The Grand Empress ignored the Monkey King and talked to the White Fox effusively. “I love your voice.” She produced a bag of taels and placed it in his hands. “It makes me drunk with happiness.” She held his hand and wouldn’t let go. “A true songbird. My songbird!” She stared at the actor with the eyes of a young lover, murmuring, “Beautiful boy! Lovely creature!”
The actor was only average-looking, in my opinion, although I greatly admired his singing and dancing. His White Fox possessed the essence of feminine beauty. I had never seen a man playing a woman so poetically. It was amazing what art could do, for the Grand Empress was known as a eunuch-hater.
The Grand Empress turned to us. “How did you enjoy the opera?”
We got the hint: it was time to offer our share. The Imperial wives and concubines, myself included, reached into the small string bags we all carried.
The actors kowtowed and retreated.
Her Majesty rose from her seat, and we understood that it was time to depart.
We got down on our knees and said, “Until next time, we wish you a peaceful season!”
Our mother-in-law marched out without a nod.
“The Imperial palanquins walking!” Chief Eunuch Shim called, and the bearers came with our chairs.
We bowed to Nuharoo and then to each other in silence.
The curtain of my palanquin was put down. I fought hard with my bitterness and was ashamed of my weakness. It did no good when I told myself that it had been my choice to enter the Forbidden City, and that I had no right to complain or feel miserable.
An-te-hai’s image appeared in the mirror as I was taking off my makeup. He asked if I needed my dresser to help me undress. Before I could reply, he said that he could assist me if I didn’t mind.
I let him.
An-te-hai picked up a comb and carefully began to loosen the ornaments in my hair.
“My lady, would you care to go to the east garden tomorrow?” he asked. “I have discovered some interesting plants …”
I stopped him because I could feel my anger looking for an outlet.
An-te-hai closed his mouth. His fingers worked steadily through my hair. He pulled out a jade flower and then took off my diamond necklace. He set the pieces on the dressing table one after another.
Unable to bear my feelings, I started to weep.
“The knowing mind is powerful enough to rescue one from disaster,” An-te-hai said quietly as if to himself.
The dam inside me broke and the angry water surged. “But for me, knowing is hurting.”
“Hurting is the beginning of healing, my lady.”
“Go ahead and deepen my wound, An-te-hai. The truth is that I have failed utterly.”
“No lady in this place can make things happen without paying a price.”
“Nuharoo did, and so did Lady Yun!”
“But it is not the whole truth, my lady. Your perspective needs adjusting.”
“What perspective are you talking about? My life has been uprooted by a tornado, I have been thrown into the air, and now I’m crashing. What can I do but give up?”
An-te-hai stared at me in the mirror. “Nothing, my lady, nothing is more terrible than giving up.”
“How will I go on, then?”
“By studying the way the tornado runs its course.” He picked up a brush and resumed combing my hair.
“What course?”
“A tornado is at its strongest around the edges.” The eunuch held up my hair with one hand and brushed it in a quick motion with the other. “The wind has the strength to lift cows and carriages and fling them back to earth. But the center of the tornado is quiet …” He stopped, and his eyes traced the length of my hair. “Beautiful hair, my lady. It is silky black, which promises strong health. This is hope in its most basic sense.”
“What about the tornado?”
“Oh, the tornado, yes, the quiet center. It is relatively still. This is where you should be, my lady. You must avoid certain paths where you know opportunities are few, and concentrate on creating new paths where no one has walked and where thorns are seemingly thick.”
“You have been thinking well, An-te-hai,” I said.
“Thank you, my lady. I have thought of a way for you to create a real-life opera, with yourself as the leading lady.”
“Let me hear it, An-te-hai.”
Like an advisor offering his strategy to a general, An-te-hai revealed his plan. It was simple but seemed promising. I would perform an Imperial ceremony of sacrifice—a duty that belonged to Emperor Hsien Feng.
“I think you should go and perform in His Majesty’s name, my lady,” An-te-hai said, closing my ornament boxes. He sat down and faced me. “The sacrifice will add to His Majesty’s piety and serve him well in Heaven.”
“Are you sure that this is what His Majesty desires?”
“Positive,” the eunuch replied. “Not only His Majesty but also the Grand Empress.”
An-te-hai explained that the dates on which the Imperial ancestors had to be honored were numerous and the royal family was behind schedule. “His Majesty rarely has the energy to attend the ceremonies.”
“Have the Grand Empress and the other concubines done so?”
“They have, but they have no interest in doing it every year. Emperor Hsien Feng is afraid of upsetting his ancestors, so he has asked Chief Shim to send Nuharoo and Lady Yun. But they have refused his request with excuses of poor health.”
“Why didn’t Chief Shim send me?”
“Well, he doesn’t want to give you any opportunity to please His Majesty.”
“I have tried my best to please him!”
“Well, it is your right to perform the ceremony for your husband.”
“Prepare my palanquin first thing tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Wait, An-te-hai. How will the Emperor learn of my act?”
“The eunuch in charge of the temple will take down your name. It is his duty to inform His Majesty every time someone pays respect to his ancestors on his behalf.”
I had no knowledge of how to honor the Imperial ancestors. According to An-te-hai, all I had to do was to throw myself on the ground and bow toward various portraits and stone statues. It didn’t sound challenging.
Next dawn I rode in the palanquin with An-te-hai walking beside me. We went through the Lodge of Fresh Fragrance and then the Gate of Spiritual Valor. Within an hour, we arrived at the Temple of Eternal Peace. In front of me was a spacious building with hundreds of birds nesting under its eaves.
I was received by a young monk who was also a eunuch. He was red-cheeked and had a mole between his eyebrows. An-te-hai announced my name and title, and the monk brought out a large record book. He took up a brush pen, dipped it in ink and wrote my name in block style in the book.
I was guided into the temple. After we passed a few arched doorways the monk said that he had some business to take care of and disappeared behind a row of columns. An-te-hai followed him.
I looked around. The giant hall, several stories high, was filled with gold-colored statues. Everything was painted in shades of gold. There were temples inside the temple. The small temples matched the design of the main one.
A senior monk appeared from a side arch. He had a snow-white beard that nearly reached his knees. Without speaking, he gave me a bottle filled with incense sticks. I followed him to a series of altars.
I lit the incense, got down on my knees and bowed to the various statues. I had no idea which ancestor I was worshiping. Moving through the temple, I repeated the act over and over. After paying homage to a dozen ancestors, I was tired. The monk sat in the corner with his eyes closed. He chanted with one hand tapping his chanting instrument, a mooyu, or wooden fish. His other hand fumbled with a string of prayer beads. His toneless chant reminded me of the professional mourner we had hired in the village for funerals.
It was very warm in the temple. Since no one was watching, I allowed my bows to become
less deep. Gradually the bows were replaced by nods. My eyes made sure that the monk didn’t discover my mischief. I kept looking at him until the sound of his mooyu faded into silence. He must have fallen asleep. I wiped off my sweat but remained in the bowing position just in case. My eyes traveled from corner to corner. The temple was filled with gods of all kinds. Besides the official Manchu god, which was called Shaman, there were Taoist gods, Buddhist gods and Kuan Kong, a Chinese folk god.
“There was a prince who during his worship discovered that the Chinese god’s clay horse had been sweating.” The monk suddenly spoke as if he had been watching me all along. “The prince concluded that the god must be working hard riding his horse, patrolling the palaces. From then on Kuan Kong became a key figure for worshipers in the Forbidden City.”
“Why does each god sit in his own booth?” I asked.
“Because they deserve attention for who they are,” the monk replied. “For example, the venerable Tsongkapa was the founding father of Yellow Sect Buddhism. He is the one who sits on a golden chair against that wall with a hundred small copies of himself. Beneath his feet is a Buddhist sutra in Manchu.”
My eyes went to the deep end of the hall where a large vertical silk painting was on display. It was a portrait of Emperor Chien Lung in a Buddhist robe. I asked the monk if Chien Lung, my grandfather-in-law, had been a believer. The monk informed me that not only was he a devoted Buddhist, he was also an adept in the Mee Tsung religion, which originally was a branch of Buddhism. “His Majesty spoke Tibetan and read sutras in the Tibetan language as well,” the monk said, and went back to tapping his mooyu.
I was exhausted. Now I understood why the other concubines wouldn’t come.
The monk rose from his chanting mat and said that it was time to move on. I followed him to an altar in an open court. He led me to kneel in front of a block of marble and started chanting again.
It was noon and the sun beat directly on my back. I prayed for the ceremony to be over.
According to An-te-hai, this should have been the last act. The monk was beside me on his knees, and his beard was touching the ground. After three deep bows he got up. He opened a manuscript of recorded deeds and began to read, in Mandarin, the names of ancestors followed by descriptions of their lives. The descriptions were almost uniform, all praise and no criticism. Words like “virtue” and “honor” were in every paragraph. The monk told me to knock my forehead on the ground five times for every new name. I followed his instructions.
The names on the monk’s list seemed endless and my forehead was becoming raw. The strength to continue came only from my understanding that the end was near.
But I was wrong.
The monk continued his reading. My nose was a few inches from his feet, and I could see their calluses. My forehead must be bleeding by now, I thought. I bit my lip. Finally he was done with his list, but then he said that I had to repeat the same ceremony in the Manchu language.
I prayed that An-te-hai would rescue me. Where was he?
The monk had begun in Manchu. He droned on, and I could understand nothing except for the names of the emperors. Unconsciousness was about to claim me when I saw An-te-hai. He rushed toward me and helped me rise.
“I am sorry, my lady. I didn’t know that this monk would keep reading until his victim passed out. I thought my brothers were joking when they told me about him.”
“May we leave now?” I asked.
“I am afraid not, my lady. Your good deed will not be recorded unless it is completed properly.”
“I shall not survive this!”
“Don’t worry,” An-te-hai whispered. “I have just offered a handsome bribe. He assured me that the rest of the ceremony will take little time.”
Stone gods lined the edge of the site, an open space with one wall to the west. A fifty-foot flagpole stood to the southeast. On top of the pole was a bird feeder. Birds were said to deliver the Emperor’s messages to the spirits. There was a strange object hanging on the wall. As I walked closer I was able to tell that it was a dust-colored cotton bag.
“The bag belonged to the dynasty’s founding father, King Nurhachi,” the senior monk explained. “Inside are the bones of the king’s father and grandfather. Nurhachi carried them back to the tribe to be buried after the two men were slaughtered by the enemy.”
The monk clapped his hands. Two women whose faces were caked with mud appeared. “The witches of the Shaman tribes,” the monk introduced. The women’s robes were thick with patterns of black spiders. Their hats were covered in fish scales made of copper. Dangling over their heads, ears and necks were beads made from fruit pits. Bells were tied to their limbs. Drums of different sizes hung from their necks and waists. They each had a three-foot-long brown “tail” made of braided leather strips hanging from their behinds. As they started to dance they encircled me. Their mouths smelled of garlic. They sang by imitating animal sounds.
I had never seen such a disturbing dance. The women were in a squatting position most of the time. The “tails” looked more like stringy excrement.
“Don’t you move!” the monk called when he saw that I was attempting to stretch my legs.
The dancers sprang away and went to encircle the flagpole. They spun around like headless chickens with their arms waving at the sky. They shouted, “Pig! Pig!”
A trussed pig was carried over by four eunuchs. The animal wailed. The dancers hopped back and forth across its body. The pig was carried away. A golden plate was brought over with a flopping fish on it. The monk told me that the fish had been caught from the nearest pond. The young monk returned and skillfully trussed the fish with a red ribbon.
“On your heels!” The senior monk dragged me up and grabbed my right hand. Before I realized what was going on, a knife was put in my hand and I was forced to slice open the fish.
An-te-hai and the young monk supported me with their knees and arms so I wouldn’t collapse.
A blanched pig’s head was carried in on a large tray. The senior monk told me that it was the wailing pig I had seen a moment ago. “Only a freshly slaughtered and boiled pig will guarantee the magic.”
I shut my eyes and took deep breaths. Someone gripped my left hand and tried to loosen my stiff fingers. I opened my eyes and saw the dancers, who offered me a golden bowl.
“Hold it!” the senior monk commanded.
I was too weak to protest.
A rooster was brought before me. Once again I was handed a knife. The knife kept slipping through my fingers. The monk took the bowl into his own hands and told me to grab the rooster. “Cut its throat and pour its blood into the bowl!”
“I … can’t …” I felt that I was about to faint.
“Steady, my lady,” An-te-hai said. “It is the end!”
The last thing I remembered was that I poured wine upon the cobblestones where the fish, the pig’s head and the rooster lay in their blood.
On my way back in the palanquin I threw up. An-te-hai told me that every day a pig was brought through the Gate of Thunder and Storm and was sacrificed by noon. The headless pigs were supposed to be discarded after the ceremony, but they were not. The eunuchs of the temple hid them, chopped them up and sold them for a good price. “For over two hundred years, the broth in the giant wok that the pigs were boiled in has never been changed,” An-te-hai told me. “The fire in the stove has never been allowed to die. The eunuchs hawked the pig meat: ‘This is no ordinary meat. It has been dipped in the heavenly soup! It will bring you and your family luck and great fortune!’”
Nothing changed after my visit to the temple. By the end of autumn my hope to gain Emperor Hsien Feng’s attention was completely crushed. All night long I listened to crickets singing. The crickets in the Imperial backyard did not sound the same as the ones in Wuhu. Wuhu crickets carried short tunes, with three beats between each interval. The Imperial crickets sang without rest.
An-te-hai told me that the senior concubines who lived in the Palace of Ben
evolent Tranquility raised the crickets. When the weather was warm the crickets began to sing right after dark. Thousands of crickets lived in yoo-hoo-loos, bottle-shaped gourds made by the concubines.
The storm season started early this year, and the flowers were beaten. White petals covered the ground, and their fragrance was so strong that it filled my room. The roots of my peonies were soaked by the daylong rains and began to rot. Bushes were sick with brownish spots. Puddles were everywhere. I quit walking outside after An-te-hai stepped on a water scorpion. His heel swelled to the size of an onion.
Every day I went about the same routine. I put on makeup and dressed in the morning and took it all off in the evening. I waited for His Majesty and did nothing else. The sound of the crickets got sadder and sadder in my ears. I tried not to think of my family.
An-te-hai went to the Palace of Benevolent Tranquility and came back with a basketful of beautifully carved yoo-hoo-loos. He wanted to show me how to grow and carve the gourds. He promised that it would help lift my loneliness, as it had for many other concubines. The gourd, he pointed out, was an auspicious symbol, implying a wish for “numerous descendants.”
“Here are the seeds from last year.” An-te-hai offered me a handful, which looked like black sesame seeds. “You plant them in the spring. After they blossom, the gourds will begin to form. You can design a cage that will force the gourd to grow into a desired shape—round, rectangular, square or asymmetric. When it is ripe, the shell will turn hard. You then pick the gourd off the vine, empty out the seeds and carve it into a piece of art.”
I studied the gourds An-te-hai had brought. The designs and colors were intricate and rich. A spring motif was used over and over. I was especially moved by one piece showing babies playing in a tree.
• • •
After dinner An-te-hai took me to visit the Palace of Benevolent Tranquility. We each carried gourds. Instead of calling for the palanquin I walked. We crossed several courtyards. As we approached the palace, there was a strong smell of incense. We entered clouds of smoke. I heard mourning sounds and figured that it might be monks chanting.