Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

How ironic that China’s most powerful man, instead of protecting the woman he loved the most, helplessly watched her death forced upon him by the soldiers he had trusted the most. After Yang died, could the emperor look himself in the mirror, or wash his hands without trembling? Later, when he had sex with other concubines and heard their screams of pleasure, would this remind him of the scream from Concubine Yang when she was being strangled?

The legend was immortalized in the poet Bai Juyi’s Changhen Ge, (A Song of Everlasting Sorrow). I’d been required to memorize this while in high school in Hong Kong, but only now, ten years later, did I have any feeling for the story with its complex emotions.

“ Hai, how beautiful and tragic.” I sighed. I wished I had Yang’s beauty to charm even an emperor—but definitely not her horrible fate!

Then I overheard a young Chinese man next to me muttering, “Pretty round and nice breasts.”

I was tempted to tell him that they looked like implants to me but instead dropped my eyes and quickly left the doomed beauty.

I continued to walk, soothed by lush greens surrounding me: weeping willows appreciating their own swaying images on the lake, towering cypresses extending canopies like protective arms, and a proliferation of smaller plants shooting out from the ground or resting gracefully in pots. Partly hidden in the greenery was a collage of impressions: the curve of a pavilion, a woman with bright red umbrella undulating on a winding bridge, a boulder inscribed with calligraphy.

But now my goal was to find a quiet spot to bathe in the famous spring water. Four hot pools were set aside for tourists, but I was not interested in those. I wanted to enjoy a private bath all by myself. I hoped to spot the “geographic faults and cracks 1,750 to 2,500 meters deep, with 109 degrees Fahrenheit temperature water bubbling up” promised in the guidebook.

Walking away from the palace complex and its noisy tourists, I imagined myself soaking in the healing water containing all the therapeutic minerals excellent for health, according to my reading. Perhaps after the bath, my skin would be as translucent, silk smooth, and supple as that of Beauty Yang.

I crossed a long, willow-shaded bridge and continued to walk. Now the winding, seemingly never-ending path was heavily foliaged with not a soul in sight. I inhaled the fresh air and felt happy to be alone at last.

Continuing to walk, I finally discovered a pool hidden from sight by heavy foliage and tall rocks. About the size of a Jacuzzi, with steaming water gurgling up from between cracks, the pool seemed a little paradise on earth. After looking around to be sure I was really alone, I dropped my backpack on the ground, kicked off my running shoes, peeled off my shirt and jeans, leaving my bikini underneath, then plunged in.

I sighed; the water was hot, and therapeutic, and its fragrance intoxicating. Inspired by the romantic surroundings, I tried to recreate Concubine Yang’s seductive poses by raising my leg, lifting my arms, twisting my waist, arching my back, pretending I were taking a sensuous, imperial bath with the handsome, loving emperor! Then, in a soft voice, I began to recite A Song of Everlasting Sorrow.

While I was enjoying my own performance, I was startled by a male voice exclaiming in English, “Oh, I’m sorry!”

I turned and saw with astonishment—Alex Luce.

“Alex!” I screamed, while ducking down to my neck in the warm water.

Alex’s lean physique was silhouetted motionless in the shades of trees. He looked so startled that I imagined his chestnut hair shooting out in all directions in its youthful energy.

Then, as if awakening from a trance, he mumbled, “Sorry,” then hurried out of my sight.

Shaking off the water as best I could, I slipped on my clothes and shoes, slung my backpack over my shoulder, then walked away from my supposedly private “Jacuzzi.”

Alex was standing a few feet away next to a rock, his eyes blinking under the hot sun. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Hi, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Suddenly feeling the heat, I said, “Let’s move away from the sun.”

“I’m going to the Stele Forest. Would you like to join me?”

I nodded, unknowingly breaking my vow of solitude.

Ihad not expected that things would feel so different with Alex’s company. Now instead of trying to take advantage of the Beilin Museum to learn more about Chinese calligraphy as I’d intended, I found myself more engaged by a nice-looking twenty-one-year-old young man than by the museum’s exquisite collection of stone tablets.

As Alex and I wandered through the museum, my heart was beating wildly, not of course for the two-thousand-year-old stone tablets inscribed with poems, sacred texts, imperial edicts, and Chinese Classics, but rather for the adjacent, bewitching ball of energy next to me.

To show I was serious about the exhibits and because my aunt specified I was to read this particular stele, I drew Alex’s attention to the large stone that dominated the room—the Confucian Filial Piety Classic.

Looking at the immense black granite slab standing on a thick base carved with mythical animals and exotic plants, I felt a wave of happiness.

I always loved things big. Big bowls of rice and congee, big chunks of meat, wide slabs of fish with a huge head and eyes round like marbles. I always preferred having a big sofa to sit on, or a roomy high-backed chair where I could meditate with legs crossed. I liked to work at a wide table where next to my computer I could pile bricklike stacks of books, spread out my novel in progress, and arrange my assortment of stationery—pens and pencils in my lunch-box-sized case, boxlike pencil sharpeners, a big stapler to bind inch-thick documents, even erasers I’d certainly lose before finishing using.

I also liked Chinese calligraphy done in grapefruit-sized characters, Beethoven’s heroic Fifth and grandiose Ninth Symphonies, Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel where you have to swing your head in all the four auspicious directions to take in the whole creation….

Then Alex began to read the famous text aloud in Chinese, waking me from my reverie. His voice sounded studious, yet light-hearted. I half closed my eyes to let the soothing sound waves ripple against my eardrums like dragonflies skipping on water.

Do not disgrace those who gave birth to you.

Rise early and go to sleep late—to serve your parents.

Be careful of your conduct and economical in your expenditure—in order to nourish those who gave you life….

When he finished, lamenting that his recitation had to meet its inevitable end like everything else, I asked softly, “You’re enjoying this?”

“Yes, very much. I would like to study this classic more.” He cast me a questioning glance. “And you?”

“I’m not fond of Confucian moralizing.” I paused to search his glowing face, then, “Not that I’m unfilial to my parents even though they’re dead.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK, Alex. But what makes you so interested in the filial piety classic?”

“Because I want my parents to be proud of me,” he said, blushing.

That was not really an answer to my question.

“You mean they’re not?”

Again, he didn’t answer my question directly. “They’re divorced and both remarried, so we don’t see one another very often. But once in a while Mom, Dad, and I have a big reunion.”