I swept the courtyard, shuffling back and forth with a bamboo broom taller than myself. I climbed onto the altars and dusted the faces of Buddhas and celestial kings. I crouched beside a waterfall and beat my clothes clean with a large pebble. I busied myself with the old women. For some of them, who were simply tired, I arranged their cushions and fetched pails; for others, who were already loosing their minds, I acted as a prompt for their memories. In the mornings, begging bowl in hand, I seduced rich visitors and made them open their purses. In the evening, after all the lights had been put out, I put on great performances at everyone’s request: acting out the scenes I had witnessed during the day; I played wealthy, worldly townswomen as well as our obsequious superiors and an exasperated Buddha. I could hear their laughter and compliments buzzing from beneath their blankets. I savored this glory, but feigned modesty.
My greatest friend was called Law of Emptiness. She was a white goat who followed me everywhere in my feverish activities. When I wandered into a temple, I would tell her about the life of Prince Siddhartha and the wonders of the Pure World. Deep in the forest, I would take a twig from a tree and give her writing lessons. When I was thirsty, I would slip between her legs, and she would offer me her udder full of milk.
“Were you sent by Buddha to watch over me?” I asked her. In her golden eyes, Law of Emptiness had all the goodness that was lacking in humans. Her curly coat was a parchment scribbled with ineffable words. Her hooves, like cloven rocks, trampled over the history of the world. One day I fell asleep at the foot of a statue of Bodhisattva. She woke me by licking my face: darkness was creeping over the sky, and I was late for evening prayer. As I sat up I saw the twinkle of a smile on her muzzle.
“Law of Emptiness, are you an incarnation of Buddha?”
My family home disappeared like a dream.
The mountains seemed to breathe. The mountains were sad; the mountains were happy. The mountains flaunted their furry coats of snow, their brocade robes, their sumptuous and extravagant cloaks of mist. The sky opened up vertically when dusk fell, all ochre, yellow and black. When evening came up from the valleys, the heavenly bodies revealed themselves. I would lie down in the long grasses: red, blue, green, sparkling, evanescent. Every star was a mysterious writing on the sacred book of the sky. Seasons passed, clouds drifted away and never came back. On the other side of the valley, hanging from ropes in the void in front of a cliff face, workmen sculpted day and night. I was told that an imperial donation had been made to create the largest Buddha on Earth.
The moon waxed and waned. The days, those tiny dots and circles, changed into a flowing script whose meaning was now lost. I understood the passage of time by watching the Buddha gradually materializing under those iron picks. Gentle eyes, a mysterious smile, drooping ear lobes, the mountain revealed his face. The cliff lost its sheer exterior, and his body appeared. His draped robes started to flutter in the wind. Birds wheeled around his knees with terrified cries. His ankles came away from the rock. The curve of his toenails emerged. I was mute with awe: Divinity had risen from nothingness!
One morning, in the reception hall, I found Mother and her retinue. She had gained weight; her breasts bulged. I was dazzled by her carefully applied makeup, her hair piled high on her head, and her embroidered gown. She told me that Father had been named Governor Delegate of the distant province of Jing and asked whether I would like to go with him or stay in the monastery.
My feeling of joy shattered: She made it clear that if I left, I would never see the mountains again, and if I stayed, I would lose my family forever. That same evening the monastery shook in the grips of a violent storm; the thunder roared, and the earth trembled. A tree just outside our sleeping quarters was struck by lightning and collapsed. The girls were terrified and started to pray. Huddled in my cot, with my hands over my ears, I slipped into another world. The darkness was drawing me in; I had never felt so alone. The thought of gliding across the years without seeing Mother again frightened me. I cried all night.
Before I left, Pure Intelligence gave back the box of belongings I had entrusted to her when I arrived. I secured the necklace of pearls and jade about my neck, put earrings in my ears, and put on three gold bracelets. I was heartbroken to find that the pleated skirt, the silk shirt, and the scarlet tunic with the bird design had all shrunk. I had grown.
With one hand I held Law of Emptiness by a length of string attached round her neck, and with the other I shook hands with Pure Intelligence. My tears flowed on and on. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic and stopped by the monastery gate.
“Buddha speaks through every moment of pain. Listen to his words. Your destiny lies elsewhere. Forget me.”
She turned away and started to run. Her grey dress melted into the trees.
Farewell, monastery! Time will devour you, and you will be turned to dust. Farewell, Pure Intelligence! You will soon die, and we shall see each other again in another life. Farewell, my friends the monkeys, the tigers, and the pandas. You will become carrion, and only the mountains will remain.
They will watch over the Buddha’s enigmatic smile.
HORSES WHINNYING. Cartwheels rumbling. Coachmen shouting. Huddled on my cot, I drifted in and out of sleep. The endless earth unfurled as I traveled onward. In my dreams, I was straying through the belly of the mountains with a torch in my hand. A succession of frescoes: green, mauve, yellow, ochre, indigo, images of the gods, the celestial kings, and the bodhisattvas appeared and disappeared. Birds called, wild cats laughed, dancers tiptoed through the clouds scattering a shower of flowers. In the depths of the cave, I could see a statue of Buddha lying down, taking up the entire valley. He had one hand under his cheek but was not asleep. He was the only breath of life, his vast body weightless as a feather ready to fly away. Not the faintest rustle of wind, not one insect cry, not one drop of water falling. The world was silent before his state of bliss. Suddenly Buddha smiled at me. I woke with a start. I no longer knew where I was or what my name was.
I had lost Law of Emptiness. The little goat had disappeared without a trace; the mountains had reclaimed her from me. I had gone there almost naked, and now I was emerging with nothing.
“Everything is dreams and illusion,” Pure Intelligence had told me.
WE ABANDONED THE earth path. The wind filled the sails, and the huge boat was like a whole town as it traveled down the River Long.
The banks stretched out, mountains loomed up and dispersed into the mist. Fishermen surrounded by cormorants, groups of little houses on stilts, villages clinging to the side of the cliffs and fortified towns glided past. We threw anchor in ports that smelled of grilled fish. Hundreds of boats buzzed around us, offering cloths, furniture, clothes, vegetables, and young girls. At night the reflection of the moon would scatter over the water, a myriad of silver flowers flutter away. There were black boats covered in oiled cloth and red lanterns at the top of their masts; they emitted the wail of musical instruments, women’s laughter, and ugly voices of drunken men.
The river was growing wider. The torrents, no longer eager to rejoin the sea, were slowing down. There were countless vessels, still larger and more magnificent than ours, traveling in both directions.
The journey ended when the season of green plums began. The rain trickled and did not stop. Water streamed over the roofs in the town of Jing; it seeped down the walls and crawled over books, leaving its flower-shaped tracks. Servant women dried damp clothes over fires fed with sandalwood bark. I studied the Four Classics with a private tutor. The cook heaved me up onto her donkey’s back and gladly brought me along on her trips to the market.