Jade Dragon Mountain (7 page)

“Now, in Bassorah, the old astronomer died and Nuraldin descended into melancholy. He missed his brother deeply, and became so despondent that even his wife's famous spiced pomegranates could not cheer him. Finally he told his poor wife that he would retire to a monastery and live as a recluse. Before he left, he gave his son, Hassan, a sealed letter and said, ‘Here is written the story of my life and the truth about who you are. I give it to you now with a command not to open it until I am dead.' And with that he departed.”

Pieter got up and made his way slowly to the magistrate. His expression was agitated, and when he reached Tulishen he bowed and said quietly, “I am afraid I must excuse myself. I am very tired.” Hamza paused in the story and Pieter, noticing that Hamza had stopped, raised his voice and said, “Continue, friend! Do not let the tale be broken by an old man who has had too much wine. Bring Hassan and Beauty to their appointed fates.” He made an effort to smile, bowed again to Tulishen, and left the garden.

Li Du felt the heat of the wine in his own cheeks. He took another sip from the cup that had been refilled for him. As he did so, he noticed that the table where Nicholas Gray had been sitting was empty and the merchant nowhere in sight. He felt a sudden chill, and looked around him at the dark edges of the well-lit and crowded courtyard.

Hamza straightened his shoulders, raised his hands in welcome to pull his audience back in, and continued:

“Hassan grew to be a kind and gentle young man, and the handsomest in Bassorah. However, he always felt some lack in his life, and was restless. One day he wandered through the fields outside the city, and when the sun set he fell fast asleep in a graveyard. As it happened, this graveyard was haunted, and that night a
jinniyah
—a distant cousin of your fox spirits—came to the cemetery.

“The
jinniyah
saw Hassan asleep and marveled at his handsome features. Presently she was joined by an
ifrit
—another spirit—who said, ‘I saw one even more beautiful earlier this evening, asleep far away in another city.' The two spirits argued for a while over which human was more lovely, and finally decided that they must see them side by side in order to judge. So they took the sleeping Hassan and carried him over many cities and forests and deserts until they reached the young woman's bedchamber. They set Hassan next to the sleeping woman and sighed in admiration, for the two were indeed perfectly matched in beauty.

“At that moment Hassan and the young woman woke. It was too dark for them to see each other, but she reached out her hand and felt his soft skin and the hard muscles beneath it. And being a young and vivacious woman, she found pleasure in what she felt and pulled him to her. And he, not knowing where he was or how he came there, knew only that he was with a woman whose hair smelled of jasmine and whose bottom was as round and plump as a—
”

There was a chorus of gleeful protestations that drowned out whatever word Hamza had chosen to complete the sentence.

“Well, after a time, the two young lovers fell into a deep sleep. When dawn began to glow on the horizon the
jinniyah
and the
ifrit
realized that they had to take Hassan away before the young woman's father discovered him. For her father was the vizier, and violently protective of his daughter.”

“It's Beauty!” came several voices at once from the audience. “I knew it was Beauty.”

“Quiet!”

“Yes, this lovely young woman was none other than Beauty, and the vizier was Shamsaldin. His guilt and misery at the treatment of his brother made him a stern father, and he guarded Beauty so carefully that she was rarely allowed to leave her little room in the palace.”

Brother Martin was asleep with his face on his folded arms, but the cries of the audience jolted him awake. He looked around him, for a moment baffled.

“So the
jinniyah
and the
ifrit
took Hassan from Beauty's room, and rather than transporting him back to Bassorah, they left him just outside the castle walls. You see, this is how these spirits behave. You cannot rely on them to do what is convenient for mortals. So quickly had they taken Hassan, that they never noticed his father's letter, which he had slipped under the bed as he fell asleep.

“Outside the castle, Hassan awoke, not knowing what city he was in and why he was there. He told everyone he met that he had spent the night in a palace with a princess. They laughed at him and called him a fool. But a kind chef took pity on him, and hired him to work as an assistant in his kitchen. Hassan, who had lost his sense of who he was or where he was from, devoted himself to his work and henceforth was often to be seen covered in flour.

“Meanwhile, at the palace, Shamsaldin had discovered Hassan's sealed letter under Beauty's bed. He demanded that Beauty tell him who had been in her room. Her story enraged him, but when he opened the letter and read it he began to weep, for it was written by his brother. Determined to find him, Shamsaldin asked the Sultan's permission to journey to Bassorah. The Sultan, intrigued, granted permission and declared that he would come too, for he was of a mind to see more of his kingdom.

“While preparations were made, the Sultan, wandering the market as he sometimes liked to do, ate a dish of pomegranates served by a local chef. They were, he declared, the most deliciously spicy pomegranates he had ever tasted.”

Lady Chen left the courtyard again, just as Nicholas Gray reemerged from the darkness. He returned to his place at the chess table, pulled a square of cloth from a fold of his clothing, and dabbed it across his forehead and neck, which shone with perspiration despite the chill of the night. He glanced back at the dark gardens from which he had come.

“And so the vizier, the Sultan, and Beauty came eventually to Bassorah. While Shamsaldin and his daughter looked for Nuraldin and Hassan, the Sultan stopped with his guards to eat some pomegranates in the shop of an old woman. He remarked to her, ‘These are very fine pomegranates, but I have had better in my own city.' The woman replied, ‘Surely that is not possible. My pomegranates are the best in the kingdom. The only person who could possibly make them better than I can is my own son, and I do not know where he is.' She went on to tell of her sad life, how her husband had left her for a monastery, and how her son had disappeared one night not three months ago.

“Upon hearing her story, the Sultan deduced that she was none other than the wife of Nuraldin, and that the man who had served him pomegranates outside the palace was none other than Hassan. He told the woman, ‘Go to your husband at the monastery and tell him that the Sultan of China has summoned him, for even though he left my palace many years ago, he is still my subject.' The woman agreed—she could do nothing else.

“Then the Sultan went to Shamsaldin and Beauty and told them that he had heard sad news—Nuraldin had died several years ago, and his son had disappeared. Shamsaldin and his daughter wept, and despaired of ever finding Hassan.

“The group returned to the capital city, and as they entered the gate the Sultan seemed to remember something and, turning to Shamsaldin, said, ‘I know that you are weary from the journey, but just before we left I was served the most disgusting pomegranate seeds, and I have been determined to have the chef's assistant who prepared them arrested. Go see to it.' So Shamsaldin arrested Hassan and had him put in prison, not knowing that the young man was his own nephew.

“That night, as Hassan slept in his cell, the Sultan revealed to Shamsaldin that his prisoner was in fact Hassan, whom they had journeyed so far to find. ‘But,' said the Sultan, ‘we must be sure. Summon your daughter.' The Sultan and the vizier instructed Beauty to put Hassan's letter under her bed, and go to sleep. When all was quiet, the Sultan's guard carried the sleeping Hassan to Beauty's room. In the morning, as the dawn light shone through the gold silk curtains and on the green silk pillows, Hassan awoke. He looked at the beautiful woman next to him, and she opened her eyes and looked at him. He looked confused, then reached beneath the bed to look for the letter he had put there and thought lost. ‘Ah ha!' cried the Sultan, stepping out from behind a curtain with Shamsaldin. ‘You are Hassan, lost nephew of my vizier!' And Shamsaldin embraced Hassan and wept. ‘If only my brother could be here,' he said. ‘Ah,' said the Sultan, ‘that reminds me. A man from Bassorah has requested an audience here today. Let us see who it is.' And the great golden doors of the audience chamber opened—”

At that moment Lady Chen returned. She whispered something to Tulishen, who gave a start of surprise and stood up. He raised a hand to stop the performance. “I am afraid,” he said, in a strained voice, “that an urgent matter compels me to end this delightful evening. I thank you all for the honor of your company in my home. Tonight's dinner is the first of many fine entertainments to come.”

The guests began to murmur and crane their necks, searching the courtyard for a clue to what could have happened.

“Please do not worry yourselves,” continued Tulishen, “or allow this domestic upset to diminish your good spirits. I am sure that the storyteller is eager to continue his performance in the common room at the inn. The braziers there are warm, and the wine plentiful.” This statement made, he exited the courtyard.

Murmurs rose to a clamor as galvanized servants ushered guests from the mansion to the sound of the evening chimes. Through the shifting jumble of people, Li Du glimpsed Lady Chen. Someone was with her, a small man with white hair. They hurried away in the same direction as Tulishen and disappeared into the shadows of the gardens.

As soon as he could free himself from the crowd, Li Du followed the same path, walking quickly from one pool of lantern light to the next. He passed the library, dark and silent in its cage of cypress trees, and the temple, blurred by smoke from the incense sticks that protruded like spikes from iron cauldrons outside the doors. There was no one in sight.

He came to the pond and hesitated, listening. At first he heard only the hollow splash of fish breaking the surface of the water. The lanterns at the edge of the pond scattered chaotic glints across the ripples. Then he caught the sharp sound of a voice raised in rebuke or a command. It had come from the other side of the pond, from the direction of the guesthouse. He thought he glimpsed a slight figure, a woman, hurrying away from the guesthouse, but he could not be sure. It might have been merely a trick of the lantern light on the swaying willow branches.

Li Du traversed the crooked angles of the footbridge and came to the far bank. His heart beat faster as he approached the low white wall. He passed through the keyhole door. As he entered the courtyard, a breeze moved through it, sending a cloud of glowing ashes up from the brazier and causing the lanterns to sway on their hooks. Through the smoke and shifting shadows, Li Du saw Lady Chen and Tulishen standing silently on the veranda outside the room next to his own.

Tulishen turned a stiff, expressionless face to Li Du. “Cousin,” he said, “a grave misfortune. He suffered a fit. The doctor is here, but there was nothing to be done.”

At that moment a figure stepped from the room. It was the same person who had left the stage with Lady Chen.
That must be the doctor
, Li Du thought. He looked at the three faces before him, searching for emotion and finding none. Lady Chen stood as if frozen.

“Who?” He asked the question, knowing the answer.

It was Tulishen who confirmed it.

“The foreign priest is dead.”

 

Chapter 5

The body of Pieter van Dalen lay face down, the head turned to one side. Light from two candles that stood on the desk against the wall shone on the pale face and hands that seemed to emerge from a puddle of black robes. Li Du had not realized that the man had been so frail. His eyes moved from the body to the chair beside it, drawn away from the desk and askew. Pieter must have been sitting at the desk when he was taken ill.
A scholar at his desk
, thought Li Du,
alive, full of thoughts, ready to set brush to paper.
Now, though all the words in the world remained, this man's mind would never again assign them order.

Li Du did not know how long he had been standing at the door, staring into the room, when Tulishen's voice pulled him from his reverie. “A natural life-span cannot be measured,” Tulishen said. “This could have happened at any time.”

“That it true,” said Lady Chen, her voice low and calm. “Doctor Yang,” she said, “will you repeat what you told us?”

The doctor, a short man with a wisp of white beard and a face grooved like a walnut shell, cleared his throat. “The man's breathing stopped,” he said. “It was very sudden.”

“Of course,” Tulishen said, “the foreigners are unused to this landscape. The mountain air is thin. I have heard of it causing illness and death to those who are not accustomed to it.”

“It would be wise,” said Doctor Yang, “to conduct rituals of protection for this house. A sudden death upsets the spirits.”

Tulishen frowned. “I see no cause for overt displays. I will take appropriate action. You may go, doctor.”

Doctor Yang bowed and departed. Tulishen turned to Lady Chen. “You will inform the servants that no gossip on this matter will be tolerated. There will be no talk of ghosts or inauspicious portents. I trust you to enforce this with strict discipline.”

Sensing that his presence was all but forgotten, Li Du stepped inside the room. The back wall was lined with display shelves partitioned, like a labyrinth, into irregular shapes, and cluttered with objects: bulbous vases, black lacquered sculptures, and bouquets of feathers, oily and iridescent. The candle flames stretched high from untrimmed wicks, causing the shadows of the objects to jump across the walls and bed curtains. In the far left corner was the empty bed, a grand piece of furniture with high posts supporting a tester, from which geometric latticework spread across the heavy curtains.