Sighing and cursing under her breath, Madam Plum Blossom swabs and dabs ointment on my wounds and orders a few days of bed rest. But I won’t hide in my room as though I am ashamed. I surrendered my body to Eunuch Talent in exchange for his services as a messenger. I am not a victim here.
I stand before the polished oval of brass, open a jar of dove’s droppings and rub the snowy-white powder on my cuts and bruises. I change into a sapphire gown and arrange silk scarves over the purple throttle marks on my neck. I colour my blood-drained cheeks and lips with rouge paint, bind my chignon with bright ribbons and go down to the parlour that very evening. I am a whirl of merrymaking, witty banter and joie de vivre. The gentlemen callers, in high spirits, raise their goblets of ale: ‘To Night Coming,’ they say, clinking in toast. ‘Gay as a canary, she tickles the very soul!’
I stand at the head of the table and, eloquent and silver-tongued, compliment every gentleman in turn. I am aching, my body hot and shivery as though infected by the Eunuch Talent’s bites. But my joy and jubilation are genuine. My father is coming to see me. You are on your way.
X
Three quarters of a year go by and you do not come. Many moons wax and wane in the night sky over Chang’an and, convinced you have rejected me, I sink into hopelessness and despair. Evenings in the parlour of the Hummingbird Inn, I drown my sorrows in plum wine, and drunkenly slur morality tales of fathers abandoning daughters and meeting ruinous ends.
‘Is that a jug of vinegar she is drinking instead of ale?’ the gentlemen callers ask Madam Plum Blossom. ‘Have you been feeding her nettles and wasps? What happened to the charming and clever Night Coming we used to know?’
In the morning, when I am moaning and groaning and cradling my throbbing head, Madam Plum Blossom scolds me. Hand on hip, standing in my doorway, she says, ‘What has become of you, Night Coming? Why do you insult the gentlemen callers and drink till you can’t stand? Soon you will be unfit to work in even a notoriously lowly brothel such as ours!’
My head hurts so much I can’t look up at her. Go away, I think. Then, in a gentler tone, Madam Plum Blossom says, ‘Didn’t I warn you never to trust a man, Night Coming? Not even those teapots without a spout. Forget that Eunuch Whatsisname from the palace. You have no need of him. We here at the Hummingbird Inn are all the family you need. .’
Wincing at the stabbing pain behind my eyes, I glare up at her. ‘You common whores aren’t my blood kin! I have imperial connections. I am but one degree of separation from the Emperor Taizong!’
‘Well!’ Madam Plum Blossom sniffs. ‘Who’s been shooting vinegar up your Peony Pavilion? Ain’t no shame in being a whore. We here at the Hummingbird Inn are proud of what we are! And we may not be your blood kin, Night Coming, but we love you far better than him. .’ Madam Plum Blossom turns and leaves, and I hear the wooden stairs creaking as she goes down. Meddling old hag, I think.
And I bury my head in my hands and cry.
Then, one midwinter day, hope returns. I am gazing out of my window at the mesmerizing swirl of snowflakes in the sky when a magnificent palanquin appears in Old Temple Lane. The palanquin is borne on the shoulders of eight men, proceeding slowly over the cobbles, and a scaly dragon, sinuous and fierce, roars on the side. The insignia of imperial affairs. The bearers lower the carriage at the gates of the Hummingbird Inn. A pale hand from within parts the velvet curtains, and my heart misses a beat as I intuit that my fate is about to emerge.
The winter garden is chilly. Snow flutters to the ground. You stand by the stone circular well in robes of deepest purple, the wide-cuffed sleeves hanging to your knees, and the sight of you stalls my breath. Majestic and imposing, you have come a long way since the days of Bitter Root. Beneath the low black turban wound around your head, you are handsome, your eyes darting and quick. Your skin begs comparison to porcelain or milk, but you are nothing like the Eunuch Talent, who was effeminate and slight. You are manly enough to make the palace ladies whisper and regret Eunuch Loyal One can’t be seduced. You are your mother’s son. You have the Sorceress Wu’s hump-backed nose and, beneath your composure, I sense the fighting spirit of the Wu clan, strong and indomitable within.
Fearing you would grow impatient with waiting and leave, I rush down to meet you without changing my cicada-wing lace nightgown or combing my messy hair. I look as though called away from a gentleman caller, and I blush with shame.
‘Night Coming,’ you say, ‘at long last we meet.’
Your speech is as commanding as your presence. How can you be so steady on your feet? How can your heart not be vaulting up in the air? I bow to you, long and deep with respect.
‘Eunuch Loyal One,’ I say, ‘I am honoured that you have come to meet me.’
You smile and wrinkles spread out from the edges of your eyes. You are not yet thirty but, like most neuters who lack the yang essence, are beset by premature ageing. ‘How are the Sorceress Wu and Brother Coming? How do the Runts fare these days?’
‘They fare well, Eunuch Loyal One.’
Then I tell you how the sorceress sold me to the Huangs of Goatherd Valley to be slaughtered as a Spirit Bride. You shake your head with a weary sigh. ‘The wickedness of the Sorceress Wu never ceases to appal.’
I nod, and loath to waste more time on the atrocious Wu clan say, ‘Eunuch Loyal One, did you read the letters I sent?’
Snow whirls into the courtyard, settling on the bare branches of the cherry tree. You blink as a snowflake catches in your eyelashes. ‘Forgive me, Night Coming,’ you say. ‘As head of the Department of Housekeeping, I have many duties and responsibilities. I have not had time to read your letters.’
I recall the hours spent composing the letters with the old sage in the calligraphy shop, and I lower my eyes, bewildered and hurt. You clear your throat. ‘Allow me to speak frankly, Night Coming,’ you say. ‘I won’t insult your intelligence with less than the truth. I have no paternal feelings for you. Fatherhood is the fate of other men. To be a eunuch and serve the Emperor is mine.’
You speak as though there is truth and integrity in what you say. But you are denying paternity of me. Where’s the truth in that?
‘Fatherhood is your fate!’ I protest. ‘You are my father. I am your daughter. How can you deny the fact of me?’
Disagreement shows in your eyes, but you are calm. ‘You misunderstand me, Night Coming. Of course I accept that we are related. But I can’t be your father. I will never love you as a father loves a daughter. I have neither the time nor inclination. My life is devoted to serving our Son of Heaven, the Emperor Taizong.’
Your dark eyes shining with emperor-worship, you tell me how honoured you are to serve His Majesty. You tell me how His wisdom and judiciousness make Him the greatest emperor the Celestial Kingdom has ever known. You tell me how proud you are that He who loathes sycophants and flatterers has chosen you as His confidant. Your love of the Emperor crowds your heart. Crowding out your only child.
‘I admire you, Night Coming,’ you say, ‘for coming to Chang’an with nothing more than your quick wits and tale-spinning skills and becoming a renowned courtesan. But the Imperial Palace and the Gay Quarters are two worlds that ought not to collide. .’
You summon forth a manservant, lurking in the gateway, carrying a wooden chest. The chest is lowered on the stone table and the lid unlocked with a key. Under the lid are rows of silver coins. A fortune. Enough to feed, clothe and shelter me for the rest of my life.
‘One thousand tael,’ you say. ‘My gift to you.’