The Red Chamber (10 page)

“Come, everyone.” Baochai claps her hands. “We want to finish before dinnertime. Why don’t we put these shelves next to the door, and the desk by the window?”

The room is nearly as big as the Lins’ whole apartment in Suzhou; Daiyu has no idea how to arrange it. “That’s a good idea.”

Xichun kneels on the floor helping her choose a tea set. “Here’s a nice one,” she says, opening a silk-lined case. “It’s ‘sweet white’ eggshell
china. See how adorable these covers are. When I get married I’m going to get a set like this.”

“Who would marry you?” Huan comes in suddenly.

Tanchun says, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“The schoolmaster let us out early,” Huan says, bristling at his sister’s officious tone. “I came to see our mother.”

Tanchun’s brows draw together. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call her my mother? Lady Wang was my mother.”

“All right.
My
mother, then.” Huan looks at Daiyu and speaks to her for the first time. “So you’re moving in here, too. You’re lucky. I wish I could live here.”

No one else echoes his wish. Daiyu thinks how it must pain him, to see Baoyu lavished with privileges he is denied.

Huan says, “Could I have some tea?”

Baochai tells Oriole, “Make some of that Old Man’s Eyebrows tea.”

“Why don’t you make yourself useful?” Tanchun tells her brother. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of arranging the furniture?”

As the maids move the shelves, Oriole returns with a cup of tea. Jia Huan sips a little, then bends to look at the rolled-up carpets on the floor.

“Which one are you going to put on the
kang
?” he asks Daiyu.

“I like that red one.”

“The Kashmiri one? That’s nice. Or how about this green one? It’s Persian. It’s even nicer.” As he unrolls it, his elbow knocks against the teacup he has placed on the edge of the desk. It falls and breaks into half a dozen pieces.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, but Tanchun cuts him off, “You clumsy oaf.”

“I said I’m sorry—”

“That’s a nice
Ru
-ware cup, too. You’d better kowtow to Cousin Baochai for breaking it.”

Huan’s apologetic demeanor vanishes in the face of Tanchun’s hectoring. “It’s not like Miss Golden here can’t afford a new one,” he snickers.

Struck by the strange nickname, Daiyu asks Baochai, “What did he call you?”

Baochai avoids her eyes, but Huan repeats, “Miss Golden.”

“Why does he call you that?” Daiyu asks, eager to be initiated into the intimate histories of her cousins’ relationships.

Baochai still does not answer.

“Why don’t you ask to see her gold pendant?” Huan says tauntingly.

Baochai looks annoyed, but at Daiyu’s inquiring look, she undoes the top buttons of her dark blue gown and draws out a cloud-shaped golden pendant edged with sparkling gems.

“There is something written on it.” Daiyu squints to make out the tiny words.

“It says, ‘Never leave me, never abandon me; and you’ll enjoy a rich old age,’ ” Baochai says. “I was very sickly when I was little. My parents asked a wandering monk to tell my fortune. He gave me these words, and said they must be carved on something gold, since of the five elements, I had too little metal. He said I must wear it every day.” She tucks it back inside her gown. “To tell you the truth, I would never wear it if not for that. It’s so heavy that it’s always banging against me.”

Since she almost never feels jealous of the opulence around her, Daiyu is startled by a sharp twinge of envy. “What a strange household this is. It seems like everyone here has something special to wear around their necks. I feel quite left out.”

Baochai looks at her with a sudden intensity. “You mean Baoyu?”

“Of course.”

“It’s not the same thing at all,” Baochai says quickly. “He was born with his jade. I was just given this.”

Yet her air is self-conscious. Daiyu suspects that Baochai feels a special link with Baoyu on account of the pendants they both wear. What was that old saying?
Gold and jade make a perfect pair
. She tries to discern emotion on Baochai’s perfectly complected face, but, as always, it is composed, inscrutable. Perhaps she was too quick to read feelings for Baoyu in Baochai’s manner—or rather, she tells herself, probably there isn’t a single girl, maid or mistress, within the walls of Rongguo who doesn’t cherish secret dreams of him.

At that moment Baoyu himself enters the room.

“Oh, good. You’re back. We had your favorite pudding for lunch today,” Tanchun tells him. “I got Snowgoose to put some aside for you.”

“You mean that almond custard?” Baoyu puts a careless arm around his half sister’s shoulders. “That was sweet of you.” He is wearing tall black boots and a camlet cape, as if he has just ridden home.

As Baochai sends Oriole to fetch some more tea and snacks, Baoyu flings himself into a chair and looks around the room. “It doesn’t look like you’ve made much progress,” he says to Daiyu.

“We’ve just decided where to put the furniture,” she tells him.

Sighing, he pushes himself up from his chair by its arms, as if exhausted. “What can I do?”

“You’re going to help? You’re still in your ‘going-out’ clothes.”

“Sure.” He notices the half-unrolled red Kashmiri rug, and heaves it to his shoulder. “You want this on the
kang
?”

“How about that green one?” Huan says.

Baoyu glances at it over his shoulder. “This one is much better quality.”

He unrolls it on the
kang
, and then throws himself down on it, pillowing his head on his hands. “I’m resting from my labors.” As Oriole comes in with food boxes, he calls out, “Bring them over here, that’s a good girl. Set them right next to me.”

Giggling, the maid sets a small table on the
kang
next to him, and places the food boxes on it.

“Mmm! Bean curd dumplings!” He reaches for one with his fingers.

The maid gives his hand a playful slap. “Eat properly, Master Baoyu! Wait till I bring you a plate and chopsticks.”

In a moment she comes back with a full tray. “Here you are, Sir Baoyu.” She hands him a plate, chopsticks, and a napkin. “And here’s a candle, too, so you can see better!”

“It really is getting dark,” Baochai says, glancing out into the back courtyard. “We’d better hurry up if we are going to be done before dinner.” She orders the maids to put Daiyu’s clothing in the wardrobe, and tells Daiyu to choose a set of bed hangings.

Tanchun says, “I’ll put your books on the shelves for you.”

Daiyu has just chosen some pale green bed hangings when Tanchun exclaims, “It’s getting so dark I can’t read the titles to arrange them. Bring me that candle, Huan.” She points to the one next to Baoyu.

Huan climbs onto the
kang
to get it. He has to crawl around Baoyu, who is still lolling on his back eating a dumpling and chatting with Xichun next to him. As Huan walks on his knees around Baoyu with the candleholder in one hand, Daiyu notices a strange expression on his face in the yellow glow. The candle topples over onto Baoyu. He gives a hoarse cry, throwing his arms over his face. Someone screams. Daiyu cannot move, thinking of Jia Huan’s expression. He did it on purpose. She scrambles onto the
kang
after the others.

“Are you hurt?” Baochai cries, leaning over Baoyu.

Slowly, Baoyu removes his arms from his face. The right side of his face, from his forehead to his cheek, is covered with wax, hardening on his skin. Horrified, she looks away. Some of the maids start to cry.

“It’s all right,” he says. She is startled by how calm his voice is.

“Oriole, get some almond oil,” Baochai says. She has regained control
of herself, and though she speaks more quickly than usual, her voice is equally calm.

When Oriole brings the oil, Baochai pours the whole vial onto her handkerchief. Daiyu forces herself to watch as Baochai massages the oil into the wax. The wax softens and breaks up, revealing skin bubbled with red blisters. Baoyu opens his right eye slowly, and blinks the swollen lid.

“Can you see?” Baochai says.

“Yes, it’s fine.”

“Thank Heaven! If that eye hadn’t been shut you would have been blinded!” Tanchun says, trembling. She climbs off the
kang
down to where Jia Huan is standing. “What happened?”

Huan looks flustered. “I don’t know. It just slipped out of my hand.”

“Xichun, you were right there,” Tanchun says. “Tell us what happened.”

Xichun looks scared. She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. We were talking and the next thing I knew Baoyu was screaming—”

“I bumped against him, and he lost his balance,” Baoyu interrupts. His eyes are shut. Baochai is still dabbing at his face.

How can he cover up for Huan? Daiyu thinks indignantly. Doesn’t he know the truth? She is about to speak, then realizes Baoyu might want her to remain silent in front of so many people.

“What’s going on here?” Xifeng, followed by Snowgoose, comes in. Her voice sharpens. “What’s happened to your face?”

Baoyu pushes himself to a seated position and starts to explain. Xifeng bends over to examine his face. “Save your explanations for Granny.” She glances over her shoulder at the others. “I wonder when someone would have been good enough to inform me of Baoyu’s injury.”

“We didn’t have time. It just happened,” Tanchun protests.

“Let’s take you to Lady Jia’s. Come here!” she barks at a couple of maids. “Help me support him! Lady Jia will want to send for the doctor. And I’m sure she will have something to say to you, Huan,” she adds unpleasantly.

“It was an accident,” Huan says, looking frightened.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Baoyu says. “And there’s no need for a doctor.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Have you seen your face?”

Xifeng supports him off the
kang
with the help of the maids and leads him away. Everyone follows until Daiyu is left alone with Snowgoose, who, Daiyu now notices, carries a box full of objects for her toilet: soap, a hair string, coarse salt for cleaning her teeth.

As Snowgoose stows the items in the dressing table, she pauses and looks up. “What exactly happened just then?”

Daiyu pours out the story, including the queer expression on Huan’s face. “I’m sure he did it on purpose!”

“Yes, I imagine he did.”

“Why didn’t Baoyu tell on him?”

Snowgoose stoops to put hand towels in a lower drawer. “Who knows why Baoyu acts as he does?”

“It’s noble of him to protect his younger brother like that. Don’t you think so?”

Instead of answering, Snowgoose says, “Huan wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t constantly being overshadowed by Baoyu. In another family, he would probably be considered a promising boy.” She sighs. “But Lady Jia doesn’t care what he does. As for Lord Jia, even though he is so strict with Baoyu, he never seems to pay Huan any attention at all.” Snowgoose pushes the drawer shut. “But why are you so worried about other people? The person you should worry about is yourself.”

“I? What should I worry about?”

“Why don’t you try to spend more time with Lady Jia? You’re here to get to know your mother’s family, after all. Try to get on her good side.”

Daiyu laughs. “What does it matter? I’m going home in a month or two, anyway.”

11

“Your eyebrows are still a little messy,” Xifeng tells Ping’er, looking at her critically. She cuts another length of white thread, loops it around a fine black hair above Ping’er’s brow bone, and jerks the two ends.

“Ouch!” Ping’er winces.

“Hold on. I see a few more hairs.”

Ping’er’s eyes turn nervously towards the clock. “But it’s almost—”

“Hold still. Don’t you want to look perfect on your wedding day?” Xifeng yanks out another few tiny bristles. “There. That’ll do.”

She steps back to observe the effect. She can hardly recognize Ping’er, her eyes downcast in her red wedding gown on the chair before Xifeng’s dressing table. All that is left of her brows are two high, faint crescents, as delicate as moth antennae, giving her a slightly startled expression. Her skin, covered with a powder made of crushed garden-jalap seeds, instead of the usual lead, glows with a lustrous pallor, accented by the blood-red carmine on her lips. Her head rises like a beautiful flower above the high, stiff collar of her dress. Her hair, which she has worn all her life in the maid’s style, with one bun on either side, like horns, and a long tail down the back, is gathered for the first time in a sleek knot at the back of her head. Only she seems ill at ease with the reversal in their roles, sitting passively before her reflection while Xifeng attends to her.

Xifeng senses a tensing in the muscles of Ping’er’s face. “They’re coming. Can’t you hear them?” Ping’er says.

Xifeng has to listen a moment before she hears it herself, the distant clanging of the gongs in the silence of the clear autumn morning.

Ping’er kicks off her old slippers, thrusting her feet into red high-heeled shoes. Now Xifeng can hear the wailing of the
suonas
above the gongs. Ping’er grabs a handkerchief from the dressing table, and presses it to her nose. Only now does Xifeng see that her eyes are filling with tears.

“Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

Ping’er nods. She presses the handkerchief to the inner corners of her eyes to absorb the tears before they escape down her face.

With a shrill blast and the rattle of gongs, the wedding procession comes through the front gate.

“Hurry. Blow your nose,” Xifeng says.

While Ping’er buries her nose in the handkerchief, Xifeng runs to get the red silk square. She flings it over Ping’er’s head. Her last glimpse of Ping’er’s face is of her staring blindly ahead, biting her bottom lip. Her front teeth are stained with rouge.

The wedding party fills the room with cacophony. Two old women take Ping’er’s hands and escort her out the door. Unable to see under the veil, she stumbles on the threshold. She steps into the wedding sedan, festooned with garlands and ribbons. The red curtain is let down behind her. As the bearers heave the sedan to their shoulders, the musicians reform into a little procession. Striking up a different tune, they lead the sedan out of the courtyard. And then Ping’er is gone.