Elsewhere, page 22
Swiftly, he picks the necklace off Celery before putting him back in the crib. And he claims the rattle drum from his daughter by offering her a millet bun. Then he rushes to the kitchen, moves his books piled on the bottom shelf aside and hauls out the ebony case.
In the case lies an array of items, all gifts from Yanyan throughout the years: the emerald-inlaid belt, the golden ladle carved with lilies, a carnelian ink stone, a jade paperweight and a pair of crystal spindles.
Zixia sighs. ‘I’ll give them back to you when this all ends.’
Adding the rattle and the necklace to the collection, he locks the box, and, before Woman Bu comes home, pushes it back into the dark.
Zixia hasn’t told anyone about the presents because he doesn’t want people to misunderstand that he has, in a way, been bought by Yanyan. Confidently, Zixia considers himself someone who’d never be swayed by immediate fortune, because instead of pursuing wealth that might not be permissible, he’d rather strive for a greater purpose, something instrumental and momentous.
Needless to say, back to the summer of year thirteen, Yanyan’s visit that evening, along with the madcap proposal, had shaken Zixia. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was envious of Yanyan, who was not only candid enough to voice his discontent but also ready to take action, to strike back at the ludicrous institution and its avaricious elders. Although Zixia would never bring himself to betray his mentor – he’d never flee with Yanyan to Changshu like fugitives and tutor in a private academy behind the Master’s back – he was nonetheless unsettled by Yanyan’s rebellious proposition.
If only, Zixia said to himself, if only teaching in private academies was permissible, if only I could find a way to persuade the House to change its ordinances.
The summer passed. The war in the south intensified. The army of Yue defeated the soldiers of Wu, capturing their crown prince. Seven scouts escaped the enemy’s slaughter to report the news back to the duke of Wu, only to be executed on the spot by their disturbed commander. A couple of weeks later, while the god of the Vermilion Bird was rising to the meridian transit, Ziyou – the most versatile senior disciple and the practitioner of the Book of Changes – was indicted for embezzling ticket money and sentenced to death by decapitation. Straightaway, without even requesting nominees, the Master appointed Yanyan to take over Ziyou’s position, entrusting the young man with editing the most incomprehensible book of his oeuvre.
The wind swept from the west, puffing up the city with a chill befitting a bloodletting. Beside the city gate hung Ziyou’s head, along with those of other criminals, swinging and knocking against the rammed earth wall like hollowed chimes.
Tormented by the discordant noises, Zixia hurried to his mentor’s residence to make an enquiry and was received in the side hall.
‘Thank you for this homely present,’ Zilu said, opening the jar for a sniff. ‘It seems my niece has mastered her mother’s recipe. This smells exactly like the pickled plums my sister made.’
‘I shall pass your kind words to my wife. She’ll be delighted,’ said Zixia, trying not to recall the rage of Woman Bu as she had swept all the jars of pickled plums off the shelves this morning.
Zilu smiled. ‘I hope you’re not disappointed with this union.’
‘I could not be more content, my master,’ Zixia said. ‘As a matter of fact, I wanted to let you know that we’re expecting a child already.’
‘Marvellous!’ Zilu directed the servant to bring the sorghum wine. Then the two men held up their cups and bottomed up the crimson liquor.
‘I’ll pray for you that it’ll be an heir,’ Zilu said, picking up the silver flagon to refill Zixia’s cup. ‘Now that our bond is becoming more indestructible, Zixia, I hope you’ll see me as your family and share with me all your concerns.’
Zixia received his drink. ‘If I could be candid with you, my master,’ he said. ‘I am quite confused by a recent incident. I couldn’t understand the reason for Yanyan’s promotion. Shouldn’t all candidates debate at the symposium before a decision is reached, the same way I was promoted?’
Zilu sighed. ‘I’m afraid I have no satisfactory answer. I was not consulted on this matter, either by Yanyan or by the Master. All I know is that carts of jade, pearl and gold were reported to have arrived in Qufu from Changshu. And somebody saw the entrance of the Master’s residence being blocked by those gifts and the heralds had to work all night to move them into his chamber.’
Zixia couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He downed the liquor in his cup, guts burning. ‘Pardon me for being presumptuous,’ he said. ‘But how are we supposed to stand such an infringement to the rules of the House?’
‘I don’t blame you for thinking this way,’ Zilu said, pouring more wine for his mentee. ‘One would indeed wonder if the tragic and consecutive deaths of disciples have grieved the Master too much and have impaired his judgement.’
‘Ah no,’ blurted Zixia. ‘I would never dare to comment upon the Master’s judgement. It’s Yanyan’s transgression that troubles me. How could he buy his way up the ladder while others had to work so hard to earn their places?’
Zilu nodded. ‘I very much relate to you. In fact, when I was your age, I used to scrutinise and criticise people who were my equals, simply because they were well within my sight. As for my superiors, who were too high up for me to see, I revered them ingenuously.’ He chuckled, shaking his head. ‘But you should know, Zixia, that competing against your peers is but a small feat that won’t transform who you are. To accomplish the Great Feat you must be able to recognise and ameliorate the flaws of those who hold power over you.’
Realising what Zilu was insinuating, Zixia felt sweat beads seeping out from behind his ears. He stared at the jar of pickle on the table before downing the next cup of spirit in one gulp, in the hopes of drumming up his courage. ‘Your wise words have made the scales fall from my eyes,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it conveyed in the Analects 12.17: To govern is to be correct. If one leads by exemplifying the correctness, who would dare to remain incorrect? In this case, had the Master epitomised the rectitude of being uncorrupted, how could Yanyan even think of offering an inducement of gold and jade?’
Zilu didn’t respond. Knitting his brows, he brought the cup to his mouth and moistened his lips.
Perhaps I was wrong, Zixia prayed to himself in the throttling silence. How on earth could Zilu go against the Master? I must be wrong.
‘I was hoping that you wouldn’t draw such a conclusion,’ Zilu said heedfully. ‘Then I could persuade myself that my concerns about the Master’s recent demeanours were tainted by my personal agenda, and therefore untrue.’ He gave another sigh. ‘But now, since my solicitude has been confirmed by my brightest mentee, I must, as a servant to this house, address this misconduct. Zixia, can I trust you to lend me your support?’
Zixia’s heart sank. ‘By all means,’ he mumbled, reaching for the flagon and emptying the last drop into his own cup. As the wine pervaded his guts, he heard Yanyan’s soft voice: I thought you’d be the one, among all of them, who sees what corrupt, greedy hypocrites these people are …
‘You must be disappointed in me,’ Zilu said, a resigned smile on his face. ‘You must think I’m despicable and power-hungry and that I cannot wait to remove the Master.’
Remembering that his mentor never failed to see through him, a shiver ran down Zixia’s spine. ‘Ah no, no …’
‘You know you can always speak freely with me. I’d feel the same were I in your position. Truthfully, many years ago, I was exactly like you, distancing myself from politics, devoted only to scholarship. But I was wrong.’ Zilu sighed. ‘No one can be virtuous alone when the notion of morality is at stake. Once, Confucius was someone who considered wealth and rank like passing clouds, feeding with delight on coarse rice and resting on no pillows but only his own elbow; he’d pay tribute at the commoners’ funerals and sing with strangers. But now, we have a Master who hides in his golden chamber, misappropriating the institution’s funds for personal luxury. Meanwhile, as he grows progressively paranoid, he is abolishing the free discourse of the symposium, dictating every debate with his monotonous voice. Recently, he’s begun to rescind the delegation of power to the seniors.’ He took a breath, glancing at Zixia. ‘It also pains me to see that you younger generation, with all your talents, are denied a fair share of rewards and recognition, your devotion and diligence underappreciated. So I asked myself, should I remain silent, looking after only my own interests, or should I step up, challenge those above me and, when I have the power, bring reformation to this corrupted institution?’
The air tremored at Zilu’s question. For a while, Zixia couldn’t move, feeling only the blood pumping through his veins, filling him with reassuring indignation. So it’s not just me and Yanyan then, he thought, if Zilu also feels this way.
‘I am sorry for ever doubting you, my master,’ Zixia said, composing himself. ‘Now that I’ve discerned the causes of your endeavour, I’ll fight until my last breath to make you our leader.’
‘It won’t be an easy fight,’ Zilu said. ‘Clearly, we cannot press the Master to abdicate – this would be too controversial, bringing us only the opposite effect. But I can, on the other hand, invite Zigong to join me and move a motion to elect a successor in case the Master is found unable to execute the powers and duties of his position. I’m confident this proposal will come through since Zigong would want such a position for himself more than anyone else. In this sense, the risk lies in the likelihood of Zigong being elected. And if the throne is taken by that merchant who stinks of money, the House will lose the last of its integrity, reduced into a mouthpiece for Zigong’s clique and patrons. So we must allow no defeat and beat Zigong in the election. Now, are you with me?’
Zixia didn’t answer. His mind had drifted away, irresistibly, towards the questions he had been ruminating over since Yanyan’s visit: What if the House permits them to teach in private academies, what if they could practise independently instead of being forever enslaved by the House, by the immortal Confucius, what if there is no … A vague scheme, whose magnitude had been too great for Zixia to grasp, finally began to reveal itself, the way a constellation appeared on a clear night.
If Zilu also feels this way, then could we have him on our side, Zixia thought. If Zilu is on our side.
‘Zixia, are you with me?’ Zilu repeated.
‘Yes, I’ll certainly give you my vote,’ Zixia answered quickly, his heart racing.
Zilu smiled. ‘I appreciate it, Zixia,’ he said. ‘But what I need from you is more than just a vote. You see, Ziwo will vote for Zigong and Ranyong will probably wait until the last minute before voting with the majority. So this leaves us in a precarious position, where we’ll have no choice but to secure a vote from Yanyan. In the past, I would have felt much more confident in getting Yanyan on my side. After all, he has been a dutiful mentee for many years. However, as it happens, since your appointment to the senior position and your espousal with my niece, Yanyan has grown increasingly estranged from me …’
Yanyan. That name vibrated in Zixia’s ears and his peer’s voice returned: I cannot talk to you if you insist on acting like a character on stage. I cannot talk to you if …
Also ringing in his head was the shriek of his wife, who, after throwing out all the pickled plums, flailed her arms like a madwoman, slapping her chest and her abdomen, which had just begun to show.
I’m doomed! Woman Bu’s wails joined, echoing in Zixia’s head, drowning out Yanyan’s accusation and Zilu’s persuasion. The sour pickles are making me sick so it must be a girl I’m carrying! And what’s the use of such a thing? She’ll grow up dumb, illiterate and brainless. All she’ll learn is how to serve a husband, and as soon as her period arrives, she’ll be married to some wimp and be damned for the rest of her life. I’m doomed! We are both doomed!
Across the table, Zilu was still talking. The cacophony surrounded Zixia. The three voices, resonating, magnifying, crushed him like a waterfall thundering down on his crown, its force so unbearable that Zixia had to shoot up from his seat.
‘I have to go talk to Yanyan,’ he blurted and, followed by Zilu’s baffled gaze, dashed out of the residence.
Zixia ran fast, down the avenue and through the town square, heading to Willow Lane, the Emerald House, a place he knew Yanyan would be at this time of a day.
His ears drummed, his heart thrashing in his chest as if something were trying to escape him. Soon he saw the red lanterns fluttering, the cerise light colouring the faces of the men he had been scanning. Women followed behind them: the concubines, the maids, the courtesans and the prostitutes.
Zixia looked for Yanyan in the throng of people. Finally, he was rid of self-doubt and hesitancy and knew what he wanted to do – he was done with being that peasant boy, following behind the masters obediently. Instead, he would have both Yanyan and Zilu conjoined, for the triumph of his plan.
For the first time ever, Zixia was certain, clear as crystal, that he would succeed. He would find Yanyan and tell him that Zilu, having set his eyes on becoming the next Confucius, was in need of their support. It would provide the perfect opportunity for the two of them to abandon the impermissible scheme of retreating to the south, and instead, to aim for something greater. They would go to their mentor, all honest and above board, and let Zilu know that they’d give him their votes only if he concurred with their plan – his plan – that Zilu must, once enthroned as the Master, put an end to the whole scam: announce the death of Confucius and dismantle this archaic and corrupted institution.
When that happened, the other disciples would accept and surrender to Zixia’s personal agenda. Each one of them would set off to a place of their choosing in order to pursue their own aspirations, to counsel the dukes, to engage in trade, to author their works individually and to establish their own academies.
When that happened, he would return to his hometown, where the fat ears of millet would glimmer in the autumn field and the larks would sing all day when the earth began to unfreeze in the spring sun. And he would set up a school and teach the people there: peasants and carpenters, masons and seamstresses, men and women, sons and daughters, irrespective of their backgrounds.
雎
One after another, the guests file into the Emerald House, dressed in their finery. Their hair is combed up, adorned by wigs and hefty jewellery, resplendent as jellyfishes. Their faces, on the other hand, bear the marks of tedium. They whisper, only occasionally.
Zixia watches these people from the end of the queue and suddenly, he has a feeling that he is not going to a play, rather, the whole lot of them are waiting to cross the Naihe Bridge – the overpass named Despair that leads the deceased to the underworld.
Getting a chill at the thought, he averts his eyes from the crowd and looks up at the long mahogany plaque hanging horizontally above the gate, on which four large characters are painted in gold:
素以為絢, the plainness grounds the splendour.
Motherfuckers, Zixia thinks. How could they put my words in front of a whorehouse without even asking my permission?
Even after a pimp ushers him to an elevated box beside the stage where Yanyan, in an impressive viridian gown, rises from his seat and smiles at him warmly, he is still fuming.
‘I’m glad you made it in time,’ Yanyan says. ‘You don’t want to miss even a second of this splendid play.’
‘Splendid my foot.’ Slumping in an armchair, Zixia grabs a mandarin from the fruit plate on the table and sends it straight to his mouth.
‘Easy.’ Yanyan snatches the citrus. ‘You don’t want to eat the skin, unless you like it bitter.’ He peels it. ‘Did I not tell you to get some rest? We can’t have you at the next symposium being this preoccupied. Remember, there’s no room for errors or mishaps.’ The mandarin is dropped back into Zixia’s hand, stripped clean and broken into segments.
Zixia’s ears burn. ‘Allow me to remind you,’ he says. ‘Just in the last symposium, who was praised as the master of rén and got the most fervent ovation from the audience? Was that you, or me?’
‘Ah now, if you’re taking the erratic passion of those brainless fans so seriously.’
The curtains on the stage remain drawn while the stalls fill up.
‘I don’t agree.’ Zixia sticks the split mandarin back on the table. ‘At the symposium, the spectators are as important as the Master. You need to have the audience in your alliance to succeed in your intentions.’
Yanyan snorts. The viewers downstairs burst out in thundering applause. The two of them look up at the stage where a tall and slender man in a purple robe appears. He is vertical like a crane, face painted white.
Gracefully, the man bows and in a resounding voice he narrates:
‘In the beginning, Duke Derangement of Wey had a concubine, Nanzi, whom he adored. The crown prince of the duke, Kuaikui, offended Lady Nanzi by attempting to assassinate her. Fearful of Nanzi’s revenge, Kuaikui escaped Wey …’
‘You are kidding me.’ Zixia turns to Yanyan.
Yanyan shrugs. ‘It is the talk of the town. Didn’t you read the invitation I gave you? The play is called The Legend of Lady Nanzi.’
Zixia’s eyes widen. ‘Are you saying that there will be a scene where the Master …’
‘I don’t suppose it’s entirely unforeseeable, the dramatisation of that affair.’ Yanyan shrugs again. ‘After all, it’s recorded in the Analects.’
Shaking his head, Zixia picks up a segment of the mandarin and sets it into his mouth. ‘Which genius wrote this?’
‘You are truly flattering me.’ It’s another man’s voice. Zixia lifts his head and sees Ranyong has stepped into their box, dressed in an auburn gown, holding his hands together in salute. ‘I’m so honoured to have you in the house viewing my show,’ Ranyong says. ‘Zigong and Ziwo came yesterday, both very generous with their compliments. But I do want to hear your opinions later, Zixia, especially on the dialogues.’ His grizzly goatee dangles down his chin, swinging as he speaks.
