Taming Poison Dragons (8 page)

We passed dragon ships poled by men drunk and singing. Everyone tipsy and gay. Fast boats propelled by paddle-wheels formed a wake of moon-lit foam. Others were floating restaurants, crammed with talking, eating, laughing people, young and old, silk robes catching the light, hard faces softened by lamp-glow. We passed the decorous craft of nobles and outrageous barges full of coarse singing girls, enticing any who would hop aboard into curtained booths.

Cousin Hong triumphantly pointed out places of interest on the shore. Here, the Monastery of the Miraculous Mushroom where a junk was moored. He told me it was never launched because each time it set sail a storm followed. There, the famed pagoda on Thunder Point, an octagonal tower built entirely of blue-glazed bricks. It glittered that night like a barbarian’s savage blue eyes. Huge statues of the Buddha carved into cliffs. Stands of willow or bamboo where parties could be glimpsed, dancing or revelling. Cousin Hong roared out coarse greetings to strangers as we passed.

In the midst of this uproar, one grey-bearded old man sat patient as a heron on the shore, fishing rod in hand.

At last we reached the Eastern Shore and disembarked.

By now I was terrified and elated. Cousin Hong fell to his knees and kissed a handful of dirt. He summoned a wine seller, and bought a large jar, which he drank in one, wine dribbling down his chin. Passers-by applauded and cheered.

His belch, when he finished, was like a thunder-crack.

‘Follow me, Little General!’ he cried. ‘If you lose me, it will be your own look out!’

*

I took his warning to heart. The crowds jostled and shoved, remorselessly circulating. Not one of those people knew my name or had a reason to care for me. I clung to my cousin like a monkey attached to its owner’s wrist by a cord.

Buildings towered. Houses lit by numberless lanterns, some made of glass with many facets, others of coloured paper. A million tongues were chattering until individual voices were lost.

Cousin Hong stopped frequently, stuffing delicacies into his plump face, downing cups of warm wine. His appetite seemed boundless. For all my confusion, I sensed he was anxious to be returning home.

Crowds gathered around acrobats, their faces painted like idols. We passed a show of marionettes, paper figures dancing on sticks. I stared at women wearing head-dresses shaped like butterflies. Precious, mysterious creatures compared to our homely mountain-girls. Ladies in dresses white as frost, accompanied by bellowing young gentlemen, lanterns hanging from long staves like dancing stars.

Urchins burned pellets of coal-dust which flared beneath skipping feet. Fireworks of bamboo crackled and banged.

I had never heard so much noise except during a storm. It was the roar of humanity, in a certain mood.

At last we reached a large, forbidding gatehouse and Cousin Hong instantly sobered. Statues of the gate-gods glared down at us, scimitars in hand. He turned to me and grinned. ‘Little General,’ he said. ‘Now your new life begins.’

Uncle Ming’s residence in the capital demanded many adjustments. My childhood freedoms were at an end, lost in a maze of strangers. I was utterly dependent on my relatives; not merely to fulfil Father’s hopes, but for every mouthful in my bowl.

One must always begin with home. Uncle Ming’s overlooked the Great Wine Market, adjoining the Imperial Way. Within high boundary walls, topped with metal spikes to deter thieves, were a dozen buildings where Uncle Ming’s sway was absolute. At the rear of the enclosure ran South Canal, busy with boats and barges and the singsong cries of river-folk. I came to know it well, for my bedroom leant over the water, at the top of a low wooden tower.

Besides the house intended for his family, the enclosure contained warehouses and breweries, as well as accom-modation for servants and apprentices. It was a place of constant bustle. Fermentation and the clatter of jars were continual. The sweet, heady scent of wine floated like a tender mist. Uncle Ming had many customers to satisfy, including nobles and the Imperial Court.

The front gatehouse gave straight onto the Wine Market, and for four days of the week thousands thronged there. Such variety! Simple stalls displaying a few home-brewed jars. Poor men hoping to sell wine by the cup. Fine merchants in wooden pagodas on wheels, where they conducted business, softening up customers with free samples. Soldiers and market-officials on the look-out for bribes, however small.

There were always dozens of drunkards, drawn like bees to an ever-open flower. Food-sellers tended charcoal braziers, crying out to passers-by. Steamed dumplings.

Rice cakes. Pork fried with ginger, anise and bitter melon.

Salt-fish spread in a paste on buns. Prawn sauce flavoured with lime. One man kept a kennel of panting, over-stuffed puppies behind his stall; I have rarely tasted meat so tender.

Uncle Ming’s house stood on the shady side of the square. In summer this was a blessing and relief. The rest of the year we shivered, especially in the family apartments. There is nothing colder than fashionable, black lacquer furniture; or dull, conventional pictures of angry gods. Rooms swept obsessively until there was no trace of dust or muddle. These chambers were Honoured Aunty’s domain.

Honoured Aunty was Uncle’s first wife and the mother of his three official sons. Cousin Zhi, the youngest, spoilt and vain, clung to his mother in ways which made me wonder about their relations. He was short and wiry as a fox, and quite as dainty. Then there was Cousin Yi-Yi, a strapping, amiable fellow, but one that would normally be classified as an idiot. Finally, Cousin Hong, the first-born, and Uncle’s heir.

Honoured Aunty ruled the family through force and guile. Her eyebrows were exceptionally long and curved, betraying an angry temperament. A short, dumpy woman, she had married Uncle when he was still poor, and hawked his wares on the street until freed by prosperity.

Her clothes, though of the finest – and I soon became aware she took professional advice on matters of style –never seemed to quite fit. Her favourite haunt was a gilded, ivory chair decorated with carved dragons. She had ordered a similar throne for Uncle, though I never saw him use it. Around this cardinal point the servants scurried. Others came on business, including a sorcerer who had daily converse with demons. I was terrified of this old man, with his spells and brazier for burning animals’ tender organs. One day he winked at me suggestively and said (he was inebriated at the time): ‘I hope my mistress’s enemies don’t hear about the curses I place on them. They might wonder why they are always in good health.’ After this I avoided him even more. His taste for young boys was notorious in the household, and Honoured Aunty sometimes insisted the prettiest of the apprentices satisfy it.

As for her attitude to me, I was grateful for indifference.

Cousin Zhi was her obsession, leaving no energy for anyone else. Despite the edict that every son should follow the profession of his father, she had consulted the most expensive astrologers in the city, and determined he would pass the examination to become an official and gain the highest honours. Needless to say, Cousin Zhi was in complete agreement with this destiny.

I recall one interview with Honoured Aunty, a week after my arrival. She summoned me before her splendid chair and set about me with a bamboo-stick of questions.

I knelt before her, head bowed.

‘How many silk dresses does your mother own?’

‘I do not know, Honoured Aunty. Forgive me.’

‘How many servants do your parents have?’

‘A dozen in the house. Then there is the whole village.’

This answer displeased her.

‘What title does my husband’s brother use?’

‘Lord,’ I said, simply.

‘You seem very sure of yourself. Remember you are in my house now.’

Her tone frightened me. My position was precarious, without a single friend in a limitless, strange city. I remembered my mother’s warning to never offend her.

‘If I am at fault, Honoured Aunty, I beg a thousand pardons,’ I said.

‘How many pigs are there in your father’s sty? I take it he eats meat once a week, or does he find it too expensive?’

And so it went on.

‘Does your father travel by litter or walk everywhere?

No doubt he cannot afford a horse.’

I forget the other questions. There were many. Finally she touched upon her true fears.

‘They say you write good poems and this is why your father thinks you will succeed in the examination. Is this true?’

I shrugged modestly. Yet a note of defiance touched my voice, the tiniest trace, for I sensed her iron, vengeful nature. I sensed, too, she respected strength.

‘In the City of Heaven,’ I began, then fell silent.

‘What? Speak louder!’

I recited a poem composed to impress my new teachers at the Academy. A formal, tiresome piece, yet exceptional from one so young. I have it still on a yellowed sheet of paper, my brush-strokes crude and earnest. It provoked amazement when I showed it to my teachers, for I had mimicked the court style of the Early Tang perfectly, through complex internal rhymes and an elaborate pattern of tones.

In the City of Heaven a thousand voices.

Urgent fluttering wings of cicadas.

Crickets sing until daybreak.

I must heed when teachers speak.

Honoured Aunty stared at me, for once confused.

‘Enough!’ she cried in a shrill voice, clapping her hands.

‘Tell the servants to bring your Cousin Zhi to me at once.’

I scurried off gladly.

After that Honoured Aunty ignored me except for sideways glances when I entered the room. This was something I avoided at all costs. Yet I had only just begun to make her acquaintance.

Uncle Ming reminded me of Father, in that they differed in almost every way. In those days Uncle was at the height of his wealth. Fat hung in folds from his body. His pale, round face resembled the moon; especially his benign, empty smile. Honoured Aunty chose his clothes, so naturally they were extravagant and as ill-fitting as her own.

This aspect of Uncle’s appearance often worked to his advantage, particularly among the nobility, who at once felt superior to him, and at ease.

His appetites were tremendous, both for food and drink, but also singing girls. He maintained a pavilion full of such beauties beyond the city walls. It was rumoured some of these girls had died or disappeared suddenly, as soon as they gained a hold on Uncle’s affections.

Naturally, Honoured Aunty was blamed. Perhaps she circulated these rumours as a way of saving face.

Even though I lived beneath his eaves, Uncle Ming remained a mystery. Having discharged his duty to Father by arranging for my education, he ignored me apart from beaming with goodwill. But then he smiled like that to everyone. At last, a week after my arrival, he summoned me. It was dusk, his office full of shadows. The room smelt of spirits and he had a coarse, earthenware wine cooler by his side. His eyes were over-bright, and his smile somehow too fixed.

‘Ah, Nephew! Come! Come!’

I kneeled, touching the dusty floorboards with my forehead, aware he was watching. At last Uncle Ming leaned forward.

‘When your father asked me to take you in, I could hardly refuse,’ he said. ‘You will find me quite generous, Nephew. Quite generous. But let us understand one another. You are here to pass examinations. Nothing else.

That is what I promised your Father. Do not shame me by failing, or, Little Nephew, you shall find me far from amiable.’

I crawled out like a cowed puppy.

Another time our paths crossed in a way which made him notice me. It was a year after my arrival in the capital. I was wandering the streets and passed an alley notorious for a certain restaurant. It served an unusual, though by no means illegal, type of meat, cooked in the manner of lamb. All varieties of two-legged mutton could be bought there, from old to younger flesh, and each dish had a special name. In times of famine such restaurants did a brisk trade, but during plenty they were frequented only by connoisseurs. A banner hung above the entrance, bearing the words ‘Lucky Bowl’.

As I hurried past a familiar figure emerged, bowed out by several waiters. He had a singing girl on each arm.

Both girls were garlanded with pink lotus blossom. Uncle Ming took one look at me and his customary smile lapsed.

*

He summoned me over and sent the singing girls on ahead. I flinched.

‘Nephew,’ he demanded. ‘What are you doing here?

Why are you not studying for your examinations?’

‘Just walking, Uncle.’

He surveyed me unsteadily.

‘I take it you have already forgotten my dining companions?’

For a moment I was confused. Did he mean the people he had dined with or on?

‘You are alone, Uncle,’ I said, quickly. ‘I do not understand.’

His usual smile reappeared. Extracting a string of
cash
from his belt, he took hold of my hand and deposited the coins there. Then he slowly closed my fingers round the money, and patted my arm. His own fingers were greasy.

As he leant forward, his breath fascinated and appalled me.

‘Buy yourself something to eat!’ he winked. ‘I can recommend the Lucky Bowl, but don’t tell Honoured Aunty.

She might get strange ideas about who should be on the menu! Ha! Ha!’

It was the nearest thing to a joke I ever heard him utter.

Of course, I followed his first suggestion and ignored the latter.

An ox must tirelessly haul the plough to earn its feed; a scholar must gain success to retain his distinctive blue robe. If the ox shows weakness, he is eaten, right down to his hooves. So it was for me. Once established in Uncle Ming’s household my days formed a pattern of toil which endured for years, broken only by festivals or illness.

I would arise at cock-crow and struggle into my blue scholar’s gown, ink-stained and threadbare at the elbows.

After a breakfast of millet porridge and salty pickles, I hurried to the front gate. Here would be assembled an entourage several strong, supervised by Honoured Aunty, her face a mask as she barked out orders and rebukes. The entourage was not for myself, but Cousin Zhi. One flunkey to carry his scrolls bound with rhinoceros hide, another for inks and brushes, a third bearing a large wicker box containing meats and dishes known to nourish the brain. The fourth anxiously angled a huge, tasselled parasol. I would bow low, satchel on my back, and hurry past them to the wine market where my own escort awaited.