Elio’s Notes: The title comes from Li Yu’s later Wang Jiangnan: “In a distant idle dream, the Southern Kingdom is in full spring.” The poem was written from the perspective of exile, looking back toward a lost homeland. Using that line here, while the Southern Kingdom still stands, makes the title quietly prophetic.
Hongxiu should have gone directly to Li Hongji to report that the Qinghuan wine had been arranged. But A-Shui had stirred up too many memories of Green Willow Lane along the way, leaving her thoughts in turmoil and her heart uneasy. Instead, she returned first to the Han Residence. She had intended to rest in her own room and calm herself, only to learn that Han Xizai had left instructions that whenever she returned today, no matter the hour, she was to go to his study.
As usual, she assumed he wanted some special incense lit. But when she reached the study, she found the surroundings deserted. Every maid and page had been dismissed. She was standing in the courtyard wondering what to do when she heard an angry voice from inside. “How can an entire city like Jinling fail to find one man?” Hongxiu had been about to knock. Only then did she realize it would be inappropriate. Her master clearly had not expected her back this early, and there was evidently another guest inside. She could only wait where she was. Suddenly a black shadow swept away. Hongxiu started in fright, then quickly remembered that Han Xizai had served as the Crown Prince’s Grand Tutor for seven years. Many of the Crown Prince’s death-sworn agents had been secretly recruited and trained under Han’s eye. It would hardly be strange for Han Xizai to possess eyes and ears of his own. Her expression quickly returned to normal.
Smiling brightly, she pushed open the door. Han Xizai stood with his back to her, his posture forbidding. Hongxiu could not help remembering another recent night when he had looked the same. She had not dared secretly listen then either, but whatever was happening could hardly be something meant for daylight.
She bowed and stood with her head lowered beside the desk.
Han Xizai did not turn. “Are you going to the Crown Prince’s residence later?”
“Yes.”
“He truly seems to have taken a liking to you lately. Out of the dozens of performers in my household, you alone caught his eye.”
“Hongxiu is unworthy of such praise. I merely accompany the banquets with song and dance.”
His hair was already streaked with white, yet combed with meticulous neatness. Everyone at court knew Lord Han as a man who indulged freely in wine and pleasure, someone whose residence rang with music night after night. Rumor claimed that he kept more than a hundred household entertainers. The number was exaggerated, but not by as much as one might think.
He himself had given her that name years ago: Hongxiu, “red sleeves.” A pair of phoenix eyes and skillful hands. Now she had even found favor with the Crown Prince. On any ordinary day, Han Xizai’s words would not have troubled her. But she was already uneasy. His sudden mention of the Crown Prince made her even more reluctant to speak.
Then Han Xizai unexpectedly laughed, turned around, and took her hand, once again wearing the face he showed at banquets. “As expected, I did not misjudge you back then. Hongxiu truly knows how to add fine fragrance.”
How could she dare inquire into the affairs between the Crown Prince and Lord Han? Still, she knew enough. Han Xizai had risen to ministerial office and had always belonged broadly to the Crown Prince’s faction, yet he was also personally close to the Duke of Anding. Recently, signs had repeatedly shown that Han Xizai disapproved of the Crown Prince using other means to forcibly secure his position as heir. After the Prince of Qi’s death, Han Xizai had begun shutting himself away more frequently. And the Crown Prince, clearly, no longer visited as often as before.
Hongxiu’s quick mind immediately grasped the situation. She knew what could be said and what must remain unsaid. If Lord Han was probing her in this way, then he possessed only suspicions. He did not know for certain that she had been ordered to do anything for the Crown Prince.
“Shall Hongxiu burn a censer of purple-oil qinan incense for my lord today?”
“No. His Majesty bestowed some excellent red sandalwood upon me yesterday. Go fetch that and light it.” Han Xizai spoke casually, then reached to the rattan bookshelf and took down a book.
At the words red sandalwood, Hongxiu froze. “Yes.” She hurried away.
Leaving Han Xizai’s study, she took the same flower-lined corridor where she had once passed Li Congjia. In daylight, the scenery was exceptionally clear, completely unlike the eerie shadows of that late night,
when she wondered what flowers had fallen. His Tianshui Blue sleeve had passed her and brought a faint breeze, carrying a nearly imperceptible fragrance of red sandalwood that she could not forget. She remembered accidentally stepping upon one of the crimson petals.
Looking at the branches quietly stretching beneath the corridor, Hongxiu inevitably remembered that pale, distant figure. And yet such a man had been born with those deep double pupils, almost the only worldly chain fastening Li Congjia to mortal life, pulling him down so that he could never entirely escape. Within the world created by that drifting sandalwood fragrance there seemed to be only him. One could watch him smile, serene and untouched by wind or cloud, yet never truly reach him.
Hongxiu did not understand it either. Why did the Crown Prince insist on regarding him as a thorn?
Perhaps the imperial family itself was to blame. The explanation sounded grand enough. Li Hongji and Li Congjia had never been the same kind of person. Li Hongji wanted too many things, frighteningly many.
Then what did Li Congjia want?
Hongxiu brought back the incense. Fragrance filled the room. Han Xizai seemed to be speaking to himself. “Red sandalwood. Its roots must rely upon the roots of other trees. So no one truly needs nothing. And no one can truly cast everything away. Every person simply has an obsession of his own.”
Hongxiu did not know how to respond. Han Xizai waved her away.
“When you go to the Crown Prince’s residence tonight, report that this old subject’s chronic illness has returned. The physician says I must rest quietly for several days. Ask His Highness to forgive me for not visiting.”
“Yes.”
Back in her room, the guqin sounded low and gentle,
“The waves rise willingly in a thousand folds of snow, peach and plum say nothing, a whole procession of spring. One flask of wine, one fishing line, how many in this world are like you? One oar in the spring wind, one leaf of a boat, one silken line, one light hook. Flowers fill the islet, wine fills the cup, amid ten thousand acres of waves, I find my freedom.”
Find my freedom. Who beneath Heaven was truly worthy of those two words?
She remembered that the man who wrote them had once spoken of withdrawing into the mountains. For a time he truly disappeared, free and unrestrained, cutting himself off from the world. But how could ten thousand acres of blue waves outweigh a single imperial decree,
when in the end, he still belonged to this web of dust, still a man trapped inside the imperial clan’s unfinished dream?
Hongxiu sighed softly, her slender fingers plucking the strings,
Flowers fill the islet, wine fills the cup.
Her singing drifted slowly with the wind, passing carved windows and flowering trees. After rain, Jiangnan’s moss-covered steps showed no trace of what had passed, and the scenery was radiant. Beside towers of jade and marble, pigeons circled on beating wings, carrying a thread of song through the sky alongside white feathers,
their shadows passing without sound,
into whose home did they fly?
At the same time, a man in plain clothes stood alone beside a window. It was just past the Wei hour and the day was still bright. Yet Zhao Kuangyin took the flame from the table and reached out. Ash drifted downward. Another secret message disappeared.
Elio’s Notes: Traditional Chinese timekeeping divided the day into two-hour periods. The Wei hour covers roughly 1 to 3 p.m.; the Xu hour, mentioned shortly below, is roughly 7 to 9 p.m.
Only two or three days had passed.
The incense was almost burned out.
Someone knocked. “The Duke of Anding is holding a banquet at the Xu hour tonight. His Grace sent me to invite Young Master Zhao.”
Zhao Kuangyin opened the door only slightly, making no move to let Liuzhu inside. She had no choice but to remain outside. Privately she was irritated. Everyone in the residence knew she was Madam’s personal maid. Others normally yielded to her in everything. But this Young Master Zhao in the side courtyard was of mysterious origin. He did not resemble any of the Duke of Anding’s usual acquaintances. He wore only common clothing, yet the quiet force in those sword-like brows made it impossible to imagine him bowing beneath another person. The Duke’s attitude toward him was equally strange. He allowed Zhao Kuangyin to come and go with little restraint, yet their manner toward one another was far from what one would call old friends.
“Where is the Duke of Anding?”
Liuzhu answered, “He just went out. I believe he is meeting someone at Shengding House.”
Zhao Kuangyin gave a cold laugh. He indicated that she could go and immediately shut the door.
He wanted to see him.
Suddenly Zhao Kuangyin very much wanted to see the places Li Congjia visited in ordinary life. He wanted to know how all that Jiangnan rain and mist could be tempered into such a character.
He closed his eyes slightly,
as springtime Jinling filled with drifting red petals.
A man of troubled times, Zhao Kuangyin was full of hot blood yet had nowhere to fully display his abilities. Along the road he had grown accustomed to bloody storms, to methods and human hearts, guarding against them day and night. Then he met Li Congjia.
For countless reasons, he should have killed him that first night.
But when he saw a man supposedly born with the countenance of an emperor speak earnestly about human life and about an elder brother, Zhao suddenly decided to make a wager with Li Congjia.
A wager on worldly feeling. A wager on the human heart.
A wager on whether his elder brother would truly kill him.
It had been a very long time since Zhao Kuangyin had seen someone like him.
He was merely curious. Nothing more than curious.
If the elegance of that lifted wrist were suddenly to disappear without a trace, would that too become a regret?
Zhao Kuangyin hated the word regret. He had never believed regret belonged to a true man. Yet this time, such a thought inexplicably appeared in his heart.
In truth, he was also gambling for himself, gambling upon the realm in this age of chaos.
There was still one complication: those black-clad men.
Zhao Kuangyin disguised himself. Looking into the bronze mirror at his dark gentleman’s robe, he laughed at himself. At least now he more or less deserved the title young master. The elaborate robes of the Southern Kingdom softened some of the sharpness from his appearance.
With a paper fan in hand, he even looked somewhat learned. He laughed loudly at his reflection, then went out in search of the famous Shengding House.
He had imagined that the most celebrated establishment along the Qinhuai would resemble the other places he had seen, noisy and extravagant, music pouring endlessly from within.
Only when he reached the entrance did he realize how little he understood the tastes of refined gentlemen.
Redwood balustrades, painted eaves and carved beams, yet not a trace of ostentatious gold or jade. The only sign of status was the plaque personally inscribed by His Majesty.
It was surprisingly secluded and quiet, steeped silently in the rivers and mountains of Jiangnan until it seemed to have absorbed their gentleness.
No wonder the elegant sons of noble houses loved this place.
Zhao Kuangyin stepped through the doors. No one greeted him. After some time, a man dressed like a scholar descended the wooden stairs, bowed formally, then opened a folding fan.
Zhao knew this was a common courtesy among men of letters and awkwardly opened his own fan in return.
He was wondering what rules the establishment followed when the scholar, without speaking, gestured for him to follow upstairs, as though prior instructions had already been given.
Zhao went along with it. Music floated through the building, though he could not tell where it came from. A narrow wooden staircase wound upward. By the time they reached the highest floor, the sound of strings had become clear.
Zhao raised his eyes. Before him stood a red sandalwood door. The distinct fragrance made something stir in his chest. Looking around, he realized that the entire top floor contained only this single private room. From within came a man’s soft singing,
“Like a candle turning in the wind, like drifting fleabane, I return in a dream. I seek the traces of the past and grieve that the people are no longer the same. Heaven makes the heart’s wish run contrary to the life one leads. The moon-waiting terrace holds only passing water; flower-shadowed towers lie beneath the slanting sun. I climb high, not caring what may further wet my robe.”
Elio’s Notes: These are lines from Li Yu’s Huan Xi Sha. 飘蓬 (piaopeng) is drifting fleabane, a plant that breaks loose and rolls with the wind, a traditional image for a wandering, uprooted life. The last line is often read as tears wetting the robe, but the Chinese itself leaves the cause unstated, so the translation does too.
Zhao Kuangyin frowned in puzzlement. When he looked back, the man who had guided him there had already slipped silently away. Zhao stood alone before the wooden door.
The strings were played exquisitely,
while the voice repeated the lines again and again, familiar and unfamiliar at once.
At last Zhao raised a hand and knocked. The strings did not stop. Inside, someone laughed softly. It sounded almost like permission.
Zhao Kuangyin cared little for formalities. He pushed open the door,
just as the singer reached the line, Heaven makes the heart’s wish run contrary to the life one leads.
The final word, contrary, would not come.
Li Congjia sat upon a cushioned mat beside the window, facing the door. When he raised his eyes and saw who had entered, unmistakable surprise appeared on his face for the first time.
He truly had not expected this.
One line of his own lyric caught in his throat.
“You…” Li Congjia seemed uncertain what question would be appropriate. Finally he asked, “Why is it you…?”
“Was the person you were waiting for supposed to be someone else?” Zhao Kuangyin understood immediately. Ordinary people could not simply come to such a place. Li Congjia was likely meeting someone of important status whose identity could not conveniently be disclosed. He must have instructed the establishment that anyone arriving during this period was to be brought directly upstairs. No wonder Zhao had passed through the entire building without seeing another guest.
Who could have imagined he would blunder into the arrangement by accident?
“Crown…” Li Congjia seemed to understand as well. He lifted a wrist and drew aside the hanging curtain behind him to look outside. Then he turned and studied Zhao Kuangyin from head to toe. His usual composure had already returned. “Young Master Zhao is unusually refined today. Have you come to listen to music, or to sample the Qinghuan wine?”
Upon a low table stood a small blue-green wine pot and two white porcelain cups painted with deep crimson peonies. Zhao Kuangyin was a northerner accustomed to drinking from large bowls. The sight almost made him laugh. Then he remembered the wine’s value. Qinghuan was said to be worth its weight in gold. Naturally it could not be compared with common liquor. And of course, it had another rather special quality. Zhao Kuangyin remembered something. His expression suddenly grew grave.
Li Congjia was still studying him. Zhao came back to himself and replaced the severity with a smile. “Shengding House is difficult to visit, and it is certainly different from what I imagined. But encountering the Duke of Anding here truly is unexpected.”
“If you have some matter to discuss, wait until I return to the residence. I am meeting someone and it is inconvenient…” Li Congjia stopped looking at him and took up a silk cloth, gently wiping the guqin beside him.
The instrument had clearly been sealed away for some time. Zhao Kuangyin knew nothing of music, yet even he could not help admiring its unusual tone. He casually looked around the room, then poured himself a cup of Qinghuan wine and drank it, showing no intention whatsoever of leaving.
From the corner of his eye, Zhao watched with satisfaction as Li Congjia’s movements while wiping away the dust became slightly unsteady. Those double pupils darkened further. This was another thing Zhao had discovered about him from the very first day: Li Congjia’s eyes were naturally extremely dark. Though his expression rarely changed, whenever emotion stirred inside him, those eyes deepened until they resembled ink.
Zhao Kuangyin suddenly found this version of him rather interesting. At last there was a little smoke and fire of the mortal world about him. Never a man to respect etiquette, Zhao simply moved over and sat beside Li Congjia,
who said, “Young Master Zhao certainly has leisure to spare. I wonder whether the Crown Prince’s men have already learned where you are.”
Li Congjia still did not look at him, but the meaning was obvious: Leave.
“What is this?” Zhao asked. “You still believe the Crown Prince intends to kill me?”
Li Congjia said nothing.
Zhao continued, “Do you not believe in human feeling? Do you not believe every human life must have value?”
Li Congjia’s fingertips moved over each guqin string in turn. Then they stopped. One string was visibly different in color from all the others.
“A replacement?” Zhao asked, following his gaze.
The man in Tianshui Blue remained silent. Whatever memory had surfaced, he eventually only shook his head.
“Since the person you are waiting for has not arrived, why don’t we drink and talk?” The more unusual Li Congjia’s expression became, the more Zhao wanted to know. “What story belongs to that string?”
He wanted to hear what sort of story could belong to such a man, gentle as polished jade. Surely it would be something utterly unlike Zhao’s own life, riding horses across deserts, running north and south through violence and blood.
Everything had left traces from the very beginning. Zhao Kuangyin did not believe in fate. Yet after that day, he would absurdly come to believe that some things truly could not be escaped. Two stories. The same insistence on making a wager.
Night rain dyes Tianshui Blue. That night, rain suddenly began again.
And at that evening’s family banquet, Ehuang sat alone before the lamps and wine.
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