by Qiu Xiaolong
‘Yes, you may well write a couple of poems on the temple wall, too, Master.’
‘No, I know better. I’ve not written a good line for years. My poems on the temple wall would be a joke for thousands of years. But I’ve heard that a poet monk named Han Shan happens to be staying there at the moment. A real celebrity in the circle of poets, he should be able to tell me something more about the poetess. The biographical details could be valuable for the collection, you know.’
‘But you don’t have to compile a poetry collection of hers at this critical juncture, Master.’
‘Well, a man has to try his hand at the impossible mission.’
‘You have quoted this Confucianist epigram so many times. Possible or impossible, as long as it’s the right mission for you to accomplish.’
‘You know me, Yang.’
‘It is fine if you insist,’ Yang said with a touch of resignation, ‘but I will have to stay with you all the time in the temple.’
‘You’re being overprotective again, Yang, but I’ll have two rooms booked, no problem.’
‘To the temple, then! Sit tight, Master.’
The carriage started rolling slowly along the trail. It was quite bumpy and slippery after the off-and-on drizzle throughout the night. Driving the carriage in front, Yang made occasional comments in between the whip cracking through the stillness of the surrounding hills.
‘You may well take a break in the carriage, Master, after the disturbance of last night’s knife note. I really don’t like it.’
Yang was not overreacting to the knife note left at the hostel the previous night, Dee reflected, still far from sleepy, even though he had slept little during the night. With the unexpected request from Minister Wu, the message in the knife note seemed to have become even more inexplicably sinister.
In accordance with the message reinforced with the Book of Changes, Judge Dee had better stay put. It was perhaps a coincidence that the second reading in the light of the coin consultation with the Confucian classic carried a similar implication. A deep-dyed Confucian scholar, Dee could not help taking the message seriously. Any drastic movement on his part could lead to disastrous consequences.
Didn’t the authorization letter from Minister Wu mean, however, that Judge Dee had to move on?
But he could not but remind himself again that the message in the knife note spelled an opposite direction that he should follow.
Another cracking of the whip in front, Yang could be heard heaving a dramatic sigh, characteristic of the overprotective assistant as before – as always.
Time flies. It was more than a dozen years since Judge Dee had seen Yang for the first time. At the time, Yang was rotting in prison for beating up a young rogue from an official family who attacked a poor girl in a wet market. Judge Dee managed to snatch Yang out of prison and clear his name from the false accusation. There and then, Yang declared kneeling at Judge Dee’s foot in the dust, ‘Master, you’ve given me a second life, and from now on it belongs to you alone.’
Yang had kept his words all these years, proving to be a more valuable assistant than expected – skilled in Shaolin martial arts, street-smart, incessantly energetic – and, more than anything else, intensely loyal to Judge Dee, guarding him all the way through the ups and downs in his official career.
Time changes a lot.
Some people changed; however, some people did not.
But how could a celebrated, talented poetess like Xuanji have turned into a diabolical murderer in such a shorter period of time?
The deep yearning in those sentimental poems of hers might have not changed, though.
The music floating from the neighbors
under the moonlight, I look out, alone,
from the high tower to the far-away view
of the lambent mountains. The wind chilly
on the bamboo mattress, I can only express
my sadness through the decorated zither …
Were those lines she wrote in that poem to Wen? Or were they in another poem? Or to someone else? Judge Dee was confused again. Nor was he sure about its being the entire poem or not. As far as he could recollect, the poem seemed to end in a more explicit complaint about her inconsolable solitude.
Frustrated with the elusive memory, Judge Dee concluded he was getting old.
‘See, there’s a yellowish banner behind the turn of the mountain trail,’ Yang said, breaking into Judge Dee’s somber reveries. ‘That’s it, the temple banner, I think. The temple is not located far from the hostel.’
The carriage was already slowing down.
At the entrance to the temple, Judge Dee was greeted by a receptionist monk named Nameless. Possibly in his mid-twenties, with a round face and alert eyes, Nameless bowed respectfully in a red, ample-sleeved silk cassock.
‘I’ve heard that the well-known poet monk Han Shan is staying at your temple, right?’ Judge Dee lost no time in raising the question.
‘Yes, Han Shan has been here for a month, and possibly for half a month more.’
‘That’s fantastic. I would like to have two rooms booked next to his. One for me, one for my assistant. We’ll stay for a couple of days at least. It’s a great opportunity for me to meet and talk with Han Shan here.’
‘But Han Shan does not talk to everyone, as you may know,’ Nameless said with a suggestion of hesitance, scratching his shaved bald head. ‘And there may not be any vacant rooms at the moment.’
Judge Dee gave him a handwritten name card and then added a small piece of silver. ‘Please give my card to the poet monk. He knows me. And here is something small for your trouble in making the room arrangement for us. It’s a celebrated temple with a lot of visitors, I know.’
Nameless cast a look at the name card and nodded with astonishment written on his face before he accepted the silver, stuffing it into the ample sleeve.
‘Confucius says, “You cannot decline something from a senior gentleman.” No trouble at all, Your Honor. I’ll double-check the rooms.’
As Nameless hurried back into the temple to check the availability of rooms, Yang moved up to his master in strides.
‘For this morning,’ Judge Dee said, ‘you don’t have to stay here with me. I’ll probably have a long talk with Han Shan about poetry. But there’s one thing you can do for me. Go and find a copy of Xuanji’s poetry collection.’
‘That will not be a problem. I’ll go up to the town, and there I may also be able to take a walk around her neighborhood. But you really must be careful, Master. The temple is not far from the hostel.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Yang, and you take care of yourself, too.’
With Yang’s figure retreating out of sight into the mountain trail, Han Shan came out in hurried steps, bowing to Dee from a distance. A tall man with a square ruddy face, dreamy eyes, and a clean-shaven head, Han Shan was wearing a blue cassock in tatters and threadbare straw sandals, more like a humble servant to Nameless who was walking behind.
Having probably learned something more about Judge Dee’s official status inside the temple, Nameless was now all smiles, saying in an obsequious voice, ‘Our humble place is so brightened by your visit, Your Honor. One of the two rooms is ready, and the other one will soon be ready for you, too.’
‘No hurry. I’ll have a talk with my old friend Han Shan first. And my assistant Yang is running an errand for me in the neighborhood. When he comes back, you may take him directly to his room.’
Rubbing his eyes with a yawn, Han Shan began reciting like an actor stepping on to the lit stage:
‘Generals in iron armors surmounting
the mountain passes at night,
ministers waiting in the cold
for the early-morning Court session,
a monk still lying on bed with the sun
shining high over the temple –
fame and gain are nothing
when compared with leisure.’
‘What a delightful poem, Han Shan!’
<
br /> ‘Alas, it’s not mine. Nameless has just woken me up for the visit of a high-ranking official like you.’
‘Come on, I’m no high-ranking official – not any longer. If only I could afford to enjoy leisure like you, totally worry-free in a mundane world full of worries!’ Judge Dee said, aware of a satirical reminder Han Shan was making of the difference between the two of them.
‘Well, leisure is available only for a useless man like me. But it’s a long time no see, Judge Dee. At least three or four years since we last met in Suzhou.’
‘In Suzhou, the temple nowadays is so well known because of you – Han Shan Temple.’
‘No, it’s well known because of the cold mountains there in the winter. That’s what the temple name “Han Shan” really means. I’m just lucky enough to find a shelter in it.’
And then it was Judge Dee’s turn to start reciting.
‘The moon setting, the crow cawing,
the frost spreading out against the sky,
the maple tree standing out on the bank,
the fisherman’s light moving
across the river, who is there,
full of worries even in sleep?
By the Han Shan Temple,
out of Gusu City,
a sampan comes
in the midnight bells.’
‘So you have memorized that poem by Zhang Ji, that’s wonderful, Judge Dee, but “Mooring by the Maple Bridge at Night” is a poem written about the temple, not about me.’
‘But you are the temple, and the temple is you, right? That’s exactly what a Zen master has said about enlightenment, and what you have said in a poem of yours, I think, but such an insightful understanding is unobtainable to an ignorant layman like me, Han Shan.’
‘Come on, you haven’t come to discuss Zen poetry with me here, Judge Dee.’
‘To say the least, Zhang Ji’s is a poem inspired and influenced by you, Han Shan. You don’t have to be that modest to me.’
With the poems and pleasantries exchanged between the two, they were ushered into a room, barely furnished except for the black wood shelves lined up with books and scriptures, and a dark wood table with four chairs around. It looked more like a meditation enclave for the senior monks. A shaft of sunlight languidly penetrated through the lattice paper window into the room.
A small monk came in and placed on the table two cups and a teapot wrapped in a cotton-padded cover, and a wooden bowl that contained shelled pine nuts.
‘I’ve just learned that you’re staying in the temple,’ Judge Dee said, dropping a white pine nut into his mouth, ‘so before leaving the capital for a new post, I want to spend two or three days, for a change, just in leisure and peace like you.’
‘No, you have your karma-informed path, and I, mine. In this mundane world of ours, things as insubstantial as a drop of water, or a peck by a bird, all are predestined and predestining. You’re bound to do great things as a capable official in the Tang Empire, Judge Dee. There’s nothing for me to do as a monk, however, except chanting scripture and writing a line or two in a secluded temple.’ Han Shan smiled a knowing smile before going on, ‘As in an old proverb, people do not come to the temple without having to pray to the Buddhist image for some special favor. So go ahead and tell me what you want.’
‘Indeed, there’s such a lot to catch up for old friends like you two,’ said Nameless, smiling with a knowing nod. He rose and excused himself readily from the room.
As the two of them were left alone in the room, Judge Dee took a small sip at the tea and resumed, ‘Well, among other things, I’m trying to compile a collection of poems by Xuanji. Maybe you can give me some suggestions for the project. And that’s the favor I’m asking of you here in the temple.’
‘Is it a project worth pursuing for our celebrated Judge Dee?’ Han Shan looked up from the cup, a wry smile spreading across his face, deepening the lines on his forehead. ‘Of course you write poems, too, as everyone knows.’
‘It’s not about my poems, you know. Her poems have been circulating only in a limited circle. If nothing is done about it right now, a number of them may soon get lost.’
‘You mean after her execution?’
‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it? I’m not the judge for the case at the present moment, but I may say that it’s the most likely conclusion. As an admirer of her poems, such a project is the order of the day. Questions about those poems, textual or contextual, would better be answered while she’s still available.’
‘That’s true. But as a poet yourself, why don’t you try to compile a collection of Judge Dee’s poems?’
‘I’ve been so busy with official responsibilities. I did not come to really appreciate her works until the breakout of the murder case. So I have read or reread a number of her poems of late. It’s true I’ve written some myself, but compared with hers, not a single line of mine will be passed down to readers in the future, and I’m sure about that.’
‘Well, I remember one poem of yours, which is about the empress offering the sacrifice to Heaven on top of the Tai Mountains. That poem will be read for generations and generations, I bet.’
‘Come on. You’re making fun of me. It’s nothing but an aggregation of pompous words required for that occasion. If it’s read by people at all, it’s not because of the merit of the poem, but because of Her Majesty on that historical occasion.’
‘But that sounds just like a piece composed by the loyal, talented Judge Dee whom the empress really trusts. So much for poetry,’ Han Shan said with another knowing smile. ‘What do you want me to do for you today?’
‘Tell me what you know about Xuanji’s life and work. As well-known poets, you two must have frequently met and mixed with each other in the circle. These biographical details will be helpful, especially for a “confessional poet” like her. A considerable number of her poems were written for her lovers and “close friends” – full of the details of their intimacies.’
‘I’ve met her several times, mostly at social parties, and for an absurd reason you may have never thought of, Judge Dee. With her, a beautiful, fashionable poet courtesan, and me, a crazy, impoverished poet monk, we were put together just like two exotic side dishes added to a grand banquet. It makes sense, needless to say, from a gourmet perspective.’
‘Exactly, perspectives make meanings.’
‘She’s a gifted poet, no question about it. But what makes her poetry a success is – at least partially – because of the sad, salacious, sentimental stories about her with those heartless lovers behind these poems.’
‘You’re right, Han Shan. You know what? With my so-called successful official career, I’ve had no time for poems – nor for any authentic or soul-touching experience, from which wonderful poems originate. And that’s the very reason for my mediocre writing, I have to say.’
‘Spare me your self-pity, Judge Dee. It’s extravagant of you to indulge in it. But you’re a busy official, that much I do know. Without further ado, let me start telling you what I know about her.’
‘Yes, please go ahead, Han Shan, with all the details you can think of.’
Instead of immediately launching into a detailed narrative, Han Shan tapped on the table with two fingers, frowned in the ensuing silence, and put down his teacup on the saucer with a surprising clink.
Outside the window, a large green leaf fell swirling down to the courtyard.
‘Xuanji was born into a poor family,’ Han Shan began narrating in the quiet temple room, coughing to clear his throat. ‘When only five or six, she showed an exceptional passion for poetry, which, unfortunately, turned into too much of a luxury for her family. For her brush pens and ink, for instance, her mother had to do extra loads of laundry for the neighbors at night. While still a teenager, she started writing poems in earnest. According to those who read them at the time, her works appeared to be extraordinarily mature and accomplished for her age. Soon her name spread far and wide. It attracted poets and scholars, like scho
ols of silver carp rushing downstream, who could not help feeling drawn toward such a young talented beautiful poetess.
‘And then Wen Tingyun, one of the top poets of our time, also came to visit her. A long-time passionate fan of Wen, Xuanji was overwhelmed by his unexpected presence.
‘Like others, Wen did not believe that a young girl like her could have penned those excellent lines. So he chose a topic – “Willow Trees by the River” – for her to compose the poem there and then in his presence. It was conventional, as you know, for a senior poet to give a young one such a test.
‘She dashed off the poem right on the spot. What’s even more surprising, in spite of the title, the word “willow” did not even appear once in the whole piece. At the same time, it’s definitely a poem about a willow tree by the river. The contents and techniques of the poem spoke a lot about a young, gifted girl with soaring literary aspirations.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of it. A marvelous poem indeed,’ Dee said nodding before he started reciting:
‘The verdant trees stretching long
along the desolate bank, a tower distantly
dissolving into the faint mist,
petals falling, falling over an angler,
with the reflection rippling
on the autumn water,
the old tree’s root turning
into a secluded fish-hiding spot,
and the twigs low-hanging,
tying a sampan –
I’m startled out of a dream:
the night of roaring wind and rain
is infused with my new worries.’
‘Wow, you’ve memorized it, Judge Dee. Little wonder, given your passion for poetry. Her poem is extraordinary. And it came as no surprise that the poem moved Wen so much that he gave a rave review in front of other poets there. Quite a lot of people gathered around on that occasion. That instantly established her status as one of the top poetesses of the Tang Empire. Indeed, the poem is a must for that collection of yours. An extraordinary poem by any standard. It was then Wen’s turn to be overwhelmed by her, as you may easily imagine. She was young, attractive, brilliant – and crazy about him, too.’
