On my orders, the young man shaved his head and became a monk. As a member of the bonze community, he broke with his past and became unimpeachable. He surrendered the name Feng and the common first name Little Treasure, and I gave him the Buddhist title of Scribe of Loyalty. I asked my daughter’s husband, Xue Shao, to recognize him as a distant uncle, and from then on, he bore the name of the famous aristocratic Xue clan.
The impostor proved to be a genius: Scribe of Loyalty had that raw intelligence that has never been damaged by academic study. His time as a vagrant had sharpened his intuition, which was more effective than any bureaucratic reflections. His audacity and imagination made his tongue more agile than the wooden-mouthed administrators. His many experiences in his past life had metamorphosed into peculiar knowledge. Although he knew nothing of design, he restored the monastery of the White Horse with great aplomb. After leafing through some sutras and memorizing a few formulaic prayers, he stepped up onto the stage and preached with thundering conviction. All of Luoyang gathered round to hear sermons by the imperial lover. They found a magnificent temple filled with white lotus flowers and columns of incense escaping from huge basins to darken the sky. Through this intoxicating fog, monks could be heard chanting a steady, dull drone. Suddenly Celestial Kings loomed up taller than mountains, and a long line of bodhisattvas opened out, beaming with light. The faithful would eventually find Scribe of Loyalty in the very depths of the hall, sitting with his hands joined in prayer in the middle of a golden lotus glittering with millions of diamonds. With his wide forehead, lowered eyes, and bulbous earlobes, he was almost a celestial apparition. He himself started rumors that quickly spread throughout the city; soon the Capital was venerating him as the reincarnation of a famous Indian monk who had the gift of healing and magical powers.
A man’s glory lies in his clothes. When my guards removed the lacquered linen cap, ivory tablet, and jade-studded leather belt from a disgraced minister, the statesman with his unruly hair and wild eyes lost all his imposing presence, already reduced to a convict or a slave. Wrapped in his purple tunic, astride an imperial charger, preceded by palace eunuchs and followed by his acolytes, Little Treasure, the aphrodisiac-seller, had no trouble establishing himself as the most elegant aristocrat in the Imperial City.
The more prudish ministers in the Outer Court eyed the scandalous Scribe of Loyalty scornfully and sent me letters of protest, reminding me of stories I already knew: Sovereigns besotted by their favorites neglected their duties; their passions had been the ruination of dynasties. Others, always alert and at the ready, fought for opportunities to win favor with this new figure of power. Generals prostrated themselves before the monk, addressing him as Master. My nephews-arrogant, impetuous princes-held his bridle for him as he mounted his horse. I watched these scenes from my lofty position on my throne with a sly smile.
Scribe of Loyalty was a lie that had become a truth.
Scribe of Loyalty was the merciless mirror I held up to this absurd world.
IN THE SECOND year of the Era of Lowered Arms and Joined Hands, I put my second invention into operation: At the entrance to the Forbidden City, I installed a giant bronze urn embossed with inscriptions worked in pure gold by my goldsmiths. The urn was divided into four compartments and was to be used to receive letters from the people.
An imperial decree was posted up in the four corners of the Empire: “Any individual who has no official State duties may now address Her Supreme Majesty freely by placing their written statements in the Urn of Truth. The eastern side of the urn is reserved for recommending competent officials and for comments on sound imperial decisions. The southern side is intended for censure of social and political events. The western side is for denouncing crimes and offences. The northern side will be used for astrological predictions and reports of premonitory dreams concerning the fate of the Empire.”
This first edict was followed by a second: “During their travels to the Sacred Capital, those bearing messages intended for the Supreme Empress will be given a daily payment and will be provided with bed and board by the regional authorities. Any imperial administrator committing the crime of questioning his guests, intercepting their letters, or impeding their journey to the Capital will be punished by death.”
It was not long before a third decree was sent out: “Any man, regardless of his origins, bearing useful advice or having suffered an injustice, shall be received by Her Supreme Majesty in person.”
My announcements put the Empire into turmoil. Convoys organized by provincial governments formed long uninterrupted streams of people along the country’s roads. The people queued up outside the Forbidden City to reach the Urn of Truth. Imperial bailiffs collected the letters at dusk and brought them to me at night. Banquets and concerts were temporarily suspended in my palace. I chose the best pupils from the women at the Inner Institute of Letters as my readers. Ornate chandeliers were extinguished, and only candles on short candlesticks were kept alight. The young women did not wear topknots or official court tunics and sat with their bare feet in silk slippers. They were virgins in flesh and in their judgments, and they were shocked by the vulgar turns of phrase. From time to time, Gentleness would lay down the work and call for wine and fruit. She would sit behind me and massage my tired temples. Somewhere in the depths of the room, a girl would play the zither, and another would accompany her with the clear notes of a bamboo flute. When they fell silent, the only sounds were the rustle of paper and the whisper of silk sleeves. Scribe of Loyalty would arrive late in the night, and, when he appeared, the young girls would flee in every direction like flocks of birds disappearing into the darkness.
A palace in the Outer City was prepared to receive the people. At certain times throughout the afternoon, I would sit on my throne surrounded by gauze curtains, watching all of China file past.
A peasant came to complain about the taxes on his land. A butcher denounced a dignitary who had taken his wife. A fisherman suggested that a canal should be built in his region. An impoverished scholar in love with a courtesan begged me to free his beloved. A madman talked about the end of the world. A woman from my region came to thank me for encouraging widows to remarry. Another brought me a basket of eggs.
Countless hundreds of them were terrified by the majestic palaces and the imposing military parades around me. Intoxicated by their fears and their veneration, they could not utter a word and carried on striking their foreheads on the ground until they were led away by eunuchs.
I delighted in hearing all the regional accents; I was touched by people’s modest dreams and humble longings; and I suffered for those in despair-the starving, the old, and the orphans.
Learned, self-taught men without diplomas were given official positions. Strong and supple young men joined the army. Criminals saw their punishments reduced. To every creature who called on my help, I tried to grant clemency, justice, and happiness.
I was consumed by the vastness of China. The silhouettes on the far side of the curtain became confusing and overran me like a fever. All these people-thin, fat, tall, short, deformed, and ill-grasping the hem of my gowns pressed against my retina and invaded my dreams to ask for my goodness once again. The more I gave, the bigger the crowd of supplicants grew. All these miseries that were being revealed to me were just tiny portions of an infinite suffering.