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Peach Blossom Pavilion
Mingmei Yip
Copyright
Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Mingmei Yip 2008
Cover photographs © Natalia Campbell / Getty Images (woman); myu-myu / Getty Images (bird); Shutterstock.com; Kevin Hua Long Jiang / Getty Images (background).
Mingmei Yip asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007570126
Ebook Edition © February 2014 ISBN: 9780007570133
Version: 2014-07-25
Dedication
For Geoffrey, Who gives me both the fish and the bear’s paw.
When there is action above and compliance below, this is called the natural order of things.
When the man thrusts from above and the woman receives from below, this is called the balance between heaven and earth.
–Dong Xuanzi (Tang dynasty, AD 618–907)
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
1. The Turquoise Pavilion
2. The North Station
3. The Dark Room
4. The Elegant Gathering
5. Spring Moon
6. A Lucky Day
7. The Jade Stalk and the Golden Gate
8. The Haunted Garden
9. The Art of Pleasing
10. The Longevity Wrinkles
11. Rape of the Rock
12. Beat the Cat
Part Two
13. Life Went On
14. Mr. Anderson
15. The Prestigious Prostitute
16. Red Jade
17. The Ways Out
18. The Jade Stalk Refuses to Salute
19. Last Journey in the Red Dust
Part Three
20. Chinese Soap Opera
21. Melting the Ice
22. American Handsome
23. The Escape
24. The Bandits
25. This Woman Is Not My Husband
26. The Monk and the Prostitute
27. The Encounter
28. Separation
29. Replaying the Pipa
30. Flight to Heaven
31. The Reunion
32. Back to Shanghai
33. Revenge
Part Four
34. Ginseng Tea
35. Back to Peking
36. The Nun and the Prostitute
37. An Unexpected Visitor
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Prologue
Precious Orchid
The California sun slowly streams in through my apartment window, then gropes its way past a bamboo plant, a Chinese vase spilling with plum blossoms, a small incense burner, then finally lands on Bao Lan – Precious Orchid – the woman lying opposite me without a stitch on.
Envy stabs my heart. I stare at her body as it curves in and out like a snake ready for mischief. She lies on a red silk sheet embroidered with flowers in gold thread. ‘Flower of the evil sea’ – this was what people in old Shanghai would whisper through cupped mouths. While now, in San Francisco, I murmur her name, ‘Bao Lan,’ sweetly as if savouring a candy in my mouth. I imagine inhaling the decadent fragrance from her sun-warmed nudity.
Bao Lan’s eyes shine big and her lips – full, sensuous, and painted a dark crimson – evoke in my mind the colour of rose petals in a fading dream. Petals that, when curled into a seductive smile, also whisper words of flattery. These, together with her smooth arm, raised and bent behind her head in a graceful curve, remind me of the Chinese saying ‘A pair of jade arms used as pillows to sleep on by a thousand guests; two slices of crimson lips tasted by ten thousand men.’
Now the rosy lips seem to say, ‘Please come to me.’
I nod, reaching my hand to touch the nimbus of black hair tumbling down her small, round breasts. Breasts the texture of silk and the colour of white jade. Breasts that were touched by many – soldiers, merchants, officials, scholars, artists, policemen, gangsters, a Catholic priest, a Taoist monk.
Feeling guilty of sacrilege, I withdraw my nearly century-old spotty and wrinkled hand. I keep rocking on my chair and watching Bao Lan as she continues to eye me silently. ‘Hai, how time flies like an arrow, and the sun and moon move back and forth like a shuttle!’ I recite the old saying, then carefully sip my ginseng tea.
‘Ahpo, it’s best-quality ginseng to keep your longevity and health,’ my great-granddaughter told me the other day when she brought the herb.
Last week, I celebrated my ninety-eighth birthday, and although they never say it out loud, I know they want my memoir to be finished before I board the immortal’s journey. When I say ‘they,’ I mean my great-granddaughter Jade Treasure and her American fiancé Leo Stanley. In a while, they will be coming to see me and begin recording my oral history.
Oral history! Do they forget that I can read and write? They treat me as if I were a dusty museum piece. They act like they’re doing me a great favour by digging me out from deep underground and bringing me to light. How can they forget that I am not only literate, but also well versed in all the arts – literature, music, painting, calligraphy, and poetry – and that’s exactly the reason they want to write about me?
Now Bao Lan seems to say, ‘Old woman, please go away! Why do you always have to remind me how old you are and how accomplished you were?! Can’t you leave me alone to enjoy myself at the height of my youth and beauty?’
‘Sure,’ I mutter to the air, feeling the wrinkles weighing around the corners of my mouth.
But she keeps staring silently at me with eyes which resemble two graceful dots of ink on rice paper. She’s strange, this woman who shares the same house with me but only communicates with the brightness of her eyes and the sensuousness of her body.
I am used to her eccentricity, because she’s my other – much wilder and younger – self! The delicate beauty opposite me is but a faded oil painting done seventy-five years ago when I was twenty-three.
And the last poet-musician courtesan in Shanghai.
That’s why they keep pushing me to tell, or sell, my story – I am the carrier of a mysterious cultural phenomenon – ming ji.
The prestigious prostitute. Prestigious prostitute? Yes, that was what we were called in old China. A species as extinct as the Chinese emperors, after China became a republic. Some say it’s a tragic loss; others argue: how can the disappearance of prostitutes be tragic?
The cordless phone trills on the coffee table; I pick it up with my stiff, arthritic hand. Jane and Leo are already downstairs. Jane is Jade Treasure’s English name, of which I disapprove because it sounds so much like the word ‘pan fry’ in Chinese. When I call her ‘Jane, Jane,’ I can almost smell fish cooking in sizzling oil – Sizzz! Sizzz! It sounds as if I’d cook my own flesh and blood!
Now the two young people burst into my nursing home apartment with their laughter and overflowing energy, their embarrassingly long limbs flailing in all directions. Jade Treasure flounces up to peck my cheek, swinging a basket of fruit in front of me, making me dizzy.
‘Hi, Grandmama, you look good today! The ginseng gives you good qi?’
‘Jade, can you show some respect to an old woman who has witnessed, literally, the ups and downs of a century?’ I say, pushing away the basket of fruit.
‘Grandmama!’ Jade mock protests, then dumps the basket on the table with a clank and plops down on the sofa next to me.
It is now Leo’s turn to peck my cheek, then he says in his smooth Mandarin, ‘How are you today, Popo?’
This American boy calls me Popo, the respectful way of addressing an elderly lady in Chinese, while my Jade Treasure prefers the more Westernised Grandmama (she adds another ‘ma’ for ‘great’ grandmother). Although I am always suspicious of laofan, old barbarians, I kind of like Leo. He’s a nice boy, good-looking with a big body and soft blonde hair, a graduate of journalism at a very good university called Ge-lin-bi-ya? (so I was told by Jade), speaks very good Mandarin, now works as an editor for a very famous publisher called Ah-ba Call-lings? (so I was also told by Jade). And madly in love with my Jade Treasure.
Jade is already clanking bowls and plates in my small kitchen, preparing snacks. Her bare legs play hide and seek behind the half-opened door, while her excessive energy thrusts her to and fro between the refrigerator, the cupboard, the sink, the stove.
A half hour later, after we’ve finished our snacks and the trays are put away and the table cleaned, Leo and Jade sit down beside me on the sofa, carefully taking out their recorder, pads, pens. Faces glowing with excitement, they look like Chinese students eager to please their teacher. It touches me to see their expressions turn serious as if they were burdened by the sacred responsibility of saving a precious heritage from sinking into quicksand.
‘Grandmama,’ Jade says after she’s discussed it in English with her fiancé, ‘Leo and I agreed that it’s best for you to start your story from the beginning. That is, when you were sold to the turquoise pavilion after Great-great-grandpapa was executed.’
I’m glad she is discreet enough not to say jiyuan, prostitution house, or worse, jixiang, whorehouse, but instead uses the much more refined and poetic qinglou – turquoise pavilion.
‘Jade, if you’re so interested in Chinese culture, do you know there are more than forty words for prostitution house … fire pit; tender village; brocade gate; wind and moon domain—’
Jade interrupts. ‘Grandmama, so which were you in?’
‘You know, we had our own hierarchy. The prestigious book chamber ladies,’ I tilt my head, ‘like myself, condescended to the second-rate long gown ladies, and they in turn snubbed those who worked in the second hall. And of course, everyone would spit on the homeless wild chickens as if they were nonhuman.’
‘Wow! Cool stuff!’ Jade exclaims, then exchanges whispers with Leo. She turns back to stare at me, her elongated eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. ‘Grandmama, we think that it’s better if you can use the “talk story” style. Besides, can you add even more juicy stuff?’
‘No.’ I wave them a dismissive hand. ‘Do you think my life is not miserable enough to be saleable? This is my story, and I’ll do it my way!’
‘Yes, of course!’ The two heads nod like basketballs under thumping hands.
‘All right, my big prince and princess, what else?’
‘That’s all, Grandmama. Let’s start!’ The two young faces gleam as if they were about to watch a Hollywood soap opera – forgetting that I have told them a hundred times that my life is even a thousand times soapier.
PART ONE
1
The Turquoise Pavilion
To be a prostitute was my fate.
After all, no murderer’s daughter would be accepted into a decent household to be a wife whose children would be smeared with crime even before they were born. The only other choice was my mother’s – to take refuge as a nun, for the only other society which would accept a criminal’s relatives lay within the empty gate.
I had just turned thirteen when I exchanged the quiet life of a family for the tumult of a prostitution house. But not like the others, whose parents had been too poor to feed them, or who had been kidnapped and sold by bandits.
It all happened because my father was convicted of a crime – one he’d never committed.
‘That was the mistake your father should never have made,’ my mother told me over and over, ‘trying to be righteous, and,’ she added bitterly, ‘meddling in rich men’s business.’
True. For that ‘business’ cost him his own life, and fatefully changed the life of his wife and daughter.
Baba had been a Peking opera performer and a musician. Trained as a martial arts actor, he played acrobats and warriors. During one performance, while fighting with four pennants strapped to his thirty-pound suit of armour, he jumped down from four stacked chairs in his high-soled boots and broke his leg. Unable to perform on stage anymore, he played the two-stringed fiddle in the troupe’s orchestra. After several years, he became even more famous for his fiddle playing, and an amateur Peking opera group led by the wife of a Shanghai warlord hired him as its accompanist. Every month the wife would hold a big party in the house’s lavish garden. It was an incident in that garden that completely changed our family’s destiny.
One moonlit evening amid the cheerful tunes of the fiddle and the falsetto voices of the silk-clad and heavily jewelled tai tai – society ladies – the drunken warlord raped his own teenage daughter.
The girl grabbed her father’s gun and fled to the garden where the guests were gathered. The warlord ran behind her, puffing and pants falling. Suddenly his daughter stopped and turned to him. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she slowly pointed the gun to her head. ‘Beast! If you dare come an inch closer, I’ll shoot myself!’
Baba threw down his precious fiddle and ran to the source of the tumult. He pushed away the gaping guests, leaped forward, and tried to seize the gun. But it went off. The hapless girl fell dead to the ground in a pool of blood surrounded by the stunned guests and servants.
The warlord turned to grab Baba’s throat till his tongue protruded. Eyes blurred and face as red as his daughter’s splattered blood, he spat on Baba. ‘Animal! You raped my daughter and killed her!’
Although all the members in the household knew it was a false accusation, nobody was willing to right the wrong. The servants were scared and powerless. The rich guests couldn’t have cared less.
One general meditatively stroked his beard, sneering, ‘Big deal, it’s just a fiddle player.’ And that ended the whole event.
Indeed, it was a big deal for us. For Baba was executed. Mother took refuge as a Buddhist nun in a temple in Peking. I was taken away to a prostitution house.
This all happened in 1918.
Thereafter, during the tender years of my youth, while my mother was strenuously cultivating desirelessness in the Pure Lotus Nunnery in Peking, I was busy stirring up desire within the Peach Blossom Pavilion.
That was the mistake your father should never have made – trying to be righteous and meddling in rich men’s business.
Mother’s saying kept knocking around in my head until one day I swore, kneeling before Guan Yin – the Goddess of Mercy – that I would never be merciful in this life. But not meddle in rich men’s business? It was precisely the rich and powerful at whom I aimed my arts of pleasing. Like Guan Yin with a thousand arms holding a thousand amulets to charm, I was determined to cultivate myself to be a woman with a thousand scheming hearts to lure a thousand men into my arms.
But, of course, this kind of cultivation started later, when I had become aware of the realm of the wind and moon. When I’d first entered the prostitution house, I was but a little girl with a heart split into two: one half light with innocence, the other heavy with sorrow.
In the prostitution house, I was given the name Precious Orchid. It was only my professional name; my real name was Xiang Xiang, given for two reasons. I was born with a natural xiang – body fragrance (a mingling of fresh milk, honey, and jasmine), something which rarely happens except in legends where the protagonist lives on nothing but flowers and herbs. Second, I was named after the Xiang River of Hunan Province. My parents, who had given me this name, had cherished the hope that my life would be as nurturing as the waterway of my ancestors, while never expecting that it was my overflowing tears which would nurture the river as it flows its never-ending course. They had also hoped that my life would sing with happiness like the cheerful river, never imagining that what flowed in my voice was nothing but the bittersweet melodies of Karma.
Despite our abject poverty after Baba’s death, it was never my mother’s intent to sell me into Peach Blossom Pavilion. This bit of chicanery was the work of one of her distant relatives, a woman by the name of Fang Rong – Beautiful Countenance. Mother had met her only once, during a Chinese New Year’s gathering at a distant uncle’s house. Not long after Baba had been executed, Fang Rong appeared one day out of nowhere and told my mother that she could take good care of me. When I first laid eyes on her, I was surprised that she didn’t look at all like what her name implied. Instead, she had the body of a stuffed rice bag, the face of a basin, and the eyes of a rat, above which a big mole moved menacingly.
Fang Rong claimed that she worked as a housekeeper for a rich family. The master, a merchant of foreign trade, was looking for a young girl with a quick mind and swift hands to help in the household. The matter was decided without hesitation. Mother, completely forgetting her vow never to be involved in rich men’s business, was relieved that I’d have a roof over my head. So, with her departure for Peking looming, she agreed to let Fang Rong take me away.
Both Mother and Fang Rong looked happy chatting under the sparkling sun. Toward the end of their conversation, after Fang Rong had given Mother the address of the ‘rich businessman,’ she shoved me into a waiting rickshaw. ‘Quick! Don’t make the master wait!’
When the vehicle was about to take off, Mother put her face close to me and whispered, ‘From now on, listen to Aunty Fang and your new master and behave. Will you promise me that?’
I nodded, noticing the tears welling in her eyes. She gently laid the cloth sack containing my meagre possessions (a small amount of cash and a few rice balls sprinkled with bits of salted fish) on my lap, then put her hand on my head. ‘Xiang Xiang, I’ll be leaving in a month. If I can, I’ll visit you. But if I don’t, I’ll write as soon as I’ve arrived in Peking.’ She paused, a faint smile breaking on her withered face. ‘You’re lucky …’
I touched her hand. ‘Ma …’
Just as I was struggling to say something, Fang Rong’s voice jolted us apart. ‘All right, let’s go, better not be late.’ With that, the rickshaw puller lifted the poles and we started to move.
I turned back and waved to Mother until she became a small dot and finally vanished like the last morning dew.
Fang Rong rode beside me in silence. Houses floated by as the rickshaw puller grunted along. After twists and turns through endless avenues and back alleys, the rickshaw entered a tree-lined boulevard.
Fang Rong turned to me and smiled. ‘Xiang Xiang, we’ll soon be there.’
Though the air was nippy, the coolie was sweating profusely. We bumped along a crowded street past a tailor, an embroidery shop, a hair salon, and a shoe store before the coolie finally grunted to a stop.
Fang Rong paid and we got out in front of the most beautiful mansion I’d ever seen. With walls painted a pale pink, the building rose tall and imposing, with a tightly closed red iron gate fiercely guarded by two stone lions. At the entrance, a solitary red lantern swayed gently in the breeze. An ornate wooden sign above the lintel glinted in the afternoon sun. I shaded my eyes and saw a shiny signboard, black with three large gold characters: PEACH BLOSSOM PAVILION. On either side, vertical boards flanking the gate read:
Guests flocking to the pavilion like birds,
Beauties blooming in the garden like flowers.
‘Aunty Fang,’ I pointed to the sign, ‘what is this Peach—’
‘Come on,’ Fang Rong cast me an annoyed look, ‘don’t let your father wait,’ and pulled me along.
My father? Didn’t she know that he was already dead? Just as I was wondering what this was all about, the gate creaked open, revealing a man of about forty; underneath shiny hair parted in the middle shone a smooth, handsome face. An embroidered silk jacket was draped elegantly over a lean, sinewy body.
He scrutinised me for long moments, then his face broke into a pleasant grin. ‘Ah, so the rumour is true. What a lovely girl!’ His slender fingers with their long, immaculate nails reached to pat my head. I felt an instant liking for this man my father’s age. I also wondered, how could the ugly-to-death Fang Rong catch such a nice-looking man?
‘Wu Qiang,’ Fang Rong drew away his hand, ‘haven’t you ever seen a pretty girl in your life?’ Then she turned to me. ‘This is my husband Wu Qiang and your father.’
‘But Aunty—’
Now Fang Rong put on an ear-reaching grin. ‘Xiang Xiang, your father is dead, so from now on Wu Qiang is your father. Call him De.’
Despite my liking for this man, in my heart no one could take the place of my father. ‘But he’s not my de!’
Fang Rong shot me a smile with the skin, but not the flesh. ‘I’ve told you that now he is, and I’m your mother, so call me Mama.’
Before I could protest again, she’d already half-pushed me along through a narrow entranceway. Then I forgot to complain because as we passed into the courtyard, my eyes beheld another world. Enclosed within the red fence was a garden where lush flowerbeds gave off a pleasing aroma. On the walls were painted lovely maidens cavorting among exotic flowers. A fountain murmured, spurting in willowy arcs. In a pond, golden carps swished their tails and gurgled trails of bubbles. A stone bridge led across the pond to a pavilion with gracefully upturned eaves. Patches of soothing shade were cast by artfully placed bamboo groves.
While hurrying after Fang Rong and Wu Qiang, I spotted a small face peeking out at me from behind the bamboo grove. What struck me was not her face but the sad, watery eyes which gazed into mine, as if desperate to tell a tale.
When I was on the verge of asking about her, Fang Rong cast me a tentative glance. ‘Xiang Xiang, aren’t you happy that this is now your new home? Isn’t it much better than your old one?’
I nodded emphatically, while feeling stung by those sad eyes.
‘I’m sure you’ll like it even better when you taste the wonderful food cooked by our chef,’ Wu Qiang chimed in enthusiastically.
Soon we arrived at a small room decorated with polished furniture and embroidered pink curtains. Against the back wall stood an altar with a statue of a white-browed, red-eyed general mounted on a horse and wielding a sword. Arrayed in front of him were offerings of rice, meat, and wine.
In the centre of the room was a table set with chopsticks, bowls, and dishes of snacks. Fang Rong told me to sit between her and Wu Qiang. With no other etiquette, she announced that dinner would begin. A middle-aged woman brought out plates of food, then laid them down one by one on the table. After filling the bowls with rice and soup, she left without a word.
During the whole meal, Fang Rong kept piling food into my bowl. ‘Eat more, soon you’ll be a very healthy and charming young lady.’
I’d never before tasted food so delicious. I gulped down chunks of fish, shrimp, pork, chicken, and beef, washing them down with cup after cup of fragrant tea.
When dinner was finished, I asked, ‘Aunty Fang—’
‘Did you forget that I’m now your mama?’
Her stare was so fierce that I finally muttered a weak, ‘Mama.’ I swallowed hard. ‘After dinner, are we going to see the master and the mistress of the mansion?’
Barely had I finished my question when she burst into laughter. Then she took a sip of her tea and replied meaningfully. ‘Ha, silly girl! Don’t you know that we are your new master and mistress?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s what I mean – I am the mistress and my husband is the master of this Peach Blossom Pavilion.’
‘What is Peach Blossom Pavilion?’
‘A book chamber.’
I looked around but didn’t see any books, not even bookshelves.
Fang Rong cast me a mysterious look. ‘A cloud and rain pavilion.’
Now Wu Qiang added soothingly, ‘This is … ah … a turquoise pavilion.’
‘What—’
Fang Rong spat, ‘A whorehouse!’
Wu Qiang looked on with a mysterious smile while his wife burst out in a loud laugh. Then she chided me affectionately. ‘Why do people always have to have the entrails drawn?’
She was referring to the Chinese saying that when one paints a portrait, he even includes the intestines – an act redundant and stupid.
Shocked, it took several beats before I could utter, ‘But didn’t you tell us that the master is a merchant of foreign trade?’
Fang Rong laughed, her huge breasts and bulging belly shivering. ‘Ha! Ha! It’s true. From time to time we do entertain British, French, and American soldiers here. Don’t you know you’ve just arrived at the night district of Si Malu? This is the most high-class shangren lane, where all the book chambers are found!’
I felt a queasiness simmering in my stomach. ‘You mean … I was sold into—’ Fang Rong’s harsh voice pierced my ears. ‘No, you were not sold, silly girl! You were given to us as a gift—’
Using his long-nailed pinky to pick some meat from between his teeth while stealing a glance at me, Wu Qiang added, ‘We didn’t even have to pay your mother.’
‘That’s why we never forget to make offerings to the Buddha, Guan Yin the Goddess of Mercy, and,’ her sausage finger pointing to the sword-wielding, horse-riding general, ‘the righteous, money-bringing White-Browed God.’ Fang Rong winked, then pinched my cheek. ‘So, little pretty, see how they look after us!’
Now, as if he were my real father, Wu Qiang looked down at me tenderly, his voice unctuous. ‘Xiang Xiang, don’t worry. From now on, you’ll have plenty of good food to eat and pretty clothes to wear. You’ll see we’ll take care of you like you’re our own daughter.’
But they were not my mother and father. That night, alone, helpless, and abandoned, I cried a long time before I fell asleep in the small, bare room to which I’d been led.
My only hope was that my mother would write to me and soon come to visit.
2
The North Station
In the following days, it surprised me that my anger at being tricked into the prostitution house had gradually waned. I had to admit, with embarrassment, that life here didn’t seem to be so bad after all. Fang Rong kept her promise to my mother – I was well clothed and fed. Moreover, I felt relieved to be spared, not only from accompanying clients but also from the menial chores like washing clothes, scrubbing floors, cleaning spittoons, emptying chamber pots. Those jobs were given to maids – girls too plain to ever serve as ‘sisters.’
In comparison to their work, mine was easy: serving the sisters and their customers while they played mahjong; refilling the guests’ water pipes and serving them tea and tobacco; helping the cook in the kitchen; carrying messages for the sisters; running errands for Fang Rong. Needless to say, I didn’t like serving Fang Rong, but I actually enjoyed the other tasks. Especially the mahjong playing – when the game was finished, the customers always tipped me generously by secretly pushing money into my hand.
Moreover, when the game finished and dinner was served in the banquet room, a puppy would always materialise to gobble bits of food thrown down by the guests and sisters. He was so cute that whenever I saw him, I’d pick him up, squeeze him in my arms, and bury my face into his fluffy yellow fur. Strangely, he was never given a name, but was just called ‘Puppy.’ One time when I’d asked a sister why didn’t the puppy have a name, she laughed, ‘Because we don’t want to bother. Why don’t you give him one?’ And I did. So he became Guigui – good baby. Guigui began to recognise me and follow me almost everywhere. His favourite place was beside me in the kitchen while I helped the chef, Ah Ping.
Ah Ping, a fortyish, mute, and half-witted woman, always secretly fed me and Guigui with goodies. For a chef, she was unusually thin. I always stared at her hollow cheeks and wondered why she never seemed to have any appetite. Or why she only spoke with jumbled sounds which no one could understand.
I carried out my chores mostly during my spare time. My main duty in the pavilion was to learn the arts – singing parts from Peking and Kun operas; playing the pipa – a four-stringed lute resembling a pear; painting; and practising calligraphy.
The painting and calligraphy teacher was Mr. Wu, an old man in his forties. I felt very fond of him not only because he painted well, but, also because he was a very kind teacher – never scolding but gently redirecting my brush to show me how to form the strokes more elegantly. The opera teacher, Mr. Ma, was younger than Mr. Wu, but also pretty old – thirty-eight. I didn’t like him, for he looked at me strangely and would accidentally brush his hand against my face, my belly, sometimes even my breast (when he demonstrated how to lead my breath from my chest down to my dantian – cinnabar field).
A young woman named Pearl was assigned to teach me to play the pipa. Beautiful with shiny black hair and sparkling white teeth, Pearl was the most popular sister in the pavilion. Although I was extremely fond of her, somehow she also made me feel uneasy. I found it hard to tell what kind of a person she really was – sometimes sweet and lively like a rabbit, at other times arrogant and difficult like a cat. Though usually bright and bubbly, at moments she would become sad, as if burdened with forbidden secrets.
Besides Pearl’s unpredictable temper, I had another source of unease in the turquoise pavilion – the pair of sad eyes peeking out from the bamboo grove and staring at me whenever I passed the courtyard.
However, I felt happy and content with my art lessons and fine food; Fang Rong and her husband seemed almost parental to me, so I had little inclination to complain.
Life in this turquoise pavilion was really not so horrible as it was described by people outside.
Yet one thing made me sad. I’d been here nearly four weeks now, but Mother had never written to me nor come to visit as she’d promised. Counting on my fingers, I suddenly realised that she would be leaving for Peking tomorrow. So I went to Fang Rong and asked for her permission to let me leave the pavilion to see my mother off.
Although she smiled, the big mole between her brows looked as if it were about to leap toward me in full force. ‘Ah, you foolish girl. Don’t you know the rule in Peach Blossom? You can only be allowed to go outside the main gate on the following occasions: when you get an invitation from some very important guests, that’s only after you’ve become very popular and much sought after; when I take you out for business like fixing your hair or having clothes sewn for you; when the pavilion organises an outing to entertain important parties.’
‘What do you mean?’ I stared at her mole to avoid her eyes.
‘Don’t ask too many questions; it never does a little girl any good.’ Her voice grew very sharp and harsh. ‘Anyway, you’re not going out, not tonight, not anytime, not until I tell you to, you understand? Now go and help Ah Ping in the kitchen. Tonight we’ll have a police chief, a banker, a cotton merchant, and many other important people to entertain.’
In the corridor on my way to the kitchen, I heard an assortment of noises – singing, chatting, pipa plucking, mahjong playing, Fang Rong’s yelling – drift from the different chambers. The sisters were putting on make-up, dressing, practising their singing, or tuning their instruments one last time before the guests arrived. Today was a Saturday and business seemed unusually good. I peered down the street from a latticed window and saw shiny black cars pull up at the entrance, disgorging important-looking men – some clad in elegantly tailored silk gowns, others in perfectly pressed Western suits.
As I was watching the ebb and flow of cars, I felt a pool of sadness. Did my mother have any inkling that I was now living in a prostitution house and not a rich man’s residence? Why didn’t she come to see me?
I blinked back tears and hurried to the kitchen. Seeing me, Ah Ping’s pale face brightened. She gave me an affectionately chiding look, then pretended to hold a plate in one hand, while her other hand made a pouring motion. After that, she shrugged as if to warn, Ah, Xiang Xiang, if you’re late again next time, all the choice morsels will be gone!
She went to close the door, then returned to ladle bits of abalone, shark fin, and fish from the various cauldrons. She set the delicacies on a plate and pushed it across the table toward me. I was not hungry, but in order to please her, I picked up a piece of abalone and popped it into my mouth. As I was savouring the rubbery taste, I heard the grating of paws on wood.
‘Aunty Ah Ping,’ I threw down my chopsticks, ‘it’s Guigui!’
I dashed to open the door and let the puppy in. He yapped, then furiously licked my feet and wagged his tail. I scooped him up and began to feed him with the food from my plate. He lapped and gobbled happily.
Some strange sound emitted from Ah Ping’s throat. She was protesting that I shouldn’t feed the puppy with the delicacies reserved for important guests. I stuck out my tongue. She smiled back, then signalled me to continue eating.
But the only thing I wanted now was to see my mother. Tears swelled in my eyes as I buried my face into Guigui’s.
Ah Ping gestured with her hands. Something wrong?
‘Aunty Ah Ping, I have … a stomach ache, so can I—’
She waved toward the door. Go.
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded.
‘Then thank you very much.’ I put Guigui down on the floor. He protested by pulling the hem of my trouser leg with his teeth. ‘But Aunty Ah Ping—’
Again, she waved frantically, then leant her cheek on her hands. Go, go take a nap.
I hurried down to the courtyard, and after making sure that no one was hiding within the bamboo groves, treaded cautiously along the hidden path until I reached the main gate. Heart pounding, I hid behind the bamboo foliage for the right moment to escape. I waited until the denizens of the establishment – Fang Rong, Wu Qiang, the sisters, the maids, the amahs, the male servants, the guards – appeared for the ritual of greeting the arriving guests. While they were kowtowing and pouring flattery to the important visitors, I slipped out.
Once clear of the gate, I ran all the way to the main street and hailed a rickshaw.
‘Hurry, hurry!’ I kept shouting to the coolie’s scrawny back.
He turned and scrutinised me, his dull eyes menacing under the street light. ‘Little miss, this is a long way, so I have to save my energy. You don’t want me to fall down in the middle of the road; do you?’
So I kept my mouth shut and listened to his tortured grunts until he finally entered a long, dark passage and pulled to a stop in front of a dilapidated house. I thrust a few coins into his calloused hand, then ran toward the low building. Dim light seeped out from underneath our cracked door. I knocked on the thin wooden plank, my heart pounding and my mouth sucking in big gulps of air.
The door creaked open and light flooded from behind Mother’s back. Eyes widened, she dropped open her mouth. ‘Xiang Xiang, what a surprise! I’ve been worried to death about you!’
Choked with emotions, I could only utter a loud ‘Ma!’ then thrust myself into her arms.
Mother led me inside and took me to sit down on the floor. The room was practically empty except for two suitcases and a few odds and ends.
She was dressed in a threadbare black smock and trousers. Her hungry eyes scrutinised me for long moments. ‘Xiang Xiang, you look so different!’ she exclaimed, stroking my face. ‘Now your body is much stronger and your face rounder. I’m so glad that you’re well fed.’ She touched my floral cotton top and trousers. ‘Look at you in this pretty outfit!’ Before I could respond, she plunged on excitedly, ‘Xiang Xiang, I’m so glad that we finally have a piece of good luck!’
‘But Ma—’
‘Xiang Xiang, try not to complain too much; learn to be grateful.’
So how could I have the heart to tell her the truth – that I’d been tricked into a prostitution house? Besides, I was indeed well clothed and fed and not too badly treated. Although Peach Blossom Pavilion was a prostitution house, it was indeed also a mansion for rich men and I did work there as a maid. So why distress Mother with the rest of the truth? Therefore, when she went on to ask me this and that about my new life, I simply told her not to worry.
When I asked Mother why hadn’t she come to see me, she sighed, ‘Hai, Xiang Xiang, I’ve been very busy going from house to house to borrow money to pay off our debts before I leave this dusty world.’ She paused to put one strand of my hair in place. ‘I did try to go to your place, but the address Aunty Fang gave me was wrong. I’ve been asking around anyone who might know her, but,’ Mother stopped in midsentence to look at me tenderly, ‘anyway, you’re here now.’
I scribbled my address and gave it to her. ‘Ma, this is the right address, so you can write me after you’ve arrived in Peking.’
She carefully folded the paper as if it were a hundred silver-dollar bill and put it into her purse.
My heart slowly shattered inside.
Autumn was fading into winter. The weather had already turned chilly and most of the leaves on the white parasol trees had fallen, and were strewn along the Huangpu River bank.
After a rickshaw ride and an interminable walk, my mother and I dragged our numbed bodies toward the North Train Station, dreading the moment of departure. Only one thought occupied our minds: We never knew when we would see each other again.
Staring at the parasol leaves scattered in intriguing patterns along the asphalt ground, Mother said, her voice smeared with melancholy, ‘Xiang Xiang, we Chinese say “falling leaves returning to their roots.” You understand what this means?’
I looked up and caught her eyes beaming with tears. ‘Yes, Ma, it means that no matter what happens, we should always find our way home.’
A wry smile broke out on her bloodless face. ‘Will you remember this?’
I nodded, too choked with sadness to say anything. Also because I was thinking: But Ma, where’s our home? I don’t think we have one to go back to any more! The turquoise pavilion, although it also had a ‘mama,’ was definitely not my home, nor was the nunnery my mother’s. But I swallowed my words as well as my tears.
We arrived at the station and stepped inside the crowded lobby. Mother hurried to join the queue to buy tickets. I watched rich tai tai chatting languidly while waiting for their servants to buy them first-class passage.
After a while, Mother rushed back to me, waving the ticket in her hand. We hurried to the train. In the past, I had always felt excited by trains. I’d liked listening to their ‘Wu! Wu!’ sound and watching the white smoke puffing out from their noses like steamed snow, while imagining the exotic places they would take me to. But now I dreaded this black monster. Soon it would grab my mother and take her away from me to a walled temple filled with bald-headed women reciting unintelligible sutras as if they were talking to ghosts!
‘Xiang Xiang,’ Mother said, while tenderly putting a Guan Yin pendant around my neck, ‘now hurry back to Aunty Fang and behave. Always obey her as if she were your real mother and never cause any trouble; you understand?’
I felt tears stinging my eyes. ‘But Ma, that fat, ugly pig is not my mother!’
Thwack! Mother slapped my face.
I started to cry. ‘Ma, why don’t you take me with you?’
‘You think I’ve never thought of that?’ She sighed, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe my tears. Her voice came out soft and low. ‘Sorry that I hit you, Xiang Xiang. But do you have any idea what kind of a life it is to be a nun? It’s fine with me since my prime has passed and now I’m but a worthless old woman. But you’re young and beautiful and have a bright future waiting before you, so I won’t let you squander it in a nunnery. Besides,’ she sighed again, ‘one of the novice nuns told me that the Mother Abbess said …’ She stopped in midsentence.
‘Said what?’
‘That you’re too beautiful to be a nun, and she fears your beauty will bring bad luck to her temple.’
Usually my heart would leap to heaven when people said that I was pretty, but now it sank to the bottom of the sea. ‘How do they know that I’m pretty?’
‘I told them, because I’m so proud of you.’ Mother patted my head. ‘Xiang Xiang, I know a servant girl’s life isn’t easy. But it’s only temporary. We’ll find a way out sooner or later. Now listen to me. After you’ve seen me off, go right back to your master. And don’t forget it’s very important that you obey him and his wives, and try your best to get along with everyone, otherwise you won’t have a roof to live under nor even thin rice gruel to warm your stomach. Remember, not only that you must put up with any hardship, you have to endure it with a smile, so no one will see a trace of bitterness.’ She paused to search my face. ‘Xiang Xiang, instead of complaining, you should thank heaven for all this, you understand?’
I nodded, licking and tasting the salt of my tears. ‘Ma, when will we see each other again?’
‘Not for a while, but we will.’ Mother squeezed out a smile. ‘We can always write to each other. Or maybe I can even try to come back here to see you.’ She paused, ‘There are many temples on the western side of the Taiyi Mountain south-west of Peking. I think I’ll settle there, but I’m still not sure in which one. I’ll write you as soon as I arrive.’
She sighed, looking at me with her tear-misted eyes. ‘Hai, Xiang Xiang, I know no matter how decently they treat you in your new house, you’re still a maid after all.’ She considered for a moment, then spoke again thoughtfully, ‘Just remember one thing: We can’t beat fate, but we can play along and make the most out of it. Try to be happy.’ Mother went on, ‘Also, be careful what you tell about yourself in the new house. Don’t say anything about how your baba died. Be cautious.’
I nodded.
Mother gave me a quick hug. ‘Xiang Xiang, I’m afraid our paths must part now. May Guan Yin be with you till we meet again.’
With that, she hurried toward the train, tripped, pulled herself up, then, without turning back, mounted the black monster. With her back to me, she frantically waved her one-way ticket until her familiar slender figure vanished among the crowd.
I stared hard at the tracks that would take her away to the nunnery in Peking but would never bring her back.
3
The Dark Room
With the ‘Wu! Wu!’ sound of the train still ringing in my ears, I hired a rickshaw to go back to Peach Blossom. When I got off the vehicle and started to walk, I felt both the bitter cold wind and my own tears stinging my cheeks.
To my surprise, as I sneaked up to the main gate, I saw Fang Rong standing there, thrusting forward her fat, wrinkled neck. Once she spotted me, she hollered, ‘Catch this little bitch!’
Immediately, a huge lump of a man appeared out of nowhere and grabbed me. His hold was so tight that his fingers pinched deeply into my flesh. Before I could scream, I felt blows on my head and slaps on my face.
Then Fang Rong’s voice screeched next to my ear like an out-of-tune fiddle. ‘I told you that you can’t go out by yourself! Where have you been?!’
‘To … see my mother off to Peking.’
‘See your mother off? Are you blind? Don’t you see your mama is right here in front of you?’ More slaps on my face, then, ‘To the dark room!’
I was immediately blindfolded, lifted up, and carried away. Although the man walked fast, it still seemed a long time before he dropped me down and removed my blindfold. I was thrown into a dim, airless cubicle, and immediately I knew that people didn’t have to die to go to hell. It was right here on earth.
The stench of the damp, rotten floor pierced my nostrils. Although I could hardly see anything in the dark, I could hear squealing, which made me aware that I was not alone.
I banged on the iron door. ‘Mama, let me out! Please let me out!’
Fang Rong’s voice sneered, ‘Mama? Haven’t you just told me that your mama has already left for Peking?’ A deafening pause, then, ‘Now see whether you dare to run away again!’ followed by a peal of chilling laughter and footsteps marching triumphantly away.
I didn’t know how long I’d been banging on the door before I felt so exhausted that I groped around and slumped on a wobbly cot.
It was then that I noticed the squealing again.
My heart flipped. Was there another person here? Or were there ghosts?
I quickly pulled the filthy blanket over my head. Then I felt something cool and hairy brushing against my hand. I screamed and jumped off the bed.
Rats.
They were everywhere – to keep me company!
I vomited though I hadn’t had food in my stomach for hours. Suddenly a frenzied squealing almost froze my heart – the rats were swarming to vie for my vomit!
Another wave of nausea sloshed in my stomach, but this time nothing came out of my mouth. My throat felt scorched. I wrapped the blanket tightly around myself and tried to forget my fear in sleep, but the coldness of the room made my teeth chatter, freezing me awake. Finally thirst became so unbearable that I got off the bed, stomped my feet to scare away the rats, then slipped off my trousers and tried to pee. Maybe I could ease my thirst by drinking my own …
But nothing came, not even one drop, then suddenly I felt something slimy scurry up my leg.
I screamed. But that didn’t stop the rat from climbing inside my trousers. He was now squirming around my crotch. Cold sweat broke out all over my body. I screamed more. The filthy creature kept bumping until I realised that he must have been as scared as I. Crying hysterically, I snatched off my trousers and flung him off.
Overcome with disgust, I banged my head on the door and hollered, ‘Let me out! Let me out!’ But there was no response except more screeching – this time my own – echoing eerily in the ghostly room. I kept banging and hollering. When nothing happened, I used my whole force to hit my head on the door.
‘Let me die!’ My scream bounced in myriad directions. Suddenly, I felt something damp and sticky flow down from my scalp, then a salty, metallic tang seeped into my mouth …
I peed and lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I found myself still surrounded by filth and darkness, but luckily the squealing was gone – the rats were now probably easing their full bellies by taking a nap. But my stomach was like a drum frantically beating and my throat was scorched as if I’d just swallowed burning coals. I tried to scream but my voice only came out in a whisper.
As I fidgeted on the bed, I felt something strange – slimy and sticky – underneath my backside. I felt around with my hand, then put my fingers below my nose.
‘Blood! Blood!’ I heard my scream bouncing off the walls.
Instinctively I reached for my head, but the blood there had already dried. Again I touched the spot where I’d lain and felt the wet, warm bed. Strange, I didn’t see how I could have hurt my bottom so badly that it bled. As I was brooding, a gradual pain rose in my stomach, followed by a warm surge of fluid oozing from between my thighs. It was then that I realised it was my yin part that had been bleeding.
Panicked, I shot up from the bed, dashed toward the gate, and thrust my fists on the cold iron. ‘Mama! Mama! Please let me out! I’m going to die! I’m dying!’
I didn’t know how long I’d been banging until a state of lethargy and semi-consciousness took over my whole being. And the screeching began again …
I lost count of time. But I thought it must be the second or even the third day when a loud clang of the door jolted me awake. In burst Fang Rong and Wu Qiang. When I tried to shield my face from the blinding harsh light, Fang Rong slapped off my hand.
‘Oh, Mama!’ I was stunned; I couldn’t believe I’d just called her Mama! Was I so desperate to have a mother’s comfort?
I suddenly realised that instead of comforting me like my mother, she might hit me. Again I swung up my hand to shield my face.
But to my utter surprise, Fang Rong squeezed a big grin and cooed, ‘Ah, my dear daughter, how you’ve suffered!’ She laid her damp, fleshy palm on my forehead. ‘Thank heaven you don’t have a fever.’ Then, ‘Are you hungry?’
I nodded my head like a pounding jackhammer.
‘Now do you want to go back to the pavilion and have something to eat?’
Again I nodded until I felt my head almost dislodge from my neck.
As I was struggling to get up, Mama’s eyes widened, her finger pointing to the bed. ‘Oh heaven, what happened?’ Then she twisted her fat neck to face me. ‘Xiang Xiang, what did you do to yourself?’
It was then that I remembered the blood. ‘I’m bleeding.’ I paused, then uttered weakly, ‘But I didn’t do anything.’
Mama snatched up my hand to examine my wrists. Not able to find any cuts, she reached to touch the stains on the bed, then spun me around and yanked down my trousers.
‘Mama!’ My cheeks burned with humiliation. My hands tried to pull my trousers back up only to be slapped off by Fang Rong’s bear-like paws.
Then, to my utter shock, she burst out laughing while her husband looked down modestly at his nails.
Mama spun me back to face her. ‘Don’t you realise that your great-aunt has just come to visit?’
Neither of my parents had ever mentioned a great-aunt. ‘But I don’t have one,’ I said, pulling up my trousers.
‘Hasn’t your mother ever told you about your great-aunt?’
I shook my head. ‘Where is she now?’
The two exchanged meaningful glances. Then Fang Rong laughed so hard that her fleshy face looked like a fat, melting candle.
Mama stopped to catch her breath, then, ‘Hmmm … your mother must have felt too embarrassed to tell you. But why should she? Since she’d already been fucked by your father to have you.’
‘What is fuck?’ I imitated her tone.
‘Xiang Xiang,’ Wu Qiang stared into my eyes, ‘fuck means when a man puts his—’
Mama cut him off sharply. ‘Wu Qiang, stop being overeager. You can leave that to me.’
Some silence, then Fang Rong spoke again. ‘Xiang Xiang, you’re not a little girl any more.’ She winked. ‘You’ve just turned into a woman.’
I had no idea what she was talking about.
Mama went on, ‘Xiang Xiang, since your so-called mother was too lazy and too proper to explain about affairs of the wind and the moon,’ she tapped her chest, ‘you’re lucky to have a real mama to enlighten you.’
Although I still didn’t understand what she meant, I felt too exhausted to ask, let alone to defend my mother’s ‘laziness.’
Seeing that I was on the verge of collapse, Mama said, her tone turning very tender, ‘My dear daughter, you must be starving, so why don’t we all go to eat?’
My feet were so weak and wobbly that Fang Rong and Wu Qiang had to half carry me back to the pavilion.
Fang Rong asked her maid Little Red to bathe me. While I was being washed, neither of us mentioned anything about the dark room. Eyes closed, I enjoyed the sensation of the hot water sloshing against my bare flesh. I tilted my head to let the steam, like a spring breeze, massage my face. Little Red’s sponge rubbed and swished on my neck, back, and shoulders, synchronising with my contented sighs.
When she finished, Little Red poured out the red-tinted water, then took out a thick, folded cloth.
When she tried to position it between my legs, I yanked away her hands. ‘Little Red, I’m not going to wear this ridiculous thing!’
She chuckled. ‘Xiang Xiang, then would you rather let everybody in the pavilion know that that thing of yours has come?’
‘Why are you people all talking in riddles today? What is that thing of mine, do you mean my great-aunt? But I don’t have one!’
Little Red giggled more.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Xiang Xiang, every girl has a great-aunt,’ she leaned close to me and lowered her voice even though there were only the two of us in the room, ‘that means her monthly red classic.’
Before I could respond, she went on, ‘When a girl grows up, every month she’ll begin to bleed. But the blood oozing out from her lower hole is not ordinary blood. It’s blood from inside her stomach. If a girl has not been with a man …’ Little Red paused to whisper into my ears, ‘That means fuck – then her eggs will not mix with his seed but flow out from her yin part with the blood. But if the girl has been fucked by a man and gets pregnant, she’ll stop bleeding – until the baby is born. So now your great-aunt has begun her visit, that means you can have a baby.’
Her last sentence sent a tremor across my chest. ‘Oh heaven, does it mean that I’m going to have a baby?’
She answered my question with another one, ‘Xiang Xiang, have you already been fucked?’
I had no chance to respond before she plunged on, ‘If you have, you’ll be in big, big trouble, for I’m sure Mama and De are waiting to sell your virginity for a high price.’
Waiting until she finished, I spat out, ‘What’s fuck?’
Little Red looked surprised. ‘That’s what all the sisters are doing here, and you don’t know? How long have you been here?’
‘A month.’
‘Hmmm, if Mama doesn’t have time to teach you yet, then let me tell you what fuck is.’ Little Red paused, then continued, ‘It means when a man puts that thing of his inside a woman.’
In order not to appear too ignorant, I put up a knowing smile.
She threw me a suspicious glance. ‘Xiang Xiang, are you sure you’re still a virgin?’
‘A virgin?’
‘That means someone who has never been fucked.’ Little Red’s voice rose higher and higher. ‘Xiang Xiang, how come you have no idea about all this? What did your mother teach you at home?’
‘Poetry, literature—’
‘All right, I know you’re well learned in the five classics. But how come she never told you about the monthly red classic?’
I remained silent.
She said, ‘Xiang Xiang, I just told you, “fuck” means when a man puts that thing of his,’ she cast me a mysterious look, ‘I mean his yang instrument – into the woman’s yin hole.’
‘But why would a man want to do that?’
‘Why? Because he enjoys doing it, that’s why! Besides, then he can make her have a baby.’ Another pause before she went on excitedly, ‘Your father also fucked your mother to have you!’
‘Oh no!’ I protested vehemently. ‘My father was a scholar gentleman, he wouldn’t have done such a sickening thing to my mother!’ No matter how hard I tried or how far I stretched my imagination, I just couldn’t picture my refined father putting that thing of his into my elegant mother’s hole.
‘Yes, of course, he did.’ Little Red’s voice jumped high like a frog. ‘If not, then where do you think you came from, picked up from a rubbish bin, or burst from a stone?!’
I was struck speechless both by the bin and the stone.
Little Red plunged on, ‘Xiang Xiang, believe me. Your parents fucked to have you. I bet they must have fucked hard and also tried out all kinds of beneficial positions and enjoyed them tremendously. Otherwise, it’s impossible that you’d be born so beautiful!’
‘What does that have to do with being beautiful?’
‘Because if a couple enjoys fucking, the qi they thrust into each other is unusually good, and that will always generate beautiful babies.’
I stared hard at Little Red’s potato face, frog eyes, pug nose, then almost blurted out, ‘Then your parents must have hated each other bitterly,’ but stopped myself just in time.
Right then we heard Fang Rong’s voice shooting up from downstairs. ‘What are you two doing upstairs, discussing Confucius’ classics? Come down at once!’
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