The Red Chamber (43 page)

Xifeng wipes Qiaojie’s chin. “But most of it is ending up on her jacket.” She puts a morsel of carp on the tip of the spoon, and pretends that the spoon is a bee, buzzing and circling around Qiaojie before slowly swooping down towards her mouth. Qiaojie reaches out and grabs the spoon with her still-plump little fist. Even though the fish falls onto the
kang
, Xifeng and Ping’er laugh delightedly.

“She’s never done that before,” Ping’er says.

Impulsively Xifeng swoops Qiaojie out of Ping’er’s lap. “What a clever baby!” She buries her face in Qiaojie’s stomach. Qiaojie’s face breaks into her charming, toothless smile. Xifeng swings her high in the air and dances her about. “Look at that! She’s laughing!” Baochai and Mrs. Xue and the Two Springs, attracted by the unusual excitement, come over and exclaim and coo over the baby, until it is time for her to nap.

The rest of the day passes quietly enough. Xifeng and Ping’er agree that Qiaojie does not seem to be getting hotter, and that it will be all right to wait until the following day for the doctor to come. Xifeng does not notice any change in her behavior except that she is more docile and less fussy than usual. She even lets Xichun hold her while Ping’er takes a nap and Xifeng goes to market.

After dinner has been cleared, when Ping’er is putting Qiaojie into her nightclothes, she says, “I think she’s hotter.”

Even before Xifeng touches Qiaojie, she notices her flushed cheeks and labored breathing. Her hands and stomach are scorching. “We must send for the doctor now,” she says, her voice strangely harsh in the silent room.

“It’s too late, surely,” Lady Jia says from the
kang
. “He’ll have gone to bed.”

“It’s barely eight thirty,” Xifeng says, looking at her watch. “I don’t think we can wait for tomorrow.”

“I’m sure he charges an additional fee for late-night visits,” Lady Jia says.

Xifeng ignores her, looking around at the others, who are pale and quiet as if sensing the impending crisis. She wonders whether she can trust any of them to fetch the doctor, or whether she must go herself.

“I’ll get the doctor,” Baochai says. Xifeng relaxes, knowing that she is the most resourceful of all the girls.

“I’ll go, too,” says Tanchun. The two of them bundle up against the frosty night and hurry out with a lantern.

“What should we do?” Ping’er says, almost crying. “She has gotten so hot.”

“We can undress her at least.” With shaking hands Xifeng removes Qiaojie’s tunic and trousers, so that she is only in her diaper. Every time her fingers touch Qiaojie’s skin, she is struck by how hot and dry it is. Even more frightening is the way she looks. She is breathing heavily, almost puffing like a toad. She does not cry, but her head moves back and forth fitfully. Her black eyes are open but she does not appear to recognize them.

“Qiaojie! Qiaojie!” Xifeng says, trying to get those wandering eyes to focus.

Qiaojie’s body jerks and twitches so she almost falls out of Ping’er’s arms. Her eyes roll back in her head, and it seems to Xifeng that she has stopped breathing.

“Qiaojie! Qiaojie!” Xifeng screams. She snatches Qiaojie and holds her ear to Qiaojie’s chest. She is breathing, but her limbs continue to jerk spasmodically. “I think she’s having convulsions from the fever!” She looks around wildly, trying to think. “Wet some washcloths! And warm some water!” She is afraid that cold water will be too much of a shock to Qiaojie’s system.

Xichun and Mrs. Xue rush to get the washcloths. Now Qiaojie is lying limply in her arms. Her complexion looks slightly blue, but at least she can hear Qiaojie’s stertorous breathing again. She and Ping’er hover over Qiaojie, wiping her face and neck with the cool cloths, until Xichun brings a basin of warm water. They dip the cloths into the basin and sponge Qiaojie’s chest and back and legs with them. She now appears to be asleep, still breathing heavily.

“I am going to bed,” Lady Jia announces, as if the others have created this disturbance for the sole purpose of preventing her from going to sleep. Xifeng does not even glance at her. After a moment, Mrs. Xue, who has been watching them sponge Qiaojie, helps Lady Jia to the back bedroom.

“Where’s the doctor?” Ping’er says.

Xifeng glances at her watch. She is shocked to see that only forty minutes have passed since Baochai and Tanchun set out for the doctor.

She sees that Qiaojie’s eyes are open. Ping’er calls to her, patting her hand and kissing her cheek, but Qiaojie goes into another convulsion. This time Xifeng holds her firmly, trying to stroke her hot forehead. Gradually, the spasmodic movements of her arms and legs quiet, and she falls into a heavy stupor, breathing noisily.

A little after ten thirty, the doctor arrives with Baochai and Tanchun. He feels Qiaojie’s wrist, his face intent. “Her pulse is extremely rapid and powerful. Her body is suffering from an excess of heat, to the point of toxicity, and the congestion of her lungs is very severe.”

“What can be done?” Ping’er cries.

“I’ll make a plaster for her chest for the congestion. The toxicity can be combated with a combination of bitter-cold drugs, such as
huanglian, huangqin
, and
zhizi
. Usually I am cautious about using these drugs, because they can be very damaging to the stomach, but in this case, I believe the benefit outweighs the risks.”

He opens his case filled with various vials and papers of herbs and begins to weigh them out and crush them together. When Xifeng tells him about the convulsions and using water to cool Qiaojie, he looks stern. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“The patient must sweat to dispel the toxicity.”

While Dr. Wang ties a flat gauze bag of herbs and ointments across Qiaojie’s chest, he orders Xifeng to mix the medicine he has just compounded with hot water. She goes to the stove, reassured by his air of calm authority. He tells the others that Ping’er’s and Xifeng’s help will be sufficient, and that the rest of them might as well go to sleep. He has Xifeng blow out all the lamps except the one near the stove. In the quiet dimness, Xifeng feels her panic start to recede. When she has mixed the medicine, Dr. Wang tells Ping’er to wake Qiaojie so he can give it to her. Ping’er calls Qiaojie, jiggling her hands and tugging her feet, until she finally opens her eyes. To Xifeng’s relief, her eyes no longer move restlessly and unseeingly in their sockets. She lies there calmly. Her black eyes, looking now at Ping’er’s face, now at her own, have never seemed so clear, so lucid. Giddy with relief, she leans over, kissing Qiaojie’s cheek, patting her head and dear little hands.

She moves aside to allow Dr. Wang to administer the medicine. Skillfully he pours it down a narrow tube inserted into the corner of Qiaojie’s mouth, and she swallows it unresistingly.

“Let’s wait and see if this has any effect,” Dr. Wang says. He makes
himself comfortable against a cushion on the
kang
, and she is glad that he seems ready to stay all night if necessary. She sits down next to Ping’er so she can be as close to Qiaojie as possible. Qiaojie looks quietly at them and about the room. Xifeng takes her hand and sings a lullaby, gently swinging her hand. By the time she has sung the song twice, Qiaojie has again dropped off to sleep.

“How will we tell if the medicine is working?” Xifeng asks.

“Her fever will go down, and perhaps she’ll break out in a sweat.”

They watch her silently for about twenty minutes. Qiaojie’s breathing seems to be growing more and more labored.

“Doctor, isn’t there anything you can do about her breathing?” Xifeng says.

“Yes, I’m worried about that, too. Let me see if I can make a stronger dispersant.” He opens his case and begins to weigh out some more herbs.

Now Qiaojie seems to be struggling for every breath. Sometimes she even seems to stop breathing for a moment before gasping and drawing another breath.

“Doctor, won’t you look at her?” Ping’er cries. “She can hardly breathe!”

Dr. Wang puts down the half-made medicine and hurries over.

“Try to wake her,” he says sharply.

Xifeng and Ping’er call to her, and tug her hands, more and more vigorously, but she does not respond. Her breathing is getting more and more erratic. Xifeng notices, as she slaps Qiaojie’s feet, no longer gently, that her face is no longer flushed but a waxen yellow. She is gasping every few breaths now. After missing a few breaths, she lifts up her chin as if to gasp for air. Her lips part, but no sound comes. She lies there, her mouth positioned for the next breath, but unable to take it. In a frenzy, Xifeng and Ping’er chafe her hands, pat her cheeks, shift her position, but there is no response.

“It’s too late,” the doctor says.

Ping’er bursts into tears, burying her face in her hands. For a moment, Xifeng stares at him, unable to comprehend his words. She falls on Qiaojie, unable to believe she is dead. She catches her to her breast, nestles Qiaojie’s head against her cheek, holds her close, trying to engulf her with her own body, to somehow transfer her own strength and life to the baby. But even as she presses Qiaojie against herself, she can sense a change. Already, beneath her hands, she feels the unhealthy warmth of Qiaojie’s body dissipating. Already she seems to feel a slight rigidity
stealing over the soft limbs. The little hands are clenching into loose fists. The head bows forward stiffly. She kisses the little brow, now cooler to her touch, but senses that Qiaojie’s spirit is already gone. So quickly—how quickly—has the flame of her life been extinguished, leaving her body an empty shell. She places Qiaojie’s body gently on the edge of the
kang
, covering it with a blanket, and falls into Ping’er’s arms.

7

Daiyu lies on the
kang
at the Zhens’ house, drifting between waking and sleeping. She spends most of her time in this state these days, her dreams and her waking thoughts often flowing indistinguishably together, her mind floating free of its moorings. Her mind feels less clear than even a few weeks ago, dulled by her body’s weakness and lack of nourishment—she can hardly bring herself to swallow a few bites each day—and by her long days lying in the dark apartment. It is like a slow sluggish river sweeping and tumbling the detritus of her life in its turbid flow. Between confused, fragmented dreams, she thinks of her parents’ death, her time at Rongguo, and Baoyu’s and Baochai’s betrayals. Baochai she might have been able to forgive, but her anger against Baoyu runs far deeper. He had won her trust and her love, and then abandoned her, allowing Lady Jia to mistreat her and now leaving her to die alone. Lying there in the dark room, she feels her loneliness and resentment against him running like poison in her veins.

She hears the door open. It is Zhen Shiyin, coming in for lunch. Too tired to turn her head to watch him, she hears him moving around the stove, as quietly as he can, making lunch. Comforted by his presence, she drifts off to sleep. She wakes to find him calling to her, with the gentleness she finds so soothing. He has finished cooking lunch and, as always, has set up a little table on the
kang
next to her. No matter how little she eats, he always sets out two bowls of rice, two bowls of soup, and two saucers of pickled cabbage. “Miss Daiyu, do you think you can eat anything today?”

“Maybe just a little soup.” She is surprised at how weak and hoarse her voice sounds. She can hardly recognize it as her own.

He props her up against some pillows, blows on the soup to cool it. She tries to take the bowl from him, but he will not let her, and spoons the clear broth into her mouth for her. After a few mouthfuls she shakes her head, and he puts the bowl down.

“A little rice?” he offers hopefully.

She shakes her head.

“Some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Do you want to lie down?”

“No, not yet. Let me sit with you while you eat.”

He sits cross-legged beside the little table, and, hungry after his morning’s work, begins to shovel the rice into his mouth with his chopsticks. She watches him with the envious wonder that the sick feel for the healthy, but also with affection. He reminds her of Snowgoose, especially in the delicate precision of his movements, despite the roughness of his work. Like Snowgoose, he does not express himself easily in words, and yet his generosity and sensitivity are clear in the consideration with which he treats her and everyone else. She has lived with the Zhens for three months, using up his scanty earnings, and requiring his constant care and nursing, yet he has never once made her feel that her presence is anything but an honor.

He finishes his bowl of rice and the pickles. Now he is drinking the soup, sighing a little with enjoyment. She thinks of how tiring and unpleasant it must be for him to work from sunup till sundown in all that noise and soot and heat. And for what? The best he can hope for is to earn enough money to take care of his parents when they are too old to work, and perhaps to provide Snowgoose with a dowry.

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” she asks abruptly, turning her head on the pillows to look at him.

“Of what?” He looks up from his bowl.

“Of working so hard.”

“Of course I get tired. You’ve seen how exhausted I am at the end of the day, sometimes.”

“But that’s all you do: work day after day. You never even take a day off. Don’t you ever feel frustrated or hopeless?”

“I do sometimes, but then I think of how I can help my family by working hard. You know how my family scrimped and saved so that I could learn a trade—that was when they sold Snowgoose. It always makes me want to do as much as I can to repay them.”

This is what she lacks, she tells herself, a sense of belonging, a sense of someone to work for. If her parents had lived, she also would feel a greater sense of purpose. “But is that enough? Don’t you want things for yourself?”

“For myself?” he says, not knowing what she means.

“I mean, things that make
you
happy.”

At first he still seems baffled by her words, but then he says, after thinking a moment, “Well, I’d like to learn how to read. You’ve taught me a few words, but I want to learn more, so I can read books and poems and songs for myself. And I’d like to travel. I’ve heard so much about how beautiful the south is that I’d like to go there someday and see it all for myself.”