"I'll speak for myself, then. As His Majesty's mother, have you asked your son about what is wrong with him?"
"I wouldn't come to you for help if I could talk to him myself."
"There must be a reason he abandoned the Forbidden City for a whorehouse."
"You are angry, Alute. You really think it is my fault?"
"Yes, I do."
"Facts, Alute."
The girl bit her lip, then said, "Emperor Tung Chih was fine with me until you told him to go to Foo-cha. You couldn't bear the idea that he would have a child with me and not with Foo-cha. That was how Tung Chih got sick of all of us, because he was sick of you!"
Alute may have had a point, but I rejected it because of her rudeness. "Alute, how dare you! You have no right to disrespect me."
"But the child in my belly does!"
I was dumbfounded. I asked Alute to repeat what she had said.
"I am pregnant," she announced proudly.
"Oh, Alute!" I was thrilled. "Why didn't you tell me? Congratulations! Rise! Rise! Well, I must go to share this wonderful news with Nuharoo! We are going to have a grandchild!"
"Not yet, Your Majesty." Alute stopped me. "Until Tung Chih returns to me, I am not sure I will have the strength to carry the pregnancy."
"Tung Chih is..." I tried to find words to comfort her. "It hurts when you know that he is with other ladies. Believe me, Alute, I know how that feels."
"I hate what you are saying." Alute began to cry.
"Well," I said, feeling guilty, "be glad that you have Tung Chih's child."
"It's not up to you or me to decide whether the child will come into the world. My body and soul are in so much pain that I can feel it seeking revenge. I am afraid that something unexpected is going to happen."
"It is Heaven's will that you have been given a child, Alute. The dragon seed will survive no matter what."
Without asking permission, Alute walked to the window and stood with her back to me. Outside, the giant oak trees were bare.
"The oak nuts have been dropping everywhere," Alute said, shaking her head. "It's hard to walk without stepping on them. It is a bad omen. What am I going to do? I am not made to bear misery."
"Alute," I said gently, "I am sure nothing is wrong. You are just tired, that's all."
She ignored me, continuing to face the window. Her voice grew thin and distant. "It gets louder. I hear the sound of nuts dropping and cracking on the ground day and night."
I stared at the back of my daughter-in-law. Her silky black hair was elaborately braided and fastened onto a plate. Pink floral hairpins studded with diamonds glinted in the light. Suddenly I understood why she was Tung Chih's first choice: like him, she had her own mind.
It was on a morning in early winter that Doctor Sun Pao-tien broke the news that my son was not going to live.
I trembled in front of the doctor like a young tree in a storm. My mind's eye saw red lanterns floating down from the ceiling.
I tried to understand the doctor, but I couldn't. He was explaining Tung Chih's condition, but it sounded as if he were speaking a foreign language. Then I must have passed out. When I came to, Li Lien-ying was in front of me. He was following the doctor's instructions, pressing his thumb between my nose and the top of my upper lip. I tried to push him away, but I had no strength.
"Tung Chih has been visited by the heavenly flowers," I finally heard him say.
"Tell Doctor Sun Pao-tien"—I drew in my breath and cried—"if there is any mistake, I won't hesitate to punish him!"
After lunch the doctor came again. Getting down on his knees, he began his report. "His Majesty's condition is complicated. I can't be sure which entered his body first, smallpox or venereal disease. At any rate, it's a deadly situation, beyond my power to cure or even control it."
The doctor confessed that it had been a struggle for him to come forward with the truth. His medical team had been accused of bringing His Majesty bad luck. Everyone had been trying to keep Tung Chih's sickness a secret.
I asked the doctor to forgive me and promised that I would control my emotions.
An effort was made to stabilize Tung Chih's condition. In December of 1874, the spots on his body dried out and his fever abated. The palaces celebrated the signs of recovery. But it was premature. A few days later, Tung Chih's fever returned, and it persisted.
I can't recall how I passed my days. My mind was capable of only one thought: to save my son. I refused to believe that Tung Chih would die. Sun Pao-tien suggested that I seek out Western doctors for a second opinion. "They have the tools to take His Majesty's body fluid and blood samples," he whispered, knowing that he was not supposed to make the suggestion. "However, I doubt their diagnosis will be different."
The court rejected my request for Western doctors, fearing that foreigners would take advantage of Tung Chih's condition and see an opportunity to invade.
I lay beside my feverish son. I listened to the sound of his labored breathing. His cheeks burned. In his waking hours he quietly whimpered and moaned.
Tung Chih requested that Nuharoo and I resume the regency. I refused at first, because I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate on court matters. But Tung Chih insisted. When I read his decree to the nation, I realized what my help would mean to him.
The ink handwriting on rice paper was my son's last calligraphy. Of all things, I was saddened by the fact that my grandchild would never see the way his father held the brush pen.
"I beg the two Empresses to have pity on my state and allow me to take care of myself," Tung Chih's edict read. "In looking after the affairs of state for a time, the Empresses will crown their great goodness toward me and I will show them everlasting gratitude."
Every day after an audience, I went to sit with Tung Chih. I spoke with Doctor Sun Pao-tien and Tung Chih's attendants. I examined the growing pustules on my son's skin and wished that they were on my own body. I begged for Heaven's mercy and prayed: "Please do not be too cruel to a mother."
I ordered that no one was to disturb Tung Chih's rest, but the doctor advised that I let my son see anyone he wished. "His Majesty might never have the chance again."
I complied. I sat by my son and made sure no one would exhaust him.
Alute refused to come when Tung Chih sent for her. She said that she would not enter the room unless I wasn't there.
I yielded.
It was two in the morning when my son opened his eyes. Although his cheeks were still hot, he was in good spirits. He asked me to sit by his side. I helped prop him up against the pillows. I begged him to let me feed him a little porridge. He shook his head.
"Let's have some fun together before I die." He managed a bright smile.
I broke down and told him that I didn't know what fun he was talking about. As far as I was concerned, my happiness would end if he died.
Tung Chih held my hand and squeezed it. "I miss the moon," he said. "Would you help me get out to the courtyard?"
I wrapped a blanket over his shoulders and helped him out of bed. Just getting dressed was an effort and he was soon out of breath.
With an arm on my shoulders, he stepped into the courtyard.
"What a beautiful night," he sighed.
"It's too cold, Tung Chih!" I said. "Let's go back in."
"Stay for just a moment, Mother. I am enjoying myself."
With a moonlit background the trees and bushes looked like black paper cutouts.
I looked at my son and wept. The moonlight bleached his face, making him look like a stone sculpture.
"Remember the time when you tried to teach me poetry, Mother? I was hopeless."
"Yes, of course. It was too much for you. It would be too much for any child."
"The truth is that I was not inspired. My teachers said I had to feel it first and then describe it." Tung Chih laughed a weak laugh. "I was writing but wasn't feeling anything. Believe it or not, since my days are numbered, I have been full of inspiration."
; "Stop it, Tung Chih."
"Mother, I have a poem for you, right here." He pointed at his head. "May I recite?"
"I don't want to hear it."
"Mother, you will like it. It is called 'To a Love.'"
"No, I won't listen."
Softly, Tung Chih began:
Parting but to journey back in lingering dreams
Along the winding corridor of filigree and the curving balustrade,
In the courtyard only the spring moon is full of sympathy,
For we who parted shining still upon the fallen flowers.
12
On the morning of January 12, 1875, my son died.
The Hall of Spiritual Nurturing was filled with freshly cut winter plum flowers, their waxy little petals and bare stems standing elegantly in vases. The flowers were Tung Chih's favorite. He had once dreamed of picking them in the snow, something he was never allowed to do. I was in my mourning gown, embroidered with the same winter plum flowers, which I had stayed up stitching late into the night. Tung Chih's face was turned toward the south, and he was arrayed in robes patterned with the symbols of longevity. He was nineteen years old and had been Emperor since 1861. He had ruled for under two years.
I sat by Tung Chih's casket while craftsmen finished the ironwork. Painters leaned over the structure applying their final touches. The casket was covered with carved and painted golden dragons.
I smoothed my child's cold cheeks with my fingers. Etiquette did not allow me to embrace or kiss him. Tung Chih died with a string of fever blisters around his mouth. During his last two weeks the blisters had popped everywhere, rotting his body from the inside. Sores had covered his tongue and gums, so many that he could not swallow. There had not been an uninfected spot left on his skin. Pustules had grown between his fingers and toes, oozing pus. The black medicinal paste applied by Sun Pao-tien had made him look grotesque.
Every day for those last weeks I had cleaned my son, and every day I discovered a new outbreak of pox. The new sprouted on top of the old. His hands and feet looked like ginger roots.
When it became too much to bear, I ran out of the room and my knees hit the ground. I could not pick myself up. Li Lien-ying reminded me that I hadn't been eating.
In the afternoons Li Lien-ying would chase after me with a bowl of chicken soup in his hands. He bobbed and weaved with the bowl held high because I had already kicked several of his bowls.
My hands had developed blisters. I had been doing too much work, cutting up hens, ducks, fish and snakes and offering them at sacrificial altars. I looked up at the sky and cried, "The hungry demons have been well fed. By now they are so full they should leave my son alone!"
Incense smoke made the Forbidden City look like it was on fire. My tears ran like a leaking fountain. Doctor Sun Pao-tien said it would be best if I no longer consulted him. I went to a lama, who advised that I concentrate on Tung Chih's next life. "The eternal robe and coffin would be a proper start." The lama implied that I had not offered the gods my total submission. Instead of helping my son, I was only deepening his trouble.
I thought about taking my own life to accompany my son. As I looked for a way, I realized that I was being followed. Eunuchs and maids hovered about me. Their usual placid expressions were anxious. They whispered behind my back. Whenever I got out of bed late at night, a chorus of coughing would erupt among the eunuchs.
My chef hid the kitchen knives and lye, my ladies in waiting removed all ropes. When I ordered Li Lien-ying to get opium, he brought back Doctor Sun Pao-tien. The Imperial Guards blocked me when I tried to exit the gate of the Forbidden City. When I threatened punishment, they said that Yung Lu had issued an order to keep me from harm.
My son had died in my arms as the sun was rising. The gardenia bushes in the courtyard were victims of a late killing frost, their leaves shriveled and black. Squirrels had stopped jumping from tree to tree. They sat on branches chewing nuts and making loud chattering noises. Feathers dropped from the sky when a flock of wild geese flew by overhead.
I remembered holding Tung Chih and feeling his heartbeat grow weak. I remembered falling asleep in a sitting position, so I didn't know exactly when his heart had stopped beating.
Nuharoo's chief eunuch brought the message that his lady was too grief-stricken to leave her palace.
The court had begun preparations for the memorial ceremony. Messengers were sent so the provincial governors could begin their journey to the capital.
After the doctor and his team withdrew, the Forbidden City became quiet. The sound of footsteps disappeared, as well as the bitter smell of Tung Chih's herbal medicines.
The eunuchs and maids wrapped all the living quarters with white silk cloth. The funeral dresses once worn for my husband were brought out, cleaned and pressed, made ready to be worn for his son.
Tung Chih was removed for the last time from his bed. I helped to change him. His eternal robe was made of golden thread. My boy looked like a sleeping doll with stiff limbs. I washed his face with cotton balls. I didn't like the way the royal makeup artist had done his face, layer upon layer of paint, with a wax coating to seal the makeup. My son looked unrecognizable; his skin had the shine of leather.
Finally I was left alone with Tung Chih. I touched his makeup. I washed off the layers of paint. His skin was once again itself, although scarred with the pox. I bent over and kissed his forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks and lips. I wiped cottonseed oil over his face, starting with his forehead. I tried to keep my hand from trembling by pressing against the arm of my chair. I painted his lips and cheeks with a touch of rouge to make him look the way I remembered him. I left the rest of his features untouched.
Tung Chih had a beautiful full forehead. His eyebrows had just grown into their permanent shape like two fine brushstrokes. When he was a young boy, the color of his eyebrows had been so light it looked as if he had no eyebrows at all. Nuharoo was never satisfied with the makeup Tung Chih usually wore for audiences. Especially his eyebrows. Many times he arrived late at court because Nuharoo insisted on doing his face all over again.
Tung Chih's bright eyes had been the joy of my life. Like mine, they were single-lidded and almond-shaped. In my mother's opinion, his best feature was his straight nose. It went well with his high cheekbones, which were characteristic of a Manchu. His lips were full and sensuous. In death, he was still handsome.
I followed the lama's advice and tried to treat my son's death as a natural event of life. But remorse had begun its tortuous path. My heart was soaked in its own poison.
Tung Chih's coffin was as big as his father's. It would be borne on the shoulders of 160 men. When Li Lien-ying told me that it was time to bid farewell, I stood only to fall back on my knees. Li held my arms and I rose like a hundred-year-old crone. We moved toward the coffin, where I would take a last look at my son.
Li Lien-ying asked if Tung Chih would like to take his favorite old toy, a paper model of Peking, with him. The inner circle of the city would stay with him; the outer city would be left for the paper-burning ceremony, to help send Tung Chih's spirit on its way.
"Yes," I said.
By the coffin, the eunuch asked for my son's forgiveness for having to take the inner city apart so it would fit. "Here is your Ladder Lane," Li Lien-ying said. "As Your Majesty can see, it looks like a ladder going upward onto the slope. Here comes Bag Lane and Grout Lane, the streets that we can enter but not go through. And now, on this side, the Soochow lanes. Your Majesty once asked me if the original streets were built by people from the south. They might not have been from Soochow but from Hangchow. Your Majesty didn't have time to bother with the details and small differences, but now time is on your side."
For a moment my mind flew elsewhere, and Li Lien-ying became An-te-hai. What would An-te-hai say about all this? There had never been a memorial service for him. Few mentioned him after his execution. His wives and concubines divided his fortune and soon forgot him. None mourned him. I secretly hired a stone carve
r who built a tablet for An-te-hai's grave. Because of my status I was never able to visit the site and had no idea what his resting place looked like. It was Tung Chih's misfortune that he never became An-te-hai's friend.
Finishing his packing of the coffin, Li Lien-ying continued to speak to my dead son. "I never had the chance to tell you what 'Horse God's Lane' or 'Horse God's Temple' meant. Your ancestors might ask you such questions, and it is important that you are prepared. The early Manchus were people who lived on horseback. Without the help of their horses, there would have been no conquering China. Manchus adore, admire and respect horses. Temples built in Peking honor legendary horses who died in important battles. Maybe in your next life Your Majesty will have the opportunity to visit the lanes and temples honoring horses."
It was in death that Tung Chih would learn of the city he had lived in. With my eunuch's help I burned the rest of the city, the outer city, for my son's spirit to carry away. The names were copied from the originals: Sweet Water Well Lane, Bitter Water Well Lane, Three-eyed Well Lane, Four-eyed Well Lane, Sheep Mart, Pig Mart, Donkey Mart. The vegetable market stood beside the dynasty's arrow factory, and the military training ground, the Big Fence Place, was filled with paper horses and soldiers.
Also included in the sacrificial burning was the paper shopping area mimicking the Royal Well Lane, Peking's largest, which extended for miles. Li Lien-ying didn't forget the execution site, called the Livestock Market. All this, he believed, would be a necessity for Tung Chih as a ruler in his next life. I ordered that the famous Porcelain Kiln be included, which was the largest bookstore, built in an abandoned kiln. Since my son would have all the time to appreciate the details, we added Dog Tail Lane, Woodchopper's Lane, and Open Curtain Lane.
It was cold and dark when I returned to my palace. Li Lien-ying tried to close the windows, but I stopped him. "Leave them open. Tung Chih's spirit might visit."
The giant pale moon hanging outside above the bare trees brought back memories. I recalled a moment in Jehol when Tung Chih begged me to let him bathe in the hot springs. I refused him because he had a cold. I remembered breathing the fresh air and wishing that I could raise Tung Chih there. We stood among the wild tall bamboo that evening. The leaves danced in the breeze. Thick ivy draped forty or fifty feet down from century-old oaks like Heaven's curtains. The stone-paved ground was bleached by moonlight, as white as it was tonight. The shadowy jasmines on each side of the path looked like frozen ocean waves.