The Mystery of the Song Dynasty Painting

  We queue behind a troupe of musicians dressed in black costumes with red sashes round their waists. They are carrying their musical instruments: bamboo flutes, reed pipes, drums, erhu (two-stringed fiddle), qin (zither), lute, cymbals and bells.

  ‘Carriages and carts have to pay tolls to go through the gate,’ says one musician to another, ‘but pedestrians get in for free during the Qing Ming Festival.’

  Gege taps the musician on his arm to get his attention. ‘Where will you be performing?’

  ‘At the Longevity Gardens. There’s going to be a kite-flying competition this afternoon. You three should come and join the fun. It’s only half a li up-river to your left. We’re going to have a hot and noisy party.’

  ‘When do the city gates close?’ I ask.

  ‘At sundown.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Ah Zhao interrupts. ‘You’ll hear the drums.’

  ‘Drums?’ I ask. ‘What drums?’

  ‘See the ornate guardhouse standing atop the city gates?’ the musician says. ‘There’s a bell as well as a drum in that guardhouse. The bell is rung at sunrise every morning, when the city gates open, and the drum is beaten at sundown every evening, to warn you the gates are about to close.’

  ‘How many bells and drums are there altogether?’

  ‘The city wall has twelve separate gates,’ Ah Zhao says, ‘but I’m not sure whether each gate has a bell and drum in its guardhouse.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the musician says. ‘Unless you’re deaf, you’re bound to hear the drums at sundown. You’ll know when to get out.’

  Inside the walled city there are even more people milling about: tightrope-walkers, pole acts, jugglers, clowns, fortune-tellers, actors and professional storytellers are all surrounded by dense crowds. We walk past a barber shop and see a bearded man being shaved with a sharp, curved knife. Down the street a well-muscled army officer is testing the suppleness of a crossbow at an archery stall. Next to him, illiterate farmers wait patiently for a public scribe to write their letters for a fee.

  We mingle with shoppers, beggars, monks asking for alms, and families out on holiday. I can’t help laughing at a bare-bottomed little boy who’s trying to climb into a peddler’s basket. A sign on the basket proclaims that the peddler can cure diseases of cows and horses, as well as children! Many people are dressed in their best holiday clothes, with elaborate headgear. It’s so noisy we can hardly hear one another speak. Suddenly a loud bang startles me, but Ah Zhao says it’s just a firecracker. I’m fascinated by all the different shops and restaurants, hotels, temples, official buildings and private residences, ranging from modest dwellings to grand mansions with meticulously maintained yards.

  Gege and Ah Zhao walk on either side of me to make sure that I don’t get lost in the crowd. As we stroll along the riverbank, towards the Longevity Gardens, the crowds thin out a little and I see hundreds of paper kites, shaped like birds and butterflies, flying in the wind. Some are tied to long poles wrapped in colourful silk banners, all bearing the characters Qing Ming Feng Zheng Jie (Qing Ming Kite Festival).

  The Longevity Gardens turn out to be a large, empty field on a raised plateau overlooking the river on one side, and plots of vegetables and wheat on the other. The best thing about the grounds is the panoramic view of the city of Bian Liang. The three of us stand at the edge of the plateau, with Gege in the middle. He drapes his arms affectionately round our shoulders.

  ‘When we get home,’ Gege says, ‘I’m going to paint a picture of this great scene, exactly as it is at this moment. I’ll remember how it looks right now and never let go of the image. Will you help me do this, Big Nose?’

  ‘Of course – we’ll do it together! We need to make the river the centrepiece of your painting. Be sure to remember the direction of the sun; we’ll put in sunshine and shadows where we see them now.’

  ‘How do you draw sunshine?’

  ‘When you draw dark shadows, the spaces you leave blank will be sunshine.’

  ‘Brilliant! We’ll name the painting Along the River at Qing Ming. It will preserve a slice of Bian Liang city life, during Emperor Huizong’s reign, for our grandchildren and our great-great-grandchildren.’

  ‘There’s something mysterious about this river, isn’t there?’ I muse.

  ‘I know,’ Ah Zhao agrees. ‘Where does it begin and where does it end? I want to follow it to its source and find out.’

  ‘And I want something to eat,’ Gege says, bringing us back to earth.

  At the edge of the field are stands selling hot and cold drinks, noodles, dumplings and steamed buns. Gege buys us each a bun. I bite into the fluffy, light exterior, waiting for the meat and the hot, savoury juices to run over my tongue. It tastes so good that I ask for another, but I can’t finish it, so the boys share it.

  We pass a large stall piled high with kites of different shapes and sizes, each more colourful than the next. Some are tied to poles so that they billow in the wind. Most are made of paper, but a few are silk. I can’t resist touching one shaped like a bird with orange-and-yellow wings, green tail and blue body.

  ‘This kite is yours for only eight coppers,’ the toothless old kite merchant says to me. ‘Today is a perfect day for kite-flying. Neither too hot nor too cold. Nice breeze blowing, but not too strong. See the leaves rustling in the treetops, and the flags flying on that big boat over there? All indicators of good kite-flying weather. On top of that, not a hint of rain, so you won’t be troubled by lightning.’

  ‘What’s this kite made of ?’

  ‘Bamboo frame, paper sail and silk flying line. Silk kites are much more expensive. We carry both kinds. Our special kites look like insects, butterflies, dragons, fish and other animals. Our musical kites have flutes, gourds or bows attached to them, so the wind “plays” musical tunes as the kites fly.’

  ‘What about this one?’ Gege asks, pointing to a small diamond-shaped kite attached to a line coated with shards of metal.

  ‘That’s a fighter kite, made for boys. Buy two of them. Then you and your friend can have a friendly contest trying to cut one another’s lines. But be careful that you don’t injure your hands while handling the lines.’

  A dizzying variety of competitions are being held at different areas of the field. There’s a group of small children tripping along, trailing small paper kites. Someone in the distance is counting out numbers in clear, measured tones: forty-two, forty-three, forty-four… The majority of the kites flutter and crash before the announcer reaches one hundred. One little girl with two pigtails pointing upwards bursts into tears as her kite blows away in the wind.

  Further along is a group of teenagers about our age. One of them has managed to raise his kite to a height over five hundred zhang.

  I see an elderly man handling a butterfly kite so skilfully that it looks alive. He steers it with two lines of equal length strapped to his wrists. His kite can dance, fly loop-the-loop, turn somersaults in the air, or dive down before swooping back gracefully towards the sky.

  Next to him is a team of eight men assembling a giant red-and-brown dragon-shaped kite with a long tail. It’s an elaborate affair with many bamboo hinges and numerous strings joined together into a single line attached to a handle and wheel. The team leader studies the wind direction and tells his men where to stand. At just the right moment, he barks out an order. Everyone dashes forward with the kite raised above their heads. As the dragon inflates with wind, the leader signals its release. The kite rises with grace, floating majestically into the sky, while the leader hastily pays out extra lengths of string from his wheel. It doesn’t take long for the dragon to rise to a great height, swaying and swerving as if it’s alive.

  To our left, men and boys are shouting, cheering and chasing one another in an area away from the kite-flyers. It’s a large, flat, rectangular field marked off with a red rope.

  ‘Cu ju (football)!’ Gege exclaims, in great excitement, and races ahead. When Ah Zhao and I finally catch up, he’s al
ready among the players, chasing after a large, brown leather ball.

  Two young men approach us with friendly smiles as we watch the ball being kicked from player to player.

  ‘Ever played cu ju before?’

  ‘No,’ Ah Zhao says. ‘How do you play?’

  ‘Easy. You can touch the ball with any part of your body except your hands. See those two posts in the middle of the field with netting between them? That’s the goal. We divide the players into two teams by giving you red or black headbands with numbers on them. Red team scores one point if a Red player kicks the ball into the goal facing the Red side of the field. Same goes for Black. Everyone aims to score as many points as possible while preventing the other side from scoring.’

  ‘How much does it cost to play?’

  ‘We charge a small fee. But why don’t you start playing first, so we can observe you? If you’re talented, we might even ask you to join our organization and pay you for playing!’

  ‘That will be the day!’ Ah Zhao says, laughing and turning to me. ‘Feel like trying?’

  I’m sorely tempted, but I can’t run fast so I shake my head.

  ‘Are girls allowed to play?’ Ah Zhao asks.

  ‘Of course they are! During the Tang Dynasty, there was a seventeen-year-old girl who was so talented she beat a team made up of army soldiers. If you feel like playing, just signal us.’

  Meanwhile, Gege is darting about wearing a Red headband with the number shi er (twelve) on his forehead. A scoreboard on top of the goal-posts shows the score tied at one all. A tall and lanky lad, wearing Black number ba (eight), takes the ball near midfield and fires from long range. The stocky goalkeeper, Red number wu (five), blocks the shot and kicks it out to Red number twelve (Gege!), who chases it down and passes it to Red number san (three). Number three handles the ball nimbly backwards and forwards between his feet, gets behind the Black defence and fires a shot that rebounds off the Black team’s goalpost. The entire Red team groans with disappointment.

  ‘From the way he kicks the ball, I think your brother must have played cu ju before,’ Ah Zhao says.

  ‘But where?’

  ‘There are many cu ju fields like this throughout Bian Liang. I even saw one in the backyard at Commissioner Ye’s house.’

  ‘How long do you think Gege will play?’

  ‘I won’t be surprised if he’s here until sundown. Let him enjoy himself. I’ll tell the organizers that we’ll wait for him at the riverbank below.’

  The weather grows even hotter as we saunter down the plateau towards the river. Snatches of music drift towards us, mingled with shouts and peals of laughter. We meander down a grassy slope and enter a narrow stone passageway flanked by feathery maples, lush flowering shrubs and towering bamboos. Below us, a green meadow stretches all the way to the river. A gravelled walkway shaded by graceful willows runs along the riverbank. Nestled within the blue-green haze of leafy willow branches is a little wooden bench flanked by two pear trees ablaze with fragrant yellow flowers.

  Ah Zhao leads me to the bench and signals me to sit.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s not for the likes of me,’ he says with a hint of darkness. ‘You’re the boss and I’m the slave. Let’s remember this at all times.’

  He picks up a flat stone from the path and throws it towards the water with such force that it skims the surface three times before it sinks. I wonder what has happened to change his mood.

  ‘It’s so beautiful and tranquil here. Why isn’t anyone around?’

  ‘Maybe they don’t know about it.’

  ‘How lucky we are!’

  ‘Are we?’ he asks moodily, staring into the distance. After a while, he walks towards the water and climbs onto a little barge moored there. Sitting at the edge, he removes his shoes, puts his feet into the cool river and begins to hum a strange tune.

  It suddenly strikes me that he’s handsome, despite his crooked nose. Starting with his height, his muscled frame, his light skin, his curly black hair, his long-lashed, deep-set eyes and ending with his nose… I think of his nickname, Big Nose, and say to myself, ‘His nose isn’t really big. It’s tall rather than big.’

  ‘Why are you staring at me?’

  His question catches me off-guard. I lower my eyes, but I know my face must be turning red.

  ‘I’m just thinking that your nose is tall rather than big. Your nickname should be Gao Bi Zi (Tall Nose), not Da Bi Zi (Big Nose).’

  ‘Am I really that different from everyone else? Why give me a nickname at all? Don’t I eat, drink and breathe just like you? Are we that dissimilar?’

  ‘Of course not! Actually, I was thinking that your face is more interesting than mine. Or Gege’s. It’s more three-dimensional.’

  ‘Interesting!’ He spits out the word with loathing. ‘Interesting indeed. Am I an animal in a zoo? To be gawked at and compared to human beings?’

  ‘Why are you getting angry?’

  He looks away, and for a while he says nothing. Then I see tears coursing down his cheeks and I realize he’s crying.

  Something comes over me. Even though he’s tall and strong, at that moment he looks like a little lost boy and I think of him alone in the world with nobody to turn to. Without thinking, I climb onto the barge, sit down next to him, take off my shoes and dangle my bare feet in the river. The cool water feels delicious against my skin as I wriggle my toes. Neither of us says anything for a while. A million thoughts race through my mind.

  ‘Why are the toes in your right foot so crooked?’ His question makes me jump. Instinctively, I bend my foot back to hide my ugly toes.

  ‘Did you have an accident?’ he persists.

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Are your crooked toes the reason why you wouldn’t play cu ju just now?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I know, that’s all…’

  There’s a long silence. Then I say, ‘Can you and I truly be friends?’

  ‘Not if you don’t tell me anything about yourself. Besides, are you sure you want to be friends with someone like me? A servant?’

  ‘Yes! You’re the smartest person I know.’

  ‘Friends don’t have secrets from one another.’

  ‘I agree… but there’s a lot I don’t know about you.’

  ‘That’s because there’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Oh sorry – what was that about friends not having secrets…?’

  ‘I’m serious. What is there to tell? I’m an orphan. My father was a barbarian who couldn’t read or write. My mother died the same day I was born.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘You mean, where am I really from. My father’s parents were Jews. My grandfather’s name used to be Levy, but he changed it to Li after they moved here. When he was a little boy, my father travelled across the desert with my grandparents, to come to China. He used to tell me about the vastness of the desert… the sand dunes stretching on and on as far as the eye could see… the searing sun during the day and the black, freezing nights… the miraculous sunsets and fantastic sunrises… the terrifying forays into the nothingness to search for water… the endless silence… They came from a foreign country far away to the west, tian xia zhi bian yuan (at the edge of civilization). My grandparents disowned my father after he married my Chinese mother. Throughout his life, my father felt that he didn’t belong here… or anywhere. Sometimes, I feel that I need to search for the places where my father lived before he came to China. I have this strong desire to travel, to retrieve my lost heritage.’

  ‘What did your Baba do?’

  ‘He was a labourer… a carpenter and stone-cutter. After my Mama died, my Baba was alone in a strange land. He found it difficult to get work, and over the years he got depressed and angry. He used to gamble what money he had. Just before he died, he placed huge bets on a cricket he believed in. At first it won, but eventually it lost. Baba accused his opponent of cheating. They fought and my Baba was
stabbed to death.’

  I try to imagine what it would be like to have no parents, but I can’t. I feel a deep sadness for Ah Zhao as I realize how alone he is.

  ‘Why have you never told me all this before?’

  ‘You’ve never asked. To you, and the rest of your family, I’m not even a regular person, let alone a friend. I’m merely the barbarian hedge-clipper and tree-trimmer. I am, and will always be, a wai ren (outsider).’

  ‘That’s not true! You and I have become friends, and now you won’t be alone any more.’

  ‘All right, friend! It’s your turn now to share. Tell me how your toes got broken.’

  I close my eyes and fight the feeling of nausea that always comes when I think about that day.

  ‘My Niang… my Niang…’

  Tears come to my eyes, and I look down and try to control myself.

  Ah Zhao leans over and looks into my face. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t want to upset you. Don’t tell me any more if you’d rather not.’

  After a while, the sickness goes and I find that I do want to talk about that terrible day, long ago. I take a deep breath and begin.

  12

  Mei Lan’s Confession

  ‘Since I was a toddler, and for as long as I can remember,’ I tell Ah Zhao, ‘I’d heard Niang speaking to Baba about choosing an auspicious day to bind my feet. She spoke of my foot-binding as a momentous and special occasion; a sort of combined feast day/name day/celebration holiday when I would shed the cocoon of my infancy and turn into Mei Lan (Beautiful Orchid). I would become as lovely as my Niang.

  ‘She told Baba and me that all her wealthy friends were binding their daughters’ feet, and that only poor peasant girls ended up with big, ugly, natural feet these days. My bound feet would announce to the world that I have a wealthy father and far-sighted mother. Match-makers would be clamouring to represent me.