The Palace of Celestial Breath grew busier as more new recruits to inner service arrived. These included Talented Xu, whose reputation preceded her: She was the daughter of a learned family and had started talking at just five months. At four she could already comment on Confucius’ Discussions and recite the poems in the Anthology. At eight she started writing and created this verse in the style of songs favored by the ancient kingdom of Chu: “I contemplate the deep, luxurious forest; caressing the branches of the blossoming cinnamon tree, I address the mountain that has lived a thousand years and ask: why this loneliness?”
One winter morning, she finally appeared. Buried in a cape of mauve satin lined with silver fox, her face looked tiny and extraordinarily pale. Her eyes were so long and slanting they reached her temples and were like two timid dashes of calligraphy. She coughed a good deal, and her sickly beauty softened even the surliest of the instructors. From the very first day, she was granted the privilege to withdraw when she deemed that she was tired. According to rumor, she was the one in our group who would be favored by the Emperor. She was a year older than me and had a quiet, learned way about her and all the mysterious charm of a woman who is already promised to someone. She had no difficulty carrying out the Court movements accurately and with a delicate grace. A good many girls buzzed around her, and she soon had a devoted band of admirers as well as a collection of rivals who were quick to criticize her. Not knowing how to approach her, I kept my distance; I feigned indifference.
At night, in my dreams, my former life went on. I walked those strange corridors of time and went back to my childhood. On the banks of the River Long, the wind danced with the huge waves. On my horse, I would fly higher and freer than the seagulls. Waking was brutal. My heart would stop. I was so dazed I would forget who I was and where I was. Then, gradually, the distress would intensify and become harrowing. The chill of the Forbidden City would overrun me.
The pages of life that had already turned could not be opened again.
SINCE THE DEATH of the Empress of Learning and Virtue two years previously, the title of Mistress of the World was still unclaimed. In the Side Court, it was said that Great Chancellor Wu Ji, who was the brother of the noble deceased, had such a tight hold on the government that he would never allow another family to sully her throne. The sovereign had in fact wanted to invest Precious Wife, the daughter of Emperor Yang of the overthrown dynasty and already the mother of two princes, but the ministers of the Outer Court refused to swear loyalty to a descendant of the enemy clan. Then the Emperor’s favorite, Yang, was singled out and promoted to Gracious Wife after giving birth to a son. Once again the ministers criticized her because, while in the gynaeceum, she had served the King of Qi who was later killed in a coup. A sullied woman would never be sovereign of China.
But even the most powerful of men could not contain the ambitions of women obsessed with childbearing and fascinated by the dignity of rank. The ten thousand women in the Side Court were ten thousand flowers desperately dreaming of spring. Whether carefully planted out in pots or crudely sown in wasteland, they wilted in the harsh atmosphere of constant waiting, the deprivation of an endless winter. A sniffle, a shiver, a migraine, or a stomachache was enough to cull these souls so worn down with hoping. There were no old women with white hair in the Side Court. Every day the dead were left by the North Gate. Somewhere, far from the ramparts of the Capital, in the cemetery for Imperial Serving Women, slumbered adolescents who had never seen anything of the world and mature women who, poor creatures, had been too familiar with melancholy.
The pathways in the Side Court wound around like the never-ending threads of a vast spider web. Our pavilions were like dead insects, and the survivors still believed in miracles. Princesses, nobles, and commoners had lost their names and were recognized only by the titles they had been given. I was Talented One Wu, an intruder in the land of gods, a pebble on a tray of fine pearls. I too aspired tentatively to the imperial bed, to be favored by the Son of Heaven.
Rumor had it that the sovereign liked fat women with double chins: I was upset that I was thin. The young girls competed over their jewels, their dresses, and their extravagances. They spent the money given to them by their families on frenzied orders. I had been robbed of my jewels to pay for my cousins’ careers. My brothers had sent me nothing. When Mother managed to send me a few small coins, I knew she had secretly sold another of her Buddhist statuettes, the only things of value she still owned. This money made me weep. How could I spend it to buy a pretty hairpin?
Winter came, and the first snow fell on the Side Court. Icicles hanging from the awnings and footprints left in the frost by the birds awakened my dormant energy. Our timetable recommended practicing sport in this season. With my coat thrown off, my sleeves pushed up, and wearing my Tatar boots, I launched myself into the snow. My strength and enthusiasm amazed the Palace intendant instructing us. He suggested I take the archery lessons that were offered to volunteers accompanying the sovereign on his hunting trips.
All the suffering I had endured melted away when I mounted a horse with the brand of the imperial stables. On the archery range, which had been swept of snow, I galloped with the urgency of a blind man hurtling toward a distant thread of light. The wind slapped my face, and the sky whipped up my thoughts. The speed freed me from the torments of frustration, and I felt my pride blossoming once more. Far from the crowd of women, the painted faces, and the affected smiles, I rediscovered the powerful pleasure of being alone.
Before the end of the year, I received my official gowns. In the absence of an Empress, the Precious Wife led the Ladies of the Inner Court and the Ladies of the Outer Court in prostrating themselves before His Majesty to give him their best wishes. Palace etiquette required us to walk with small steps and lowered eyes. Because my rank entitled me to a place far from the throne, during the salutation, I could just see a dark smudge with something resembling a face obscured by a glittering crown.
Back in the Side Court, everyone said that the Emperor wanted to meet his new mistresses and would name a date on which he would receive them. The thought of this put the Pavilion of Celestial Breath into a frenzy of excitement. Soon, one of the Great Intendants told us of the imperial summons. The day before the presentation I could not sleep. Even though I had galloped all afternoon and shot two quivers of a dozen arrows, I felt neither tired nor appeased. A thousand times I went over what I would wear, practiced my walk, and prepared answers in case His Majesty deigned to ask me anything. A thousand times I imagined my joy and pride if I were the chosen one. Mother could forget her poverty and sorrow: No one would dare humiliate her any more. As an imperial favorite and promoted to a superior rank, I would ask for permission for her to visit with Little Sister. When I bore a prince, Mother, as Royal Grandmother, would be given a palace with countless servants. As I shared my pillow with the Son of Heaven, I would remind him that Father had been a Veteran of the dynasty, companion in war to the Noble Emperor Lordly Forebear. I would beg him to grant him a posthumous title as Great Lord of the first rank.
I tried in vain to calm my teeming hopes. The more I laughed at my extravagant dreams, the more desperately I longed to reach this man coveted by his ten thousand serving women. No, I wanted neither privilege, nor favor, nor glory. I was indifferent to gold, pearls, and sumptuous palaces. I would ask nothing of the sovereign other than to be saved from this fate that condemned me to wither in silence and die, drowning in a swamp of women.