The Valley of Amazement (54 page)

Just as I thanked her, I felt a suffocating fear rise up. This room, with its shoddy comforts, had an air of sad resignation. This was as good as life would ever be. She had accepted that she would remain in this house forever. Her days would be spent making fake luxury out of debris, and in this wreckage, she would live out her days, breathe her last, looking at the faces of people she didn’t like. Or did she still have enough warm feelings for Perpetual to suffer all else? I did not.

“I see hesitation in your face,” Pomelo said. “Are you worried I’ll extract a debt from you later? I won’t. My offer stands if you change your mind.”

Dusk came and she lit the lamps She brought out the mahjong set. As we washed the tiles, clacking sounds took me back to my Shanghai days: the hot afternoons as we waited for our parties to begin and our suitors to arrive. In familiar sounds, I could escape this place in memories.

Pomelo broke into my thoughts. “Did Perpetual ever take you up Heaven Mountain to a scenic spot? Ah, I can already see by your face that he did. Did he promise to take you to his poetic grottoes? No? He will. I endured pain to walk up that path. Perpetual did not offer to carry me. My foot bindings were bloody by the time I returned to this room.”

“Did you reach the grottoes?” I asked.

“I’m not sure they exist. He told me the footpath had been cut off by mudslides the year before.”

“Ah, yes, Violet was told that as well,” Magic Gourd said.

“Even if the path were wide and clean,” Pomelo said, “people in Moon Pond would not go up there. They think Heaven Mountain is cursed. If I were in Shanghai, I’d say it’s just a made-up story to scare people. But I’ve lived here now for nearly five years. And I admit, just thinking about telling you the story sends a cold wave of fear down my back.”

POMELO’S TALE OF BUDDHA’S HAND

At the top of the mountain, there is a white dome of rock shaped like a cupped hand. From the top, there are steep chutes that create four fingers and a thumb. The chutes stop where the dome flattens and fans out, making the palm. Three hundred years ago, a monk making a pilgrimage became lost and ascended the wrong mountain. When he reached the top, he saw a small valley and the dome shaped like a hand, but no temple. If he descended, he would face shame for his mistake. As soon as he thought this, the dome gleamed, and he knew that the Buddha’s Hand was telling him to build a temple and thus change a mistake into a holy shrine. Infused with holy powers, he went into the forest and found large trees of golden-colored wood. With only a sharp stone, he chopped down five trees and rolled the logs to the center of the valley. He built the temple in seven days, and spent another day carving a statue of Buddha twice the size of a man. Its upraised palm looked exactly like the one on the dome. He chipped away at a slab of stone to create a dedication to Buddha’s Hand. It included a description of his feats of carpentry. Anyone who made the pilgrimage here, it said, would have their prayers answers once they touched the Buddha’s Hand. The monk then ascended to heaven without dying, then returned briefly to write this ending.

A short while later, a herder in search of his lost buffalo cow came upon the valley with the dome. The cow was by the golden temple, and when he went to fetch her, he saw the statue of Buddha through the open door. He wanted to make an offering, but in his entire life, he had never possessed even two coins to rub together. All he could offer was his corn cake, what would have been his meal for the next three days. He stuck the corn cake between the Buddha’s thumb and forefinger. A moment later, he received his fondest wish: he could read, write, and talk like a scholar. He wept as he read the inscription on the stone plaque with ease. He even corrected a slight mistake in one of the characters. When he descended, he spoke elegantly of the temple and Buddha’s Hand.

Soon, the temple became the holiest site in three counties, and many made the pilgrimage. The temple’s holy reputation was bolstered by how difficult it was to reach. One could easily become lost. The path started at Moon Pond, and a half mile up, it split into two paths that went in opposite directions. A mile later, each of those two paths split into three and some went up and some went down. Two miles later, each of those six paths split into four, and those paths also went up and down and back and forth. All told, there were well over a thousand different paths winding through the mountain, although it was never clear who had counted them all. People called this tangle of paths the “Veins of an Old Woman’s Hand That Take You to Buddha’s Hand.” All told, the distance was eight winding miles. It took a day of perilous devotion for a man to go from Moon Pond at the bottom to Buddha’s Hand at the top. It took a strong woman two days. Many who went during the monsoon season were swept away. Sudden winds also claimed many. At the beginning of summer, venomous creatures emerged. In the late fall, there were tigers and bears hunting for food to last the winter. Those who did not become lost and who survived all the dangers would receive their fondest wish—that is, if they rid themselves of any thoughts of desire so that they could approach the Buddha with the right mind. If you desired a son, you had to tell yourself not to think about a son. If you wanted wealth, you had to stop picturing piles of gold. Unfortunately, by reminding yourself to not think about your desire, you were still thinking about it. That’s why few had their desires granted.

There were two paths that took you to Buddha’s Hand. One started on the south side of Heaven Mountain. That was the front of the mountain, as determined by the toelike shapes in the foothills. The other path started on the north side, which was the back of Heaven Mountain, as determined by the two heel-like shapes in the foothills. The back-of-the-heel path was the one in Moon Pond. No one knew how hard it was to get up one side and down the other. The only people who could have said never returned.

The temple’s reputation lasted for over two hundred years, and then, a hundred years ago, a greedy man who did not receive his wish stole the Buddha’s thumb. The temple immediately became cursed, the man turned to stone, and those pilgrims who made it to the temple met with a bad fate. Every family had stories: An old woman who wanted another grandson discovered when she returned home that her first grandson had died for no reason. A young woman who wanted her husband’s paralyzed legs to be healed returned with her feet on backward. People told tales of falling boulders, flash floods, crumbling cliffs, and an assortment of bears and tigers, all of them passed along as family legend by those whose ancestors had suffered catastrophe.

One young man did not suffer from the curse of Buddha’s Hand. He claimed that when he reached the temple, he saw ghosts moving in circles. He spoke to them, and they spoke back and told him a secret. And thereafter, only he could go to the temple without disaster befalling him or his family. That young man was Perpetual’s great-grandfather. He passed along the ghosts’ secret to Perpetual’s grandfather and his grandfather told his father. His father died, however, before he could tell Perpetual. Perpetual says that without those words, he would not dare to climb the mountain to Buddha’s Hand.

“T
HAT STORY IS
nonsense,” Magic Gourd said. She said that so strongly I knew she thought it might be true.

“You can’t convince people it’s nonsense when it’s family legend,” Pomelo said. “Perpetual often reminds them that disaster awaits anyone foolish enough to seek Buddha’s Hand. He describes the boulders that crashed down on those who did not heed the warning. Yet, I’ve asked myself, Why does he continue to write poems about drunken hermits in the mountain? Did he recite any for you? His father wrote many on the same theme. So did his grandfather and great-grandfather. There is something up there, and it’s not a curse. Perpetual keeps his poems in a box near the altar. Did you find that box? No? How about the one with the story of his boyhood that describes how the family fell into disgrace?”

Pomelo must have gone snooping around for a reason as well. Was she looking for her jewelry?

“After I had been here about a year, I noticed that Perpetual was always busy writing a new poem the night before he left to inspect the lumber mills. I got up early one morning and spied on him. He was copying words from one sheaf of paper to another. He rolled up the sheaf of copied words and inserted it into a dagger sheath. A short while later, I overheard one of the menservants talking to my maid. He’s the same fellow who told her about Wang Town, her lover. He said that Perpetual does not take the path just past the bridge. He goes a bit farther to a small trail hidden by bushes. And he always brings with him a full wineskin. I think I know what the true curse of Buddha’s Hand is.”

“What are you saying? Come out with it,” Magic Gourd said.

“I’ve made a guess,” Pomelo said. “Now you make one, too.”

“He prefers the scenic path,” I said, “and getting drunk on his way to the lumber mill.”

“And the poems?” Pomelo said.

Magic Gourd frowned. “He’s seducing some other naive courtesan with no taste for good poetry. Is she in Shanghai? If so, how does he get there and back in two weeks? Is there a train?”

“There’s no mistress and no train,” Pomelo said. “We can share our guesses tomorrow. That’s my way of luring you to come back so we can play more rounds of mahjong.”

T
HAT NIGHT
I could hardly sleep due to Pomelo’s riddle and its pieces: the lumber mill, the temple and the curse, the wineskin, the lies about mudslides and crumbling cliffs, the poems about a hermit. Given the lying nature of this family, I suspected that his great-grandfather had made up the story. The curse was a way to keep miracle-seeking people from climbing to the top of the mountain. There were no mudslides and there was no curse. There was something up there but it was not a dancing tribe of ghosts.

I puzzled over why Pomelo would tell me these things. She should have worried that I might tell Perpetual what she had said. Yet, she knew I would not. She wanted me to know, and it was not out of sisterly love. She shared that secret because she had something to gain, and she must have considered I might not give it to her.

I now realized Pomelo may have lied about her feelings for Perpetual and his feelings for her. Perhaps she had loved him at one time—or convinced herself she did, as I had. I could not imagine she enjoyed his attentions in bed. In Shanghai, his lovemaking had been predictable and unexciting. Since arriving here, I had found he was no longer as considerate. He was demanding, crude, and rough on purpose. Then again, I was not as enthusiastic as I had once pretended to be.

Perpetual and I no longer engaged in lively debates. Out in the hinterlands, there was nothing to discuss. The only things that happened in Moon Pond were petty squabbles and outbreaks of illness. If Shanghai were in flames, we would not know it. Yet Perpetual had once said he admired my mind, the opinions I had gained from having lived in my mother’s world of men and their businesses. That had been another of his lies. It occurred to
me, however, that I should get him to talk to me more often. I could give him made-up confessions that would make him feel I shared everything. He would trust me more. He might talk about my confessions, give me advice, and I would act grateful and give him ecstasy beyond what the others could provide. And during those moments of disgusting intimacy, I would cry over his absence. I would ask when he would return and if he would bring me back sweets or a piece of cloth. He might unwittingly drop a few useful bits of information. There was nothing I would not do to make my escape.

When he returned from his next trip, I had tea and snacks ready for his visit to my room. As he ate hungrily, I made my first fake confession: I missed him terribly and worried he did not love me as much as he once told me he did. While he was gone, I had reread the poems he wrote for me to keep him inside me, so to speak. I found them erotic, even though he likely never intended them to be. When I read them, I remembered those times he recited them before taking me to bed and giving me other kinds of poetic delights. Masterly words and masterly lovemaking were inextricably linked. He was the mountain peak and I was the pond with his image inside me, rippling with excitement. When I read the poems alone, I said, I could not help but imagine his peak. He was happy to hear me say this. His love of himself was so great he believed that outlandish lie. He wiped away the crumbs from his mouth, and he fulfilled my fake fantasies by reciting a poem about a drunken hermit as he ground himself into me.

Afterward, as we lay facing each other, I told him another confession. I desired him so much that I worried that he had found another when he went away. I knew I should not question his fidelity. But those are the possessive thoughts of a woman inflamed with love and who already had to share him with two other wives. As expected, he tenderly assured me he saw no other women. I was his favorite, his empress of the north courtyard.

“Why must we be apart for those many days?” I said with an aching voice. “Please take me with you. If you did, we could make love anywhere along the road. Do you remember our time by the scenic spot?”

He told me tenderly he could not. He was busy with matters that required his full attention, and the temptations of my body would distract him.

I pretended to be coy and teasing: “What requires more attention than what I wish you would give me?”

He suddenly turned mean. “Don’t ask me about my business. This does not concern you.”

I knew it might have been a risk to push too quickly for information. I acted horrified that I had angered him and begged for forgiveness. I turned away and covered my face with my hands, as if to hide my tears. After a while, I said in a timid voice: “Is it too much to ask you to give me more poems to sustain me while you are gone? My favorites are about the hermit. You might be shocked to know that I imagine that you are the hermit and that I am your grotto.”

He heartily agreed to give me more poems. He recited one, which was a variation on the same ones he had already written.