The Peach Blossom Pavilion
A novel of the last China Geisha
Mingmei Yip
When there is action above and compliance below, this is
called the natural order of things.
When the man thrusts from above and the woman receives
from below, this is called the balance between heaven and earth.
Dong Xuanzi (Tang dynasty A.D. 618-907)
The California sun slowly streams in
through my apartment window, then gropes its way past a bamboo plant, a Chinese
vase spilling with plum blossoms, a small incense burner, then finally lands on
Bao Lan -- Precious Orchid -- the woman lying opposite me without a stitch on.
Envy stabs my
heart. I stare at her body as it curves in and out like a snake ready for
mischief. She lies on a crimson silk
sheet embroidered with flowers in gold thread.
"Flower of the evil sea" -- this was what people in old Shanghai
would whisper through cupped mouths.
While now, in San Francisco, I murmur her name, "Bao Lan,"
sweetly as if savoring a candy in my mouth. I imagine inhaling the decadent
fragrance from her sun-warmed nudity.
Bao Lan's eyes
shine big and her lips -- full, sensuous and painted a dark crimson -- evoke in
my mind the color of rose petals in a fading dream. Petals, that, when curled into a seductive
smile, also whisper words of flattery. These, together with her smooth arm,
raised and bent behind her head in a graceful curve, remind me of the Chinese
saying "A pair of jade arms used as pillows to sleep on by a thousand
guests; two slices of crimson lips tasted by ten thousand men."
Now the rosy lips
seem to say, "Please come to me."
I nod, reaching my hand to touch the nimbus of black
hair tumbling down her small, round breasts.
Breasts the texture of silk and the color of white jade. Breasts that were touched by many -- soldiers,
merchants, officials, scholars, artists, policemen, gangsters, a Catholic
priest, a Taoist monk.
Feeling guilty of
sacrilege, I withdraw my ninety-eight-year old spotty and wrinkled hand. I keep rocking on my chair and watching Bao
Lan as she continues to eye me silently.
"Hai, how time flies like
an arrow, and the sun and moon move back and forth like a shuttle!" I recite the old saying, then carefully sip
my ginseng tea.
"Ah-po, it's best quality ginseng to keep
your longevity and health," my great-granddaughter told me the other day
when she brought the herb.
Last week, I celebrated my
ninety-eighth birthday, and, although they never say it out loud, I know they
want my memoir to be finished before I board the immortal's journey. When I say "they," I mean my great-granddaughter
Jade Treasure and her American fiancé Leo Stanley. In a while, they will be coming to see me and
begin recording my oral history.
Oral history! Do they forget that I can read and write?
They treat me as if I were a dusty museum piece. They act like they're doing me
a great favor by digging me out from deep underground and bringing me to
light. How can they forget that I am not
only literate, but also well versed in all the arts --literature, music,
painting, calligraphy, and poetry, and that's exactly the reason they want to
write about me?
Now Bao Lan seems
to say, "Old woman, please go
away! Why do you always have to remind
me how old you are and how accomplished you were?! Can't you leave me alone to enjoy myself at
the height of my youth and beauty?"
"Sure," I mutter to the air, feeling the
wrinkles weighing around the corners of my mouth.
But she keeps
staring silently at me with eyes which resemble two graceful dots of ink on
rice paper. She's strange, this woman
who shares the same house with me but only communicates with the brightness of
her eyes and the sensuousness of her body.
I am used to her
eccentricity, because she's my other -- much wilder and younger -- self! The delicate beauty opposite me is but a
faded oil painting done seventy-five years ago when I was twenty-three.
And the last
poet-musician courtesan in Shanghai.
That's why they
keep pushing me to tell, or sell, my
story -- I am the carrier of a mysterious cultural phenomenon -- Ming Ji.
The prestigious
prostitute. Prestigious
prostitute? Yes, that was what we were
called in old China. A species as
extinct as the Chinese emperors, after China became a republic. Some say it's a
tragic loss; others argue: how can the disappearance of prostitutes be
tragic?
The cordless phone
trills on the coffee table; I pick it up with my stiff, arthritic hand. Jane and Leo are already downstairs. Jane is Jade Treasure's English name, of
which I disapprove because it sounds so much like the word “pan fry” in
Chinese. When I call her "Jane,
Jane," I can almost smell fish cooking in sizzling oil -- Sizzz! Sizzz!
It sounds as if I'd cook my own flesh and blood!
Now the two young
people burst into my nursing home apartment with their laughter and overflowing
energy, their embarrassingly long limbs flailing in all directions. Jade
Treasure flounces up to peck my cheek, swinging a basket of fruit in front of
me, making me dizzy.
"Hi,
Grandmama, you look good today! The
ginseng gives you good qi?"
"Jade, can you show some respect to an old woman
who has witnessed, literally, the ups and downs of a century?" I say,
pushing away the basket of fruit.
"Grandmama!" Jade mocks protest, then dumps the basket on
the table with a clank and plops down on the sofa next to me.
It is now Leo's
turn to peck my cheek, then he says in his smooth Mandarin, "How are you to-day, Po Po?"
This American boy calls me Po Po, the respectful way of addressing an elderly lady in Chinese,
while my Jade Treasure prefers the more westernized Grandmama (she adds another
“ma” for “great” grandmother). Although I am always suspicious of laofan, old barbarians, I kind of like
Leo. He's a nice boy, good-looking with
a big body and soft blonde hair, a graduate of journalism at a very good
University called Ge-lin-bi-ya? (so I was told by Jade), speaks very good
Mandarin, now works as an editor in a very famous publisher called Ah-ba
Call-lings? (so I was also told by Jade).
And madly in love with my Jade Treasure.
Jade is already
clanking bowls and plates in my small kitchen, preparing snacks. Her bare legs play hide and seek behind the
half-opened door, while her excessive energy thrusts her to and fro between the
refrigerator, the cupboard, the sink, the stove.
A half hour later,
after we've finished our snacks and the trays are put away and the table
cleaned, Leo and Jade sit down beside me on the sofa, carefully taking out
their recorder, pads, pens. Faces
glowing with excitement, they look like Chinese students eager to please their
teacher. It touches me to see their
expressions turn serious as if they were burdened by the sacred responsibility
of saving a precious heritage from sinking into quicksand.
"Grandmama,"
Jade says after she's discussed in English with her fiancé, "Leo and I
agreed that it's best for you to start your story from the beginning. That is, when you were sold to the turquoise
pavilion after great Grandpapa was executed.”
I'm glad she is discreet enough not to say jiyuan, prostitution house, or worse, jixiang, whorehouse, but instead uses
the much more refined and poetic qinglou -
turquoise pavilion.
“Jade, if you’re so interested in Chinese culture, do
you know there are more than forty words for prostitution house… fire pit;
tender village; brocade gate; wind and moon domain. . . .
Jade interrupts. “Grandmama, so which were you in?”
“You know, we had
our own hierarchy. The prestigious book chamber ladies,” I tilt my head, “like
myself, condescended to the second rate long gown ladies, and they in turn
snubbed those who worked in the second hall. And of course everyone would spit
on the homeless wild chickens as if they were nonhuman.”
“Wow! Cool stuff!”
Jade exclaims, then exchanges whispers with Leo. She turns back to stare at me,
her elongated eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Grandmama, we think that
it's better if you can use the 'talk story' style. Besides, can you add even
more juicy stuff?”
“No.” I wave them a dismissive hand. “Do you
think my life is not miserable enough to be saleable? This is my story, and
I’ll do it my way!”
“Yes, of course!”
The two heads nod like basketballs under thumping hands.
"All right, my big prince and princess, what
else?"
"That's all,
Grandmama. Let's start!" The two
young faces gleam as if they were about to watch a Hollywood soap opera --
forgetting that I have told them a hundred times that my life is even a
thousand times soapier.
Chapter One The Turquoise Pavilion
To be a prostitute was my fate.
After all, no murderer's daughter would be accepted into
a decent household to be a wife whose children would be smeared with crime even
before they were born. The only other choice was my mother’s -- to take refuge
as a nun, for the only other society which would accept a criminal's relatives
lay within the empty gate.
I had just turned thirteen when I exchanged the quiet
life of a family for the tumult of a prostitution house. But not like the
others, whose parents had been too poor to feed them, or who had been kidnapped
and sold by bandits.
It all happened because my father was convicted of a
crime – one he'd never committed.
"That was the mistake your father should never have
made," my mother told me over and over, "trying to be righteous,
and,” she added bitterly, "meddling in rich men's business."
True. For that
"business" cost him his own life, and fatefully changed the life of
his wife and daughter.
Baba had been a Peking opera performer and a
musician. Trained as a martial arts
actor, he played acrobats and warriors.
During one performance, while fighting with four pennants strapped to
his thirty-pound suit of armor, he jumped down from four stacked chairs in his
high-soled boots and broke his leg. Unable to perform on stage anymore, he
played the two-stringed fiddle in the troupe’s orchestra. After several years,
he became even more famous for his fiddle playing, and an amateur Peking opera
group led by the wife of a Shanghai warlord hired him as its accompanist. Every
month the wife would hold a big party in the house's lavish garden. It was an incident in that garden that
completely changed our family's destiny.
One moonlit evening
amidst the cheerful tunes of the fiddle and the falsetto voices of the
silk-clad and heavily jeweled tai tai --
society ladies -- the drunken warlord raped his teenage daughter.
The girl grabbed her father's gun and fled to the garden
where the guests were gathered. The
warlord ran behind her, puffing and pants falling. Suddenly his daughter
stopped and turned to him. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she slowly pointed
the gun to her head. “Beast! If you dare come an inch closer, I’ll shoot
myself!”
Baba threw down his precious fiddle and ran to the
source of the tumult. He pushed away the gaping guests, leaped forward, and
tried to seize the gun. But it went off. The hapless girl fell dead to the
ground in a pool of blood surrounded by the stunned guests and servants.
The warlord turned
to grab Baba’s throat till his tongue protruded. Eyes blurred and face as red
as her daughter’s splattered blood, he spat on Baba. “Animal! You raped my
daughter and killed her!”
Although all the members in the household knew it was a
false accusation, nobody was willing to right the wrong. The servants were scared and powerless. The
rich guests couldn't have cared less.
One general meditatively stroked his
beard, sneering, "Big deal, it's just a fiddle player." And that
ended the whole event.
Indeed, it was a
big deal for us. For Baba was executed. Mother took refuge as a Buddhist nun in
a temple in Peking. I was taken away to a prostitution house.
This all happened in 1918.
Thereafter, during the tender years of my youth, while
my mother was strenuously cultivating desirelessness in the Pure Lotus Nunnery
in Peking, I was busy stirring up desire within the Peach Blossom
Pavilion.
That
was the mistake he should never have made -- trying to be righteous and
meddling in rich men's business.
Mother's saying kept knocking around in my head until
one day I swore, kneeling before Guan Yin -- the Goddess of Mercy -- that I
would never be merciful in this life. But not meddle in rich men's business? It
was precisely the rich and powerful at whom I aimed my arts of pleasing. Like Guan Yin with a thousand arms holding a
thousand amulets to charm, I was determined to cultivate myself to be a woman
with a thousand scheming hearts to lure a thousand men into my arms.
But of course this kind of cultivation started later,
when I had become aware of the realm of the wind and moon. When I'd first
entered the prostitution house, I was but a little girl with a heart split into
two: one half light with innocence, the other heavy with sorrow.
In the prostitution house, I was given the name Precious
Orchid. It was only my professional name; my real name was Xiang Xiang, given
for two reasons. I was born with a
natural xiang -- body fragrance (a mingling of fresh milk, honey and jasmine),
something which rarely happens except in legends where the protagonist lives on
nothing but flowers and herbs. Second, I was named after the Xiang River of
Hunan province. My parents, who had given me this name, had cherished the hope
that my life would be as nurturing as the waterway of my ancestors, while never
expecting that it was my overflowing tears which would nurture the river as it
flows its never-ending course. They had also hoped that my life would sing with
happiness like the cheerful river, never imagining that what flowed in my voice
was nothing but the bittersweet melodies of karma.
Despite our abject
poverty after Baba's death, it was never my mother’s intent to sell me into
Peach Blossom Pavilion. This bit of chicanery was the work of one of her
distant relatives, a woman by the name of Fang Rong – Beautiful Countenance.
Mother had met her only once, during a Chinese new year’s gathering at a distant
uncle’s house. Not long after Baba had
been executed, Fang Rong appeared one day out of nowhere and told my mother
that she could take good care of me. When I first laid eyes on her, I was
surprised that she didn’t look at all like what her name implied. Instead, she
had the body of a stuffed rice bag, the face of a basin, and the eyes of a rat,
above which a big mole moved menacingly.
Fang Rong claimed that she worked as a housekeeper for a
rich family. The master, a merchant of foreign trade, was looking for a young
girl with a quick mind and swift hands to help in the household. The matter was
decided without hesitation. Mother,
completely forgetting her vow never to be involved in rich men's business, was
relieved that I’d have a roof over my head.
So, with her departure for Peking looming, she agreed to let Fang Rong
take me away.
Both Mother and
Fang Rong looked happy chatting under the sparkling sun. Toward the end of their conversation, after
Fang Rong had given Mother the address of the “rich businessman,” she shoved me
into a waiting rickshaw.
"Quick! Don't make the
master wait!"
When the vehicle
was about to take off, Mother put her face close to me and whispered,
"From now on listen to Aunty Fang and your new master and behave. Will you
promise me that?"
I nodded, noticing
the tears welling in her eyes. She
gently laid the cloth sack containing my meager possessions (a small amount of
cash and a few rice balls sprinkled with bits of salted fish) on my lap, then
put her hand on my head. "Xiang Xiang, I'll be leaving in a month. If I
can, I'll visit you. But if I don't, I'll write as soon as I've arrived in
Peking." She paused, a faint smile
broke on her withered face. "You're lucky..."
I touched her
hand. "Ma. . ."
Just as I was struggling to say something, Fang Rong's
voice jolted us apart. "All right,
let's go, better not be late." With
that, the rickshaw puller lifted the poles and we started to move.
I turned back and
waved to Mother until she became a small dot and finally vanished like the last
morning dew.
Fang Rong rode
beside me in silence. Houses floated by
as the rickshaw puller grunted along.
After twists and turns through endless avenues and back alleys, the
rickshaw entered a tree-lined boulevard.
Fang Rong turned to me and smiled. “Xiang Xiang, we’ll
soon be there.”
Though the air was nippy, the coolie was sweating
profusely. We bumped along a crowded street past a tailor, an embroidery shop,
a hair salon, and a shoe store before the coolie finally grunted to a stop.
Fang Rong paid and we got out in front of the most
beautiful mansion I'd ever seen. With walls painted a pale pink, the building
rose tall and imposing, with a tightly closed red iron gate fiercely guarded by
two stone lions. At the entrance, a solitary red lantern swayed gently in the
breeze. An ornate wooden sign above the lintel glinted in the afternoon
sun. I shaded my eyes and saw a shiny
signboard, black with three large gold characters: Peach Blossom Pavilion. On
either side, vertical boards flanking the gate read:
Guests flocking to the pavilion like birds,
Beauties
blooming in the garden like flowers.
"Aunty
Fang," I pointed to the sign, "what is this Peach---"
"Come
on," Fang Rong cast me an annoyed look, "don't let your father
wait," and pulled me along.
My father? Didn't she know that he was already
dead? Just as I was wondering what this
was all about, the gate creaked open, revealing a man of about forty;
underneath shiny hair parted in the middle shone a smooth, handsome face. An
embroidered silk jacket was draped elegantly over a lean, sinewy body.
He scrutinized me for long moments, then his face broke
into a pleasant grin. "Ah, so the rumor is true. What a lovely girl!" His slender fingers with their long,
immaculate nails reached to pat my head. I felt an instant liking for this man
my father’s age. I also wondered, how could the ugly-to-death Fang Rong catch such
a nice-looking man?
"Wu Qiang,” Fang Rong drew away his hand,
“haven't you ever seen a pretty girl in your life?” Then she turned to me. "This is my husband Wu Qiang and your
father."
"But
Aunty---"
Now Fang Rong put
on an ear-reaching grin. "Xiang
Xiang, your father is dead, so from now on Wu Qiang is your father. Call him De."
Despite my liking
for this man, in my heart no one could take the place of my father. "But he's not my De!"
Fang Rong shot me a
smile with the skin, but not the flesh. "I’ve told you that now he is, and
I’m your mother, so call me Mama."
Before I could
protest again, she'd already half-pushed me along through a narrow
entranceway. Then I forgot to complain
because as we passed into the courtyard, my eyes beheld another world. Enclosed
within the red fence was a garden where lush flowerbeds gave off a pleasing
aroma. On the walls were painted lovely maidens cavorting among exotic flowers.
A fountain murmured, spurting in willowy arcs. In a pond, golden carps swished their
tails and gurgled trails of bubbles. A stone bridge led across the pond to a
pavilion with gracefully upturned eaves. Patches of soothing shade were cast by
artfully placed bamboo groves.
While hurrying after Fang Rong and Wu Qiang, I spotted a
small face peeking out at me from behind the bamboo grove. What struck me was not her face but the sad,
watery eyes which gazed into mine, as if desperate to tell a tale.
When I was about to
ask about her, Fang Rong cast me a tentative glance. "Xiang Xiang, aren't you happy that this
is now your new home? Isn't it much
better than your old one?"
I nodded
emphatically, while feeling stung by those sad eyes.
"I'm sure
you'll like it even better when you taste the wonderful food cooked by our
chef," Wu Qiang chimed in
enthusiastically.
Soon we arrived at
a small room decorated with polished furniture and embroidered pink curtains.
Against the back wall stood an altar with a statue of a white-browed, red-eyed
general mounted on a horse and wielding a sword. Arrayed in front of him were
offerings of rice, meat, and wine.
In the center of the room was a table set with
chopsticks, bowls, and dishes of snacks.
Fang Rong told me to sit between her and Wu Qiang. With no other
etiquette, she announced that dinner begin.
A middle-aged woman brought out plates of food, then laid them down one
by one on the table. After filling the
bowls with rice and soup, she left without a word.
During the whole
meal, Fang Rong kept piling food into my bowl.
"Eat more, soon you'll be a very healthy and charming young
lady."
I'd never before
tasted food so delicious. I gulped down
chunks of fish, shrimp, pork, chicken, and beef, washing them down with cup
after cup of fragrant tea.
When dinner was
finished, I asked, "Aunty Fang---"
"Didn't you
forget that I'm now your Mama?"
Her stare was so
fierce that I finally muttered a weak, "Mama." I swallowed hard. "After dinner, are we
going to see the master and the mistress of the mansion?"
Barely had I
finished my question when she burst into laughter. Then she took a sip of her
tea and replied meaningfully. "Ha, silly girl! Don't you know that we are your new master and mistress?"
"What do you mean?"
"That's what I
mean -- I am the mistress and my husband is the master of this Peach Blossom
Pavilion."
"What is Peach
Blossom Pavilion?"
“A book chamber.”
I looked around but
didn’t see any books, not even book shelves.
Fang Rong cast me a
mysterious look. “A cloud and rain pavilion.”
Now Wu Qiang added
soothingly, “This is. . .ah.. . .a turquoise pavilion.”
“What---”
Fang Rong spat,
"A whorehouse!"
Wu Qiang looked on with a mysterious smile while his
wife burst out in a loud laugh. Then she chided me affectionately. "Why do
people always have to have the entrails drawn?"
She was referring to the Chinese saying that when one
paints a portrait, he even includes the intestines -- an act redundant and
stupid.
Shocked, it took
several beats before I could utter, "But didn’t you tell us that the
master is a merchant of foreign trade?"
Fang Rong laughed,
her huge breasts and bulging belly shivering. "Ha! Ha! It's true. From time to time we do entertain British,
French, and American soldiers here. Don’t you know you’ve just arrived at the
night district of Si Malu? This is the most high class shangren lane, where all the book
chambers are found!"
I felt a queasiness
simmering in my stomach. "You mean.
. . . I was sold into---" Fang
Rong's harsh voice pierced my ears.
"No, you were not sold, silly girl! You were given to us as a
gift---"
Using his
long-nailed pinky to pick some meat from between his teeth while stealing a
glance at me, Wu Qiang added, "We didn't even have to pay your
mother."
"That's why we
never forget to make offerings to the Buddha, Guan Yin the Goddess of Mercy,
and,” her sausage finger pointing to the sword-wielding, horse-riding general,
“the righteous, money-bringing White-Browed God." Fang Rong winked, then
pinched my cheek. "So, little pretty, see how they look after us!"
Now, as if he were my real father, Wu Qiang looked down
at me tenderly, his voice unctuous. “Xiang Xiang, don’t worry. From now on,
you’ll have plenty of good food to eat and pretty clothes to wear. You’ll see
we’ll take care of you like you’re our own daughter.”
But they were not
my mother and father. That night, alone, helpless, and abandoned, I cried a
long time before I fell asleep in the small, bare room to which I’d been led.
My only hope was that my mother would write to me and
soon come to visit.
No comments:
Post a Comment