Chapter 54: Who entrusted my longing to the wild ginger? (III)

Translator's note: A lovely friend helped me figure out how to properly link footnotes, so I'll be slowly going back through previous chapters and linking them properly. My apologies for the period that I wasn't able to figure out how to do that

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When A Yin pushed the door open and entered, there was only a little bit of chaotically scattered light, which floated from the bed and flew out through the wide open glass window. A Luo laid on her side on the large, Western-style mahogany bed, fingers strewn at random n the air, the stream of light from the jade butterfly of just previously remaining. She had never seen the spirited A Yin cut such a sorry figure before; her hands were wrapped around her night gown-covered waist, and the colouration on her face had collapsed into confusion, the grandness of days past gone, withered as if it were trampled-on bok choy.

The bok choy lifted her gaze to her, her eyes still restraining the lustrousness of cabbage, and impolitely sat down on the sofa, feeling around on the small side table, touching a carton of white Nüshi Cigarettes, beside which was placed a slender matchbox. She deftly struck one; a cigarette, that was a good thing; first it filled up your wordless mouth, and then vitalised your wound-riddled heart, and then it brought out your lost mood; from the nasal cavity or the throat with the first croon, there would always be that sort of contempt. And at the very end? At the very end, it would come to your eyes, causing them to become hazy, taking the remaining frustrations and sorrows and covering them up, after which nothing more remained.

These sorts of thoughts of hers idled the time away, but her train of thought stopped abruptly, and she suddenly remembered that A Luo never smoked, yet the small side table was neatly prepared with her habitual brand. She cast a sideways glance at A Luo; A Luo remained lying on the bed, without the intention of getting up, laying her pale cheek in the crook of her arm, her fine black hair supple and at ease.

A Yin hadn’t initially intended to come here; she’d sat on the stairs for a long while, and sat for a long while on the swing in the courtyard, and then finally tossed and turned restlessly in bed; no one knew what sort of courage she’d put into her heart to flee from Li Shiyi’s room; even she herself had thought that gritting her teeth, she could make a clean break, but emotion and desire, as if a prairie fire lit by lit by a spark, rose from her spine, and innumerable ants gnawed on her bones, making it so even the touch of bedding was a sort of ineffectual torment to her her soul, pervaded with an itch. She could only shamefully admit that when she’d seen Li Shiyi’s smooth collarbones, her luminous, bare chest, and her full figure, like a snow-capped mountain, the deepest part of her rationality had been devoured by the starving silkworm-like cursed desire, by the bearing of a kiss, finely and meticulously, and not even a tiny amount had remained. She could only cling to her remaining self-respect, and make herself look not too similar to a woman smoking opium; she walked softly and slowly to A Luo, even wanting to come up with a few phrases of indifferent small talk with her. She asked her, “What was that, just now?”

Her pitch was ordinarily high, and the bass trembled, causing A Luo to cast a gaze at her; only after a moment did she say, “Mulan’s returned.” The message-bearing jade butterfly from just now had long since disappeared from view, and she shifted her shoulders, looking past the window to the star magnolia,^[1] not knowing whether this Hunuce army’s new commander could once more find her flying dragon of greatness.

A Yin let out an “oh”, narrowing her eyes and taking a drag on the cigarette. But A Luo turned over, laying in the centre of the bed, gazing at the swaying bed curtains, and said in a soft voice, “If you’re not feeling well, come up.”

Women were usually attentive, but A Luo’s clever mind was even more penetrating; in a single glance, she saw that A Yin was enduring with difficulty, such that she couldn’t even manage an extra phrase of pointless speech. A Yin breathed through her nose, raising her hand to put out the cigarette, and walked over to the side of the bed, the two characters of “come up” filling her mind. Come up—it had many solutions; perhaps coming and sitting on the bed, perhaps coming and laying on the bed, but A Yin gazed at her, using the most alluring version. She propped her hands on either side of A Luo, raising her legs to straddle her, her thighs pressed against her warm torso, her hair, dried out, falling down onto A Luo’s pillow.

Yet A Luo raised her delicate brows, watching her with a reserved gaze, and said with careful consideration, “Further up.”

A Yin drew in a rapid breath, the peach blossoms of eroticism in her eyes blossoming, drawing A Luo’s gaze with the stamens. She shifted further up, and A Luo shook her head; she crossed the mountain peaks, and A Luo shook her head; she pressed against her collarbones and paused, and finally reached out the grab ahold of the headboard, pressing her eyes shut and delivering the weakest point to that person’s lips, most practised in understanding. A Luo’s hands finally moved, gently and unhurriedly pushing aside the sides of her gown. A Yin breathed out softly, making a hand available to cover up A Luo’s eyes, and said to her with a hoarse voice, “Don’t look.” She didn’t want anyone to ever see her this way again; she hated that she couldn’t cover the eyes and ears of everyone the way she had covered up A Luo’s, say to them—don’t listen, don’t look, this isn’t me.

But then, who was she?

A Luo docilely closed her eyes against her palm, her right hand taking A Yin’s hand, holding it placatingly.

The moon set in the west; only the sound of the cicadas remained in the world, showing no understanding of time, humming as they asked people whether they knew, whether they knew. A Yin rose, walking to the small side table, pouring a cup of water for herself, and held it while looking out the window for a while; then she sat on the rug by the bed, drinking in small sips.

She’d only drunk two sips when she heard A Luo say into the mattress above, voice languid and soft, “Just then, when you had a quarrel with her, I heard it.”

A Yin’s ear pricked, and she wanted to turn her head, but she forcibly stopped herself, turning her head to gaze out the moonlight, which had been divided into chunks of tofu by the window. A Luo, knowing what she was thinking, said, “The sound wasn’t loud; others shouldn’t have been able to hear it—it’s just that my senses have always been a bit sensitive.”

A Yin’s tense shoulders fell, and she set the cup on the ground, burying her face in the crook of her arms, inhaling and exhaling a couple prolonged breaths. By the time A Luo assumed she wouldn’t speak again, there was a minute, muffled voice, like that of an animal cub’s, that emerged from her arms. “I’m afraid Shijiu heard.” She paused, seeming to pull on a not too sincere smile, and said, “Before Shijiu appeared, when I dreamed, I would always think of splashing down that bucket of bathwater for the coachmen.” She didn’t much bother with whether or not A Luo could understand, but she really wanted to say it. “But after she appeared, I didn’t dare think of it anymore.” She’d looked on helplessly as Li Shiyi’s expression, gazing at Song Shijiu, became deeper and deeper; looked on as Song Shijiu grew into an adult in Li Shiyi’s eyes; looked on at all of her pampering, spoiling, and indulgence. When Li Shiyi was with her, it was frowning and not frowning, but when she was with Song Shijiu, she often made jokes, often teased, often played, often, in Song Shijiu’s bright and youthful love, was exposed as if bathed in the bashfulness and contentment of union.

She understood entirely that Li Shiyi treated her and Song Shijiu differently; being also burdened by the Teng serpent, Li Shiyi retained the greatest degree of friendly esteem and support, and when she failed persuade her, she would risk her life to find a route of retreat; if a phrase from huaben literature were to be used to describe it, then it could be counted as knives piercing both sides, an attachment of great importance to friendship to the point of being willing to sacrifice herself for it. But Song Shijiu, she’d long since looked upon as a part of her; she could take responsibility for making decisions for her, accompany her in a fall from grace, and willingly take on pointless diligence for her. This was being in the same boat under wind and rain, experiencing life and death together. A Luo had said before, that when she’d been in the throes of passion, she’d called Li Shiyi’s name thirteen times. But just now, when she’d slammed the door and left, she’d only feared greatly that Li Shiyi might call out for Song Shijiu once.

A Yin raised her head, and said, “Often, I would think that dying happily wasn’t as good as teaching them to be together; after a long time, it would be enough for me to grow accustomed to it; in the end, it would be better than cutting off flesh with a dull knife. If they didn’t know my thoughts, only taking my natural disposition to be light and wild, I could still be a carefree, affectionate woman, leaping about in the courtyard all day long, leisurely in their presence; they could be comfortable, and I could be comfortable as well. But, it turns out, she knew everything.” She knew of her desires, her urges, knew that she wasn’t acting independently, even knew of her yearning. “Ah, so I’ve become someone dismal and wretched, who loves but doesn’t receive.” A Yin laughed, and added, “How miserable.” She leaned her head against the side of the bed, murmuring, “This lady here doesn’t want to be a wretch. Son of a bitch, this lady here was…” Born too beautiful; a multitude of goddesses and Buddhas couldn’t tolerate me.

She leaned against the side of the bed, sleep swallowing her unreconciled fantasies, and swallowing up all affectations she’d built up through painstaking efforts; the rising tails of her brows curved downwards, painting a docile radian, as if, if you were to say something at will, she would smile with bright eyes and white teeth in your direction, nodding in reply with a good temperament. A Luo gazed at her for a long while, then softly carried her up to bed, covering her in a thin blanket; she should be able to sleep well for a night.

The door unlocked with a clunking sound, and soon after, there was the very quiet sound of a descent, the delicate woman coming out from the great doors, walking in the moonlight beneath the parasol tree leaf-covered small path. It was clearly the night, yet she habitually carried an umbrella, head bowed as she stepped on the darkness of the parasol leaves cut out by the street lamps.

I’m called A Luo, and also Yan Futi.

Originally, I was just underworld essence that roved on the side of the Yellow Springs for a great multitude of years; Daji^[2] crossed the bridge, the fragrance from her skirts giving me breath; Bao Si drank Meng Po’s soup, gazing at the remote fires at the limits of the Yellow Springs and smiled widely, and only then did I have a pair of eyes to take in colour. After an unknown amount of sounds of footsteps from the separation of life and death, I had the ability to hear, and then the five senses emerged. I propped my cheek up, listening to the stories at the edges of the Yellow Springs, and from listening with keen intent to boredom, I gained a human form.

The first person that I met was Ling Heng.

At that time, she wore a snow white cross-collared cheongsam, half her black hair loose, half coiled into a paojiaji bun,^[3] and on top of the bun, there was a lustrous, opaque white jade hairpin, without any other ornamentation. She walked along the side of the Yellow Springs, a person accustomed to coming and going alone, the hem of her skirt swaying faintly in the breeze, her facial features faintly luminous. I only understood later that that wasn’t called luminosity, but called beauty, called clever pettiness, called touching.

Ling Heng liked to call me by the nickname A Luo, and over time, there wasn’t anyone who remembered my name, only calling me Yan Futi-daren. Ling Heng loved reading, loved writing, loved wearing white clothes, and didn’t like wearing cinnabar harpins. So, I also read, and wrote, and wore black gauze luoqun, and didn’t coil or comb my hair.

For more than two thousand springs, summers, autumns, and winters, I followed Fujun’s orders, putting documents in order, and worked as an official, working meticulously and satisfactorily, never making a mistake; but I always felt this sort of daily life was some sort of mistake.

On a heavily cloudy afternoon, I unexpectedly met Fu Wuyin. At that time, I was carrying an umbrella, passing by the Naihe Bridge, just speaking to Wu Qian, when I suddenly heard the sound of crying that shook the skies; there was a woman sitting at the side of the bridge, and it was Fu Wuyin. She wore a Qianlong-era, fashionable mannequin, a deep green jacket with a pale pink skirt, paired with a full head of hairpins and earrings, like the multicoloured golden pheasants that Wu Qian had raised.

Wu Qian said to me that she had never been married off, and wasn’t willing to be reincarnated. I couldn’t help but look a second time, and saw her raising her head to look at me, her nose red from sniffling; the light in her gaze was the most bright and beautiful golden pheasant’s plumage, and she wiped at her tears, hiccoughing as her gaze followed me, until I stilled my footsteps.

I heard Meng Po urge her, “Guniang, if it didn’t happen this time, there’s still next time; Naihe Bridge is over there; more likely than not, there’s a good-looking young man waiting.” Meng Po was warmhearted, always willing to chat a bit with people.

Afterwards, I met a rickshaw driver in the mortal world who was the same. I thought, the ferryman pulls people from this end to that end, and their thoughts have to be kept in their mouth for the entire journey; only then could it be called complete.

Fu Wuyi cried once more, saying, “You said just now that there are people in the Taishan prefecture who don’t differentiate between beauty and ugliness; therefore, they wouldn’t know whether or not I was pretty, so how can you know that what waits for me over there is a good-looking young man, and not an old pig?”

I exchanged a look with Wu Qian, sinking into contemplation.

Meng Po sank into thought as well, only her thought lasted less time than mine did, and she said, “Then, tell me, what counts as pretty? This old woman has a slightly meagre face, so I’ll give you a greeting, and send you somewhere near a household with a handsome noble’s son, how’s that?”

Fu Wuyin whispered a couple times, and raised her hand to point at me. “That young noble is incredibly handsome.”

I was startled, and didn’t even have the mind to exchange glances with Wu Qian. I had always been old-fashioned, not keeping up with the latest sensibilities, and I still wore the hufu popular during the Tang dynasty, my hair unadorned as well, a bun like a flower bud atop my head; no wonder she mistook me for a youthful noble’s son. It’s just it was the first time I had heard that I was handsome, and unexpectedly, I didn’t much know how to naturally and unrestrainedly agree to it. So, I raised my umbrella, taking Wu Qian along as I left.

Fu Wuyin cried in the Taishan prefecture for many days; I don’t know if it was that she’d grown tired or crying, or came around to the idea, but in the end, she agreed to be reincarnated. I flipped through the letters she’d sent me those few days; the first letter was Zhang Xian’s “Qianqiu Sui”: “The heavens won’t age, making love hard to extinguish; my heart is like a double silk net, with thousands of knots”;^[4] the second letter was Le Wan’s “Busuanzi”: “If fate didn’t bring us together in a past life, I hope we will be brought together in the next”; the third letter was Fan Chengda’s “Che Yaoyao Pian”: “May I be like the stars, and the gentleman be like the moon, shining bright and clear each night”.

The fourth letter had come on that day, just before parting, and it said that this time she’d gone to reincarnate; if meeting again was fated, she would propose marriage once more.

I folded up the fourth letter, pressing it between a book.

After she entered the wheel of reincarnation, I would often go live in the mortal realm, and in the past, I tried to see how she was living; only then did I learn that, in order to find one’s whereabouts, one needed to have the spirit of a previous incarnation covering the Shentu Command to search for it; at the time I happened to have control of the Shentu Command, but I was lacking her spirit.

When we met once again, she was living spiritedly, yet the space between her brows had the ravine that not even Fu Wuyin’s crying for those days had branded there. And she didn’t remember me; naturally, she also didn’t remember the matter of her need to propose marriage to me.

I told her, I trust you’ve been well since we last met; told her that I was willing to act as the antidote, to go with her to Mount Wushan, and heard her say all her innermost feelings. Yet I never again heard a single phrase of raising her head and calling me an endearment.

I’m called A Luo; she’s called A Yin.

There are some sentiments of affection which appear to be nonsense, causing one to look like a joke.

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Translator's notes:

[1]: Magnolia is known as “mulan” in Chinese, the same as Mulan’s name, and star magnolia is literally “mulan star” (木兰星, mulan xing).

[2]: The favourite consort of King Zhou of Shang.

[3]: A type of hairstyle during the Tang dynasty, a bun resembling a ring.

[4]: From Zhang Xian’s Breaking off in May, referencing this translation. The poem is set to the tune of Qianqiu Sui.