Chapter 54: Who sent my longing to Du Heng? (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 and rising in the air, the stream of light from the jade butterfly of just now remaining. She had never seen the spirited A Yin cut this sorry figure before; her hands were wrapped in her nightgown, embracing her waist, and the colouration on her face had collapsed into confusion, the grandness of days past gone, withered as if bok choy that had been trampled on.

The bok choy lifted her gaze to her, her eyes still restraining the lustrousness of bok choy, impolitely sitting down on the sofa, and felt around on the small side table, touching a carton of white lady’s cigarettes; beside it was placed a slender matchbox. She deftly struck one; the cigarette was a good thing, first filling up your mouth, which had nothing to say, and then vitalising your heart, riddled with gaping wounds, and then bringing out your abandoned 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 run before your eyes, causing your eyes 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 inclined her gaze to look 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 agreeable.

A Yin had originally not intended to come here; she’d walked for a long while on the stairs, 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 in the prairie fire of emotion and desire lit by a spark, emerging from her spine and growing, innumerable ants gnawed and devoured her bones, causing her soul to be pervaded by the itch, even the touch of the bedding was a sort of ineffectual torment, scratching outside of the boot. She could only shamefully admit that when she’d seen Li Shiyi’s smooth collarbones, her luminous, bare chest, and the greater part of 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, fine and meticulous, not even a tiny amount remaining. She could barely put away her remaining self-respect, causing herself to not look much like a woman smoking opium, her footsteps softly and slowly walking before A Luo, even wanting to chat 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 saying after a moment, “Mulan 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 hun spirit command army’s new commander could once more find her flying dragon of greatness.

A Yin let out an “oh”, narrowing her eyes and drawing in a breath of the cigarette. She saw A Luo turn over, laying levelly in the centre of the bed, gazed at the swaying bed curtains, and said in a soft voice, “If it’s hard to bear, 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 to say an extra phrase of pointless speech. A Yin breathed through her nose raising her hand to put out the cigarette, and walked forward 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 dried hair falling down onto A Luo’s pillow.

Yet A Luo raised her delicate brows, gazing at her with a hiddenness off mountains and water unrevealed, 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 along 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 most practised in understanding lips. 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, saying 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 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 image of 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 whether people 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, and then sat on the rug by the bed, drinking in small sips.

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

A Yin’s ear twitched, and she wanted to turn her head, but 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 five 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 two prolonged breaths. When 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 out a not too sincere smile, and said, “Before Shijiu appeared, when I dreamed, I would always think of splashing that bucket of bathwater for the coachmen down.” She didn’t mich 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 like being 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; it 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. “Then, 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 is…” 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 descending, the delicate woman coming out from the great doors, treading in the moonlight beneath parasol tree leaf-covered small path. It was clearly the night, yet she customarily 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 causing me to have 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 I had a pair of eyes to take in colour. After an unknown amount 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, 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, usually coming and going alone as one person, 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 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.

More than two thousand springs, summers, autumns, and winters, I heard about the Fujun’s position, and put documents in order, worked as an official, working meticulously and satisfactorily, never making a mistake; but I always felt this sort of daily life had 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 inevitably looked a few extra times, and saw her nose red as she sobbed and sniffled, raising her head to look at me, the brightness in her eyes the bright beauty of golden pheasant plumage; she wiped her tears, hiccoughing as her gaze followed me, the direct look causing me to pause my steps.

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 note, there’s a spirited young man waiting.” Meng Po was warmhearted, always willing to chat a few phrases with people.

Afterwards, I met a rickshaw driver in the mortal world, and it was also like this. I thought, the ferryman pulls people from this end to that end, and his thoughts should be kept in his 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 registry 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 spirited young man, and not an old pig?”

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

Meng Po also sank into thought, 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. “This young noble is incredibly handsome.”

I was startled, and didn’t even have the thought 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 also unadorned, 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 didn’t much know how to naturally and unrestrainedly agree to it. So, I raised my umbrella, and brought Wu Qian along to leave.

Fu Wuyin cried in the Taishan registry 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 it was fated for them to meet, 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 their previous spirit; I again commanded the Shentu to go search; at the time, I was lucky to have command of the Shentu, but I still lacked 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 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.