr Shih’s was the largest, as befitted his position. At the front stood his shop, known to passers-by through the sign of a yellow gourd and a banner reading
Health Guaranteed
in fading red characters. The family rooms lay behind, eight in number, if one counted the first storey tower room Shih used to dry herbs and prepare medicines. He claimed that the winds gained potency higher up and, ideally, he should prepare his medicines at the top of Blue Dragon Pagoda. Dr Shih had boundless faith in the Eight Winds.

Aside from the kitchen and bedchambers, their household contained two storerooms gathering dust. Every year Cao buried a sweet, ripe apricot from the courtyard tree in a corner of these rooms. Yet her prayers remained unanswered. The apricot stones had not bloomed. When they first came here they had never imagined how years might pass in waiting.

Old Hsu the fan-maker’s dwelling and workshop were next in size. He and his family occupied a large corner of the courtyard, concealed from the street. The third house, and smallest, belonged to Cao’s special friend, Widow Mu. Behind Mu’s narrow shop lay a smaller, family room. In all, only a dozen people occupied Apricot Corner Court so that some in Water Basin Ward called it a barren place, despite its fertile name.

Cao stepped outside and yawned. The Twin Cities lolled in the last weeks of summer, the air moist from clouds blowing west. Old Hsu waved at her from his seat beneath the apricot tree. He worked less and less these days, restricting himself to criticising his Youngest Son and Son-in-law, who kept the fan business going.

‘Madam Cao!’ he called. ‘At last, someone sensible to share my news!’

So flattering a summons could hardly be ignored. Cao went over, unconsciously shuffling a little as she had seen the stylish Lu Ying walk down the corridor. Old Hsu examined her sharply beneath bushy eyebrows.

‘Something wrong with your feet, Madam?’ he asked.

Before she could answer his question he announced gravely:

‘Today I took a bundle of fans to the market and a proclamation was being read. It appears we are again at war.’

He regarded her significantly. Cao wasn’t quite sure of the correct reply. As usual he provided it.

‘The rulers want us all to become peasants or soldiers! So we can till the fields and feed their armies.’

In his youth, Hsu had met a travelling holy man who taught him the outmoded thoughts of Mo Zi. He had grasped this wisdom fervently but imperfectly and, ever since, regaled the world with Mo Zi’s odd views. Sometimes Shih and Cao wondered whether they would be punished for not reporting his opinions to the authorities.

‘Madam, I am not a scholar like your honoured husband, but I know it is best to be happy. Our humble fans bring no glory to anyone, but they cool many a hot head.’

Cao tried to appear interested. An insect landed on Old Hsu’s cheek and he brushed it off angrily.

‘If we could but love each other, and consider ourselves one great family,’ he continued, ‘there would be no more strife between nations.’

‘Of course, you are right,’ said Cao. ‘But do the barbarians share your view?’

‘That I cannot say,’ conceded Old Hsu. ‘But I am certain the people worry about three things – hunger, cold, and rest when they are weary. Those are the only struggles we should wage.

Never war, Madam Cao, never more war.’

His upset was not hard to explain. Old Hsu’s eldest son, a young man of unusual goodwill and humour, had been conscripted five years ago. Nothing had been heard of him since. It was assumed he had died on the battlefield though Old Hsu insisted on setting aside a place for him at dinner each dusk, in case he returned unexpectedly.

Cao bowed and made her way to Widow Mu’s dumpling shop.

She found Mu preparing a fresh stock of fried dumplings. The work was urgent as nearly all the walnut-sized dumplings on her wooden tray had been sold. Usually this was a quiet hour for gossip, the breakfast trade having passed and the brisker dinner trade still hours away. Cao wondered if she should return later, but Mu waved her inside.

After they had bowed, making enquiries concerning each other’s health and the health of their families, Mu returned to work, dicing cabbage with a large knife. The blade tapped like a persistent drip. Cao took a seat nearby, fanning herself.

‘Let me help you,’ she said.

The widow pursed her lips. The click of her knife did not pause.

‘You are my guest,’ she said.

‘Then you must pander to me,’ replied Cao. ‘I will prepare the garlic sauce.’

As Widow Mu fried a stuffing of pork and cabbage, crispy egg and ginger, Cao peeled and minced cloves of garlic.

‘I have heard new things about your Honoured Guest,’ remarked Widow Mu. ‘Hey, Lan Tien! Come and help with the dough!’

Mu’s eldest daughter, an awkward girl of fourteen almost ready for her hairpins, emerged from the room at the back of the shop. It was a tiny room. Widow Mu shared it with her two children and the family shrine. The foremost tablet belonged to her dead husband, who frequently advised her through dreams.

Widow Mu said she could hardly miss him when he never went away. He had died quite suddenly of a mushroom in the brain and Dr Shih had declared the disease incurable.

Fortunately he left Mu enough money for the equipment needed to establish her business. Hard work from dawn until midnight provided the rest. But the profit on each dumpling was small and competition among food sellers was ceaseless.

One might easily lose a loyal customer, who in turn might tell a friend that Widow Mu skimped on pork or ginger. She often feared the landlord’s men putting them on the street.

Lan Tien sulkily began to detach balls from the melon of dough her mother had prepared earlier, rolling them out into small circles.

‘What have you heard about Honoured Guest?’ asked Cao, as though there had been no interruption.

‘One of my regulars came by and stayed while he ate. It would be indiscreet to mention his name. Actually it was Market Clerk Chi. Anyway, he told me his cousin is a servant on Peacock Hill and that he drank wine with him last night.

Hey, Lan Tien, leave a thicker centre!’

The girl rolled her eyes but continued to work silently.

‘Your guest is very bold by his account,’ continued Widow Mu. ‘She almost supplanted His Excellency’s wife. Imagine it!

If Wang Ting-bo had not been afraid of offending his wife’s family – they own great estates down South – he would have found an excuse to divorce her. Some say Lu Ying used sorcery to captivate him. Not that it takes magic for a man to lose his head.’

The women worked in silence. Cao digested this news.

‘Servants’ gossip,’ she said, touched by a vague desire to defend her guest.

‘Watch that one!’ remarked Mu, and the doctor’s wife didn’t know whether she referred to the discarded concubine or was admonishing her daughter.