“Great,” said Zhuang when the old man removed the lid on the steamer to show them two cakes with bamboo sticks in them. “One will be enough. None for me,” he said.
“Oh, so you’re not a lover or a paramour? I’m so sorry,” the old man said. “Then the wife will have one.”
Wan’er gave Zhuang a look, and they both smiled.
“What can you tell us about the cake?” Zhuang asked.
“It’s called a mirror cake because it’s about the size of a hand-held mirror, also symbolizing perfect harmony. During the Tang dynasty, it was a special treat sold at courtesan establishments, and later in the old society it was sold at theater entrances and amusement parks. It’s not so popular anymore, but it’s like drawing a lot: if a couple comes up and buys only one, then the woman must be the wife, a comrade, or a close friend. If a couple buys two, then they must be lovers or paramours. It never fails.”
“But isn’t that incorrect?” Zhuang asked. “With two to form a union, the woman has to be the wife, representing perfect harmony between husband and wife, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. As the ancients said, a wife cannot compare with a concubine, a concubine cannot compare with a prostitute, and a prostitute cannot compare with a secret lover. These days, nine out of ten couples manage to hang on to their marriage. But I’m just joking. Just joking.”
They walked away.
“Why didn’t you buy one and try it?” she said. “Don’t you think we can be together forever?”
“The old man was just wisecracking to get more business. You can’t believe what he says. If you do, then buying only one means that the woman is the wife, and that’s a sign that we’ll be husband and wife in the future.”
She was greatly pleased by what he said. Just then they heard someone calling out to them: “Hey, you two. Out for a stroll?”
Startled, she turned and stepped to the side, as if they were strangers. It was Meng Yunfang.
“What’s taken you so long?” Zhuang said. “I ran into Tang Wan’er at the intersection and told her to get Zhou Min, since you’ve invited us to the ceremony. She said he wasn’t home and she didn’t want to come, but I got her to stick around.” He turned to her: “Wan’er, ask Meng Laoshi if he invited you.”
Knowing what he was getting at, she smiled. “I don’t believe you. Meng Laoshi wouldn’t invite me.”
“I did,” Meng said. “If I’m lying, I’m a dirty dog.”
Soon Li Hongwen and Gou Dahai from the magazine and Dai Shangtian, the book reviewer at the Writers’ Association, showed up on their bikes. They greeted each other before Meng led them to the entrance, where he talked to the police and showed them inside. Being familiar with the temple grounds, Meng told them about the place as they walked along: the flagpoles outside the entrance were from a certain time in the Song dynasty, and the entrance, which faced the gate on the city wall, had excellent fengshui. They passed the entrance and came to a large area with a pond in the center. A fountain in an artificial hill spewed water into the pond. People tossed in coins, saying that good luck would come to anyone whose coin floated on the surface. Wan’er pushed her way through to take a look; she tossed in some coins, but they all settled to the bottom. Unhappily, she reached into her pocket for more, but there were none; she turned to see a yellow banner with long colorful ribbons on each side tied to a flagpole behind the pond. Zhuang was standing there reading the writing on the banner, so she went over to ask him for some coins. With his eyes still on the banner, he struck a match to light his cigarette and told her get some from his pocket. After getting what she wanted, she rested her hand inside his pocket and held his ample penis.
“Stop that! This is a Buddhist spot,” he said.
She gave it a squeeze and it began to harden. “So you’re reverent, are you? Then why are you getting hard?” She laughed and walked off with the coins.
Meng came up and said to Zhuang, “That’s not worth reading. I wrote it myself.” He dragged Zhuang to the rear, as Tang finally kept a coin floating on the surface. But with no one she knew there to cheer her, she pouted and walked off. She was happy to see statues under the veranda on both sides; the Bodhisattvas seemed familiar, but she couldn’t name them, with their pretty faces, round as a full moon, and their soaring brows and graceful eyes.
“Tang Wan’er, are you looking at beautiful statues or are you trying to see if you’re prettier than they are?” Meng called to her.
She ran over looking displeased, but was laughing by the time she reached them.
“You do look like them when you frown,” Meng said, “but that smile is too pretty, it ruins the resemblance.”
“You spout nonsense wherever you are,” she said. “It’s disrespectful.”
“I know more about Buddhism than you do. An ancient master once said that the Buddha is nothing but a dead wooden stake.”
As they talked and walked, Li Hongwen saw Zhuang look into a row of sutra halls and bedrooms. “Are those rooms for the nuns? Do they sleep alone or in pairs?”
“Why do you care how they sleep? Go check in at the reception desk,” Meng said.
Li Hongwen turned to Zhuang and said, “The nuns do sleep together. So, do you think there are lesbians among them?”
Zhuang didn’t reply. A nun walked by, dressed in a long gray robe, looking graceful. Li stuck his tongue out and exclaimed how pretty she looked with her head shaved.
“You’ll probably shriek in admiration when you see the abbess later,” Zhuang said.
A crowd had gathered at the registration area when they arrived; an old nun was sitting behind a desk covered with writing brushes, ink, and a book with rice paper pages. Meng introduced Zhuang to her, eliciting cries of surprise from her and several nearby monks. Huiming came out through a small round door, which drew a gasp from Li Hongwen, as predicted by Zhuang, who reached out to shake her hand; she responded with a Buddhist greeting and invited them inside. It was a small, clean compound, with two rooms to the north; she led them into one. They were served tea.
“We are honored by your visit,” she said to Zhuang. “I was worried you might not accept my invitation.”
“How could I stay away from something this important? Congratulations.”
“Why don’t you go meet the provincial and municipal leaders?”
Before Zhuang could ask who they were, she took him into a suite with a circle of black straight-backed chairs with apricot-yellow cushions. Cigarettes and used teacups were strewn across the top of a black lacquered tea table inlaid with strips of patterned Lantian jade that sat in the middle of the room.
“Let me make the introduction, honored leaders. This is the celebrated writer Zhuang Zhidie.”
“We all know who he is,” they said, reaching out to shake Zhuang’s hand. He knew some of them — the chair of the Provincial Ethnic Affairs Commission, the head of the Bureau of Civil Affairs, Huang Defu, and the secretary-general of the Municipal Party Committee. After shaking hands, Zhuang walked up to Huang Defu.
“Is the mayor coming?” he asked.
“He had an important meeting and sent me as his representative.”
“I saw his license plate and thought he must be here. Getting all of you here is quite a coup.”