Lao Jiang continued reading:
“‘Above were representations of all the heavenly bodies; below, the features of the earth. Whale oil was used for lamps, which were calculated to burn for a long time without going out. The Second Emperor said, “Of the women in the harem of the former ruler, it would be unfitting to have those who bore no sons sent elsewhere.” All were accordingly ordered to accompany the dead man, which resulted in the death of many women. After the interment had been completed, someone pointed out that the artisans and craftsmen who had built the tomb knew what was buried there, and if they should leak word of the treasures, it would be a serious affair. Therefore, after the articles had been placed in the tomb, the inner gate was closed off and the outer gate lowered, so that all the artisans and craftsmen were shut in the tomb and were unable to get out. Trees and bushes were planted to give the appearance of a mountain.’ ”
He lifted his eyes from the text and looked at me triumphantly.
“What did I tell you?” he exclaimed. “It's full of treasures!”
“And death traps,” I qualified. “According to that historian, there are any number of crossbows and arrows just waiting to fire automatically as soon as we set foot in the mausoleum—not to mention those mechanical devices we know nothing about, planned specifically for tomb raiders such as ourselves.”
“As always, Elvira, you let negative thoughts carry you away. Don't you remember we have the map from Sai Wu, the foreman? He prepared it for his own son, Sai Shi Gu'er. The answers about to how to pass through the traps unscathed will undoubtedly be in the third piece of the jiance.”
The Old Yin in my Enduring Caldron wouldn't allow me to just blindly trust whatever Lao Jiang said. Unease and agitation—weren't those the terms that defined my temperament according to the I Ching? Well, I couldn't calmly accept Sai Wu's instructions for avoiding the arrows, crossbows, and mechanical devices. No, sir, I could not. In any event, we still didn't have the third piece of the jiance, which reminded me I'd better not waste any more time eating if I didn't want Ming T'ien to slip away on me again.
“Is it the hour of the Monkey yet?” I asked in Chinese, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief and standing up.
The antiquarian smiled. “You're becoming a true daughter of Han, Elvira.”
I smiled back. “I think not, Mr. Jiang. You treat your women too poorly for me to want that. I much prefer being European, but I don't deny that I'm becoming quite fond of your language and culture.”
He seemed offended, but I didn't care. Wasn't he the one who said the world was changing and we had to keep old ideas from strangling new ones? Well, perhaps he should apply his big political ideas to the underprivileged other half of the population in this immense country.
“Yes, it's the hour of the Monkey,” he grumbled.
“Thank you,” I exclaimed, rushing out in search of a new pair of sandals. “Let's go, Biao!”
As Biao and I ran along the cobbled roads, up and down the endless staircases in Wudang, sheltered under our umbrellas, I felt happy. Without realizing it, I had revealed a great truth to Lao Jiang: I really was very fond of Chinese culture, art, and language. I simply could no longer be like the foreigners who live in international concessions, always ensconced in their little Western groups, never mixing with the locals, never learning their language, looking down on them as ignorant and inferior. That long journey through a crumbling nation divided among political parties, imperialists, mafia, and warlords was giving me much food for thought. I would need a good long while to assimilate and make the most of it all.
I was happier still when, in the distance, I saw tiny old Ming T'ien sitting on her cushion on the temple portico. As before, she was smiling as she looked out at the void, contemplating mountains she was unable to behold and an overcast, rainy sky her eyes could not see. Nevertheless, she was obviously happy. She knew that it was us by the sound of our approach.
“Ni hao, Chang Cheng,” she said in that cracked little voice she had used to call me “poor fool” the last time. It was clear just how quickly news traveled through the monastery given that she now called me by my new nickname, “Great Wall.”
“Ni hao, Ming T'ien,” I replied. “How are you today?”
“Well, my bones were aching a little this morning but feel much better after my tai chi. Thank you for asking.”
Of course her bones ached! She was so hunched over, so bent and twisted with age, what was most surprising was that she could do tai chi at all.
“Do you remember getting angry at me the other day because I was so ignorant I didn't even know that happiness is the most important thing in life?”
“Certainly.”
“Is happiness the most important thing for a Taoist from Wudang?”
“It is.”
“Then what would be most important for a Taoist from Wudang after happiness?”
Ming T'ien,38 living up to her name, beamed at the question. Perhaps she'd never had disciples and was thrilled by the very idea, or perhaps she'd had many and longed for those days. In any event, her wrinkled little face couldn't smile any wider.
“Imagine you're truly happy right now,” she replied. “Feel it deep inside. You are so happy, Chang Cheng, that what you wish for most would be …”
What I wish for most? What would I want most if I were happy? I shook my head sadly. What did it mean to be happy? I couldn't just conjure up a feeling I'd never experienced. There had been joyful, passionate, fun, exciting, euphoric times in my life—all of which could be considered happy, but I had no idea exactly what happiness was. Just as sadness and pain lasted only long enough for me to recognize and be able to define them, happiness was so ephemeral it was untraceable. I could imagine something similar if I combined feelings (joy and passion, for example), but this was only a temporary solution. Still, if I were very, very happy, most likely I'd want that feeling to last as long as possible, given that the main characteristic of happiness was precisely its fleeting nature.
“See, you've answered the question yourself,” Ming T'ien replied once I'd summarized my deliberations. “When you're happy, you yearn for longevity, because a long life allows you to enjoy the happiness you've attained for a longer period of time. I'm a hundred and twelve, and I've been happy ever since I started on the path of Tao over a hundred years ago.”
For the love of God! What on earth was the woman saying? For a moment I almost lost all respect for her.
“You likely think about death quite a lot,” she added.
“Why do you say that?” I replied defiantly, barely keeping my frustration under control.
She let out a childish little laugh that I found exasperating. I studiously avoided looking at Biao, because I didn't want him to think this was any of his business.
“Leave me be now,” Ming T'ien then ordered. “I'm tired of all this talking.”
This abrupt end to conversations seemed to be customary. Since we Westerners were so ceremonious about saying a polite good-bye, it seemed I would need to get used to the jars of cold water they dumped on you from the temples, palaces, and caves of Wudang. It wasn't worth taking personally. I puffed a little wind back into my sails and stood up to leave.
“May I come back to visit you again?” I asked.
“You'll have to come at least once more, won't you?” she replied, closing her milky eyes and assuming the same pose of silence and impenetrable concentration as Master Tzau, seeming to indicate she was no longer there.
I was dumbfounded. Did Ming T'ien know why I was visiting her, why I was asking her those questions about the objectives of Taoists from Wudang? So why didn't she just give me the whole answer? Why was Ming T'ien so determined to give me just one ideogram with each conversation? It was unnecessarily prolonging our stay in Wudang, although leaving would be a little risky in this rain. Risky yes, but not impossible, so rationing the information was just wasting our time. I had to tell Lao Jiang.
When I did tell the antiqu
arian as we sat in the study, he didn't seem terribly interested. He had never put a lot of faith in Ming T'ien. He wanted tangible, irrefutable proof and thus persisted with his ancient Taoist volumes written during the time of the First Emperor—like the one about feng shui that spoke of the harmony between living beings and the energies of the earth. He was unaffected by both my worry and my happiness at having obtained the second ideogram in the abbot's puzzle. He thought it was a logical conclusion and agreed we might have solved half the problem: first happiness, then longevity. However, nothing he'd read thus far corroborated the accuracy of our suppositions, and he was therefore still skeptical.
“Doesn't it seem more logical,” I asked him, “to read books written by monks who lived in this monastery and who might at some point mention the objectives of their lives?”
“You think I'm using the wrong criteria, is that it?”
“No, Lao Jiang, I simply think you should expand your criteria. You must have your reasons to read about feng shui, I have no doubt of that. I just doubt you'll find what we're looking for there.”
“Do you want to know why I'm studying it?” he replied sardonically. “You see, the First Emperor believed in K'an-yu as much as any selfrespecting Chinese person. All sons of Han, especially those of us who are Taoists, believe we must live in harmony with our environment and the energies of the universe. We're convinced that things will go either well or poorly depending on where we build our houses or place our tombs. Health, longevity, peace, and happiness depend in good measure on our relationship with the energies where we choose to live and those that circulate through our houses, our businesses, or our tombs. You see, even the dead need to be buried somewhere with beneficial energy so their existence in the great beyond can be placid and happy. How do you think all the temples and palaces in Wudang were built? Ancient master geomancers studied the mountain in minute detail to find the very best locations.”
Now I understood! Feng shui was the reason all the buildings in China seemed so exquisitely harmonious. The incredible thing was that there was a thousand-year-old science dedicated just to this. The Celestials were very odd indeed, but these peculiarities had brought them close to beauty in a way that was unknown to us in the West. Could this also be the reason their furniture was placed symmetrically in every room?
“However, there is yet another reason to study these old feng shui books,” Lao Jiang continued. “The First Emperor had a veritable army of master geomancers working for him. According to Sima Qian,” he said, placing his hand on the tome he'd read out loud from that afternoon, “every one of his palaces—and there were many—was built according to the laws of feng shui. Obviously his tomb was as well. Since the characteristics of correct placement are easily recognizable at first glance, I thought we should be clear on certain notions about feng shui for when the time comes to find Mount Li and the mausoleum.”
“But that will all be in the third piece of the jiance.”
“And what if we don't get it?” he rejoined. “We could make a mistake with the ideograms. Hadn't you thought of that? You put such faith in that old woman, Ming T'ien, that the very idea of failing hasn't even crossed your mind.” He pulled the hem of his tunic into a pleat above his knees. “In any event, I will do as you suggest. The servant who brings me the books should be here soon. I'll ask him to take all these volumes on feng shui and bring me works written by Wudang monks.”
Biao and I had some time before dinner, so I asked him to pose and quickly sketched a portrait of him that he adored. It didn't turn out as well as I would have liked, partly because the light was terrible but mostly because the boy wouldn't stop fidgeting, scratching his head or his ears, coming over to look, and asking me questions.
“I'd like to learn how to draw, tai-tai,” he commented, turning his head toward the door where the light came in.
“You'll have to study hard,” I warned as I let my wrist sweep to draw the part in his hair. “Tell Father Castrillo when we get back to Shanghai.”
He looked at me worriedly.
“But … I don't ever want to go back to the orphanage!”
“What nonsense is this?”
“I don't like the orphanage,” he grumbled. “Besides, I'm Chinese and should be learning about my own country, not about the yang-kwei.”
“I don't like you using that expression, Biao,” I protested. Lao Jiang's nationalist pride appeared to be bearing fruit. “I don't think Fernanda or I deserve to be called ‘foreign devils.’ We've never offended you in any way as far as I recall.”
He blushed. “I wasn't talking about you, tai-tai. I was talking about the Augustines at the orphanage.”
I changed the subject and kept drawing.
“By the way, Biao, what happened to your family? I've never asked you about them.”
Biao's face contorted strangely and he began to nervously chew on his lower lip.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “You don't have to tell me anything.”
His lanky body seemed to want to fold in on itself until it disappeared.
“My grandmother died when I was eight,” he began to explain, staring straight at the door. “I was born in Chengdu, in the province of Szechwan. My parents and siblings were killed during the riots of 1911, when Dr. Sun Yat-sen overthrew the emperor. The neighbors took our lands and threw my grandmother out. She managed to save me by hiding me in a basket of clothing and boarding a sampan to Shanghai at night. We lived in Pudong. My grandmother begged, and as soon as I learned to walk, I …”
He paused for a moment, unsure. I couldn't imagine what he'd say next, and my hand hovered in the air, pencil in hand, above my sketchbook.
“Well, like all children in Pudong, as soon as I learned to walk … well, I had to work for the Green Gang, for Pockmarked Huang,” he murmured. “I was one of his messengers until Father Castrillo found me.”
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. In fact, I was speechless. What sort of life had the boy lived?
“We'd wait in the alley behind the teahouse39 where Huang did business,” he went on. “He'd call us when he needed something picked up or delivered. He paid well, and it was fun. But my grandmother died, and one day, when I was ten, I ran into this huge foreigner who asked me where I lived and if I was alone. When I told him, he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me across Shanghai to the orphanage run by the Spanish Augustines. It was Father Castrillo.”
Images of Biao jumping like a monkey over the Green Gang assassins in Yuyuan Gardens flashed through my mind, as if this memory might somehow be important to the boy's history. Poor Little Tiger, I thought. What a difficult life.
“Don't be ashamed of having worked for the Green Gang,” I said with a smile. “We've all done things that hurt to remember, but it's best to just carry on and not make the same mistakes again.”
“Are you going to tell Lao Jiang?” he asked worriedly. “No, I won't tell anyone anything.”
The servants arrived with dinner not long after I had finished sketching Little Tiger's big eyes. The poor boy hadn't said another word while he posed but got quite excited when I showed him the drawing. That was when I realized that my niece wasn't back yet and that not only was it dinnertime, but it was pitch black outside. I gave Biao the drawing, which he accepted with a smile and put away, and sent him to find Fernanda. If we were going to stay in Wudang, I'd have to speak with her teachers about sending her home at a decent hour. It was obvious she didn't know when it was time to stop her marvelous exercises.
The two came back drenched, and Fernanda was covered in mud up to her ears. Who would've guessed two months ago that my prim, proper, snobbish niece would become a splendid, athletic young woman who wasn't afraid of a little dirt? The change in Fernanda was spectacular, and for the sheer fun of it, I so wished my mother and poor sister could have seen her right then.
That night turned out to be rather strange. Something woke me in the wee hours, and I couldn't determine what it was until I was fully awake
: It had stopped raining. Total silence enveloped the house, as if nature had exhausted itself and sunk into a peaceful slumber. Since I didn't think I'd be able to fall back asleep, I got up quietly so as not to bother Fernanda, wrapped myself in a blanket, and went out to the patio to sit and look up at the sky for a while. Much to my surprise, I saw Biao coming out of Lao Jiang's study, carrying a lantern and walking sleepily toward the stairs.
“Where are you going, Biao?” I whispered.
The boy jumped and looked wide-eyed in every direction.
“Down here,” I said.
“Tai-tai?” he asked fearfully.
“Of course! Who else? What are you doing up at this time of night?”
“Lao Jiang asked me to wake you. He wants to see you upstairs.”
“Now?” I asked, perplexed. It must have been two or three in the morning. The only possible explanation was that the antiquarian had found something important in his texts.
Little Tiger waited for me at the top of the staircase, holding the light high so I could splash my way up the wet stairs in my sandals. He then lit the way to the study. I peered in cautiously to see what the antiquarian was doing and saw him in the candlelight, absorbed in whatever he was reading. He didn't even notice when I came into the room and stood behind him. It was only when I pulled the blanket tighter around my frozen shoulders that he lifted his head and turned around, startled.
“Elvira! That was quick! I'm glad you got here so fast.”
“I'd already been woken up by the silence. Why haven't you gone to bed?”
He didn't reply. There was a look of contained excitement on his face.
“Let me read you this,” he said, gesturing for me to sit down.
“You've found something important?”
“I've found the answer,” he burst out with a nervous laugh, pulling one of the many candles on the table closer to the book in front of him. Biao brought a stool and set it next to Lao Jiang, then withdrew into a corner of the room. I sat down, my stomach in knots. “This book is a bibliographic gem that would be worth a mint on the market. It's called The True Secrets of the Kingdom of Pure Enlightenment, and it was written by a Master Hsien during the reign of the fourth Ming emperor in the mid–fourteenth century.”