Elsewhere, p.24
Elsewhere, page 24
The storm raged, blowing into the study, shaking the windows and the bookshelves. As if coming alive, the silk sheets rolled up from the table, swirling in the air. Somehow, Zixia thought of his children, his one-and-a-half-year-old daughter and his son, born only two weeks ago, whom he had not yet had a chance to see. Now their cries were rising with the wind, shrill in his ears, splitting his skull.
Was I blinded by my ego? he asked himself. Am I truly wrong?
Then he heard Yanyan’s voice, unruffled and clean. ‘Give it a rest, you power-crazed old man,’ he said. ‘Quit your lengthy sermon and just say it plainly: What you want is more than to become Confucius; you want to be the emperor.’
Zixia feels a gentle tap on his shoulder. From a distant place, someone is calling his name. The voice belongs to a woman, the hand stroking him soft and cool, a dizzy smell of fresh snow and wintersweet.
‘Ma?’ he calls. Still half-asleep, he turns to the woman standing beside him. ‘Ma?’
‘You should have come to bed,’ Woman Bu says, frowning. ‘You can’t really rest sleeping by the table. You were shouting a lot there.’
Realising where he is, Zixia sits up and stretches his arms, the small of his back stiff. A nauseating rage, inflamed by the dream he had, still lingers in his guts. For weeks, the feud with Zilu has been coming to him day and night, as if the memory has become a parasite in his body.
‘What’s the time now?’
‘Almost the Hour of Hare. The kids will be up soon.’ Woman Bu adds more wood to the firebox. ‘What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Nothing for me,’ Zixia says, sorting the ruffled silk sheets on the table. ‘I’ll eat after the symposium.’ He needs that hunger to keep himself sharp.
‘Right, it’s on today,’ Woman Bu says. ‘Did you finish the letter to my father?’
Zixia picks up a scripted sheet from the pile. ‘I did.’
Wiping her hands on her waist skirt, Woman Bu skitters over. ‘What did you write?’ She holds the silk carefully.
‘Everything you asked me to tell him: the kids are thriving, the wall’s fixed, the last symposium was well-received, all good.’ Zixia watches his wife marvel at the black signs, a rosy smile on her face, her newly cut hair brushing the silk. ‘You know I can teach you to read and write. Just as Plum is reaching the right age, I can teach both of you.’
Woman Bu’s head jolts up. ‘What are you talking about? We can’t do that, it’s against the law! You think you’re helping your daughter by teaching her to read? You are sending her to hell!’
Taken aback by his wife’s outburst, Zixia doesn’t know what to say, while Woman Bu turns and leaves the kitchen. ‘I’ll get the letter sealed,’ she mutters.
Zixia puts away the pens and the ink stone and sets aside the stack of notes for today’s debate. He washes his face by the vat and ties up his hair.
Woman Bu returns with the sealed scroll in one hand, the cardinal gown in the other. ‘Here, all done,’ she says, in her usual quiet voice again.
Zixia puts on the gown, which has been cleaned, its torn hem sewed back by red threads, the fine stitches nearly invisible. The scroll is sealed by clay, the stamp deep, depicting vividly a millet ear.
‘Thank you, this is perfect,’ Zixia says, sliding the letter into his chest pocket. ‘I’ll bring it to the posthouse as soon as the symposium finishes.’
‘Also, I’ve written something for you.’ Before his wife goes away again, Zixia points at the table, where a piece of fuchsia-coloured silk presents columns of thin swirling ink lines, woven into delicate characters that look like flowers:
關關雎鳩, 在河之洲, 窈窕淑女, 君子好逑.
參差荇菜, 左右流之, 窈窕淑女, 寤寐求之.
求之不得, 寤寐思服, 悠哉悠哉, 輾轉反側.
參差荇菜, 左右採之, 窈窕淑女, 琴瑟友之.
參差荇菜, 左右芼之, 窈窕淑女, 鍾鼓樂之.
‘What are they?’ Woman Bu asks, a strange tremor in her voice.
‘It’s a poem,’ Zixia says, suddenly abashed. ‘You will probably find this senseless. But I thought I’d give it to you because your birthday is near and because’ – he clears his throat – ‘because actually, this poem always makes me think of you. “Cry the Ospreys”, it’s called, and it goes like: Guan-guan cry the ospreys, on the islet in the river, the modest, retiring, virtuous lady, for a man like me a fine match.’
Pausing, he glances at Woman Bu, relieved that there is no sign of annoyance on her face. Instead, she smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘It sounds beautiful.’
Before Zixia replies, the howling of Celery blasts from next door. Woman Bu runs to the baby. Zixia packs up his notes and steps into the bedroom where Plum is up and weeping as well.
Holding Celery to her chest, Woman Bu spares a hand to pat the little girl’s back. ‘Shush, shush,’ she says gently, her breast bare, the infant clutching on, sucking savagely.
‘If you want to,’ Zixia says, ‘I could read you the rest of the poem when I come back later today.’
‘Sure,’ his wife says, her neck craning, her gaze on their daughter and son. ‘You’d better go now. It’s a big day for you.’
When Zixia arrives at the Gate of Great Feat, flocks of spectators have already congested the entrance.
‘Is that Zixia?’
‘Zixia, who do you think should be held responsible for Zilu’s death?’
‘Zixia, we came to see you from Qin!’
‘What’s your strategy for today’s debate?’
They are buzzing at the sight of his bright cardinal gown while a group of heralds dashes over and surrounds him in a circle. Shoving the fans away, they escort Zixia through.
‘Folks, if you want to know what’s going to happen, get a ticket!’ the heralds bellow.
‘Have the others arrived?’ Zixia asks one of them.
‘They are all in the great hall now, Master.’
Damn, just can’t beat those early birds, Zixia thinks, passing the unoccupied Rostrum.
The great hall is more packed than usual. Teams of servants and maids shuttle back and forth, like trout in the rapids. It takes Zixia a moment before he finds Yanyan in a corner, accompanied by his servant, who is standing behind him, massaging his shoulders.
‘You’re late again,’ Yanyan says, waving the boy to stop.
‘What’s this circus about?’ Zixia sits down.
‘I heard the audience will be double the size today,’ Yanyan says. ‘Apparently, the House has been promoting this one fairly aggressively. So everybody is hyped.’
Zixia sighs, scanning his colleagues. A pair of servants hold up a huge bronze mirror before Zigong, who is trying out a variety of expressions and gestures. His retinue knocks around, remarking on his performance. Ziwo lies on his chest on the daybed, face buried between his arms. He moans loudly as a sinewy servant kneads his back. Beside them, two maids bustle, cooking a gamey stew on an iron stove. Ranyong is assisted by the largest squad. Half of its members chant pacifying verses while the other half play chime bells that hang thickly on a three-tiered wooden frame. Almost obscured by the spectacle, their master settles in his chair, his cardinal gown draping down, rippling with the cadences.
‘Tell me, have you given much thought to Ranyong’s question the other day?’ Yanyan asks.
Zixia is baffled. He was just thinking about the same thing, an interrogation that’s been haunting him for the last few days:
But which one of you in particular shall I give my support to, when the next election for the successor comes?
Can I trust him? Zixia asks himself. Yanyan would surely be a better candidate due to his wide connections. But will his peer not be corrupted or would he back out of their plan, as Zilu did? Will he be the same person when he resides in the estate, in that golden chamber, dictating the Rostrum, the heralds, all seventy-two disciples, tens of thousands of followers and the great House of Confucius?
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I was busy preparing for the symposium. Let’s worry about one thing at a time.’
Yanyan smiles. ‘You’re right. And I trust you to have composed the winning argument.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Zixia gestures around the room. ‘Everyone is determined to win. But someone has to lose.’
Chuckling, Yanyan reaches over his hand and pats Zixia’s shoulder, his fingers slender but firm. ‘No worries, my friend. I assure you that the loser has been determined.’
A team of heralds enters the hall and lines up in a row. And the disciples quickly silence their entourages and all rise from their seats.
‘Masters,’ the heralds chorus, bowing. ‘It’s the Hour of the Serpent. Please move to the Rostrum.’
——
Zixia has been wearing cardinal for nearly three years now. Throughout the cycle of weeks, months and seasons, he has debated at the symposium hundreds of times. Nevertheless, all this practice has failed to improve him. Like every other time, when he steps out of the estate, following the other seniors and guarded by the heralds, the hailing from the audience hits him once again like a tidal wave, and he instantaneously loses his hearing.
For an enduring moment, Zixia feels that he has been ejected from his body and is watching himself walk like a puppet, in the terrifying silence, through the ground, up the Rostrum, before sinking onto his designated mat as the fervour of the audience reaches a climax.
From where he is, Zixia sees clearly the enthusiasts off the stage. However, being deprived of the sound, the image only makes him think of the Hungry Ghosts, demons, according to his father, who were once people who had starved to death, their faces distorted, arms ravening, mouths wide open.
The ghosts are coming for him.
Zixia almost breaks out screaming when the bronze gong finally rings and the hubbub floods back into his ears.
‘Silence!’ the herald next to the stage calls, his white robe fluttering in the morning breeze. He puts down the mallet and announces:
‘Year fifteen of Duke Sorrow of Lu, twenty-sixth of the leap December, the day of wood traps earth, the Hour of the Serpent. The symposium of Confucius and his disciples commences now!’
‘Confucius and his disciples,’ other heralds pass his words on. ‘Disciples, disciples, disciples …’
The disciples, on and off the stage, all kowtow to the Master, who sits under the black hat of prestige in the centre of the Rostrum. The juniors bash their foreheads in unison against the sand and soil; the seniors do the same to their bamboo mats. In a collective voice they chant: ‘We thank you for guiding us with your endless wisdom. And we pray that you enjoy boundless longevity.’
‘You may rise, my students.’ The Master gestures and after everyone settles back he begins: ‘A leap December is the rarest among all the leap months and is considered an ominous sign. This year, we did witness turpitude being in the ascendent. Gongsun Cheng – the magistrate of Cheng Town – broke faith with Lu to join Qi and then denounced Qi by returning to our county. Once again, Chu charged its army into Wu, whose people lay slaughtered and destitute. On the other hand, Wu’s Prime Minister Bo Pi refused to receive the body of the ambassador of Chen, even though the latter had lost his life on the way to pass on Chen’s support. And the most demoralising among all …’
He pauses. The heralds repeat his words one after another and the audience, cramming together shoulder to shoulder, ripples like millet seedlings in the field.
‘… denounced … refused … demoralising … demoralising … among all …’
‘And the most demoralising among all,’ the Master says, ‘is the concubine of the late minister of Wey, Woman Kong, who, not only committed adultery after her husband passed away, but also colluded with Kuaikui and opened the city gate for Kuaikui and his accomplices, precipitating the coup in the royal palace, which also led to the end of my cherished disciple Zilu.’
Zixia jitters at the name. He glances at Yanyan who sits quietly with his eyes half-closed, as if in meditation.
The Master continues: ‘I find myself rather unsettled reflecting on Zilu’s death, particularly the method used to kill him: hai, a savage execution contrived five hundred years ago by King Ferocious of Shang. Is the reappearance of hai a sign, warning us of our impending degeneration into another dark era? Now, my disciples, I’d like to enjoin all of you to contemplate this: What has caused this obliquitous moral turpitude and the decline of humanity?’
His question reverberates amid the seniors and, before the last echo dies down, it is reignited by the herald next to the stage, and then the one who stands a hundred steps away from him, and the one after that.
‘What caused … moral turpitude and decline of … humanity … decline … humanity …’
The audience stirs, whispering to one another.
On the stage, Zigong holds his hands together and raises them high above his head, the red corals dangling along the flared openings of his wide sleeves.
‘You may speak, Zigong,’ the Master says.
Zigong puts down his hands and says: ‘They say a saint is always concerned with the world, never himself, therefore I appreciate your distress and discouragement, my master. However, we must note that the vileness of King Ferocious was likely hyperbolised by the literary people. And what we should give more attention to, when comparing our time with the Shang Dynasty, is our unprecedented prosperity and advances in crafts and mechanics. The ancients had to carve on bones to record their remarks while we can, thanks to the innovation of inks and brushes, smoothly write on silk sheets and bamboo slips; the ancients survived on two, three kinds of grains while we relish victuals of abundant variety. Not to mention that we can now travel by horse, speeding from town to town in merely days. Moreover, what do we wage war with? Iron, the toughest substance, one our ancestors could never have dreamt of.’
Raving, the audience calls out after the heralds have projected Zigong’s argument.
‘Sure as hell! They could never dream of!’
‘Iron breaks bronze,’ Zigong continues, loud and clear. ‘The vigorous defeats the decrepit – these are eternal verities. The Analects teaches us that one cannot be a wise man unless he perceives the Mandate of Heaven. And I see Heaven calling on us, amid the contention of the warring states, to be in tune with the progressing trend of history, to banish the weak and to follow the powerful. In this sense, Gongsun Cheng of Cheng, Bo Pi of Wu and Woman Kong of Wey are all blameless, while those who fail to discern the will from above are destined to be abandoned and crushed.’
He slaps his hands together, his sleeves flapping like the roc’s wings, whipping up a gust across the stage. ‘I would propose that Zilu’s sacrifice, albeit dispiriting to all of us, was self-inflicted, for he didn’t recognise that the victory of Kuaikui was inexorable and lent his counsel to the weakened bloc of Duke Exile and his right hand, Kong Kui.’
The heralds echo what Zigong says. The names are repeated. At first they are strange, however, after recurring myriad times, they become familiar and significant.
‘… Woman Kong … Kuaikui … Kong Kui … Kuaikui … Kong …’
Zixia’s heart beats rapidly. He looks up at the Master who seems to be staring into the blankness under his hat, his shadowed face inscrutable. Zixia puts up his hands.
‘You may speak, Zixia,’ the Master says.
Zixia salutes Zigong. ‘Your elaboration on the Analects 20.3 is fascinating,’ he says, ‘which reminded me how the Master praised your talent for seeing beyond what you’ve been told. However, the exegesis should never totally depart from the text itself, or be misinterpreted for the interest of the argument at hand. In this case, I am not certain if the word mìng ought to be understood as the Mandate of Heaven. What about one’s own endeavour that could also shape his destiny? More importantly, however intrigued I am by it, I cannot overlook the fact that your reasoning was completely evasive as to the question we were asked. Prosperity does not bury the moral turpitude that concerns the Master. In fact, one could even argue that advanced knowledge and material richness have little to do with the peace and harmony of our society.’
Zixia pauses. His thoughts, previously dubious in the fog of his mind, now concretised by language, become assuring, even potent. Clenching his fists, he watches the ire on Zigong’s face while the heralds broadcast:
‘… endeavour … endeavour … prosperity … knowledge … harmony …’
Zixia carrys on: ‘In the Analects 6.1, where the Master famously dissuaded Lu from attacking Zhuangyu, he taught us that we should not worry about poverty but about inequality, not about underpopulation but about troubled minds – and this precept has been ringing increasingly true to me in recent months. Poverty and hardship cannot corrupt us, rather, it is unequal and unjust circumstances that overturn one’s faith. Cheng Town betrayed Lu because one of our high ministers wronged its people; Bo Pi fled Chu to Wu when his whole clan was massacred by his father’s political opponent, and unsurprisingly he turned out callous; as for Woman Kong, isn’t it most intelligible that she decided to help her brother Kuaikui, not to mention she was led to believe, by an old acquaintance, that her son Kong Kui, whose expanding influence was begrudged by Duke Exile, was in danger. Now, would you correct me if I have been inaccurate in my summation of this matter, Zigong?’ – he pronounces the name emphatically – ‘After all, you know Woman Kong better than any of us.’
Zigong’s face grows grey, his lips trembling. In fact, Zixia’s implication has astounded everyone on the stage. Ziwo’s mouth is agape, Ranyong fans his face with his hand. Even Yanyan has turned his head. The only ones unaffected are the heralds, who speak to the audience in a monotonous tone:
‘… an old acquaintance … acquaintance … Zigong … Woman Kong …’
Zigong points at Zixia, the gems on his sleeves jangling like raindrops in a downpour. ‘I only knew the late minister Kong when I served alongside him at the royal palace of Wey,’ he mutters. ‘But I had no affiliation with, with …’
