Peach Blossom Pavilion (44 page)

As the winter went on, I was possessed more and more by unwelcome thoughts. I realized I'd escaped the gold-powdered hell of the prostitution house only to plunge into the white-powdered hell of the winter mountain. But this time I couldn't even run away. For I had no money and no place to go. Qing Zhen must have sensed my frustration, for one time he held me in his arms and cooed, "Be patient, Precious Orchid. When spring comes, everything will be fine."

After more months of agony, the weather finally let up. Two weeks later, when there was a hint of warmth and the air smelled of new vegetation, I suggested we take the qin to the riverbank and play outside. At last released from such a harsh winter, I was in a very happy mood. I sat cross-legged under the rejuvenating tree, lay the eight-hundred-year-old qin on my lap, and played all my favorite pieces.

Qing Zhen watched my hovering fingers with admiration. "Precious Orchid," he said when I finished, "your playing is so tranquil and nuanced."

"But I like your style of vigor and passion." I shot him a flirtatious look. "Now your turn."

Qing Zhen played the Gaoshan-High Mountain, and Liushui- Flowing Water. While my fingers floated on the strings like clouds drifting along the wind, his were like dragons roaring in the ocean.

After his fingers left the instrument, he said, "The high mountain is yang energy and flowing water yin energy, so the two pieces played one after another would generate the right balance of male and female elements."

Then, as we sat beside the rushing water of the brook, he told me the familiar story about the famous qin player Boya and his woodcutter friend Ziqi.

No matter what tune Boya played, Ziqi, though illiterate, would immediately grasp its meaning.

One time when Boya played the High Mountain, Ziqi exclaimed, "Ah, how imposing, the high mountain!" Then when Boya began to play the Flowing Water, Ziqi sighed, "The flowing water, how impressive! "

Boya was astonished, for not only was Ziqi a country bumpkin, he had never heard the pieces before, so how could he tell that one depicted the high mountain and the other the flowing water?

"How can I ever fool you with my tunes!" Boya exclaimed, praising his woodcutter friend as a zhiyin-one who understands sound.

Therefore, when Ziqi died, Boya, realizing that no one else would understand his music as well as his friend, smashed his qin at Ziqi's grave and sighed, "Why play the qin when there's no more zhiyin to understand my music!"

From then on, the term zhiyin had been used to describe soul mates.

"Precious Orchid," Qing Zhen looked at me intently while a solitary bird soared behind him in the vast sky, "you realize how lucky we are? Most people search all their life for a zhiyin but never find one. We're not only lovers; we're also zhiyin."

Though I was used to compliments from men and usually did not take them seriously, this one from Qing Zhen touched a silk string in my heart.

With the arrival of spring, I expected that the misery I felt living on the mountain would melt away with the snow. But I was wrong. Because of the good weather, Qing Zhen was out almost every day collecting herbs. Occasionally he'd take me with him, but most of the time I was left behind. Stuck in the small hut by myself, I couldn't help but feel lonely. I'd practice the qin for hours. Now my favorite piece was "Playing the Flute on the Phoenix Terrace," by the Sung dynasty poetess Li Qingzhao:

When I grew bored with the qin, I'd sing opera arias or recite poems. I also did some cleaning and cooking to pass time as well as to release Qing Zhen from these chores-though I bitterly hated them. Back in Peach Blossom Pavilion, I lifted my fingers only to pour wine, to light an opium pipe, or to play mahjong. When I was hungry, there was Aunty Ah Ping to cook me delicate meat and fish and Little Rain to bring them to me.

Remembering Peach Blossom now made me feel very nostalgic. Though I hated my slavery to Mama and De, I missed Ah Ping, Spring Moon, and my parrot Plum Blossom. Then I thought of Teng Xiong. What was happening to her now?

My mother had once told me the Buddhists believe that only after a man and a woman have cultivated for a thousand years will they generate the Karma to share the same pillow. Therefore, under the same logic, Qing Zhen and I must have cultivated in endless past lives. But what about those customers whom I hated, but was forced to share my pillow with? And what about Teng Xiong, though both women, had we also cultivated for a thousand years in our past incarnations?

One time I secretly took a scrap of Qing Zhen's paper and tried to paint her from my memory, as she liked to show herself in a Western suit and also as a long-haired woman in an elegant dress. She must have been heartbroken that morning, waking up in the simple temple room expecting to rub mirrors with me, only to find the other side of the bed cool. Would our Karma lead us to another rendezvous in this lifetime? If so, I'd try to make her the happiest lesbian under heaven.

Many days my memories would make me restless, thinking not only of Teng Xiong but also my mother. Unlike Pearl, they were still in the yang world, but I had no idea how to find them. When Qing Zhen was away, a few times I went out to look for temples. But no monks or nuns had ever heard of Mother. Some even suggested that she might have already left the sangha and become a layperson, moved to another mountain, or even entered nirvana. All these conjectures and ruminations depressed me, but when night came, as I stared at Qing Zhen's handsome, intent face above mine while feeling his vigorous movements below, all my troubles generated by this floating world would vanish into thin air. I felt love so strong as to drive away my dissatisfactions.

As the mountains and trees around us began to sparkle with a bright green, I realized I'd been living with Qing Zhen for more than nine months. I also realized that love had made me an outsider who watched from a distance as the world revolved. Perhaps Qing Zhen did sense my discontent, because he would often do things to please me-bring me bunches of wildflowers, or take me out to the woods for a picnic, or an elegant gathering of qin playing, though there were only the two of us. He'd even made two sets of clothes for me-monks all learned how to sew since they had no women to do it for them.

Yet, though a Taoist monk would feel satisfied to dwell on a mountain surrounded by auspicious pines and lingzhi funguses, I, a woman and an ex-ming ji, longed for friends, parties, and elabo rately embroidered silk gowns. I had expected a simpler existence, but not this day-after-day monotony.

One day when the sky appeared dim like pale ink, Qing Zhen told me-since this weather was best for communicating with spirits-he was going to draft four fu: one for protecting me; one for finding my mother; one for aiding my father in the yin world; and one for stripping the warlord's power.

During Qing Zhen's deep concentration, he looked transformed, to a xian, an immortal. Waves of love rose to warm my body. Watching him, I felt the presence of the pure land, far from all the smoke and dust of this imperfect world. I'll love and be kind to this man for the rest of my life, I said silently to myself. Then I looked out the window and my eyes caught the gentle green of new leaves, witnessing my vow.

Much as I appreciated the care Qing Zhen put into making the fu for me, I was still not happy on the mountain. The legend is told that when a day passes inside the immortal's cavern, a thousand years have already gone by in the outside world. But now it turned out just the opposite: a single day on the mountain felt like a thousand years. I remembered a line from a poem by the famous Tang dynasty courtesan Yu Xuanji: It's easier to find priceless treasures than a loving man. Now my problem was, though I'd found the loving man, I still wanted the priceless treasures!

Then one day Qing Zhen told me that in a week, the Taoist festival of Zhai Qiao-fasting and offering-would be held at Celestial Cloud Temple. Hundreds would attend, to pray, to make offerings to the numerous Taoist gods, and to eat and be entertained. There would be operas, folk music, puppet shows, magic, and all kinds of food and games ...

My eyes widened and my face flushed just listening to Qing Zhen's description. I couldn't wait to go out and have fun, to be around people!

But then Qing Zhen said, "Precious Orchid, we'll go to Celestial Cloud together, but once we've arrived, I can't stay with you."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a monk and everybody knows me there."

I felt too hurt to utter a word.

"Precious Orchid," he looked embarrassed, "please understand ..."

It was exactly because I understood that I felt so sad. What combination could be more sensational-and more condemnablethan a runaway prostitute and an amorous monk? Not long ago, had our relationship been found out, we would've been stripped naked, then tied together for onlookers to throw stones at. After that, if we were still "lucky" enough to be alive, we would be taken to a lake and, with our necks and feet tied with big stones, thrown into the icy water.

I swallowed my bitterness. "Don't worry, once we're inside the temple, I'll act just like a stranger. And I know how to entertain myself."

I wanted very much to start a fight just to stir up the air between us. However, catching his sad glance, my words retreated inside my mouth while my heart quietly shattered.

The next day I woke up and-to my trepidation-found Qing Zhen gone. However, he'd left a message on the altar:

Precious Orchid, I'll be away for a day or two, at most three, for business. Don't worry about me, I'll bring you good news when I'm back.

Good news, what kind? That he was going to quit the temple, marry me, and have babies? But then what were we going to live on, that dead bird with its filthy feathers floating in the elixir?

As promised, Qing Zhen did come back in three days. The moment I saw his beaming face and heard his voice calling my name, my grudge vanished.

"Precious Orchid," his eyes searched mine with tenderness, 14 see what I've bought you."

My enthusiasm was immediately cooled by what I saw-a styleless, rough-textured top and pants plus a straw hat. Back in Peach Blossom, these were worn by maids of the lowest rank. My heart was bleeding inside, but I feigned joy. I conjured up my most prestigious, dimpled smile and directed it to Qing Zhen.

He couldn't possibly have looked happier. Like a child trying to show off by reciting poetry to his parents, Qing Zhen continued to display things he had brought back for me-pickled food, a scarf, a small purse, and a small amount of cash.

"Qing Zhen," I searched his face suspiciously, "where did you get the money to buy all these?"

"I earned them."

"Did you work? Where?"

"On the street."

"Did you sell your concoction?"

"Precious Orchid, you know I'd rather die than do that."

"I'm sorry." I knew I had trespassed his sacred space.

A silence, then he said, "I've been asking for alms."

These simple words suddenly sounded like thunderclaps bursting above my head. Qing Zhen had once told me he used to make his living by performing rituals-birthdays, blessings, funerals, casting away evil spirits. But since he was now living as a hermit monk, opportunity for this sort of work had been drastically reduced, and so was his income. Therefore, during his reclusion-especially after I'd started to live with him-finding money had been difficult.