Secret of a Thousand Beauties (5 page)

Now Aunty Peony looked at me admiringly. “Good for you, Spring Swallow. So you know how to read those curvy, dancing chicken’s intestines?”

I nodded proudly.

“Let me hear you say a few words.”

I tried to remember, then, “Ho do u do?”

To my surprise, my dignified, serious-faced teacher suddenly giggled like a teenager. “Oh my, it sounds so strange, what does it mean?”

“It means, ‘Are you all right?’ ”

“All right? Oh, yes, I’m all right. What else?”

“Gud nite, gud dai, gud efan ning.”

“Oh, Heaven, this sounds so complicated! What do these mean?” My teacher was laughing.

“It means have a nice night, a nice day, and a nice evening.”

She tried to say these words. “Guuu . . . d nite, guuud dai, guuud efunning . . . hahahaha!”

She looked so much prettier and happier when her guard was down and she laughed so heartily. Especially about chicken’s intestines, which cannot even be eaten. Then why didn’t she laugh more? Why did she look sad and so serious all the time? She must have secrets that no one knew, not even the girls who lived here. Perhaps those secrets were upstairs in her own room where no one was allowed in. Or buried deep in her heart from her life a long time ago.

But her cheerfulness was short-lived. In a moment, she had resumed her dignified, authoritative look. Maybe now she regretted having laughed and said those silly words in front of a student. With her delicate, slim-fingered hands, she opened the elongated box and took out scrolls of silk. Carefully, she laid them on the table one by one.

“These scrolls are my copy of the famous painting by Zhang Ze-duan, done a thousand years ago. It is enormous—about eighteen feet long, filled with scenes of people’s lives in the city of Kaifeng.”

She turned to cast me another suspicious look. “You know about the Qingming Festival, don’t you?”

“Yes.” How could I not, since my parents were dead. “It’s the day when we go to sweep our ancestors’ graves and pay our respects.”

“Correct. But this painting is not sad, but happy—all sorts of people out and enjoying different activities.”

Aunty Peony explained that
Along the River during the Qingming Festival
was a masterpiece because of its composition, with the famous Rainbow Bridge above a rushing river and the depiction of both city and countryside. She kept reiterating how beautiful and famous this work was, and how lucky I would be if she allowed me to help her work on it.

“Look at the beginning—here are farmers, pig herders, and goats. Do you feel the serene atmosphere?”

I nodded. Yes, it was calm but also boring, though, of course, I was not going to say that.

Continuing to unroll the silk, she next pointed to the city scenes. “Here in the busy capital are all sorts of people—peddlers, jugglers, fortune-tellers, seers, doctors, innkeepers, carpenters, government officials.... The peddlers are selling all kinds of things: wine, grain, medicine, paintings, fabrics, bows and arrows, musical instruments, gold and silver ornaments, acupuncture needles.... Name a business and you can find it in this painting.”

When Aunty paused to sip her tea, I looked at her in a new light. Besides being elegant, she was also learned, a scholar, just like Father Edwin. Suddenly I felt proud to be the student of this erudite woman.

She went on. “I’ve counted everything in this painting. There are eight hundred and fourteen people, sixty-odd animals, twenty-eight boats, thirty-something buildings, nine sedan chairs, and one hundred and seventy trees.”

Wah,
it was very impressive. But didn’t she have more important things to do with her time than count everything?

As if she’d already guessed what I thought, she said, “I spent several weeks studying this painting so I can do a perfect job. Mind you, our embroidered version has to be exactly the same as the painting in terms of size, color, and every other nuance. An excellent embroiderer must also be a good painter and calligrapher. So besides embroidery, I’ll also teach you painting and calligraphy.”

I kept my mouth shut and my ears open to absorb every sliver of knowledge that came through my teacher’s lips. Though I was surprised and happy that she would teach me these things, I was also suspicious. Why was she so generous in giving free lessons to a stranger—was it just so she could work me to death in exchange? I hoped that she was just generous to her students, like Father Edwin.

Aunty Peony went on to tell me that embroiderers should be good at painting and calligraphy because the rich were willing to pay good money for embroidered versions of their expensive art collections.

“The embroidery of
Along the River
will be entered in a contest and, if it wins, is to be presented as a gift to an important American official scheduled to visit Peking next year. There are several copies of this painting, but this will be the first embroidered version. With such an honor, there must be no mistakes.

“Listen, Spring Swallow”—she looked at me with her penetrating eyes—“I don’t make mistakes and you shouldn’t either if you want to stay under my roof.”

Frightened, I emitted an emphatic “Yes!”

Seeming satisfied, Aunty Peony went on to describe the painting, her long fingers pointing out details—paupers begging, coolies loading cargoes, monks asking for alms, a guard watching his barrack, a man with two donkeys pulling a loaded cart....

Now Aunty unrolled the silk to the middle part where there was a bridge above a rushing river. A boat loaded with people and cargo was about to crash into the bridge. People on the boat and on the bridge were shouting and gesturing frantically.

I couldn’t help but exclaim,
“Wah!”
fearing that some of the people, or the goods they carried, would be knocked into the angry waves.

Aunty cast me a curious look. “Good. You have a strong reaction, which shows you might learn to appreciate art one day. Not many people have this quality.”

“Thank you, Aunty Peony, for your praise.”

She didn’t respond but pointed to the bridge and the boat. “This is the climax of the whole painting—the boat with its high mast about to crash. See how clever the painter was to create such drama right in the middle of the painting?”

“Such a complicated painting! How can we embroider it, even in a year?” I blurted out.

Aunty cast me an annoyed look. “Listen, Spring Swallow, only lazy people give up. The great painter Qi Baishi said the secret of success is that he never put down his brush. If you want to be an excellent embroiderer, from today on you never put down your needle, you understand?”

“Of course, Aunty Peony, and from now on I’ll never put down my needle.”

She sipped her tea, then said, “Good. I think introducing you to the famous
Along the River during the Qingming Festival
is enough for our first lesson. Now go do whatever you want, then come back in the afternoon to fix me tea and give me a massage. Just sitting here talking to you has given me a sore back.”

So massage was part of our teacher-and-pupil relationship. But who was I to question her?

4

D
uring the break, Aunty Peony went up to her mysterious private room and I went outside the house. I wanted to practice my characters in the mud, since I dared not ask Aunty to give me either paper, brush, or ink, for she’d already given me a roof, clothes, and food. So I broke off a twig from an ancient tree and attempted to “write” on the ground. When finished, I looked over what I’d written: ghost husband, funerary wedding, escape, famous embroiderer. I wondered about “famous embroiderer.” Was I predicting my own future or was I merely thinking about Aunty Peony?

While I was pondering this, a flock of chicks that had been chasing each other in the distance now ran straight through the mud and smeared “husband,” “wedding,” and “famous embroiderer,” whoever she might be. “Bad chicks!” I screamed, but they’d already scurried to the other side of the courtyard, emitting a triumphant “quuiik, quuiik, quuiik” sound, as if mocking my not having the heart to wring their necks. I reminded myself that soon, instead of messing up my writing, they’d end up on my plate—preferably covered with sweet soy sauce.

In my mind, I continued to relish the future dish of chicken, first sprinkled with generous pinches of scallion, ginger, sea salt, then fried in sesame oil and rice wine. Once they were fried into a golden sheen, I hoped they would be served with tender sweet potato. Sucking back gobs of saliva, I ventured outside the courtyard, hoping to find a place where I could practice away from the irritating little chicks.

After my struggles to learn to read and write back in my old village, I wanted to be sure I did not forget anything I’d been taught. Sadly, Father Edwin was no longer around to teach me. I was used to “dirt calligraphy” because my aunt had refused to buy me brush and paper. Of course I believed that if I had asked Father Edwin, he’d be happy to buy me writing tools. But I didn’t feel comfortable asking. Because he’d already done so much for me, I didn’t want him to think I was greedy.

So I’d either practice using a stick to scrape on the soil or, if I wanted to remember something very important, I’d “write” it by using a small stone to scrape it on the rocky outcropping of a nearby mountain. When I had more time and was in the mood, I’d also write down my thoughts and feelings. I loved doing this, but sometimes also feared that my writing might be seen by a stranger—it’d be very embarrassing if I was recognized.

That was how I’d learned to climb mountains. When there was something I didn’t want anyone to see, I’d climb higher to write, then higher and higher still. As I climbed, the village seemed to recede and this made me happy. From a high altitude, the world and my old village didn’t seem to be so bad and miserable after all. On the mountain I felt that my sadness and troubles had been left below.

My climbs became longer and longer until one day I was able to reach the top. Here I found myself face-to-face with a better, more expansive world. The air was purer and the view uplifting. But my happiness could not last because I would have to come back down, then return home. To comfort myself, I remembered the famous saying “The virtuous love mountains; the wise love the sea.” So, I must be a good person without realizing it. But was I also wise? I hoped someday I would be. Perhaps Father Edwin and his omniscient God knew.

Maybe the advantage of not having parents was that I could do what I liked. My aunt didn’t care—as long as I did the housework. She never stopped me from mixing with the street kids and going anywhere I wanted. And I became notorious in the village as a “wild girl.” I truly believed that even if I did not come home for days, she wouldn’t even have noticed until the house needed cleaning. I usually went around with the boys because the girls were afraid to climb mountains, or even trees, let alone sneak into cemeteries in the middle of the night.

So, whenever I could, after I finished Father Edwin’s classes, I’d tag along with the village boys for all sorts of adventures: swimming, catching fish, grabbing lake crabs with our bare hands. We’d pick fruit from rich people’s gardens, then run away as fast as we could. Once we visited a cemetery at midnight, walking on tiptoe and talking in whispery voices like ghosts. But among all these activities, I liked mountain climbing best.

Although I sometimes went with the boys, I was happiest during solitary climbs. Not only did I like to inscribe my thoughts on the bare rocks, I’d even talk to the mountain, especially when I didn’t know the characters I needed to express my feelings. Since the mountain was huge, I believed it could absorb whatever thoughts, emotions, and fantasies I poured into it. Sometimes I even thought it responded to what I said through rustling leaves and falling pebbles. I did not want to share my innermost thoughts with the boys lest they deem me crazy, though they were no more normal themselves.

Though a “wild girl,” I never let my adventures keep me from my studies with Father Edwin. One time when Father Edwin saw me practicing my writing on the ground, he generously gave me paper, a brush, and ink, so I could brush the characters in the proper way. Though I did not know many characters, when I saw a bird fly over the sky or a tiny flower peek from between rocks, I had an urge to write a poem about them. I knew about poems from hearing Father Edwin recite them in class. I even read some old ones in the books in his library.

I felt very proud that I could recite some that Father Edwin had taught me. My favorite was “Silent Thoughts at Night,” written by Du Fu a thousand years ago:

At first I thought that I, or anyone, could write something just as good. But when I told Father Edwin, he laughed heartily.

“Ah . . . my dear Spring Swallow. You’re too young to understand the depth of feeling beneath this poem’s simple words. To really understand poetry, you have to first experience life.”

“What am I supposed to experience?”

He smiled indulgently. “Ah . . . little girl, you’ll have lots of experiences when you grow up. I just hope that your experiences are good ones.”

“But, Father, so far most have been bad . . . but not all bad since you’ve let me into your class.”

He smiled, his blue eyes filled with kindness. “Don’t worry too much and don’t thank me, Little Spring Swallow. Thank God for His blessing and protection.”

“Can I write a poem about God someday?”

He cast me a curious look. “Of course, anytime. But you must realize that anything you do is because of our almighty and merciful Lord!”

Even when I pee and shit and spit and pick my nose, then flick it at a stranger passing by on the street?
Of course I did not say this because I feared that Father Edwin would be embarrassed and his God furious at my rudeness.

Since that conversation with Father Edwin, the urge to write poems felt like an itchy rash on my back—which I could not reach to scratch. But the itch had become so unbearable that I felt I’d go crazy if I couldn’t write out my poems—which were manifestations of God, according to Father Edwin.

I particularly wanted to write a poem about how I felt when I climbed to the mountaintop. When I looked up there were flocks of birds—floating, circling, calling. To me the birds meant the freedom that I wanted. Then when I looked down, there were small flowers squeezing between the rocks, seeking a taste of the sun. After thinking for a long time I finally succeeded in putting my thoughts into a poem, which I scratched on the mountainside. But no one was around to say if it was good or bad.

I felt pretty happy about my little poem, and I imagined that the little birds and the little flowers felt the same. But then I also felt sad, because even if I could fly, where would I go and where could I come back to? Finally, I decided to give this poem to Father Edwin as a gift to thank him for teaching me. He seemed happy when he read it, but when I asked if it was good, his answer was, “It’s an innocent girl’s true heart expressing God’s greatness.”

Whatever that meant.

Suddenly my mind came back to my surroundings and I realized I’d already wandered quite a long way from my new home and was standing facing the mountain I had noticed the day I arrived. The sun was getting lower in the sky and I raised my hand to shade my eyes. The mountain towered imposingly against the sky. I wondered if anyone had ever climbed it or if I would be the first.

An hour later, I was already halfway up the mountain. Although the sun was warm and the breeze soothing, I decided not to climb farther because I had to return soon. I eagerly awaited the day when I could savor my ascent all the way to the top. So I sat on a rock to watch the sky above and the world below. The few clouds seemed to be enjoying themselves as they drifted by. They could resemble anything they wanted: a smiling face, bunches of cotton, a graceful dancer. But what I really envied was how they moved aimlessly, without a care in the world.

Way below me, Aunty’s house resembled a tiny beetle, by itself beside my mountain. Far in the distance was the city of Soochow with green patches of garden. Closer, but still some distance from the house was a small village—I assumed it was the one Purple had told me where they did their shopping. Of course I could not see them, but I was pretty sure that the girls were enjoying themselves there now, haggling in the market, eating, and gossiping. Instead, I had to listen to Aunty’s talk about some thousand-year-old painting that meant nothing to me.

I wondered, since their embroidery was in such demand, why didn’t Aunty Peony and her girls live in the city? They didn’t seem to be rich, for the house had no valuables that I could see. I was puzzled by this little community that had just taken me in. My new teacher, the coldly imposing Aunty Peony, was even more puzzling. Perhaps I could fish out something from Purple about her. After all, it was she who had taken pity on me and brought me into the strange household. Purple seemed both kind and smart. Leilei was maybe even smarter, but seemed touchy and jealous, while Little Doll was a child. What would my life be like here? I had no idea.

Feeling a little worried, I took a deep breath of the refreshing mountain air and stretched my limbs. For the moment I was happy to be far away from the smoke and dust of the world. However, I had to go back to fix tea and give Aunty a massage. But since I was here, I wanted to leave a mark. When I’d escaped I had taken a knife from Mean Aunt’s kitchen in case I ran into bandits. Now I took out the knife and on a nearby rock with a smooth surface I inscribed:

I mused about the word
embroiderer.
Was I really going to become one? Anyway, I felt happy looking at what I’d just written.

But it was time to go back.