Clear Rain replied: “Well if you will play the dog’s game . . .”
Ahead of them, the two other carriages rolled steadily along the level road, escorts on each side. The nearer of the two held An Ching-hsu’s recognisable plumpness: in the further, a tall burly figure, An Lu-shan himself, held the reins gathered in his left hand.
“I want to wave something,” Clear Rain said, “but my hands are too busy.” She looked down at Honeysuckle. “Is it not like the days when we were young? Or perhaps you cannot remember that, you who are always planning. I did not mean that.”
Honeysuckle said: “And yet my heart is not happy. Everything is happening as we wanted it to happen; we are being taken at no cost to the place to which we wished to go, by the men whom we fished to take us, and yet my heart is not happy. I do not know why this should be.”
Clear Rain answered: “You have been eating something, and your stomach does not like the jolting. For me it is easier to be happy, for if you stand up as I am doing, with the wind in your hair and your knees a little bent, your stomach does not feel anything. Besides, I did not eat as much as you did before I started.”
Honeysuckle said: “You are quite wrong about the food. No, it is my heart that is sad, and since a heart between two doors is the character for sadness, I can only think that this journey, with its departure from our house and its departure from the finer rules of behaviour, is responsible for my mood. What is there for me to lay at the door of sadness? Money, ease, comfort and pleasant companions—these things should not make me feel as I do feel. Let me drive a little, so that I, too, may feel as if I wanted to wave something other than a funeral cloth.”
They exchanged places and Clear Rain went to sleep. Honeysuckle, standing as Clear Rain had stood, saw the road coming towards them, the latent buds awaiting their particular spring, the small, fleecy clouds ahead in the sky, and a single goose flying south. She was remembering that single geese could carry messages of love tied to their legs, and realised that there was no one to whom she would wish to send a message.
Although she bent her knees a little, she felt more unhappy than she wanted to feel.
At the gates of the estate of Peng Yeh, the escort halted and came together. The three carriages assembled behind the escort. There were the sound of scraping hoofs and the jostling of leather.
An Lu-shan, descending from his carriage, said: “When I am impatient, as now, I am unfilial enough to blame the emotion on my father and my father’s father, for I cannot accustom myself to this intolerable Chinese habit of shutting a door first, in order to open it with courtesy. I am not a Chinese and I cannot think wholly like a Chinese.”
Honeysuckle was conscious that, for a moment, they were all grouped like motionless actors, awaiting the climax of a tragedy. She cried: “I think I hear men behind the gate, about to open it.”
An answered: “I have an almost irresistible desire to break it down. In my country such is the treatment of those who shut doors in my face. And I must learn to do all the things that Chinese do in order to have the door opened—to call, to bribe, to intrigue, to distract the gate-keeper’s attention—it is all too indirect for me. You, my son, could probably manage it without effort—I have often noticed how much more you resemble your mother than you resemble me. Some of my other sons, now, show promise of being tall, brusque men, like their father. If it were not . . .”
He broke off, for the gate opened and Peng Yeh came out towards the group. Peng Yeh’s face was set and stern, and his empty hands twitched at his sides.
An said: “You see! He hates me.”
Peng Yeh asked: “What do you desire?”
An replied: “First, courtesy. That is the cheapest commodity here. Today I come only as a visitor, so we need have no further trouble about titles. My son and these two girls, whom I think you know.”
Clear Rain said: “We poured wine for you when we met last.”
Peng Yeh took no notice of her.
An Ching-hsu came forward. “Let me try,” he suggested. “Sir, we come as friends from distant quarters, and regret exceedingly the disruption which, I fear, our visit brings to your household arrangements. Nevertheless, since we wish to enquire of you and your household about facts which you, and not we, are privy to, I beg of you to allow us a short space of talk.”
Lu-shan said: “A diplomatist, most unlike a son of mine. And yet, he succeeds where force would have failed, for if you break into a man’s house you do not thereby loosen his tongue. You see, he succeeds.”
For Peng Yeh had bowed to An Ching-hsu and began to retire backwards towards his gates. The escort made way for him. The impasse was broken.
An Lu-shan and his son were seated in the Hall of Audience, drinking tea. The two girls found a serving maid to take them to Winter Cherry’s room, and were received with a mixture of formality and affectionate gratitude which was very amusing to Honeysuckle and Clear Rain.
Honeysuckle said: “In her father’s house she behaves like a hostess, but I can see that her hair has still not grown again to its proper length.”
Clear Rain agreed: “No. But she has put it up, which would seem to make her at any rate partially married.”
Winter Cherry replied: “When you have cut your hair off, it is as bad as putting it up. You can never let it down again. But I think it looks better so.”
The two visitors looked at each other. Then Honeysuckle said: “Would you consider it pleasant to have a letter from your haircutter?”
Winter Cherry cried: “My haircutter? Whom do you mean?”
Clear Rain replied: “When we last met you, you told us a tale of having disguised yourself as a boy. In fact, you looked as if you had tried to do so. But of course . . .”
Honeysuckle said: “The letter is from the honourable Li Po’s nephew.” She held it out to Winter Cherry. “Here—take it and hide it in your dress. There is someone at the door.”
Indeed, Peng Chan-mu appeared in a moment. Honeysuckle and Clear Rain rose to their feet and stood waiting. Winter Cherry fetched a porcelain stool from the side of the room and set it for her brother.
“It is not often,” he said as he sat down, “that I find you so well worth visiting.”
The three girls also seated themselves.
“These ladies, whose names are Honeysuckle and Clear Rain,” Winter Cherry told him, “aided me on my way home, and I have no way of showing my gratitude.”
Peng Chan-mu said: “That is a debt which I could willingly settle for you. In fact, I find their presence here more than a slight compensation for our country loneliness.”
Honeysuckle answered: “We are honoured by what your brother says. But no reward is necessary for what we did.”
Then there was the sound of other voices in the passage, and soon An Lu-shan and his son appeared.
Peng Chan-mu cried: “It is not right that you should come to my sister’s room, I am her brother, but you . . .”
Lu-shan put out a hand and took Peng Chan-mu by the shoulder. With no apparent effort he thrust the young man aside, out of the door, saying as he did so: “You seem to forget that I now occupy the Dragon Throne, and for me there is no right and wrong. What I will, is.” He closed the door and turned to the others. “Is this the girl who calls herself Winter Cherry?”
Winter Cherry replied, rising: “That is my name.”
Lu-shan continued: “I desire to hear from your lips, since seemingly you know more than does your father, all the events which occurred between the arrival of the late Emperor’s party and their departure, so far as it concerns the late Lady Yang Kuei-fei.” Then, since they had all bowed at the Emperor’s name, he shouted: “Enough of this foolery, I am now the Emperor. It is to me that you should bow, not to the name and memory of one who threw the Empire away and will soon be taken by my own men. Go, all of you. I will talk with this girl alone.”