Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

Lianping knew who Dayu was-he was a legendary figure in ancient Chinese history. She knew nothing, however, about the connection between Dayu and Shaoxing. In recent years, a number of cities built temples or palaces to attract tourists, making far-fetched claims of connections to legendary figures.

“I don’t think we’ll have the time,” Chen said, making the decision for both of them.

The vehicle pulled up next to Shen Garden, and they got down. They purchased entrance tickets and noticed, through the open gate, that the garden appeared to be rather deserted.

It turned out to be smaller than Lianping had expected, though it was probably just like other gardens designed in the tradition of southern landscaping. It had vermilion-painted pavilions, stone bridges, and fantastically shaped grottos in groves maintained in a style of cultivated nature that had appealed to the literati in the Ming and Qing dynasties. Not far from the entrance, she saw a billboard with a history of the garden focusing on the romance between Lu You and Tang Wan during the Song dynasty.

The garden appealed to tourists because of the romantic poems composed by Lu You that were connected to the garden. There was also a Shaoxing opera based on the classic love story, which she had heard about from her mother, a Shaoxing opera fan, though Lianping herself hadn’t seen it.

After several turns along the moth-covered path, they passed a solitary stall selling local rice wine and then came to a pavilion with a large, oblong rock beside it, the flat surface of which had two poems engraved on it and highlighted in red paint.

I

The sun is sinking behind the city wall

to the sad notes of a shining bugle.

Here in Shen Garden ,

the pond and the pavilion appear

no longer to be the same ,

except the heartbreaking spring ripples

still so green under the bridge ,

the ripples that once reflected her arrival

light-footed, in such a beauty

as to shame wild geese into fleeing.

II

It’s forty years since we last met ,

the dream broken, the scent vanished ,

in Shen Garden, the withered willows

produce no more fluffy catkins.

An old man about to turn into the dust

of Mount Ji, I still burst into tears

at this old scene.

“The poems are autobiographical,” Chen said, starting in again. “In his youth, Lu You married his cousin, Tang Wan, whom he deeply loved. Because of opposition from his mother, however, they were forced to divorce, though they still cared for each other, even after each of them remarried.”

“They both remarried? Didn’t the institution of arranged marriage forbid women from remarrying?”

“Not exactly, at least in their case. Neo-Confucianism didn’t gain momentum until after Chen and Zhu in the Ming dynasty. In Lu You’s time, it was still permissible for a woman like Tang Wan to remarry.

“In 1555, they met in the garden by chance. They were both remarried by then, and they had to observe the etiquette of the time. Still, she served him a cup of yellow rice wine in her delicate hand, all that was unsaid between them rippling in the cup. Lu You wrote a ci poem, lamenting a ‘spring still so green,’ to which Tang Wan composed one in response, and died of a broken heart not long afterward. Many years later, at the age of seventy-five, he revisited the garden and wrote the lines carved in the rocks here. Their ill-starred romance added to the popularity of the poems.”

“It’s a sad story.”

“Oh, I forgot,” he said abruptly, before turning back to the path along which they had come. “Wait in the pavilion for me,” he said, as he walked away.

She stepped into the pavilion, wondering what he was up to.

Then she saw him hurrying back, carrying two cups.

“Huang Teng wine. The wine served by Tang Wan in Lu You’s ci poem.”

“What’s Huang Teng?” She took one of the cups from his hand.

“It’s possible it was the name of the place where the wine was brewed at the time.”

They sat down in the pavilion, which didn’t provide comfortable seating. The stone bench was narrow, cold, hard. Also a bit too high-Lianping sat with her feet dangling, barely touching the ground. She shifted and tucked her feet up under her, the cup still in her hand.

Once again she tried to conjure up the ancient scene between the lovers in the garden-the same pavilion, the same pine tree, the same stone bridge, thousands of years ago. Lu and Tang met on a day just like today, aware of a message, perhaps the same as today, drawing nearer to them in the late afternoon.

“The gardens have been rebuilt a couple of times,” Chen said, as if reading her thoughts again. “ The pond and the pavilion appear / no longer to be the same. ”

The pavilion must have been rebuilt too. Relatively new graffiti, comments, and lines written by tourists decorated the posts and railings. Some wrote sentimental lines in imitation of Lu You’s, and some simply left their names with a red heart beneath.

“It’s nothing but clichés,” he said with a cynical note in his voice.

“You translated the love poems into English, didn’t you?”

“No, not me. They were translated by Yang, a talented poet and translator like Xinghua. I happened to get his manuscript while working on a murder investigation. He died during the Cultural Revolution, and the manuscript had been kept by his ex-Red Guard lover, who was murdered several years ago. That in itself was a touching story. I made some changes to the manuscript, added a few poems, and then sent the collection to the publisher. The editor insisted on adding my name to the book as a political cushion, since Yang’s name could be too much of a reminder of the atrocities committed during the Cultural Revolution.” He resumed after a short pause, “By the way, you should see the Shaoxing opera version of the love story. My mother is a loyal fan. I’ll have to buy a bunch of postcards for her.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll buy some for my mother too. But I have a question for you. When Lu You and Tang Wan met again, she not only had remarried but also was no longer that young. Why was he still smitten?”

“Good question. In his mind, she was still what she was when he first saw her, just like that little…” he said, trailing off at the end.

“Just like who?” she pushed, in spite of herself, wondering whether he was thinking, Just like Wang Feng , the ex- Wenhui journalist whom Chen was said to have dated. Wang Feng had recently come back to Shanghai for a short visit. They could have met up again.

“Oh, somebody I met here this morning,” he said, and then added, “whom I didn’t meet until this morning.”

In the short silence that ensued, the light drizzling rain was letting up. A bird started chirping somewhere among the glistening foliage. So it wasn’t someone from his past, she reflected. But who was it, then? Possibly someone involved in the investigation.

Did he come to Shaoxing just for her company? Or did he have other motives?

Quickly, she let the thought pass, saying to herself that if he wanted to tell her about it, he would.

“I interviewed someone here for the investigation I’m working on.”

She felt a wave of disappointment rippling through her, which was followed by a wave of relief. He didn’t come because of her or because of her suggestion after all.

Looking over at him, she saw he was hurriedly taking out his cell phone.

“Sorry, I have to take this call. It’s from the doctor at East China Hospital. It could be urgent-”