The Best of Electric Velocipede (38 page)

Here, resting snug in the palm of his hand, is proof that she was right—that he wasn’t born a
caihe
, that he will not die as one. That he is . . .

He doesn’t know what he is, anymore.

“You look thoughtful,” Husband’s voice says, behind him.

Liang Pao doesn’t start, or show surprise in any way—only small children are still impulsive enough to display what they feel.

Rather, Liang Pao turns, slowly, and bows to Husband, the precise depth required by ceremony. Today, Husband is wearing a robe shimmering with moiré; his hair is done in an immaculate topknot, with the eight-metal pins denoting his status as a fifth-rank magistrate.

Husband shakes his head. “No need for that,” he says. Gently, he picks the pouch from Liang Pao’s hand, and turns it over. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you take this out.”

Liang Pao doesn’t quite know how to answer. It’s never been his place to bother Husband with his own problems, just as Husband’s troubles at the tribunal stop at the door of the house. “I—was curious,” he says finally.

Husband stares at the pouch, as if, like a poem, it might twist and turn on itself and reveal something else. “Something is on your mind,” he says, and he looks distinctly worried. “Isn’t it?”

How does he know? “It’s been—difficult, lately, for me,” Liang Pao says.

Husband’s eyes freeze: a minute expression that Liang Pao isn’t sure how to interpret. “You have a good life, Pao. Don’t you?”

The use of Liang Pao’s personal name is almost as shocking as the hunger with which Husband watches him—and Liang Pao doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say to make things go back to the way they were. “Of course,” he says, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. “Fourth Spouse . . .” he starts, and can’t finish.

Husband still watches him.

“Fourth Spouse is . . . unexpected.”

Husband relaxes a fraction, though his gaze is still harsh. “Yes, of course. I should have known. She’s not here to supplant any of you, Pao. I just—” He hesitates, but then goes on. “You should have seen her in the willow-and-flower house. You should have heard her make up verses to cap the poems of the customers—and such talent, when she played the
qin
. . .”

Liang Pao doesn’t speak. He doesn’t dare to. He’s never heard such contained emotion in Husband’s voice.
He loves her
, he thinks, and it’s a bittersweet thought, because he’s not quite sure how he should react to this.

“They go back to the government, when they’re too old to procreate,” Husband says. “They’re sold to High Officials as ornaments—as pretty things, exhibited before one’s friends at receptions and festivals. That’s . . . That isn’t a life for her. You understand?”

Liang Pao isn’t sure if he does, but he nods all the same. “You rescued her?”

“Yes. Rescued her. But she’s not here to take your place. She isn’t here . . .”

To carry his children. Liang Pao shakes his head. “I understand.”

“Good. Good.” Husband smiles, looking relieved, and puts the pouch back in the freezer.

And then it occurs to Liang Pao: Husband didn’t know. There is one time in his life when a
caihe
receives his pouch—for the last few breaths, the last few heartbeats, that he might die as he was born.

No, he wants to say. I didn’t want to commit suicide. But Husband has already moved on. “You should go and see her,” he says. “Be friends with her. For the harmony of the household.”

Husband’s words are commands, of course, even if he doesn’t always realise it. “I will,” Liang Pao says, but the last thing he wants is to talk to Fourth Spouse.

*

That evening, Liang Pao goes into the garden, and stands for a while, listening to the plaintive accents of a
qin
wafting from inside Fourth Spouse’s quarters.

It’s a song he knows, a poem about the pain of parting:

“Two regal daughters are weeping

off within green clouds

They went along with the wind and the waves . . .”

He should go in. He should enter her quarters and talk to her, as Husband has asked.

For the sake of the household, if nothing else. But he can’t . . .

He can’t go in there again.

“ . . . the Xiang may stop its flow

only then will the stains disappear

of their tears upon bamboo.”

The
qin
falls silent, and nothing moves within. He hears the scuffle of the valets withdrawing from the inner chamber; her evening is over, and she will be preparing herself for bed.

It’s not too late, he tells himself, but he knows he’s only lying to himself. His swollen breasts hang over his chest—his nipples tingle, and the same feeling climbs from his womb, mingling with the baby’s heartbeat within him. He aches with need.

That’s when he hears the door slide open—and sees her shadow slip out of the quarters.

At first, he thinks Fourth Spouse is only there to enjoy the moonlight—but something in the way she walks tells another story. She looks left and right, pausing every few steps to make sure no one is following her. That’s no mincing, womanly walk, but the careful step of someone on reprehensible business.

Surely she wouldn’t—

Liang Pao starts walking faster, heedless of his body’s protests—his muscles ache, and his breasts, unhampered by any underwear, shift up and down on his chest, to the rhythm of his race. He takes care to stay hidden, but she’s running now, heading towards the back of the garden and the small passageway that opens only for the Moon Festival.

Surely . . .

She stands by the door—and then she reaches inside her wide sleeves. She throws a last, furtive glance behind her—Liang Pao presses himself harder against the trunk of a willow tree, tries to merge with the night . . .

She doesn’t see him. With a shrug, she slides a card into the door and it slides open, infinitely, heart-wrenchingly slow.

That’s not meant to happen, Liang Pao thinks, standing frozen where he is. The door can’t just . . .

There’s no time to think about all of this. One more moment; and she’ll pass through into the passageway, through the door at the end, and she’ll slip outside and they’ll never find her.

Fine, that’s his first thought. Let her be gone, her and her disturbing presence, and the feelings she evokes within him. But then he remembers Husband’s voice when he spoke of Fourth Spouse—brimming with an emotion Liang Pao has never heard from him. Her flight, he knows, will break Husband’s heart.

He moves before he can think. He runs—his head spins, and the unaccustomed weight of his belly forces him to bend backward, but he doesn’t stop. He has to reach her.

She’s squeezing herself through the door, pressing against the metal panels even though they’re not open yet—and he’s not fast enough, not strong enough to catch up to her before she goes through. So he does the only thing he can do.

“Stop,” he says. His voice echoes against the walls of the empty garden, triggering a flood of soft lights from the garden walls.

But that doesn’t work—she’s still pressing on, still hoping to pass the second door and lose herself in the deserted streets of the city. “Stop”, Liang Pao says, again. “Or I’ll call.”

She freezes, then. “You wouldn’t. You don’t want me here.”

“I already told you. I have no desires,” he says.

Fourth Spouse watches the open door, her face half-turned away from him, washed smooth by the soft, swirling light emanating from the garden walls—and he stands, already out of breath and waiting for the adrenaline to leave his muscles. Thankfully, each garden section is independent: the light will be small, and barely visible from Husband’s quarters. For now, it’s just the two of them.

Her face is unreadable under the harsh neon light. “Surely you can understand.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “I will humbly remove myself from your presence, and the house will return to harmony.”

Liang Pao puts both hands in his sleeves—standing away from her, both feet firmly planted in the muddy, fragrant earth of the garden: a gesture of disapproval.

The door is closing again—between that and the door at the other end of the passageway, that’s two sets of doors now, two barriers against her escape. He doesn’t move, though, to stand between her and the panels; that would be showing weakness.

Finally, Fourth Spouse says, “Let me go.” Her voice is shaking now. “You have to.”

“You’ll break his heart,” Liang Pao says. “Why should I let you go?”

She shakes her head, in that oddly disturbing way. “I’m not meant for him.” She looks at him, and some of the same freezing contempt creeps back into her face. “But you don’t understand, do you?”

“I—” Liang Pao says, and she’s right: he doesn’t understand a word she’s saying. But her voice—her voice is like an electric tingle in his body, and he can’t seem to focus on anything but the carnation of her lips, and her wide eyes.

She bends her head towards him, gracefully. “We didn’t only have New Zhongguans, at the willow-and-flower house. We had navigators and engineers, and other people sailing the space between the stars.” Her voice is oddly reflexive. “Some of them were women—we used to lie against each other afterwards and whisper sweet nothings on the pillows—” and it’s all too clear she’s not talking about women, but about one woman in particular.

He doesn’t want to hear that. Women sleeping with each other—it’s as unnatural as a fish out of water, or Heaven under Earth. His throat is pulsing again; he fights an urge to come closer to her.

“I—”

Fourth Spouse’s smile is malicious. “Rubbing each other’s nipples, and pleasuring ourselves with tongues and fingertips . . . “

The tightening in his womb has become unbearable. “Stop,” he whispers. “Stop.”

“She’s out there,” Fourth Spouse says. “Waiting for me—waiting to take me away from all this, to a place that’s meant just for me. Let me go.” Her voice is low, urgent, and the odd, frightening smell of her spring-scents saturates the air. “Let me be free.”

He gives her the rote answer, the one they taught him at the Ministry of Rites: “A woman’s true place is in the house, with her husband.” As is a
caihe’s
place.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She’s not smiling anymore. “You were a man, once—before you changed. I thought you’d understand. I thought—” She looks at him, tears glistening in her eyes. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“I—”

Her eyes are wide, and he feels himself falling into them, a fall that has no end.

She whispers, “Don’t you remember what it felt like, being a man? Don’t you remember the life you were promised—the fight against the
shenghuans
on the boundary, the grand merchant adventures in space—dreaming of what it would feel like, kissing a wife? Don’t you remember?” She moves closer, and her scent enfolds him, an intoxicating tingle on every pore of his skin.

Like the kites, her words mean something to him—stir the same indefinable longing in his womb—but this is wrong, all wrong, those are selfish dreams. “This doesn’t matter,” he says. “This isn’t my place.”

“Then you’re a worse fool than I thought.”

But he’s had enough of being dominated by her—woman or not, she’s still the most junior member of the household, and he’s still First Spouse. “No. You’re the fool, Daiyu. You think that all you have to do is walk through that door, and you’ll be free.”

“More than you.”

He shakes his head. “You and your—lover . . .” He spits the word, ignoring the odd taste it leaves in his mouth. “You wouldn’t go past the first street. You’re still in seclusion, remember? You owe a tax, and you haven’t paid it in full.”

Her lips purse, and he can well imagine what kind of fire she’ll be hurling at him. He forestalls her, quietly. “You may think her clever enough to evade the patrols. But the guards at the space-harbor—they won’t overlook you. Two women, without any kind of travel permit? You’ll stand out like Buddhist monks in a crowd.”

“You’re wrong,” Fourth Spouse says. “We have the papers.”

“Faked papers?” Liang Pao says, slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “Is that what you think it takes to leave? For an off-worlder with a New Zhongguan? The first thing they’ll do is call this house, to check that you do have a travel permit.” He takes a deep breath to steady the erratic beat of his heart, and says to those wide, entrancing eyes, “And even if they don’t call . . . I’ll make sure Husband knows you’re missing the moment you run through those gates.”

He doesn’t move; he simply watches her, trying to ignore the fluttering in his womb.

“No,” Fourth Spouse says, finally. Her voice is bitter, angry—but she’s not looking at the door anymore, and the anger is directed in equal parts at him and at herself. “All right,” she says, shaking her head. “Next thing I know, you’ll blackmail me into staying here in exchange for not reporting this little . . . incident.”

Liang Pao shakes his head. “I know enough to guess it wouldn’t work.”

Fourth Spouse’s lips tighten in a smile. “You have that right, if nothing else.” She turns to leave—but Liang Pao stops her.

“The card,” he says.

Her smile is a terrible, wounding thing. She throws the card in the air—a shard of light spinning upwards, and then plummeting into the soft air. “That cost me dearly. Two moons of negotiation with your doctor’s assistant. Two moons of promises and cajoling,” she says, contemptuously—whether of him or of the assistant, it’s not clear.

“You won’t have that opportunity again,” Liang Pao says.

She doesn’t move. “I guess not,” she says, more quietly.

And, as quick as an unsaid thought, she spins on her heels, and walks back to her own quarters, leaving Liang Pao alone in harsh moonlight—shivering in the night cold and no longer sure of the right thing to do.

*

In spite of what she thinks, he doesn’t denounce her—but he finds himself watching her, wondering if she’s still thinking of escape. Liang Pao calls the assistant, seemingly on a trivial matter about
yin
-humour dosages—and shows him the card, quietly making it clear to him that such things won’t happen again.

As far as he knows, Fourth Spouse keeps within her quarters, obsessively playing the
qin
, and painting, with decisive flicks of the pen, landscapes of New Zhongguo—from the red canyons where
shenghuans
ambush the unwary, to the settlements scattered among the dust plains. He resumes his old routine, and never speaks to her.