Everything Under the Sky (23 page)

“What are you talking about?” he asked angrily.

“‘The Tiger of Qin,’ Lao Jiang. Don't you remember? Shi Huang Ti's military insignia.”

The antiquarian's eyes grew wide in understanding. “Biao!” he thundered.

“Yes, Lao Jiang,” the boy replied in a frightened voice. “Bring me my bag. Immediately!”

We had left our bundles at the entrance, so Biao dashed off. In the meantime the abbot stuck up a conversation with me.

“Mme De Poulain, what motivates a foreigner like you to make such a dangerous journey through an unknown country?”

Lao Jiang translated the question for me and gestured to indicate that I should speak freely. “Financial difficulties,
monsieur l'abbé.
I'm a widow, and my husband left me with debts I'm unable to pay.”

“Do you mean it is out of necessity?”

“Exactement.”

The abbot remained silent for a few seconds, during which time Biao returned and handed Lao Jiang his travel bag.

The antiquarian began to dig around inside and, completely distracted, mumbled, “The abbot has asked me to translate these lines from the
Tao Te Ching
³⁴
by Lao-tzu: ‘Because one is moderate, one may be said to follow the way from the start. / Following the way from the start, one may be said to accumulate an abundance of virtue. / Accumulating an abundance of virtue, there is nothing one cannot overcome. / When there is nothing one cannot overcome, no one knows his own limits.’ ”

“Please thank the abbot very much,” I replied, trying to memorize the long Taoist thought Xu Benshan had just given me. It was truly beautiful.

Lao Jiang pulled out the lovely hundred-treasure chest, wrapped in silk. He'd carried it with him the whole time, and I hadn't even thought to wonder what had happened to it, whether the antiquarian had hidden it well before we left Shanghai or whether he had it with him. I felt completely irresponsible, foolish—and it wasn't the first time. The little gold tiger cut lengthwise in half shone in the antiquarian's hand, his face an inscrutable mask as he approached the abbot. We could be wrong, of course; it was far too early to celebrate.

But Xu Benshan, abbot of Wudang Monastery on the Mysterious Mountain, smiled broadly when he saw what Mr. Jiang was holding. Reaching into his wide left sleeve with his right hand, he pulled out something that he kept concealed in his fist until the antiquarian handed him our half of the tiger from the hundred-treasure chest. Then, with great satisfaction, he joined the two pieces and showed the figurine to us.

“This
hufu
belonged to the First Emperor, Shi Huang Ti,” he explained. “It was used to guarantee the transmission of orders to his generals, since both pieces had to fit perfectly. The calligraphy along its back is written in the ancient
zhuan
style, so this tiger predates the decree to unify the writing system and is therefore over two thousand years old. It reads, ‘Insignia in two parts for the army. The right one is held by Meng Tian. The left comes from the Imperial Palace.’ ”

Where had I heard the name Meng Tian before? Was he the general Shi Huang Ti had given the task of building the Great Wall?

“Will you give us the third piece of the
jiance
now?” the antiquarian barked in what I considered a completely inappropriate tone. The good abbot was only fulfilling the Prince of Gui's instructions and seemed very willing to help us however he could. Where exactly did that attitude come from? Lao Jiang was impatient—an unlikely mistake for such a good negotiator.

“Not yet, Antiquarian. I told you the third piece of the
jiance
bears special protections. There is still one left.”

He gestured to the two monks who had remained at attention by the door at the end of the hall, and both rushed out. They returned moments later, walking unsteadily, carrying a thick bamboo pole on their shoulders. Four big square stone slabs were hanging down from the pole, swinging in the air. Once the monks reached the front of the hall, they set the stones down carefully, untied them, and stood them up in a row, facing us. Each contained one beautifully carved Chinese ideogram. The abbot began to speak, but young Biao was so spellbound by the stones—and likely exhausted from the effort his work as volunteer interpreter required—that he forgot to do his job. My sweet niece, all kindness and understanding, snapped a few brusque words at him, and the poor boy was immediately brought back to the harsh reality of his life.

“Emperor Yongle ordered that these four fundamental characters from Wudang Taoism be carved into our beautiful Nanyan Palace,” the abbot was saying. “Do you know how to put them in order?”

Of course Lao Jiang would know, I thought. “The first one on the left is the ideogram
shou,
which means ‘longevity,’ “the antiquarian began explaining to us. It was a very complicated ideogram, with seven horizontal lines of differing lengths. “The next is the character
an,
the principal meaning of which is ‘peace.’ “Luckily,
an
was much simpler and looked like a young man dancing the fox-trot, knees bent and crossed, arms outstretched. “Next is
fu,
the character that represents ‘happiness.’ “The ideogram for happiness was quite peculiar: two arrows in a row, pointing to the right in the upper part and underneath them, two squares and a sort of hammer with arms hanging down. “And, finally, the ideogram
k'ang,
which sounds similar to ‘bed’ but means ‘health.’ “I quickly memorized the shape of a man with a trident through him, a whip held out in his left hand and five twisted legs.

“And what exactly do we have to put in order?” I asked, puzzled.

“We'll talk about it later,” Lao Jiang muttered, tight-lipped.

“Give it some thought,” the abbot concluded as he got to his feet. “Take your time. There are twenty-four possibilities, but you will have only one opportunity. You are welcome to stay in Wudang as long as you like. You'll be safe here. In any event, the rainy season has begun, and it's dangerous to leave the monastery in such weather.”

We were given a house with a small inner patio adorned with flowers and rooms arranged around it. Lao Jiang took the largest, Fernanda and I the middle one, and Biao the smallest, which was also where visitors were received. The dining room and study were on the second floor, off a narrow wooden latticework balcony that looked out over the puddles that filled the patio due to the endless downpour. The walls were painted with gorgeous frescoes of Taoist immortals, and everywhere was the penetrating smell of the perfumed oil that was burned in the lamps, the incense from the little altars, and what wafted out from the heavy old curtains that covered each of the doorways. It was the best lodging we'd had in nearly two months. In the coming days, two or three young children would appear at various times to bring us food and do the cleaning—although the house always seemed dirty with all that mud and rain.

That night, after we'd spoken with the abbot and as we ate a magsnificent soup similar to minestrone, Lao Jiang set out the problem of the four stone characters in a way that we could understand.

“What is most important to a Taoist from Wudang?” he asked, staring at us. “Longevity or perhaps attaining peace, inner peace?”

“Inner peace,” Fernanda was quick to say.

“Are you sure?” the antiquarian inquired. “How can you have inner peace if you suffer from a painful illness?”

“Health, then?” I suggested. “In Spain we say that health, money, and love are the three most desirable things.”

“But there was no ‘money’ or ‘love’ in the four ideograms we were shown,” my niece objected.

“Those concepts aren't important to Taoists,” the antiquarian said.

“Which ones are?” Biao asked, gulping down a chunk of bread he'd dipped in his soup.

“That's precisely what the abbot has asked us,” Lao Jiang replied, doing the same.

“So then we have to put the Taoist objectives of longevity, peace, happiness, and health in order of importance,” I concluded.

“Exactly.”

“Well, there are only twenty-four possibilities,” Fernanda snapped. “How hard can it be?”

“I think we should use the time we'll be here because of the rains to talk to the monks and get the information that way,” I said. “It shouldn't be too difficult. All we have to do is find someone willing to tell us.”

“That's true!” Biao smiled. “We might even have the answer tomorrow!”

“I hope you're right,” Lao Jiang replied, lifting his bowl to drink the last of his soup, “but I'm afraid it won't be that easy. You've got to understand the subtlety and depth of Chinese thought in order to solve this deceptively simple problem. I think the books, those
jiance
s that filled the room where we met Xu Benshan, might also be a good source of information.”

“But you're the only one who knows how to read Chinese,” I noted.

“True. And of the three of you, only Biao knows how to speak the language. I propose the following: I'll look for the information in the monastery libraries, and you, Elvira, with Biao's help, will speak with the monks.”

“What about me?” Fernanda asked, somewhat offended.

“You'll take part in the Taoist exercises for novices. What you learn about the Wudang martial arts may also help us with this problem.”

As strange as it might seem, my niece didn't protest or fly into a rage, but her lips did turn white and her eyes filled with tears. The last thing she wanted was to be immersed in a culture and practices she completely rejected. But it certainly wouldn't hurt her. Now that she had such a lovely figure and her round face had slimmed and become so attractive, a little physical exercise would be quite good for her.

Each of us got to work the next morning after we'd done our tai chi, washed up, and had a bowl of rice flour with pickled vegetables and tea. Lao Jiang asked the servants for a stack of books that were brought to him in closed cases, and he shut himself up in the study on the second floor. Fernanda received a complete novice's outfit and went off looking despondent, accompanied by two young nuns who were barely able to hold back their laughter. Biao and I cheerfully set out to find a monk willing to chat, warmly greeting everyone we met along those grand cobbled paths. Unfortunately for us, no one seemed willing to converse in the pouring rain, enveloped in a darkness that was more suitable to night than first thing in the morning. Finally, tired and wet, we slipped into one of the temples, where an old master was teaching a group of monks and nuns who were sitting on brightly colored cushions on the floor, as still as statues.

“What's he saying?”

Biao wrinkled his forehead and shrugged his shoulders. “He's talking about the nature of the universe.”

“All right, but what's he saying?”

“None of it makes any sense!” the boy protested.

An icy stare was enough to make him quickly start interpreting. The old master with a little white beard was saying there is an energy that gives life to all things. There is an observable order to the universe, an order that is manifest in the regular cycles of the stars, the planets, and the seasons. The original force of the universe can be seen in such order, and that force is the Tao.

It really was quite complicated, although I attributed a good deal of the complexity to Little Tiger's half hearted translation.

The Tao gave birth to chi, or vital breath, and that vital breath condensed into the Five Elements: Metal, Water, Wood, Earth, and Fire. These elements represent different transformations of energy and are organized under a duality known as yin and yang, complementary opposites that reciprocally balance and oppose one another, generating movement, evolution, and therefore change, which is the only constant in the universe. Yin is associated with passivity, peace, broken line, Earth, the female, and flexibility; yang with hardness, power, solid line, heaven, the male, and activity. We can become part of the original force of the universe by studying the Tao, but, the master said, since not all people are the same, nor do they all have the same needs and destinies, there are hundreds of ways of achieving this.

Despite my interest I found the ideas very hard to grasp, and I still didn't see the relationship between Metal, Water, Wood, Earth, and Fire, and yin and yang. There is no doubt that everything in life has its yin and yang—its heads or tails, that is—even though the master didn't seem to be making a simplistic assessment in terms of good and bad. Instead he merely asserted that opposites generate movement and change through their relationship with one another.

“It is very important that you learn the relationships between the Five Elements,” he was saying, “because the harmony of the universe is based on these, and it is harmony that allows life. Therefore, remember that Fire is associated with light, heat, summer, ascending movement, and triangular shapes; Water with dark, cold, winter, wavy shapes, and descending movement; Metal with autumn, round shapes, and movement inward; Wood with spring, rectangular shapes, and movement outward; and, finally, Earth with square shapes and revolving movement. Yang is born as wood, in spring, and culminates in Fire, in summer. Then it stops, and by stopping, it becomes yin, which appears in autumn, as metal, and in turn reaches its zenith in winter, as Water, putting it into motion again to become yang. The Earth element balances yin and yang. The Five Elements are also associated with the five directions. Since beneficial energy comes from the south, its element is Fire and it is represented by a red raven; north belongs to the Water element, and its figure is the black tortoise; west corresponds to Metal and is symbolized by a white tiger; east is associated with Wood, and its image is that of a green dragon; finally, the center corresponds to the element of earth, and its shape is that of a yellow snake.”

Now, that was too much. As quick as a wink, I pulled my Moleskine notebook out of my pocket and made notes by way of little drawings and symbols, using my colored pencils. Biao, still repeating the lesson in Spanish and French, whichever he happened to feel most comfortable with, stared at me as if I were the green dragon or the white tiger.