by Qiu Xiaolong
Mo must have taken him for another in the publishing business, and he did not like the prospect of a copy of the earlier edition falling into the hand of a potential rival.
‘To tell the truth,’ Yang said, thinking that he had no choice but to play his trump card, ‘I’m here for my bookish master who is not interested in your line of business. He’s simply a fan of her poems, but at the same time, it’s also because of the murder case that he wants to read her poems.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Dee Renjie.’
‘Judge Dee! You should have told me earlier,’ Mo said, rising in a hurry to reach into a black-painted chest behind him and take a folder out of it. ‘I do not have a single copy left, that’s true, but I still have the proof of her poetry collection.’
‘The proof. That’s incredible.’
‘Sure enough, here it is. The very proof. And His Honor may keep it as long as he likes, of course. He is such a noble Confucianist statesman of integrity, unwavering in his support of the Li family in the difficult times. Yes, Judge Dee can have it. No charge for him.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Mo. My master will truly appreciate it, but you may still need the proof for your reprint edition.’
‘I have another copy – in my own poor handwriting, hardly readable to others. It’s really an honor for Judge Dee to have the proof from me. Let me wrap it for you, Yang.’
‘A different question, Mr Mo. Since you’re familiar with Xuanji, did you happen to notice anything unusual about her in the days before the discovery of the maid’s body in the nunnery backyard?’
‘It’s for the murder investigation, correct? But I was not that familiar with her – except in the matter of book business, as you know.’
‘But you’ve just mentioned that she put the names of her lovers into the poems. What about them?’
‘Yes, Wen and Zi’an particularly. Wen is one of the most prominent contemporary poets, both in shi and ci. A number of masterpieces in the “soft style” – even with a female persona like her. It’s to her credit that she had included her poems written to him in the collection. As for Zi’an, you know the love story between the two. In spite of his success in the capital civil service examination, he’s a mediocre poet with hardly anything readable except for two or three quatrains written in response to hers. But neither Wen nor Zi’an has been here for at least half a year …’
Mo gushed on like the bookish man he truly was, but the talk about poetry-writing and printing began to wear Yang out.
‘For a woodblock printer like me, she’s an extraordinary customer. Not too many poets could have afforded to have their poems printed like her.’
Mo then took out a block of wood engraved with all the tiny Chinese characters.
‘It’s just for one page, you see, but it took me several days to have all the words engraved. A couple of mistakes could have ruined the whole block. So most poets prefer to hire a calligrapher for handwritten copies. It’s a lot cheaper that way.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘She paid me well. And she introduced both Wen and Zi’an to me. In the event of printing Wen’s poetry collection, it will be read for thousands of years because of my special edition, you know, so it’s an incredible opportunity I cannot afford to miss, not just for the money.’
Yang felt increasingly lost. As he was not a poetry reader, what Mo was talking about meant little to him. But could that be of any help to Judge Dee? Stealing a look out of the lattice window, he saw the sky overhead becoming somber with rain clouds scurrying across the horizon.
He rose, thanked Mo, and left with the proof clutched tightly in his hand.
After an exchange of pleasantries with several other monks in the courtyard, after admiration of the poems left by other celebrated poets on the garden wall, after inquiries about the possibility of having a service arranged at short notice, after casual questions about the interesting or unusual things that had happened of late around the temple, Judge Dee had just arrived back at his room, putting his black cap on the table, when Yang hurried in with a package in his hand.
Yang appeared to be in high spirits, in spite of his rain-dampened clothes.
‘You got caught in the rain?’
‘It’s just a drizzle. Nothing to worry about. Here is the proof of the collection Night Poetry Talk by Xuanji.’
‘You’ve actually obtained the proof, Yang?’
Yang took the seat opposite, drained a cup of tea in one gulp, and told Dee what he had learned about Xuanji during the day.
The account Yang gave was far from well organized, digressing with details seemingly irrelevant to the murder case, especially with those tall tales about the black fox spirit he had learned of in the village. It was quite a while before Yang came to the end of his excited narration.
‘In addition, here is a silk scroll of Xuanji’s poem in her own calligraphy. It was sold to the store by someone named Wei, a man she had been seeing in secret, though it’s hardly a secret in the neighborhood.’
‘It’s a steal for the price you paid.’
‘I thought you might need me for something else in the temple, so I did not have time go to see the flower girl. She’s at the southern end of the village. Perhaps I can have a talk with her tomorrow.’
‘A marvelous job you have done today!’ Judge Dee said, rubbing his hands over the top of the proof. ‘I truly appreciate it. Now it’s time for you to take a break. I’ll have the temple special – a bowl of mushroom soup noodles – delivered to your room. It’s delicious. You deserve it after such a long, productive day’s work.’
Yang looked up at his master, making no comment. He knew better than to push for some immediate response regarding the investigation from Judge Dee, who kept caressing the silk scroll spread out on the table, without offering to tell him anything about what he had learned from Han Shan in the temple.
After having finished the second cup of lukewarm tea, Yang rose, bowed, and withdrew like a respectful attendant, though he had hardly any appetite for the celebrated vegetarian soup noodles back in his room.
Alone, Judge Dee began reading the proof of Xuanji’s poetry collection in the temple room. It was so peaceful, except for occasional rustles of falling leaves in the backyard.
He did not know how long he had been lost in the world of her poems. The temple bell was carrying the dusk over in a light breeze when he looked up from the proof, rubbing his strained eyes, toward a small green bamboo grove swaying gently outside the lattice window.
There were about forty poems in all in the proof, with the changes and notes made and marked by the poetess herself. Something immensely valuable if he had truly been such a collector as represented by Yang in the village.
Most of them were love poems, though readable in an allegorical way, too. There were quite a number of them that Judge Dee was reading for the first time.
After the long talk with Han Shan earlier in the day, Judge Dee thought he was in a better position to read more into those sad and sentimental lines composed by Xuanji.
And it might be a workable idea for him, Judge Dee reflected, to have two collections compiled instead of one, as Han Shan had suggested. One, the complete poems of Xuanji, and the other, the love poems of Xuanji – possibly with her love poems as well as some others written to her in response included in the same collection – and that with detailed biographical notes. In the meantime, there could have been some new, uncollected pieces recently discovered as those for the proof from Mo had been delivered about a year before.
Whether Judge Dee could afford the time or the energy for either of the collections, he hastened to remind himself, would be another story.
Halfway through the proof, he came practically to rule out Wen and Zi’an as possible suspects in connection to the murder case. It was not just because of their alibis. More because of the fact that these poems actually appealed to the vanity of her ex-lovers to have such a celebrated poetess, Judge Dee read on wit
h knitted brows, complain in her poems that she was pining away, missing them in sleepless nights. The world of appearance is nothing if not informed with self-centered vanity, as Han Shan had observed. Neither Wen nor Zi’an had a motive, apparently, for a devious plot against her.
It was getting dark outside. Lighting a candle, Judge Dee came across another ‘personal poem’ titled ‘To a Girl in the Neighborhood,’ which reminded him of what Yang had told him about the flower girl in the village.
You cover your face with the silk sleeves,
bashful in the sunlight, too languid
to apply make-up in the worries
of the springtime. Alas, it is easier
to find an extremely valuable treasure
than a true-hearted lover.
Weeping against the tear-soaked pillow
at night, you suffer a heartbreak
walking in the midst of the flowers.
With a handsome talent like Song Yu
beside you, why should you feel bitter
about a cold-hearted Wang Chang?
According to the information gathered by Yang, Xuanji did not have any friends in the neighborhood except the flower girl surnamed Zhang. Both the textual and the contextual pointed to the flower girl in question, but at the same time, the poem pointed more to Xuanji herself. It was conventional for people to express themselves through a poem seemingly addressed to another. With the two men mentioned at the end of the poem – Song Yu and Wang Chang – both known as handsome men and gifted writers – the poem actually read more like self-encouragement. The mentioning of ‘a cold-hearted Wang Chang’ at the end of the poem came with an implied disparagement of Wen or Zi’an. After all, she had some other young, handsome talents available to her in those ‘poetry talks’ at the nunnery, so why should she feel so inconsolable about her situation?
Putting aside the proof, Judge Dee found his mind bogged down in the sentimental lines. He was not a poet on a par with Xuanji. Taking a sip of the cold tea, he stroked his gray beard with a sigh.
For a break from the poetry, he decided to work his way through the list of the possible contacts Yang had obtained for him. The next day, he was going to start with the flower girl in question, who was called by her neighbors ‘another young fox spirit like Xuanji.’ And the typesetter/publisher of the poetry collection, who appeared to be quite knowledgeable about the literature circle Xuanji had moved in. And the bookstore owner, who had a scroll of Xuanji’s poem in her own calligraphy. And then Wei, who had the poem copied out to him … but possibly after Judge Dee had talked to all other contacts.
The list of names turned out to be quite long. He wondered whether he would be able to approach all of them in one day.
After circling a couple more names, he put down the list, He felt inexplicably tired, rubbing his temples.
Looking out of the paper window, he could hardly see anything in the temple courtyard, though a lone monk’s scripture-chanting was heard in a barely audible monotone. Probably something about the vanity of human passion in the world of red dust, the chanting went on in a broken rhythm to the night watchman’s insistent knocker beating along the trail outside the temple.
He pushed open the window. The night was quite advanced. Across the deep-blue sky, the moon began setting as if perched on a gigantic black crow’s wing – as ominous as the black fox spirit in those folk tales. There is nothing but the appearance from one’s own perspective at this time, in this place. He sighed, having spent almost half a night reading through those poems and speculating about the contacts for the murder investigation.
The flickering candle gave out an unexpected sparkle. What omen could it have spelled for Xuanji? She was staying in a dark prison cell, probably with no candle at her side.
He snuffed the candle clumsily with his fingers, thinking he might finally be ready to go to bed.
THREE
Judge Dee stepped out of the temple in the early morning, taking a deep inhale of the fresh air in the blue hills. It had rained in the night. A touch of green was seen stretching out toward the distant gray horizon. He still felt tired, yawning, when he saw Yang come striding over.
‘I’m taking a walk around the neighborhood this morning, Yang. Possibly quite a long walk, I think. So you’ll have a free day for yourself here.’
‘The hill trail might be quite steep and slippery this morning, Master. What about having a sedan chair arranged for you?’
‘No. I need to stretch my legs a little. It will be just a leisurely stroll. I’m not that old yet.’
‘If you say so, Master. In the meantime, is there anything else for me to do about the Xuanji case?’
‘No, we’re just taking a look into it, but not doing any real investigation for Minister Wu. As a matter of fact, you have already done more than enough for the investigation. For a change, stay here today, and enjoy the enchanting view and the fabulous vegetarian food of the temple.’
‘Yes, Master,’ Yang said, bowing low like an obedient servant, ‘whatever you say.’
Sometimes a man chooses to play a role for reasons not necessarily clear to himself, but after a while, the role starts to play him instead, consciously or not. That perhaps applied, however, only to the one side of Yang, who was not just an obedient servant but also a stubborn, self-declared investigation assistant, unwilling to give up that role so easily, Judge Dee reflected.
Wasn’t that also a self-reflection of Dee himself, the so-called Judge Dee, he wondered, smiling a wry smile.
A flash of the morning light on the wings of a surprised blue jay surprised him out of his reveries.
It took some effort for Judge Dee to make his way down, stepping carefully along the narrow, slippery trail winding down from the mid-hill temple, which overlooked a green expanse of rice paddy fields at the foot of the hill.
A tiny pine nut was heard dropping in the secluded trail, with the bell from the temple growing fainter in a cool breath of wind. The view was largely wrapped in a somber opaqueness of the morning mist. The tall dew-speckled weeds along both sides of the tranquil hill trail glistened, off and on, like myriads of curious eyes blinking inquisitively.
It did not take too long for Judge Dee to find his blue cotton gown sweat-drenched, as he kept trudging on along the trail. He was growing old, he told himself, fastening his straw hat against the morning sun.
He came in view of the village, a medium-sized one with small yet colorful houses scattered around in the neighborhood of the nunnery.
At the village entrance, he approached the villagers to ask about the flower girl in question. An elderly man directed him to the flower garden, merely raising a bony finger with a suggestion of annoyance.
So, at the southern end of the village, he saw a small flower garden with green bamboo fences circling around, in which a young girl in homespun indigo was watering a row of flowerpots near the garden door. It turned out to be none other than Zhang, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen, whose hands were soiled with garden work. So were her bare feet.
Not at all like a seductive fox spirit in those tall folk tales, she looked up at Dee, smiling a shy smile and lowering her head in a demure way.
But it was perhaps not too surprising, Judge Dee observed, that she had earned for herself the epithet of ‘another fox spirit’ in the company of Xuanji.
The official Tang discourse regarding the future of young girls was that of arranged marriage. Because of it, they usually chose to present themselves in public as little as possible. They were not supposed to be involved in any prenuptial romance, as marriage had to be a matter arranged by their parents with the help of matchmakers. Anything that contradicted the time-honored tradition would be condemned and denounced in the light of the orthodox Confucian classics. For Zhang, a young girl who had to support herself by working in the flower shop, and eventually find a man by taking the matter in her own hands, she could not but be seen by others as a different, or even slutty, ‘fox spirit’ like Xuanj
i.
‘I’m a poetry publisher,’ Judge Dee said to her, coming straight to the point. ‘I feel so sorry about what has happened to your friend Xuanji. I’m trying to compile a poetry collection for her. That’s the least a bookish old admirer like me can do. I’ve just learned that you two saw each other quite a lot. Surely she has been more than a regular customer here for your flowers.’
‘Yes, she came to my shop from time to time, but first and foremost as a customer for my flowers.’
‘You don’t have to be so modest about that. In fact, you’re the very one in her poem titled “To a Girl in the Neighborhood,” right? That speaks volumes about your friendship. It’s a wonderful poem, which will be read for hundreds and hundreds of years, I can assure you of that.’
‘Yes, that’s the poem she wrote for me after one of her visits to the flower garden.’
‘As a publisher, I believe it’s important to get as much biographical information as possible about the poems. Particularly for a poetess like her. For instance, I can add a note about the inspiration she got from her visit to your garden. About what the two of you discussed. All that can turn out to be so helpful for readers to understand the poem. Some of the earlier annotated editions of her poems may not be accurate or reliable in that aspect, and it’s crucial for a publisher like me to check and double-check.’
‘It’s a worthy project, sir. I’m just a poor, barely educated flower girl. For all her beauty and talent, she has condescended to talk to me occasionally about her poems, and I feel so grateful to her. I’ll try to answer your questions the best I can.’
‘How about telling me whatever you know about her daily life?’
Then the flower girl started giving him a detailed account of Xuanji’s life after she had moved to the nunnery.
