by Kate Forsyth
So David sat beside him and watched the show.
A man, dressed in imperial yellow embroidered with a dragon, was speaking. At his feet knelt a beautiful young woman, her black hair piled high and pinned with jade dragonflies. She had her hands clasped together imploringly.
‘The emperor wishes daughter to marry,’ the old man whispered. ‘But she begs him not to force her against her will.’
The emperor raised one finger. His daughter drooped her head sadly, but nodded.
‘He says she may choose one condition her husband must meet.’
The emperor left the stage, and the girl rose from her knees and sang a sad-sounding song. Another voice rose to meet her. It was a young handsome man, barefoot, dressed in rough peasant clothes. He carried a straw basket on his back and a rake in one hand. David sat up a little. He was clearly meant to be a gardener. The emperor’s daughter and the gardener spoke together, and then he put both hands on his heart.
‘What are they saying?’ David asked.
‘She is sad. She does not know what to do. If she says her husband must be handsome, perhaps he cold and cruel. If she says her husband must be kind, perhaps he old. If she says he must be rich, perhaps he mean. Her old friend, the gardener, says she must find what is hidden in their hearts.’
On the stage, the two actors were singing another song. When the princess was looking away, the gardener clasped his hands towards her. When he had turned away, she did the same to him. It was clear they loved each other, but neither knew the other’s feelings.
‘They sing now of the blue rose,’ the old man told him. ‘She will send her suitors to find one.’
‘There is no such thing as a blue rose,’ David said.
The old man twinkled at him. ‘That is the point.’
‘Oh, I see. It’s a quest for the impossible.’
The old man nodded. ‘Exactly.’
One by one, the princess’s suitors went in search of the impossible blue rose.
The first was a warrior, mounted on a ferocious-looking horse made of papier-mâché and silk. He carried a sword, and made great play with it. He attacked a lord, whose bodyguards were armed only with painted parasols and silk fans, and stole from him a giant sapphire carved into the shape of a rose. But when the warrior showed the flower-jewel to the princess, she shook her head and put out her hand in a negative gesture.
‘That is not the blue rose I am waiting for,’ the old man translated.
The second suitor was a fat merchant, carried about on a palanquin by eight slaves. He went to the flower market and ordered the rose-grower grow him a blue rose. The rose-grower protested and was threatened. At last he and his wife dipped a white rose into a vat of dye, till it was dripping blue. But when the merchant showed the dyed flower to the princess, she once again shook her head.
‘That is not the blue rose I am waiting for,’ the old man translated once more.
The third suitor was an aged minister who read many scrolls and consulted many wise men, then called to him the best spinners and weavers in the land. He ordered them to make the most beautiful gown in the world, embroidered with blue roses. But once again the princess rejected the offering.
‘That is not the blue rose I am waiting for,’ the old man translated for the third time.
The princess went out into the garden. The sun – cut from golden paper – sank, and the pale blue moon rose. The gardener sang to her most beautifully, and then he plucked a white rose from the garden and gave it to her. In the light of the full moon, it was the softest, most mysterious blue. Smiling, she took the rose and kissed him, their shapes silhouetted against the shining moon.
‘That is the blue rose I have been waiting for,’ the old man said, and mopped his eyes with his handkerchief.
David had to swallow a lump in his throat as hard as a plum stone. Simple and strange as the story was, it had got under his skin.
‘It is as if they know,’ he whispered.
The old man turned to him. ‘Know? Know what?’
‘My own story.’
The old man looked puzzled.
‘I am like that gardener. I too fell in love with a princess – well, with a marquis’s daughter anyway – and wanted to marry her. But we were parted … I ran away and left her … and I’d promised her I’d find her a blood-red rose … and so I came here to China as if I was on some ridiculous quest … as if I could find a red rose and bring it back for her and that would somehow save her … but it’s no use, it’s all no use.’
To his dismay, David found that he was close to tears.
The old man passed him his handkerchief, and ashamedly he scrubbed at his eyes.
The actors up on the makeshift stage were bowing, and the old man clapped enthusiastically. The actors pressed their hands together in thanks, then moved away. The emperor’s daughter pulled off her elaborate bejewelled wig, and David saw that she had been played by a young delicate-featured man. He remembered that women were not permitted to perform in public in China, so female roles were always taken by boys whose voices had not yet broken, just like in Shakespeare’s day.
‘Blue Rose my wife’s favourite story,’ the old man said. ‘She like emperor’s daughter and me like gardener. We too in love, not permitted to marry. But I made fortune selling tea and so in the end permitted.’
David tried to smile. ‘That’s good. I’m glad.’ He could manage no more, his throat thickened with grief.
‘She dead now,’ the old man said abruptly. ‘My fault.’
David stared at him. He felt dazed and off-kilter. ‘How? How did she die?’
The old man got up from his stool. ‘Come. I show you her grave. I tell you.’
He led David through the garden, away from the pavilions. It was still very early. The rising sun’s rays struck down through the willow trees, making their golden leaves glow. The grass was white with frost that glittered like tiny diamonds. A faint mist rose from the water, wreathing about the red temple.
‘I born poor,’ the old man said, ‘but got rich. I built all this and I went to Ying Yui’s father and I said, “Let me marry her, I will care for her always.” So we married. We lucky and had sons.’
David was surprised by the old man’s words. Because he was dressed so simply, David had assumed he was some kind of servant, perhaps a gardener like himself. But it was clear now that he was the rich Hong merchant who owned this palace. David tried to remember his name. Shy Kin Qua, he thought it was.
‘But then, some years ago, fire destroyed tea warehouse,’ Shy Kin Qua said. ‘All lost. I rich no more. So I worked hard. Must make riches again. One day Ying Yui said to me, “I hot. I sick. Stay look after me.” But I wanted make-ee much-ee dollar.’ His voice was bitter with sarcasm. ‘So I go. When I come back, Ying Yui dead.’
‘What did she die from?’
‘Smallpox.’
‘I’m sorry.’ David’s words seemed so lame, so inadequate, but what else could he say? There was no way to comfort the bereaved.
They had come to another wall, set with another moon-shaped gate. This one had red-painted doors, and an inscription in Chinese above.
‘I bury her here, in her garden that she loved.’ Shy Kin Qua paused and turned to David. ‘Blue Rose always her favourite story. But I cannot plant blue roses for her. No such thing. And white roses mean unhappiness and death. Anything that grows on a thorn is a reminder of life’s sorrow and pain, you see?’
‘Yes,’ David said, understanding the old man was telling him the rose’s deep story.
‘But here in China, red means blood, means life, means brides and joy. So a red rose is both sorrow and joy, pain and pleasure, death and life, ashes and fire. So I plant it for my wife, on her grave.’
A sudden quickening of his pulse. ‘You have red roses here?’ David asked, hardly believing it.
The old man nodded. ‘Come see.’
He unlocked the red moon doors, and stepped forward into a small enclosed garden. A
pathway led to a horseshoe-shaped tomb made of stone and inscribed with gilt characters. Two lions guarded the tomb, one with its paw on a ball, the other on a lion cub. Before the tomb was a pool of still water, dappled with lotus leaves. Behind it were rocks, piled together to make a miniature mountain.
Growing over the tomb, and all through the garden, were rose briars in their hundreds. Bejewelled with rosehips, festooned with flowers as red as blood, the roses grew from ground still silvered with frost, for the morning sun had not yet struck over the grave.
‘You want to pluck?’ the old man said. ‘Take home to your love?’
David’s throat muscles worked. At last he said, unsteadily, ‘I think she is dead.’
‘You think? You do not know?’
He shook his head.
‘Better go find out, yes?’
‘Maybe she won’t want to see me. I left her, I ran away like a whipped cur.’
The old man scratched at his thin white beard. ‘Sit,’ he instructed. ‘Tell me.’
So David told him about how he had met Viviane, and loved her, and abandoned her.
‘But you in danger? Her father want kill you?’
David nodded his head. ‘Yes. He slashed at me with his sword. Cut off my finger.’ He pulled off his glove and showed the old man his scarred hand. ‘Viviane pushed me away, and held her father back, and I ran. I barely managed to escape.’
‘So she save you.’
‘Yes.’ David dropped his head, not wanting Shy Kin Qua to see the shame on his face. Viviane had saved him, and all he had done was blame her for betraying him.
‘So she want you to live. She save you. Why she not want to see you?’
David lifted his shoulders and let them fall. ‘She was married to another, against her will. And there has been much death and bloodshed in her country. The king was murdered, and many of his nobles. Perhaps she was too.’
‘But you don’t know?’
David shook his head, rubbing the scar of his missing finger.
‘So she may not be dead.’ The old man’s eyes were bright and intent.
‘Last night I dreamt she was still alive. I dreamt she saved me from drowning. But there’s no sense in that. It’s just what I wish was true.’
‘The soul can travel far when sleeping,’ the old man said.
David did not answer. The hope blossoming within him was too hurtful.
Shy Kin Qua pulled scissors from his girdle and passed them to David. ‘Cut the rosehips, take the seeds, take whatever you need. Then go and find her.’
‘But it’s been so long. Five years today.’
The old Chinese man twinkled at him. ‘Better late than never.’
30
Wolf’s Foot
25 December 1793 – 22 June 1794
On Christmas Eve, her brother came to her.
Viviane could hardly believe it. ‘You got my note?’
‘Miraculously. A boy brought it to me. It was a wonder he could read the address, it was so faint and spidery. What on earth did you write it with?’
‘Blood.’
Come, I need you, she had scrawled that day with a bloodied pin.
There was a long pause. Pierrick put out both his hands. They were warm and strong.
‘I should’ve come earlier. But times are hard and I was scared of risking my neck.’
Viviane nodded. ‘And you were angry with me.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know why – none of it is your fault.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. She squeezed his hands.
‘I have something for you.’ Pierrick looked about cautiously, but the guard was smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper, and the other women were all talking and weeping with their own visitors. He drew a small leather purse from under his coat and passed it to her. Viviane hid it under her shawl, and then swiftly passed him the velvet pouch with her few treasures within. She did not need to tell him to keep them safe.
Viviane leant forward and whispered, ‘Pierrick, I think I know a way to escape. But I cannot do it without you.’
He drew his hands away, frowning at her.
‘I promise you it can work,’ she said.
The guard noticed them whispering, and shouted at them to sit back. Viviane obeyed, her eyes fixed imploringly on Pierrick’s face.
He sighed. ‘What madcap scheme have you up your sleeve now?’
‘I can only hope it will work. You will need to keep an eye on the execution listings. When you see my name, you will know it’s time. Then you must get some clubmoss – you remember, the little plant they call the wolf’s foot.’
‘A-ha!’ he said. ‘I see the light.’
She smiled at him. ‘You’ll know what to do.’
Pierrick grinned, his eyes dancing devilishly. ‘Well, at least if I’m to die, I might as well have some fun doing it.’
The guard glared at them again, and told him it was time to go. She begged the guard for just one more minute, and Pierrick grinned and slipped him a coin.
‘Ivo is sorry,’ he said. ‘He swears he did not denounce you.’
‘I’m glad. Give my love to him and to Luna.’
‘Hopefully you’ll be seeing them soon.’
Viviane bent her head, blinking away tears. It was almost unbearable, the pain of hope. She rubbed at her eyes with her kerchief, then looked steadily at her brother.
‘He’s dead, you know.’
‘Our father?’
‘Yes.’
‘May he burn in hell!’
‘It feels so strange,’ Viviane said. ‘I thought I’d be dancing on his grave, but I just feel so sad. I can’t help wishing things had been different.’
‘I wouldn’t waste your energy mourning him,’ Pierrick said. ‘Just think, you are free of him now!’
‘If only I was free of this prison too,’ she said.
‘If all goes to plan, you will be.’
‘You will not fail me?’
‘Never again.’ He pressed her hand warmly, then stood up and went swiftly away.
Back in her cell, Viviane opened the leather purse Pierrick had given her and smiled in relief at the sight of the coins within. Her own savings were almost all gone, and Viviane had dreaded the thought of sleeping down in the dungeons with the rats.
She wondered if Pierrick understood what she wanted him to do. But all their life they had communicated with little more than gestures and facial expressions, and she had to trust him.
All she needed now was to be condemned to die.
That night, Viviane lay and thought of David, as she always did. She imagined she was back at Belisima-sur-le-lac, and it was summer and the roses were glowing as red as rubies. The château was reflected in the smooth waters of the lake, and the flax fields stretched away, golden and ripe. She was running though a meadow, barefoot, wild flowers on her hair. David chased after her, laughing and calling her name. Luna bounded before them.
She slipped into sleep, smiling.
But it was cold. Outside the thick prison walls, snow fell. The Seine was grey as lead. Icicles hung from the iron bars. Viviane shivered under her thin blanket.
In her dream, she saw the château muffled in fog. The mill wheel did not turn, the stream was a cascade of crystal. All was dark.
David ran like a hare. The hunt galloped behind him, hounds baying. The terrible long drawn-out cry of the horn. David fell. Ice cracked beneath him. Into the black waters he sank.
Viviane picked up her skirts and ran. Her breath sharp in her side. She raced on to the ice and flung herself down at the gaping fissure. Nothing to see. She plunged her arm deep into the icy water. For a moment, nothing. Then her fingers touched soft, undulating hair. She reached deeper, grasped him by the neck and shoulder, dragged him out with all her strength.
She saw the steam of his living breath and, in her joy, drew him close and kissed him.
When Viviane woke, she was trembling violently. The water in her tin cup was frozen solid. The window wa
s starred with frost.
She pressed two icy fingers to her mouth.
Her lips were warm.
On the 8th of January, the British fleet left Canton at last.
David said farewell to Father Li, who stayed behind to spread his missionary zeal throughout China. They had become good friends, despite not sharing a language, religion or culture, and David hoped that the priest stayed safe and found happiness.
In the hold of the Lion were three large blue-and-white ceramic pots with tight-fitting lids that Shy Kin Qua had called ginger jars. The old man had given them to him, each decorated with designs of blue roses. Inside, buried in rice, were handfuls of rosehips, red as pomegranate seeds.
It made David smile to think of them.
The HMS Lion reached Macao on the 15th, and was warmly welcomed by the Portuguese. David was glad to have earth under his feet again, and to visit the botanic gardens. It was strange to hear church bells ring on Sunday.
The Chinese celebrated the beginning of the new year with the coming of the first new moon. Red and gilt lanterns were strung across the streets in their thousands, and every house was decorated with banners. Fire crackers filled the air with loud bangs and sputters, while acrid-smelling smoke billowed through the air. Long writhing dragons made from silk and bamboo undulated through the streets, held aloft by poles. Girls danced ahead of the fearsome painted heads, holding aloft round baubles. For fifteen days, the festivities continued, till the moon was full again.
It was an extraordinary way to bid farewell to China.
It was impossible to know the date anymore.
The National Convention had introduced a new calendar, with names devised by a poet. Each month was divided into three weeks, and each week was ten days long. The guillotine worked every day of the week except the tenth, when the executioners were allowed to rest.
On that day, Paris was eerily silent.
Viviane could only tell what season it was by the narrow view afforded by her cell window. She watched the snow melt, the leaves bud, the sun arc across the rooftops.
The days were marked by deaths. Georges Danton and Camille Desmoulins died on the same day as the poet who had named the months. They said Desmoulins went mad when he heard his wife had been arrested too. He fought and struggled the whole way, ripping his shirt, but they manhandled him to the guillotine all the same.
