In the narrow streets paved with black stone, the servants’ feet grew red in their wooden clogs. The whole town came together in the floating market on the river, their rain hats pulled down over coats woven from bamboo leaves. The boats bustled and nudged one another on the water. The cook bartered fiercely: She could feign anger or improvise with flattery. The fishermen, beaten back by her eloquence, would throw us fish that squirmed through the air.
To console me for the loss of Law of Emptiness, Father gave me a horse and permission to go through the gateway into the side court. I went into the exercise yard where soldiers trained for battle. The animal was as tall as a mountain, spewing hot breath through great nostrils that quivered. All of a sudden he sneezed: terrified, I backed away and fell flat on my backside. He shook his head up and down and laughed, showing off his yellow teeth.
I called him King of Tigers. Up on his back, the world was at my feet. When he went into a gallop, my body melted away, my thoughts scattered in the wind, and I became a warrior on his flying fortress, a goddess on her winged chariot. At last, days of happiness had arrived like the midday sun. Only a few sorrows flitted across the skies of a childhood that knew no suffering.
My sisters and I had private tutors who gave us lessons in painting, calligraphy, music, and dance. When she was twelve, Eldest Sister Purity was as beautiful as the dawn breaking over the River Long. Having been forbidden any exposure to the sun by the doctors because her skin was so delicate, she preferred candlelight, and she would read and write all day long. Her poems already had the rhythm and resonance of a more mature mind. While I scratched my head trying to find obscure words, indispensable ornamentation for my prosaic compositions, sentences would flow from her swift hand in elegant pairs.
Little sister was the mirror image of me. She was seven years old, and she had the sparkling vitality of a young animal. When Father set out to inspect garrisons and other districts, Mother would shut herself away from us in prayer. We would slip away from the clouded gaze of our ancient governesses and explore the Front Quarters. The imposing pavilions seemed to reach the sky. The white walls bore calligraphy in black ink, spelling out the rules of conduct for imperial officials. The hall shimmered with gold. The pillars supported vast vaulted roofs. Father, who was responsible for the paddy-fields and trading and who meted out supreme justice, was the most powerful man in the region!
In the eighth year of Pure Contemplation, Father gave a party for my ninth birthday. The gifts accumulated into great hills of treasure in the pavilion where the reception was held. Father gave me an armor breastplate in red leather with black laces, a suede hat decorated with a goose head, and a small bow bound with rattan. A general sent me a young falcon and three pups. The dignitaries of the province paid me intoxicating compliments. Blushing and delighted, I made a pretense of shyness as I welcomed the last days of my innocence. The rustle of silk, the tumbling rhythms of music, laughter, shouts, whinnying horses… these were the crowning moments of the beautiful firework display that had been my childhood.
Our infant years are like cruising on a cloud: suspended on high, the celestial landscape seems to unfold so slowly, motionless and eternal, while we flit past a thousand plains and mountains on the ground below.
My journey was already coming to an end.
One morning a few months after this party that dazzled me still, a carriage came to collect Eldest Sister. She emerged weeping from the house, dressed like a goddess, and left forever.
The previous year she had been betrothed to a boy from the local nobility. I had admired her dowry with its crimson lacquered trunks that took up an entire pavilion. As I counted her dishes of jade, gold, and silver; her sheets of velvet and satin; her countless dresses; and her embroidered shoes, I even felt a tinge of envy. I did not understand what marriage was. Only after she left did I realize that a harmonious world in which everything had its rightful place had just collapsed. Later Purity came back to the maternal home with her husband. Just as I had feared-with her fringe lifted off her face, her eyebrows completely plucked, her cheeks powdered, and her hair in a topknot-she was no longer my sister. She had become a woman!
In that ninth year of Pure Contemplation, there were weeds growing in the garden of my heart, and I was a melting pot of scorn and insolence. I had read A History of the Han Dynasty and Poems of the Lands of Chu. I had studied The Virtue and Piety of Women. I was well versed in arithmetic, calligraphy, painting, and playing the zither and the game of go. This image of a well-brought up young lady irritated me: I wanted to be like those barefoot adolescents with their trousers rolled up who hurled their nets into the river.
On the sixth day of the fifth moon, the retired emperor died. Imperial messengers spread the grim news to the four corners of the empire. Surprised by their mournful announcement, Father collapsed. When his officers rushed to support him, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he struggled as if possessed by some invisible demon. As his thrashing became calmer, he was taken into the inner quarters. Father never awoke. He had left this world.
Doctors could not diagnose the mysterious illness to which he had succumbed. They concluded that the late emperor had called up his warrior: He was to escort him as he ascended to the celestial kingdom. The imperial Court soon confirmed this theory, and, touched by this proof of loyalty to his master, the reigning emperor conferred on Father the posthumous title of Minister of Rites.
I wandered from one room to another in that unreal world, understanding nothing. Father’s body lay on a bed of ice. With his smooth features and half-closed eyes, he looked deep in thought. Mother wept as she took off all her jewelry. Behind her, men and women could be heard wailing. The house was draped with linen and white hemp, transforming it into an immaculate temple.
A few days later, two officials arrived from the Capital borne by exhausted horses. The servants knelt as they passed. The officials wept as they climbed the stairs, then threw themselves before the funeral bed and howled with pain. I watched these black-bearded strangers through a window and recognized my half-brothers, the sons of Father’s late wife.
Tears, cries, and wails. We observed the ceremonial procedures: bathing him, calling upon his soul, filling his mouth, the smaller clothing ceremony, the great clothing ceremony, laying him in his coffin, and making daily offerings. I followed meekly, obedient, and dazed. Imperial representatives, envoys from the world of high politics, relations, and local dignitaries filed past us offering their condolences and their funeral gifts. Throughout that whirlwind of comings and goings, the summer threw a thick heat haze over the town. Beneath my mourning gown, my hips and buttocks became covered with tiny spots. At night I moaned and turned over in bed, scratching frantically.
The coffin left the house and was taken to the temple of Beloved Happiness, where it stayed for forty-nine days while the monks read sacred texts and prayed for the soul of the deceased. Unfamiliar faces and men with brutish accents invaded the house and occupied the guest rooms. Mother told me that they were my father’s nephews, and they had come to escort us to his motherland.
The thoroughbred horses disappeared-apparently sold by the young lords. Soon huge trunks were brought out of the inner quarters, and the governesses, dancing women, servants, and cooks evaporated in turn. One morning, seeing King of Tigers’ empty stall, my heart stood still. I ran over to the pavilion where Mother was praying and fell to my knees, calling on Buddha. I rubbed my eyes, which had become infected by so much lamentation and shed every last tear in my body.