Taming Poison Dragons (20 page)

‘What did she say? Tell me at once!’

He seemed to consider for a moment.

‘Her maid is a fine-looking girl,’ he said, reflectively.

‘She told me that her mistress has mentioned your name.’

‘I did not send you to pursue your own interests with a maid! What did the lady say?’

‘She said: “Such matters require much thought.”’

Thought! When you blaze with feeling thought is disdain.

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘How often did the maid say that her mistress mentions my name?’

He spread his hands, as if to plead,
who knows
?

‘So the Lady sent no reply, no message,’ I railed.

‘Nothing at all.’

Mi Feng shrugged.

‘She smiled when she looked through those bits of paper you sent her.’

‘What? Happily? Broadly? How did she smile?’

‘You know, sort of. . .’

He bared yellow teeth in a hideous grin. I shivered.

‘Go and clean the house. No, fetch me wine. And paper.

Yes, brushes and paper and ink.’

I could tell he was amused as he hurried off. The wide world could laugh for all I cared, so long as she smiled on me. Naturally, I wasted the entire evening, and many days afterward, imagining a thousand things about her, desire and dignity contending like spurred cocks.

So I waited for her word. Words were everything to me in my twenty-fourth year. Poem after poem spilled from my brush, and I woke with one expectation, one goal. Indeed, I believe poetry kept me sane. When the brush was in my hand, all my troubles fled before its subtle edge: my sorrow at being denied leave to visit my aging parents; the frustration that while I held my position in the Deer Park Library, friend after friend gained preferment, climbing step by step towards positions of influence. One or two had even received important postings as Sub-prefects or Assistant Governors. Most were preparing diligently for the Imperial Examination, digesting dry, unpalatable tomes for regurgitation in neat piles of approved words. I was falling behind, and knew it. Yet fame, like light round a spluttering lamp, brightening as it gains fire, was gathering around me.

I had begun to frequent the weekly salons of the Society of the Western Lake. All have heard of it. Few are admitted. In those days, the best scholars in the city belonged to the Society, drawn by invisible threads of beauty, some satisfied with the web for its own sake, others aware that sticky nets may trap patrons and influence. After all, poetry is power. To move a person deeply is to influence them, re-align their co-ordinates. To win fame is to earn reputation. To be on everyone’s lips, or at least the lips of those who matter, is to inhabit their thoughts, and so, their actions.

At first I knelt at the back with a hundred others and no one noticed me. Then I entered the monthly competitions, certain my very best poems would be rejected. The Esteemed Fathers of the Society sat on fine chairs at the front, while I expected to always belong on the ground, at the rear.

The first month confirmed my expectations. Others won the prizes for free or regular verse forms, and for poems set to well-known tunes. The latter were particularly popular at that time. I strived again, seeking to imitate the winners. Again, I met no success. Others were praised, their words recited to the Society, their verses copied and distributed.

One night I shared my frustration with P’ei Ti. He had come to visit me at Goose Pavilion. Winter beat freezing rain against the roof. He had recently been promoted within the Censor’s Office, and was sympathetic to my own position.

‘What is the chosen subject for this month’s competition?’ he asked.

‘The lotus,’ I replied, gloomily.

‘Which bears many symbols,’ he said. ‘You will be more aware of them than me.’

‘Dear friend,’ I replied, ‘I have written poems expressing every symbol in the most honoured style, the most conventional terms, and still they do not answer!’

P’ei Ti daintily poured two cups of wine. He had a delicate way about him. Yet I knew his judgements in the Censor’s office were considered harsh, even ruthless.

Recently a corrupt official had been castrated at P’ei Ti’s instigation.

‘That’s the problem,’ he said, examining the wine in his cup like an oracle. ‘Dear Yun Cai, you are not conventional! That is your strength and weakness. So I advise you, compose a poem from your heart, for it is a kind one.

And all admire the kind-hearted. I advise, write what you consider true, and hope it will answer.’

So I did, as soon as he left, by the guttering light of the lantern. Two dozen couplets, set to the tune of ‘Enduring Sadness’, which I submitted to the Society in due form.

At the next meeting I sat at the back, anticipating nothing for myself when the winners were called.

How sweet to hear one’s own name in such a place! I rose and approached the Esteemed Fathers of the Society, summoned by them to recite. All eyes were upon me, surprised by my youth. So I read my poem of the lotus, and received polite applause. For an hour I was the most envied of men. My poem pierced as surely as a surgeon’s needle. Its theme: the pleasures which bound us to the city, as the petals of the lotus are bound together, and the strange sense of emptiness within the flower, the sense we might be plucked and trodden casually underfoot, as the barbarians gained strength on the frontier. A disquieting poem. Yet true. Above all, true. To voice a truth releases it, and fills the entire sky.

Later I heard that copies of my poem circulated widely, even being used to pay for refreshment in fashionable tea-houses, like a kind of currency. I have no doubt many copies ended in latrines, used for baser purposes – a great compliment! My poem was so widespread it became common as a
cash
coin, traded by many hands, yet still valued. Indeed, I know of no less than five melodies specially composed for the words.

At once I was invited to literary dinner parties by scholars alert for the latest man. You might imagine such attention brought only pleasure. Naturally, I was flattered, even excited. Yet I knew in my heart it was not me they sought – my virtues and foibles, humours and follies

– but merely my talent. My value depended upon performance. The same may be said of any juggler.

One invitation brought me great disquiet. I had been summoned to a mansion on Phoenix Hill, although my host was little known to me. As always at such events I was expected to sprout words prodigiously, whatever the challenge. The company assembled in a room shiny with gilding and lacquer. Neat piles of fine, horse-hair brushes, exquisite inks, hundreds of paper sheets, all arranged in flower patterns. Delicate wines and a variety of dishes on the side, tended by watchful servants.

Despite being a nobody among the other guests, high officials to a man, my presence conferred a temporary equality, so that I felt as good as any. I displayed my calligraphy and won much applause. Then, when I was already half-drunk, the final guest arrived, having been delayed by business of state. It was none other than Lord Xiao, my patron! I bowed, perhaps with less respect than was prudent.

‘Ah, young Yun Cai!’ he drawled through his nose.

‘What a surprise to see you in this company.’

I nodded politely instead of bowing again. As the most powerful man present, all deferred to Lord Xiao.

‘Gentlemen!’ he announced in his high-pitched way.

‘You might wonder that I know our young friend, although his Lotus Poem is on everyone’s lips. A very promising piece! I should explain, he is a protégé of mine.

Indeed, I entrusted my secretary to sound him out, as we say, when he was only a little younger. Is that not so, Yun Cai?’

‘Indeed, Lord,’ I said.

Perhaps there was something about my tone he did not like. He slowly fixed his eyes upon my face, so that I glanced away in confusion, recalling tales of his cruelty to underlings who offended him. Then he chuckled.

‘You were dwelling with your noble uncle, the wine merchant, I believe.’

Polite laughter at this jibe rippled round the table. The merchant classes have ever been distrusted and despised.

Why he singled me out in this way, I do not know. Perhaps he had received a snub at court and needed someone to humiliate. Perhaps he sensed my antipathy towards him, such emotions are hard to hide. As a patron he had been a disappointment. I had been stuck in the same position for years, even denied access to my parents! Obligation must work two ways, or not at all.

‘My uncle’s wines have inspired a thousand generous thoughts, my Lord,’ I said. ‘And as many winds.’

The company laughed heartily at this rather crude joke.

Lord Xiao smiled. Thinly. It is unwise to deny such a man the last word.

Then our host announced another contest, to compose a poem on. . . he could not decide the theme, so must consult Lord Xiao. Thus he could ensure his chief guest excelled, for Lord Xiao could simply copy out something he had prepared earlier. The rest of us were forced to improvise.

‘Very well,’ said Lord Xiao, as though suddenly inspired. ‘I propose the Fisherman!’

‘But what form?’ called another guest.

‘Oh, a quintain, I think,’ said Lord Xiao.

Naturally, all agreed. Heads bent over paper. Servants mixed ink furiously. Each guest strove to amaze with their wit. I alone did not write. I was thinking. I could see Lord Xiao casually copying out a poem he had composed earlier and memorised for just such an occasion. I decided on a bold measure. Instead of depicting the scholar-official seeking diversion from his labours on river or lake, as is customary, I wrote in a fever of meaning.

At last we settled. All read out their derivative pieces, copied from masters learned by rote at the Academy. Lord Xiao’s no different, except that it drew on the words of a minor Southern Dynasty court poet to an alarming degree.

I noted that his tones were inexpertly placed and the final rhyme was discordant. Worse, it was banal. Everyone proclaimed it a masterpiece. Then I recited my own:
He who gives life to the city is humble.

Salt him. Feed his family. Mix him with rice.

River textures are mirror and shadow.

The fisherman casts a net of heaven.

Droplets scatter, he hauls in the Way
.

The company listened silently. Finally, my host, who had a reputation as a poet himself, sighed.

‘Ah, the Way,’ he said. ‘Truly it may be glimpsed in a single droplet.’

‘It is a drop of water,’ said another, eagerly. ‘What is tiny reflects the whole.’

*

An excited discussion followed, everyone quoting choicest morsels of Lao-tzu memorised in their youth, when preparing for the Imperial examination.

So I stole Lord Xiao’s thunder, though his poem was respectfully voted the best. I was glad of my impudence.

Even then, I believe, Su Lin lay between us like an echo of the future.

Lord Xiao left early, pleading important matters of state the next day. As he departed, he smiled at me. There are many smiles.

At last I received Su Lin’s reply. It was ambiguous in all respects save one. I still have the note in my middle chest, written on expensive paper, her characters untutored:
The Honourable Yun Cai’s kind words to a poor girl
have been read many times. Meet me tomorrow
afternoon at the Gardens of Ineffable Solace if you
would talk frankly.

Su Lin.

Never mind that she proposed our tryst for one of the few days I was expected to attend the Imperial Library. Mi Feng was swiftly dispatched to plead my indisposition. I dressed with particular care and made my way to the appointed gardens at the foot of Phoenix Hill, within sight of the palace.

I was absurdly early. An afternoon can seem wide as an ocean if you’re waiting for one whose presence slows time, moment by moment. I found a bench beside a miniature waterfall with a good view of the entrance.

Clouds formed kingdoms above the city. Early spring animated stem and leaf. Despite the beating of my heart, I could not help observing the antics of a thrush family.

How they splashed in a puddle, squabbling furiously, all eyes and sharp beak. Perhaps that is why I did not notice Su Lin’s approach, until she stood on the cinder path before me. Her voice startled me from my thoughts.

‘Day-dreaming again, Yun Cai?’

I rose hurriedly. We both bowed. Whereas my own face was flustered, hers was elegant, and cold. I looked at her then. Words vanished from my lips.

Her cloud-hair shone like threads of black, glossy jade, held by combs of turquoise coral, fletched with silver and gold. Eyebrows long and thin, as befitted her character.

She was the being in my eyes. Su Lin’s own were lined with kohl, and glittered like meteors framed by the night sky. Her short nose hinted at desire.

She wore a short-sleeved jacket and long skirt, all of the dusk-hued colours which suited her best, alluring rather than obscuring the jade mountains of her breasts. Her girdle bore a silken purse, a sachet of scent, and a folded fan, red as dry blood.

Where now was the poor girl in the alley at the back of the Wine Market? Even in the months since our last meeting she seemed to have gained in wealth, whereas I wore my familiar green gown.

‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I was indeed day-dreaming. But the sight of you makes me fully awake.’

She bowed again at this courtesy. A strange response for her! I expected a reply quick as a bright, mocking bird.

Then I became aware she was not alone. A middle-aged woman with a dour, calculating face stood behind her. Su Lin followed my glance.

‘May I introduce my former Madam to Yun Cai,’ she said, delicately. ‘Who I have invited here as my honoured chaperone.’

A chaperone! I struggled to digest her presence. We had been alone together a hundred times, what need for a sour-faced old woman? And the solemnity of her tone, so formal and distant! Su Lin and I never talked in this way.

‘Honoured,’ I said, curtly.

More bows all round. I was afire to speak my mind. Su Lin waited, her head lowered. Evidently I was expected to lead the conversation. For once, words slipped away.