Chapter 8: Chang'e must regret stealing the elixir of life (IX)
Translator's note: curious about why I'm working on the earlier chapters? You can find an explanation in the translator's note on the ninth chapter.
The party was not detained by the Herb of Yao for long, rather walking deeper into the tomb, and in the exact centre was a four-sided stone that formed a platform with a narrow bottom and a wide top, about half a metre tall, a new coffin resting on its top, its width equally wide at the top and the bottom, the black lacquered wood glistening. On either side of the stone platform were erected two glass lamps of the same colour, stretching out like tree branches, and Li Shiyi indicated to Tu Laoyao to advance and light them with the lamp, and with a whisper of fire igniting, the white oil candles pervaded the air with the scent of wax, suddenly and simultaneously scattering light across the cold interior of the tomb.
The candle flames lit, after only half a minute of warmth, A Yin tugged her overcoat closer around her frame, teeth chattering, and Li Shiyi embraced Shijiu, and, feeling her little hands as cold as ice cubes, asked, “Are you cold?”
“I’m not,” Song Shijiu replied with a gentle white breath.
Tu Laoyao, freezing, straightened up and stamped his feet, rubbing his hands together as he coveteously looked at the fur collar next to A Yin’s face, and A Yin cast her gaze around, turning a full circle from where she stood, and said, “There’s no corpse in here, in fact.”
Li Shiyi used the hollow of her palm to smooth Song Shijiu’s shirt, and said to Tu Laoyao, “Take out the nails and open up the coffin.”
Tu Laoyao let out an ai, and, holding his cloth bundle, his hands pressed together respectfully towards the coffin, a stick of incense in hand, then took out a two finger thick crowbar, one foot mounting the stone platform to give him leverage, one hand inserting the crowbar beneath the nail in the lower right of the coffin, letting out a coarse sound of exertion, and after two or three moments, a huge, slender nail came out. In succession, he pulled out six of them, only the one spike in the precise centre, protruding slightly, a few thickly woven red threads looped around its head, and Tu Laoyao was just about to move it, when he heard Li Shiyi say, “The descendant nail can’t be moved, get down.”
Tu Laoyao complied with a huffing sound, getting down in two or three steps, the handiwork he’d done making him warm all over, and he wiped at the sweat on the nape of his neck, and weighed the crowbar grasped in his hands, thinking that if he met a zombie, he could conveniently deal with it as well.
Li Shiyi switched the arm she was holding Song Shijiu with and drew it in towards herself, and, hand free, struck on the underside of the right handle, only catching the sound of the crackling of the snuff of candlewicks, though it was otherwise quiet. She glanced at A Yin, her expression indicating that she should advance. A Yin gazed at her neither anxiously nor slowly, then smiled faintly, looking at Song Shijiu in her embrace, her expression excessively dramatic, and only then reached out a hand to Tu Laoyao’s lapel, pulling him forward at the same time, leaving the sour back for Li Shiyi, and said quietly to Tu Laoyao, “I say, acting like a wet nurse and carrying that girl infant without letting go, it really seems like we’ve become like gun jam bing.”[1]
“What’s ‘gun jam bing’ mean?” Tu Laoyao asked as he pushed open the lid of the coffin.
“No idea, a client of mine from Guangdong taught me it,” A Yin said, shaking her head; after all, she was only the one sent on an errand. Tu Laoyao, who had become accustomed to her vocabulary, which she picked haphazardly, let out a laugh and immersed himself in his work.
With the combined efforts of two people, the coffin lid was pushed open, and before A Yin could even look inside, she let go and let out a cry at her back hurting, and Li Shiyi approached to look, finding that Concubine Zhao’s corpse really had nothing remarkable about it, her pale and ashen face, makeup as heavy as putty on a wall but unable to cover up the coal-dark speckles that bored through her skin, the faint scent of decay penetrating through the incense. A Yin no longer bent at the waist, only supporting her waist with one hand, her delicate voice calling out, “You can still make out her features; take a look, is she prettier or am I?”
Her scorn carried on the final syllable, clearly unsatisfied with Master Wu’s new obsession. Tu Laoyao put his ruddy hands in his cuffs, covering them up, his thighs, accustomed to carrying his body, shivering, and he called out, “Comparing appearances to a dead person, ai—there’s no sense in your head.”
A Yin was just about to retort when she saw movement by Li Shiyi, where Song Shijiu was struggling free of her embrace, walking with unsteady little steps, her little hands grasping for the coffin, her little legs scrambling over, and with a rumbling sound rolled into the coffin.
“This…this is, what is she doing?” Tu Laoyao, dumbstruck, couldn’t even get the words out properly.
“Greeting her mother?” A Yin said, doubtfully gazing at the small person rolling about inside the coffin.
Seeing Song Shijiu turning over inside the coffin a couple times, her little hands clutching the edge to support herself as she stood up, swaying as she held up a painted silk roll, holding it out in front of Li Shiyi, her little pouting mouth opening as she said, “This.” Her dark, shiny pupils were ignorant and naive, the whites of her eyes carrying that characteristic blue of a small child’s, distinctly unversed in the ways of the world, and because of this, the sight of her crawling around inside of the coffin was extremely bizarre, making one’s heart leap for no reason. Li Shiyi looked at her with a calm expression. A Yin gasped in amazement; this ability, it was…a hound?
Li Shiyi shot a glance at her, and advanced towards Song Shijiu, taking the silk painting from her hand, thinking it over as she easily patted her head, and Song Shijiu nestled her soft self against her body, and saw her nimbly open it, yellowed by history, the mottling vestiges declaring its age, its edges having some defects, but luckily, the design in its centre still was whole, the painting having no discolouration, just dark lines starkly depicting the outline of a woman in a crossed quju collar, her long hair falling past her waist, bound low, her form graceful, in the prime of her life.
Despite the painting not being fine and delicate, one could vaguely make out that the woman was covering her face and wailing, and Li Shiyi drew her thumb over the clothes portrayed, the belt hook and the leather, and she said, softly, with puzzlement, “A painting from the Spring and Autumn period?”[2]
The three people, two large and one small, quietly looked at her; Li Shiyi’s beauty really came out between the pauses in her words, strewn at random, brought out by the automatic advances and retreats, and even her soft speech was confident without explanation, making one feel steady down to the bone.
Tu Laoyao didn’t know what she was thinking, and didn’t dare to even let out a breath; Song Shijiu was surrounded, only tiredly leaning against her, and in the end, it was A Yin who spoke: “Come to think of it, that’s it, let’s take it back.” She rubbed her thin arms a few times, and added, “It’s so oddly cold.”
Coming out of the tomb, the moon had already tilted to the west, and the housekeeper along with the servants were still waiting at the foot of the mountain, dozing off in front of a bonfire, and seeing them come out, were pleasantly surprised, hurriedly providing large coats for them to wrap around their bodies, and led them to get into the car back to the mansion.
That Master Wu, seeing the painting, overflowed with tears of joy, and rubbed the painting as he wiped at the corners of his eyes, as if a long-sought-for beloved had returned. His treasure lost and regained, Master Wu no longer had any mind for anything else, and grasped the painting, entering the study. The housekeeper was more proper, handing over the silver as stated in the letter, and arranged for Li Shiyi and the others to stay in the east wing, saying that if it wasn’t an issue, they could stay for a few days, and if it was an issue, they could stay until tomorrow and buy tickets early in the morning to leave. Li Shiyi accepted the invitation, taking the others, big and small, to enter the east courtyard. The housekeeper also sent along the small kitchen’s manager, Granny Xia, who prepared a table of sumptuous dishes, and the hot delicacies made the hungry mouths move, and even Tu Laoyao wasn’t courteous, stuffing himself and belching, and Granny Xia, seeing they liked it, also sent along a few dishes of pastries.
After having eaten and drunk to their hearts’ content, each retreated to their own rooms, Song Shijiu extremely tired, and Li Shiyi, on her behalf, cleaned her hands and feet, and then changed her clothes, which had rolled around with her inside the coffin, wrapping her up in a large towel and putting her to sleep.
Around ten o’clock, the faint sound of a pipa came from the courtyard, melodious and mellow, an ethereal, poignant sound winding around the clear moonlight that hit the screen windows. Li Shiyi closed the door and came out, finding that it was A Yin, drinking wine from a handleless cup, sitting on the stone next to the table, holding a narrow-necked, large-bellied willow wood pipa, pale hand pushing against the strings, the composition moving deftly, self-reference stitched into it and pouring out in torrents, surrounded by the moue of drunkenness, rising in coils towards the roof beams.
Li Shiyi sat across from her, and said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you play the pipa.”
A Yin stopped her movements, her arm horizontally holding the pipa, and said with a smile, “This lady’s playing is extremely expensive.” Once she finished speaking, her shoulders fell as she held in laughter, extending a hand towards Li Shiyi.
Li Shiyi moved her brows in great motions, and said, “I have any money.” She thought for a moment, then added, “I have a lot.”
A Yin let out a huff of laughter, drawing back her hand, and said, “That’s right.” She lowered her head and plucked at a few strings, saying in a drawn-out manner, “Since you have money, when will your days of going down into tombs come to an end?”
Li Shiyi didn’t reply, and A Yin didn’t question her any further, just rose and carefully brushed her fingers across the strings, a faint song emerging from her mouth. “The hair at the temples cut out like glossy raven’s feathers, a small lotus on the narrow forehead/Fearing to dress herself for her mother to find out/Inevitably, the golden hairpin is inserted, half dishevelled and half askew.”[3] Her expression was like smoke, adorned by the moonlight, soaked in water, and her body, steeped in cosmetics, folded over the pipa, her skin sumptuous and fair, the faint sense of desolation, unknowing of dusk or day, penetrating through. If one looked at her, it was like looking into the moon.
The next day, early in the morning, Tu Laoyao got up, shouting and calling and clapping the doors, and Li Shiyi had just sat down at the table, calmly and unhurriedly feeding Song Shijiu mouthfuls of porridge, and Song Shijiu’s chubby cheeks were full and bulging, chewing as she blinked, like a small squirrel hiding away fruit.
A Yin yawned, leaning up against the door, and Tu Laoyao, as usual, entered the room, took stock of the situation, even kneeling down to stoop and look beneath the table, and said, “Did you get everything gathered up? Could there be anything that was left behind?”
Originally, he was only asking without thinking, but seeing Li Shiyi using a porcelain spoon to scrape at the broth left at the corners of her mouth, heard her say indifferently, “Yes.”
“What?” Tu Laoyao asked doubtfully.
Li Shiyi drew the spoon away, the corners of her mouth raised inexplicably, and she said, “Time.” Tu Laoyao couldn’t make any sense of the matter, and A Yin straightened up, watching the people within the room. Li Shiyi set the bowl down, and pointed at Song Shijiu, and said, “She hasn’t grown.”
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Translator's notes:
[1]: Gun jam bing, written 观音兵 (pronounced guanyin bing in Mandarin) is Cantonese slang referring to a man who is dominated by his wife or girlfriend.
[2]: The Spring and Autumn period corresponds roughly with that of the first half of the Eastern Zhou, lasting from approximately 770 BCE to 481 BCE.
[3]: Taken from the translation of Wang Heqing’s poem Xianlu - Ban’er Tiqing (Four Poems) (仙吕·一半儿题情(四首)). Wang Heqing was a thirteenth-century sanqu poet from Danming, in the Hebei province, of whom little is known.
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