Taming Poison Dragons (22 page)

His face was black as charcoal, his fine silks stained and singed.

‘Where are your wife and children?’ I demanded, as soon as I managed to stir him from his exhausted stupor.

‘At her parents,’ he replied, dully.

‘Thank heaven they survived. What of Uncle Ming?’

Cousin Hong blinked, wiped his eyes.

‘Burnt, badly burnt. I had him carried to his house in the suburbs. Let us hope his girls tend him as they ought.’

‘And Honoured Aunty?’ I demanded. ‘Cousin Zhi? Are they safe?’

‘They have left the city,’ he said, tonelessly. ‘They have gone to a small estate my uncle bought in the country.

They will be safe there.’

‘And Cousin Yi Yi? Has he gone with them?’

Cousin Hong gestured angrily at the rubble.

‘He lies somewhere in there. The fool wouldn’t stop trying to put out the fire in his bedroom.’

‘You should drink some water,’ I said, gently. ‘I will arrange it.’

After he had drunk half a bucket-load, Cousin Hong revived a little.

‘We are ruined,’ he said, simply. ‘All Father’s houses went up. Our income is at an end. We have nothing.

Nothing!’

‘You have your life. And children. And your faithful wife. Besides, there is still Uncle’s house in the suburbs and the small country estate you mentioned.’

Cousin Hong laughed bitterly.

‘One costs a fortune to maintain and the other provides an income of only six thousand
cash
a year.’

‘You and your family must come to live with me,’ I said.

‘There is room.’

Although, of course, there wasn’t.

I never saw Uncle Ming again. He died of his burns and a broken heart two days after the Great Fire. His former concubines stripped the house in the suburbs bare before Cousin Hong could reach it, and he gained small profit from its sale, for Uncle had used it as surety for a debt.

I spent half my month’s salary on a fitting funeral for him, although there was nowhere to keep his ashes, the family shrine having perished with the house. Many notable wine merchants attended the ceremony, for Uncle Ming had gained much respect, in his way. Cousin Hong insisted we store his remains in the single vase he had reclaimed from the fire. I sent a long, mournful letter home to Three-Step-House, recording his auspicious career and brave end. As usual, only a brief reply came. I have no doubt Father grieved deeply to receive such news.

Honoured Aunty remained on her small estate on the borders of the P’si Marshes, and I never saw her face again, except in bad dreams. But Cousin Zhi found a different destiny, one which later became entangled with my own. Using the fact that he had passed the First Examination, he gained a minor post as an administrator of enforced labour on the frontier. This, at least, provided a small salary. Only a dozen moons were to fade before we met again, in circumstances. . . Well, why think of it.

Cousin Hong lived in my house for long months, filling my rooms with anxiety; though his children’s spirits were surprisingly unaffected by the change in family fortunes.

They loved the lake, viewing it as a great adventure. I taught the eldest boy to row and fish, as well as how to write his name, although he was a dull pupil. Cousin Hong and Mi Feng struck up a sudden friendship, of the kind one sometimes finds between men who share similar natures. Even his wife, who I had hitherto viewed as an empty jar (unless full of child), surprised me by her dignity. Sages are not the only springs of wisdom in this world.

I had never forgotten my debt to Cousin Hong.

Although our characters were often opposed, I admired him for remembering how to laugh within a month of the fire. Perhaps no longer striving to hold the family business together brought a strange relief. It has always been the way of my family to relish setting out anew – with much grumbling, of course. Yet having such impoverished relatives cost me several fashionable friends. Only P’ei Ti stayed true, bringing toys and clothes, as gifts for the children.

Winter passed before I realised what must be done.

Indeed I reproached myself for not thinking of it earlier.

That same evening, I insisted on taking Cousin Hong to a restaurant he had favoured in the years of his prosperity.

He looked me over shrewdly, as we tasted our first cup of wine. He sniffed it. Took a sip.

‘What do you make of it?’ I asked.

‘Over-priced,’ he said. ‘Little General, where have you found the money to pay for this?’

‘Do you remember telling me, Cousin, that you always reclaim your debts?’

He shrugged.

‘I never remember a quarter of the things we prattle about.’

‘Well, you did. I, at least, possess a memory. For instance, do you recall that Uncle Ming gave me all the scrolls he kept in the lower room of the octagonal tower?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Why should I?’

‘Because some of those scrolls were very old and valuable. Since working in the Imperial Library, I have learned their worth. More than that, I have sold them and they fetched a good price.’

When I mentioned the sum he almost spilt his wine.

‘You have enough to set up a business of your own,’ I said. ‘The money is entirely yours.’

Thus Cousin Hong bought his first wine shop, and my obligation ceased.

A week after Cousin Hong and his family left my pavilion for his new establishment, I received an unexpected letter, delivered by a gaudily-dressed man specially hired for the purpose. The letter read:

Most Honourable Yun Cai,

Your old friend sends respected greetings. You must
excuse the badness of my characters. I have heard
about the sorrows of your Uncle and his family. I
am very sorry. I hear also that you have used all
your wealth for your cousin’s sake. This has given
you great face among your former neighbours in
the Wine Market. I heard about your deeds through
my former madam, whose house survived the fire,
and she hardly has a good word for anyone! Are
you still angry with me?

Su Lin.

I replied:

Dear Friend,

Your letter arrived on the first day my orchids
opened their petals wide. My house is strangely
silent since my cousin and his children left for their
new home. I was surprised to hear from you. Nine
months have passed since our meeting in the
Garden of Ineffable Solace. That is a long time.

You ask, am I still angry with you? Of course, that
is a stupid question, for I was never angry with you
in the first place. Merely disappointed.

Your Old Alley Friend, Yun Cai.’

A few days later, I received another letter, carried by the same go-between:

Dear Old Alley Friend,

Your letter reproaches me for being stupid, but how
am I to know your moods? Often I think of you,
but don’t know what to think. I remember your
face and person very well, only I sometimes wonder
if you remember me. Last night I heard a patron
who had hired me to sing at his garden party, talking
about a poem you wrote about the Great Fire. It
sounded very fine, but I have not read it so I cannot
say. No doubt it would be too complicated for a
poor girl like me. Often I wish for someone to talk
to. I have bought many fine dresses and a head-piece made of silver. But I like your last letter more.

Su Lin.

I took the letter to the Imperial Library, and replied after a thoughtful day’s study, smiling as I chose my words:

Su Lin,

You will find enclosed with this letter a copy of the
poem you mentioned. I hope it is to your taste.

Sadly, some have interpreted it as a criticism of the
relief offered by His Imperial Majesty to the fire’s
victims, though that is not my intention. It seems
my fate to be perpetually misunderstood. Never
mind. Bamboo endures many winds. You say that
sometimes you wonder if I remember you. Nature
has granted me an exceptionally good memory
 
(though I do not mean to boast) and so I remember
you very well. But that is not the same as meeting.

Your Incorrigible Friend, Yun Cai.

Her reply:

Dearest Incorrigible Friend,

I have never had an incorrigible friend before. In
fact I had to ask a learned person who I know
what ‘incorrigible’ means. Where did you learn
such noble words? No, do not tell me, I can guess.

It is enough to say that they could turn a poor girl’s
head! I am glad you have a very good memory.

Perhaps you will remember that it is my birthday
on the thirteenth day of this month. Unfortunately I
cannot think of anyone I wish to celebrate it with.

So I am leaving that day free. It will give me a
chance to wash my hair.

Your Friend Across The Lake, Su Lin.

The thirteenth was a fortnight away. I thought carefully before I replied:

Dearest Friend Across The Lake,

I was deeply troubled to learn that you cannot
think of anyone with whom to spend your birthday.

Fortunately, I have a solution. If you wait on the
shore beside your house at the time of the second
afternoon bell, some kind of company may present
itself. I say ‘may’ but I mean ‘will’. Whether you
choose to be there is up to you.

Yun Cai.

I received no further letters.

The time preceding the thirteenth day of the sixth month brought more anxiety than pleasant anticipation.

My worries were endless. Firstly, the number thirteen is known as the Lord of Troubles for good reason. I expended a hundred
cash
to establish the propitiousness of the day, but the astrologer’s reply was ambiguous, everything seemed to depend on paying him more to establish the true relationships of the heavens. So I was left in extreme doubt.

Then there was the matter of a suitable present. Again, modest means narrowed my hand. I finally decided on a silver girdle-charm depicting two mountains overlapping.

The symbolism, I hoped was obvious. Both of us were children of the mountains. Then again, many love songs are called Mountain Songs, because a young man on one peak is supposed to sing to a comely girl on another, their voices echoing back and forth across the valleys.

However, the quality of the silver-work shamed me.

Finally, I worried about the weather, for my plan to delight her depended entirely on a fine day.

At last the day came. Quite appropriately, considering the date, low clouds rolled over the city, undecided between sunshine and rain. The air hung still and humid.

Mi Feng, who had observed my preparations with silent interest, suggested I pack a thick parasol. I smiled at him thinly.

When I loaded my small boat with a basket of flowers, plenty of wine and delicacies wrapped in lotus leaves, the first bell of the afternoon sounded from Blue Dragon Monastery, rolling across the lake. A faint breeze ruffled the water, enough to give me wings. Then I rowed out from the shore, and raised the small sail. It flapped like a disconsolate sigh, before finding courage, and puffing out in the breeze.

Glorious hour of my life, to be young and excitable, to weave through pleasure boats and skiffs, until I sailed before the jetty fronting the cottage where she dwelt.

No sign of her on the shore. In fact nobody was around.

Misgivings set in. Su Lin had sent no definite word she would meet at the time and place I had suggested. At once I feared my own rashness, ever a fault with me, and almost turned back, determined to preserve a little dignity.

But I sailed back and forth a couple of times, as the low bell of a neighbouring tower intoned the second hour.

Perhaps she was watching from her window. Perhaps she waited for proof I would really come. Abruptly, the door of a cottage opened, and my heart swelled like my sail. Su Lin stepped out alone, carrying a small basket.

Straightening her dress, she proceeded by small steps towards the jetty as I guided my craft to the shore. We reached the jetty at the same time and regarded each other silently.

‘Have you no greeting for me?’ she asked, nervously.

‘Does my appearance displease you?’

I laughed, and the tension between us flew away like a freed bird.

‘My eloquence is in my eyes,’ I said.

I climbed ashore and helped her into the wobbling boat, both of us smiling at the inappropriateness of her fine clothes. The touch of her hand lingered in my own as I loosened the sail.

‘It is a delight to share your Feast Of A Thousand Autumns,’ I said.

Su Lin laughed more uncertainly than she had when we shared humble doorsteps. For a moment I wondered if my desire was for someone who had vanished, for a dream. In part it must have been. Yet that bold girl stood before me still. Time had merely added to her; and if she lived long enough, yet more women would emerge from within her.

There is no such thing as a single life.

‘I prefer spring or summer,’ she said. ‘Autumn is so cold and dry! Though your kind wish is appreciated.’

‘Is that why you are here?’ I asked, pretending to fuss over the tiller.

‘Perhaps.’

Her tone dangled something. I decided not to press for more. So we sailed wherever the wind took us all that hot, sticky afternoon. Above us, clouds knitted their brows, but we did not notice. Our talk was of gay, inconsequen-tial things, gossip she had heard of great men while singing in their houses, her favourite songs (I begged her to sing a few, on condition we share a cup of wine for each song).

‘What if it spills?’ she asked.

‘Then we will pour another.’

‘What if all the wine runs away?’

‘I have brought plenty.’

So Su Lin sang in her strong, clear voice and I listened, touched that she chose to perform a setting of my Lotus poem. She must have learned it specially. It could hardly have been part of her usual repertoire. A passing pleasure boat applauded and we laughed gaily. I smiled with pride to keep company with such clever beauty.