Parrot is unable to find any words to say that would ease the situation. A moment ago she was walking by the river back in Khotan with her nanny; now she’s been jerked back bereft to this new and complex city, and to this new and complex life. She wants Little Pink and Glory and the older girls to like her, but even if she knew how, she doesn’t want to act with men as Little Pink and Glory do. Parrot knows that her lips will not bend to that teasing, lying smile.
‘Nephrite…’ she begins, falling into the Khotanese the two of them now use only when they are alone together.
Mama Chen grunts in irritation and sends them all off to nap. ‘You little apprentices, too,’ she says to Nephrite and Parrot. ‘You’ll be up late tonight at His Excellency’s – the party’s bound to go on well past dawn – and I want you to look lively when you come in from the waiting room to help your elder sisters put on their wraps and get the instruments home.’
Later, Parrot will hold the circular bronze mirror for Little Pink while the older girl applies her rouge, and a delicate oval of palest yellow to the centre of her forehead. ‘Keep it still, clumsy demon!’ Little Pink will scold when the mirror jiggles as she fixes a gold filigree hairpin borrowed from Glory. But mostly she will ignore Parrot, thinking only of the performance to come. Then, when Little Pink sweeps off to light another stick of incense to the Kitchen God, Parrot will trace the pairs of lions and phoenixes on the back of the highly polished disc, return it to its carved stand, and stare into its depths. Perhaps, she will think, practising a dainty simper, I can learn to speak this language after all.
At that very moment, Seagem in the Dragon Monarch’s villa will be whitening her face with powder from a mollusc-shaped box. Her mirror will be ringed with eight petal lobes, backed with gold, and ornamented with a pair of dragons. Suddenly, both reflections will cloud, as if with a mist of exhaled breath, and mother and daughter will each behold an instant’s apparition of the other. ‘Who’s this?’ Seagem will cry out, and Parrot will echo, ‘Who?’ But a second later, the images will return to their proper places, the flickering red candle on Little Pink’s dressing table will once again bum straight and bright, and Parrot will rub her eyes and run off in answer to a resonant command from Glory’s room. Little Pink’s mirror will never again reveal a sight into another world. But in rare, erratic moments, Seagem’s will.
Decades later, an emperor forced into abdication, the man named Li Long-ji (also known as Hsuang-zong and the Brilliant Emperor), will gaze brokenly into yet another mirror, longing for a glimpse of his Precious Consort Yang, to whose unjust execution he consented when his mutinous troops demanded her life for his freedom. But he’ll catch no reflection of the seductive smiles the soldiers blamed for the destruction of the state, and in the sixth year of his son’s reign (nearly forty years after the New Year’s Eve you have just read about, in ad 761), he will die within his guarded quarters in a back wing of the grand imperial palace: 9,923 years short of what he might have wished.
On that spring day, unseasonably cold winds will rise up and swirl through the streets of Liang-jou, Chang-an, Dun-huang, through the cities of his lost empire, scattering their throat-tightening loads of yellow dust.
A Record
of the Music of Liang-jou
Lan Jen-yi (style name, Jing-yun) (ad 669?-c. 768)
It is only now, looking back at the profligate expenditure of my youth among the byways of the willows and flowers, that I realize the need to leave a warning for future generations. And so, I take up my pen and jot down these random notes concerning the music of the northwestern city of Liang-jou in the days of its glory.
I have become an old man, and the empire has fallen on evil times. The traitorous general An Lu-shan has been assassinated, and I have heard that the last of the rebels were defeated some three months ago outside Lo-yang [early in ad 763], but lawlessness and disorder have taken their toll. It was not so in the splendid reign of Hsuan-zong the Brilliant, grandfather of our present emperor. In those days, though the barbarians pressed at the gates of the empire, yet they were pacified or held at bay. The rule of the Great Tang stretched then far past Dun-huang to the desert cities of Khotan, Kucha, and beyond. Today even Liang-jou and all the provinces around it have fallen into Tibetan hands.
Often I think deeply on the winsome singers and skilful instrumentalists of bygone days, and my breast heaves with sighs. Alas! The city had perhaps two ten-thousands of households; some say more. All of them, being persons of the west, had a certain firmness of personality. This is not, however, to deny the charm of the women of the entertainment district.
Many of the people, both householders and musicians, came from Soghdiana or India, and the music too was a mingling of Chinese and foreign. They played the classical instruments of antiquity together with those of the far west; thus the respectable stone chimes of long ago strangely harmonized with the alien lute of Kucha. Some of the music was nothing more than barbarian modes. In this, I daresay the music of Liang-jou resembled the music of the empire today.
In the entertainment district of the city, songs of the streets mixed with exotic melodies. The players cannot be said to have had the stately decorum of those of the Ministry of Confucian Rites and Music in the capital, nor the dazzling skill of the performers from the Brilliant Emperor’s vanished Pear Garden Conservatory, nor even the alluring polish of the musiciennes of the Teaching Quarters in Chang-an. Yet their performances were not without charm.
Like the talented courtesans who specialized in singing or dancing, most of the musicians were the daughters of poor families. In other cases, some member of the clan had committed a crime and had their relatives consigned to slavery as a part of the punishment. Still others were the offspring of western tribes, purchased or captured, and brought into the music schools of Liang-jou to be trained.
Their study began at an early age; five or six years was not considered too young and they continued until they reached puberty or beyond. They were not the same as the mere prostitutes of the marketplace brothels. Indeed, although their origins were lowly, they interacted with the most brilliant lights of the age, vying with scholars and officials in the composition of lyrics. Of many, it can be said that, while they did not follow the ways of the daughters of good families, they were rather elegant creatures of deep feeling.
In closing, I record the titles of their songs.
Pliant Willows in the Wind Shamanka Mountain Girl
Tying Loveknots Scattered Golden Sands
Floating Dragonboats Spring Pervades the Garden
Midnight Glee Seven-Star Flute
Looking at the Lunar Palace Lamplit Meeting
Farewell to a Traveller In the Land of the Queen
Overheard Beyond Heaven Bamboo in the Southern Skies
This Parrot-Shaped Goblet Song of the Grotto Spirits
Broken Bowspring Lady of the Tao
Mistress-As-You-Will The Flower Monarch Blooms
The Foreign Monk’s Ruin A Dipper of Salt
PARROT
SPEAKS:
6
I must have been eleven when I saw Baby again, the first time in the three years and more since Mama Chen chose Nephrite and me from among the little slaves offered her by Old Ma’s son. It happened four days after the end of the Festival of Lanterns, the gaudy climax to the two weeks of New Year. ‘I ve heard that long ago, in the Han dynasty, people stayed up the whole night through to worship the gods; now of course they mostly wander through the streets, buying snacks and flirting and gazing at the year’s first full moon.
Those three days are the busiest of all the year in the entertainment district: much of the time the dancers and musicians are dashing about from party to party, jostling through lanes filled with pedlars and vendors and strollers. Crowds gather before the most splendidly lighted households, sometimes blocking the way of the entertainers who’ve been invited to brighten a soirée. The chance of spying a popular beauty on her way in to sing or exchange poems with
the gentlemen guests only leads the curious common folk to pack the area before a noble lord’s crimson gates more tightly than ever. That year. Little Pink’s career had reached full flower, and her name was on everyone’s lips. ‘There she is!’ some oaf would say, too loudly. ‘There’s the governor’s favourite courtesan. Little Pink.’ She’d pretend to ignore him, but it made her only more difficult to deal with back at Lutegarden House.
Evenings when no one from the house had been asked out were no better. The whole place might be booked by some officer eager to throw a bigger banquet than his quarters in Liang-jou would allow. Or we would simply have our usual open house, the customers going and coming in a plethora of food and wine and conversation. On these nights Mama Chen never knew who would show up or whose feelings were going to require her delicate management, so they were the worst of all. Things would have been less hectic if she had been willing to keep a full staff of maids, but she couldn’t bear to part with the money.
The last night of the festival had been like that. The governor himself had come with a couple of his friends to call on Little Pink, which necessitated the clearing of the best public rooms, which in turn meant that Nephrite – who was no longer an apprentice – and Bellring and Glory had had to entertain a group of slightly put-out officials in the common reception room downstairs. In springtime, the situation could easily have been saved by a wistful suggestion from Nephrite to go flower viewing in the garden, or in summer by Bellring calling for a game of Floating Wine Cups in the little pond. But though the blazing lanterns proclaimed the growth of the brilliant yang, the fact remained that it was cold. Even indoors, the guests wore their sable-trimmed hats and jackets until they were well warmed with drink, and Little Pink’s famous cheeks glowed pomegranate red with the snap of the weather.
The next morning most of us had gathered as we usually did in the reception room, near the kitchen, when Little Pink made her solution to the problem clear. Bellring, who as the eldest had the best set of rooms in the house, should give them up to Little Pink. Then,’ she said, toying with a lock of her hair as she leaned back on the new rosewood couch, ‘His Excellency might be entertained as befits a man of his rank.’
Mama Chen was quick to point out that although the governor was obviously enjoying the flirtation, he had as yet shown no inclination to spend the night. ‘The worst thing you could do, you little empty-head, is rush him.’ She waved a bit of fried turnip cake to underline her words. ‘I’d have to keep Parrot in there waiting on you the whole time to avoid any indication of impropriety – or over-eagerness. And until I can find another decent apprentice at a reasonable price I need her helping out the other girls as well as you.’
‘Anyway, wouldn’t people be more impressed if you let His Excellency summon you to serve him at his residence?’ asked Glory, who then looked puzzled by the glare her friend shot in her direction. ‘I mean, surely he will, sooner or later,’ she added, looking down at her plate.
But Bellring’s position in the house was safe whatever Glory said or didn’t say in her thoughtless attempts to please Little Pink. It was true that Bellring had had no special protector for some time now, but the liveliness of her fashionable tunes on the lute and the subtle technique with which she plucked melodies on the classical chyn still drew eager customers. And as Mama Chen’s famous fingers stiffened with arthritis, she had come to depend more and more on Bellring to help with the music lessons she gave to us and to the girls from lesser houses who were sent to study with her.
Just then Saffron came in, sleepy and a little sad-faced. Everyone, even Little Pink, turned towards her. ‘Oh, Emissary Gao’s gone,’ she said. ‘I saw him off before daybreak. I suppose the governor will have me over to keep Gao company at the official farewell dinner tonight, but that’s it. Back to Chang-an tomorrow. Parrot, would you be so good as to run and fetch some fresher tea?’
I thought how happy I would be when Mama Chen did take on a new apprentice, who could share the errands with me, and how miffed – and how funny – Little Pink had looked at Saffron’s casual mention of the governor. Perhaps Saffron had overheard Little Pink’s attempt to supplant Bellring.
By the time I got back with the tea. Saffron’s usual brighter spirits had returned. I was glad. Bellring kept a teacher’s distance from me. Glory in her silly way had never quite forgotten a distrust of me she had acquired during my first New Year at Lutegarden, and Little Pink was absorbed in Little Pink. Nephrite remained my one true friend and quiet protector, though we had less time together now that she was no longer an apprentice and had a little room of her own; even when she was free, as like as not I would find her meditating there. But Saffron and I had something in common: a taste for poetry. When the calligraphy teacher came, the two of us would laugh and race our brushes down the page as we copied out the latest poems and lyrics we had picked up. I was still just a beginner, of course, but I learned quickly. Only the day before I had suggested a change in wording in a farewell poem that Saffron was composing for her lover from Chang-an, Imperial Emissary Gao.
‘You know. Parrot,’ she told me as she drained her second cup, ‘that line you altered still seems better to me. I’m going to write the poem out that way when I give it to him tonight.’ Her narrow face lost the fresh look the tea had brought to it. ‘That way, at least he’ll remember me for a little while.’ She turned and poured another cup of tea for me. ‘You really do have a way with words.’
‘Then she ought to learn to write them better,’ snapped Little Pink. She could barely scrawl her name but fancied herself a connoisseur of calligraphy these days; the governor was noted for his elegant hand. Mama Chen had ended Little Pink’s writing lessons years ago, telling her to concentrate on the oboe, and conversation, and memorizing the words to other people’s songs.
‘Perhaps someday she’ll manage to write as prettily as you,’ murmured Bellring, and everybody except Little Pink laughed.
‘Enough, enough,’ said Mama Chen, reaching for the last sticky piece of turnip cake. ‘The festival may be over, but I don’t give you girls a home so you can lie about and scratch at one another with your hairpins. Saffron, you’ll want to look especially pretty tonight for the farewell dinner. Apply your rouge with a light touch, though. You’d best appear wan.’ Saffron turned her gaze from Mama Chen’s. I saw that though she was resigned to what she could not change, she couldn’t look at this visiting dignitary’s departure as calculatingly as Mama Chen did. Only much later did it occur to me that Mama Chen might have been offering her, in artifice and coolness, the only balm she could.
‘Bellring,’ Mama Chen continued, ‘get Parrot started right away on that new song for her lute. Then go over the part for the chyn again with Glory. I want us to be ready in ten days, for Colonel Duan’s party, and I don’t know if she can get it learned in time. Try, will you. Glory? Little Pink, you’ve been coming along nicely with your bit.’ Little Pink’s plum-blossom face was impassive, but her eyes revealed that the simple flattery had restored her mood. ‘Saffron, Nephrite, find a quiet comer and practise your flutes. And Nephrite, I want you to eat a bite of breakfast first. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve sat here all this time without eating a crumb.’
Nephrite protested that one of the customers had made her share a whole bowl of greasy noodles with him late last night and she was still full. But Mama Chen refused to listen.
‘You’re too skinny, child. You’ll start looking like a hungry ghost and then what will the guests think of Lutegarden’s kitchen service? Run and have Cook fix you something hot if you like, but eat.’ Nephrite nodded, though I doubted whether she would comply. ‘Do you all know what you’re to do? Good. I want you junior girls – Parrot and Nephrite and Little Pink and Glory – back here after noon, when the drum sounds for the tenth watch. You’re about to start on something new.’
‘Something new’ turned out to be a lesson in a dance called Whirling Sashes. The holiday season had exhausted our repertoire,
and Mama Chen knew we had to work up some novel performances if Lutegarden House was to maintain its fashionable standing in the city. She herself was no dancer, so two years ago she had acquired an accomplished young Turkish dancer and renamed her Grapevine. Unfortunately Grapevine had been such a success that the governor had insisted on buying her contract – at a nice profit, to be sure – and had sent her as a gift to the president of the Imperial Tribunal of Censors in Chang-an. Mama Chen still grumbled about it.
Whirling Sashes, she told the four of us as we sat in the reception room waiting for the dancing teacher to arrive, was in the gentler Gan-jou style. ‘If the gentlemen guests want tricky things like Sword Dance or the Barbarian Egret, they’ll simply have to go someplace else. But there’s no reason why you four can’t learn a few of this sort.’
Then the dancing teacher walked in: an Iranian with only one eye. The other socket puckered grotesquely about an ugly knife scar that jagged from above his eyebrows to the middle of one cheek. It must have been the embittering end of his career as a performer. He grunted his commands, and his every gesture let us know that none of us was worth a second of his time. When Mama Chen left us while she fetched Bellring to relieve her aching fingers at the lute, he pulled Glory over to him and stood behind her to reposition her arms. ‘Like this. Miss Sweet and Foolish,’ he said. But when he finished posing her, instead of stepping back, he thrust himself against her buttocks and one hand snaked inside the deep V-neck of her dress.
Of course Glory knew how to twirl about and step away in quick evasion, though the nervous tone of her laugh told me that she was as surprised as I that such a move would be necessary from a teacher invited as a professional into the house. And then she gasped. His hand had remained an instant longer, pulling the dress open, and I saw his long-nailed fingers deliberately catch the nipple of one breast. Little Pink had paid no attention to the whole thing – and it was over in a moment – but Nephrite paled as if her own flesh felt the sharp pinch.
Silk Road Page 9
