The Real Story of Ah-Q (43 page)

‘My lady.’ Yi quickly stood up and went after her, his voice low. ‘I shot a sparrow, too – for your dinner tonight. Number Eight!’ he shouted to one of the maids. ‘Bring the mistress the sparrow!’

Number Eight rushed out to the kitchen – where the smells of the hunt had been deposited – then returned and respectfully presented the bird to Chang’e for her inspection.

‘Hmph!’ she muttered peevishly, giving it a glance and a prod. ‘What a mess! Did you have to smash it up like that? Is there any meat left in there?’

‘I’m afraid,’ Yi faltered, his nerve failing him again, ‘it got damaged by my arrow – it was too big for such a small bird.’

‘Can’t you use smaller arrows?’

‘I don’t have any. Ever since I shot the Great Boar and the Long Python – ’

‘Is this a Great Boar? Or a Long Python?’ she snapped, turning back to Number Eight. ‘Turn it into soup!’ She then retired to her room.

Yi stood, stupidly, alone in the hall. Eventually, he slumped down against a wall, listening to the firewood crackling in the kitchen. He remembered how the Great Boar had loomed mountainously up in the distance. If only he hadn’t killed it back then, if only he’d let it be till now, they could have dined off it for a year – there’d be none of this daily bickering about food. Or the Long Python: now that would have made a lovely thick soup…

Number Two came in to light the lamps. Hanging on the wall opposite, Yi’s crimson bow and arrow (bestowed with the blessing of the emperor himself), his black bow and arrow, his crossbow, his long sword and his short sword now emerged out of the dusk. Glancing over at them, Yi looked down again, and sighed. Number Eight set dinner on the table in the middle of the room: five large bowls of white noodles to the left, two more large bowls and a bowl of soup to the right, a great dish of crow in fried-bean sauce in the centre.

Yi applied himself to the noodles, admitting to himself that he had indeed eaten better dinners. He stole a glance at Chang’e, who scorned even to look at the stir-fried crow. After half a bowl of noodles in sparrow soup, she set her chopsticks down. She was looking thinner, he thought, and paler. Was she falling ill?

By the second watch of the night, her mood seemed a little improved. She sat silently on the edge of her bed, drinking water, while Yi reclined on the wooden divan next to her, stroking the ancient threadbare leopard skin.

‘I remember shooting this leopard in the western hills,’ he reminisced in a conciliatory tone. ‘Before we were married. How beautiful it was, with its glossy golden coat.’ He thought of the feasts they’d had: when he shot bears, they ate only the paws; camels, the hump. The rest they left for the servants. Once the big game was gone, they satisfied themselves with wild boar, rabbits, pheasants – his sure aim gave them as many as they wanted. ‘I wish I’d missed a few more,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve shot everything there is to shoot. Who’d have thought there’d be only crows left, now?’

‘Hmph.’ Chang’e offered the glimmer of a smile.

‘But I got lucky today.’ Yi cheered up a little. ‘With that sparrow. I went an extra ten miles for it.’

‘Can’t you go further still?’

‘Yes, my lady. My thoughts exactly. I’ll get up earlier tomorrow. If you wake up first, send me on my way. I’m going to ride an extra twenty miles, to look for deer and rabbits… The going won’t be easy, though. There was no shortage of game when I shot the Great Boar and the Long Python. Your mother was always asking me to go and shoot the black bears prowling past her gate.’

‘Really?’ Chang’e replied vaguely.

‘And now they’re all gone – who’d have thought it? How we’ll manage in the future, I’ve no idea. I’m not so bothered about myself – that elixir of immortality the Daoist priest gave me’s my ticket to heaven. But I’ve got to see you right first… so I’ll pull out all the stops tomorrow.’

‘Hmm.’ Her water finished, Chang’e lay back languidly and closed her eyes.

The guttering flame illuminated the ruins of her makeup: her powder had slid off her face, exposing dark circles around her eyes; her blue-black eyebrows arched asymmetrically. But her lips remained as red as fire, two shallow dimples embedded in her unsmiling cheeks.

‘She deserves better than crow in fried-bean sauce.’ Yi’s face flushed with the shame of it.

The night passed, and a new day dawned.

Yi’s eyes flew open: a ray of sunlight was slanting on to the western wall – it was well past first light. He glanced across at Chang’e, her limbs splayed in sleep. He dressed quietly, clambered off the leopard-skin divan, crept out into the hall and washed his face, while calling out to Number Seven to hurry Wang Sheng with his horse.

A long time ago, the demands of hunting had made breakfast an impossible luxury: instead, Number Two placed five wheat cakes, five spring onions and a packet of chilli paste in Yi’s bag, then tied his bow and arrows on to his back. After tightening his belt, Yi stepped lightly out of the house.

‘I’m going further today,’ he told Number Seven as she came back in from the stables. ‘I may be back later than usual. Once your mistress has woken, respectfully inform her she may have to wait a little longer for her supper tonight. Wait till after her breakfast, when she’s in a slightly better mood than usual. Send her my apologies. Don’t forget: my apologies.’

He strode out of the gate, mounted his horse and, leaving his men standing to attention behind him, galloped out of the village. He ignored the fields of sorghum he passed every day; there was nothing for him there, he had discovered long ago. With a couple of cracks of the whip, his horse flew on another twenty miles or so, where a densely planted copse of trees lay ahead. The animal slowed, panting for breath, the sweat coursing down its body. Some three miles later, the wood at last drew near. The place was swarming with insect life – hornets, white butterflies, ants, grasshoppers – but nothing bigger. He had hoped for a couple of foxes or rabbits, at least, but now he realized it had all been an illusion. He skirted the edge of the forest, discovering yet more dark green sorghum fields behind, and a few mud huts scattered in the distance. The breeze was warm and the sun mild; silence reigned.

‘Damnation!’ he roared in frustration.

Perhaps a dozen strides on, his anger evaporated. On the flat ground outside one of the distant mud huts, he could see a bird, pecking along at its feet – the very image of an enormous pigeon. Seizing his bow, he drew the string back. An arrow flew out like a shooting star.

No need for further hesitation; he had never missed a target he had set his sights on. All he had to do now was gallop off to claim his prize. But what was this? As he approached, an old woman, cradling the deceased pigeon in her arms, charged at him.

‘Who the hell are you?’ she screeched. ‘Why did you just shoot my best black hen? Can’t you find anything better to do with yourself?’

Yi quickly reined in his horse, his heart pounding.

‘A hen?’ he flustered. ‘I thought it was a wood pigeon.’

‘You blind or something? You look old enough to know better.’

‘I was forty-four at my last birthday, madame.’

‘And you can’t tell a hen from a wood pigeon! Who are you, anyway?’

‘I am Yi the Archer.’ He allowed his self-introduction to fade circumspectly, noting – as he dismounted – that his arrow had passed precisely through the hen’s heart, leaving the bird indisputably dead.

‘Yi?… Never heard of you,’ she snorted, studying his face.

‘There are some who know the name. In the time of King Yao, I shot wild boars and snakes – ’

‘Ha! You lie! That was Feng Meng,
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and his lot. You might have been one of them – but here you are claiming all the glory for yourself. Shame on you!’

‘Over the past few years, Feng Meng has been a frequent visitor to my door, madame, but we’ve never been hunting partners.’

‘Rubbish. Everyone says it was him – why, I hear it four or five times a month.’

‘But back to the matter in hand. What’s to be done about this hen?’

‘Compensation – that’s what I want. She was my best layer: I had eggs from her every day. I want two hoes and three spindles for her.’

‘Do I look like a plougher and spinner, madame? I’ve no money, either. All I have is these five wheat cakes, made of white flour – these are all I can give you for your hen. Look, I’ll throw in five spring onions and a packet of sweet chilli paste, too. How about it?’ He groped around in his string bag for the wheat cakes, reaching out with his other hand for the hen.

At the sight of the wheat cakes, she began to reconsider – but she wanted fifteen of them. After a free and frank exchange of views, they settled on a final figure of ten, to be delivered the following day by noon at the latest; she would keep hold of the guilty arrow as a surety against Yi’s return. A relieved Yi stuffed the dead hen into his bag, swung back into his saddle and turned towards home. He was famished but happy: neither of them had tasted chicken soup for over a year.

As it was well past noon when he wound his way back around the woods; he tried to spur his horse on towards home, but it was exhausted, and it was dusk by the time they approached the sorghum fields. Somewhere in the distance ahead, he saw a darting shadow; an arrow suddenly swooped towards him.

Yi spurred his horse on, taking up his bow as he galloped and releasing an arrow of his own. Two arrows sparked in mid-air collision, fused into an inverted V, ascended and then fell back to the ground, their momentum exhausted. The instant the first arrows encountered each other, a second pair flew out, again clashing in mid-air. And so it went on, through nine arrows, until Yi’s quiver was empty. He now saw his enemy Feng Meng, jubilantly opposite, another arrow poised on his bowstring, aimed directly at Yi’s throat.

‘Ha!’ thought Yi. ‘I thought he’d left these parts to try his luck fishing on the coast. Still up to his old tricks, I see. No wonder that old woman wouldn’t shut up about him.’

The bow, distended like a full moon, released its missile towards Yi’s throat. Perhaps its archer’s aim had been a little out, for it hit him squarely in the mouth. Thus punctured, Yi tumbled from his horse, which came to a halt.

Feng Meng crept over to smile upon Yi’s dead face, lifting an imaginary cup of liquor to his victory.

But as he bent to look, Yi opened his eyes and sat bolt upright.

‘You obviously didn’t listen to a thing I said to you,’ he smiled, spitting out the arrow. ‘How could you have failed to learn my art of arrow-biting? Hopeless: trying to kill your teacher with his own tricks. You’ve got to come up with something of your own.’

‘I thought you might enjoy a taste of your own medicine…’ the deflated victor mumbled.

‘Enough!’ Yi laughed, standing up. ‘You might be able to humbug old women, but you won’t fool me! I’m a hunter, not a highway robber – unlike some people round here.’ Glancing back down at the hen in his bag, he saw it was undamaged by his fall. He swung back on to his horse and rode off.

‘Damn you to hell!’ Feng Meng shouted after him.

‘Hopeless. Such ill-breeding, at such a young age. No wonder he managed to hoodwink that old woman.’ Yi shook his head despairingly as he rode along.

The sky was fully dark before the fields were behind him, and glittering with stars; to the west, Venus shone with exceptional brightness. His exhausted horse now tortuously picked its way along the whitened ridges between the fields, as the moon over the horizon began to pour out its silvery light.

‘Confound it!’ Yi fulminated, hearing his stomach loudly complain. ‘The harder I work, the more bad luck comes my way. What a waste of a day!’ He tried squeezing the horse’s stomach with his legs, but the animal just shook its rump and ambled on as before.

‘Chang’e’s going to be furious, waiting for me all this time,’ he thought. ‘At least I’ve got this hen. My lady, I’ll say, I travelled seventy miles to win you your dinner. Or would that sound too boastful?’

He gazed at the lamplight from other houses, the euphoria of success overriding his anxiety. Without so much as a touch of the whip, the horse flew into a gallop. A round, white moon now illuminating the way ahead, a cool breeze against his face, his heart grew light – lighter even than after the great hunts of the old days.

Without needing to be told, his horse pulled up next to the pile of rubbish. A foreboding that all was not well gnawed at Yi; only Zhao Fu emerged to meet him.

‘What’s happened? Where’s Wang Sheng?’ he asked.

‘He’s gone to the Yaos’ to look for the mistress.’

‘To the Yaos’?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His man took the reins and whip from him.

Dismounting at last, Yi walked in through the gate, chewing the news over. ‘Are you sure she didn’t get tired of waiting and go to a restaurant?’ he turned back to ask.

‘Yes, sir. I’ve already looked in all three of them.’

Yi went on into the house, head bowed, thinking through the possibilities. Inside, he was startled to discover the three maids gathered nervously in the hall.

‘What are you all doing here?’ he shouted at them. ‘The mistress never goes alone to the Yaos’.’

Gazing silently at him, they helped him off with his bow, his quiver and the string bag containing the hen. Yi’s heart began to pound: could Chang’e have committed suicide out of pique? He had Number Seven call Zhao Fu, and got him to check in the pond and the trees in the back courtyard. As soon as he stepped into his and Chang’e’s apartments, however, he knew he had drawn the wrong conclusion. Her room was in chaos: her chest of clothes flung open, her jewellery box missing from under the bed. This last discovery hit him particularly hard: not on account of the gold or the pearls, but of the elixir of life that had been inside.