Antonio Garrido - The Corpse Reader

Cí listened dumbly. His hand hovered over hers and he strongly wanted to comfort her, but he stopped himself and was relieved, once more, that she couldn’t have seen the gesture.

“Really,” he said, “you don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.”

“Even so, I stayed by his side. He made me nüshi so I’d teach the others my skills. I did as he asked because it meant I could watch his deterioration firsthand. I watched him grow old, and I watched him go out of his mind at the same time.

“When Ningzong came to power, I moved on to a different plan. Ningzong and I were indifferent to each other. I stayed until his father died. It was during that time I met Feng.”

She stopped crying. Cí imagined that she’d cried most of her tears during the days she’d spoken about. She served two glasses of liquor.

“And then?” asked Cí.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Her answer struck him like a hammer blow.

They both fell silent. Then she got up, begging Cí’s pardon for her behavior, and retired to her room.

Cí stayed there with his drink, his head a whirlwind of desire and ideas. He found himself swigging straight from the bottle. He thought about Feng. He thought about Blue Iris. Everything was spinning. He grabbed the bottle and headed to his room.

Cí was woken by a noise in the middle of the night. Rubbing his pounding temples, he turned onto his back, and though the room was dark, he saw the liquor bottle empty beside him. He thought he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. He glanced up and there, silhouetted in the doorway, was the naked form of Blue Iris.

She came in and shut the door behind her. He shuddered as he watched her, this goddess, approaching him. She stopped next to the bed. Cí didn’t move, but there was no way to hide his heavy breathing, his excitement.

Blue Iris moved the sheet aside and slipped in beside him. They were a hair’s breadth apart. He could feel her warmth. The intensity of her perfume made it harder still to think. Then her hand was on his leg, moving slowly upward toward his waist. He didn’t move, praying she’d leave him alone at the same time that his body was crying out for her to go on. Then she brushed her breasts against him, and it was all too much.

He’d never experienced sensations like these.

He kissed her neck, burying himself in her. His lips sought the spaces in her, the soft corners, her clavicle and shoulders. She groaned with pleasure.

And when they kissed, it felt to him as though he were quenching a thirst that had been with him all his days.

She clung to him. Her panting breath goaded him. He wanted to be inside her, and he told her so in whispers. But she moved her lips down Cí’s torso and belly—past his scars and to his erect penis. When she wrapped her lips around him, he thought he would die from pleasure. He shut his eyes, hoping he could record this moment, so it would be something he could always conjure. Then he felt Blue Iris wrapping her legs around him as if to say she needed him inside her. He tried to get up, but she prevented him and crouched over him instead. She placed a hand over his eyes, and with her other hand guided him inside her. He gasped and tried to move away the hand that was blinding him, but she insisted, coming close and licking his lips.

“Equals,” she whispered.

“Equals,” he whispered back, and left her hand where it was.

She lowered herself onto him. He was overcome by the heat of her. She moved, arched, kissed him as though taking her last breaths, as though she needed him if she were going to stay alive.

Then her body began shaking in a prolonged and pleasurable torture that became quicker and more violent. He felt her losing control, which prompted him to do the same, and he let go inside her.

Afterward she stayed beside him, as if they had been stitched together. Cí tasted the salty tears on her cheeks. He hoped they were tears of happiness.

But no.

When he woke in the morning, Blue Iris was gone. And when he asked the servants where she was, they had no idea.

He had breakfast alone, in the same little room where they’d dined together. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his hangover, but only seemed to inhale the bittersweetness of Blue Iris again.

Feng came into his thoughts; Cí knew he’d never be able to face his old master. He couldn’t even look at himself in the magnificent bronze mirror that overlooked the space. He finished his tea and went to bathe, hoping the running water would cleanse these feelings: he wanted the pleasure he’d felt with Blue Iris, but he also knew for certain that he’d forfeited his soul.

He stopped on his way upstairs, captivated by the beauty of the antiques and the paintings adorning the walls. Soft Dolphin’s collection paled in comparison. The exquisite calligraphies of ancient poems, whose curved frames offset the blood-red silk covering the walls, were particularly sublime. The texts were by the celebrated Taoist Li Bai, the immortal poet of the Tang dynasty. He slowly read one:

I think of night.

The moon shines in front of the bed.

Above the frost is the doubt.

I look up and there is a full moon.

I look down and miss my life.

He continued up the stairs, reading the other poems as he went until he came to a smaller text that said the composition was part of a series of eleven. But Cí noticed there were only ten. A crude portrait of the poet hung where the eleventh should’ve been; the mark left by the old picture frame was clear to see.

He gulped. It couldn’t be.

He was about to confirm his suspicion when there came a noise from behind him, making him jump. He turned, coming face to face with Blue Iris, who was wearing a striking red dress.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing…” When he tried to stroke her hand, she pulled it away.

“I hear you were looking for me,” she said. “I was out for my morning walk.”

Cí turned back to the place where the eleventh frame had been replaced.

“Amazing poems,” he said. “Were there always ten?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see them.”

Cí frowned. “Has something happened? Last night you were…”

“Night is darkness; day brings clarity. What are your obligations for the day? We still haven’t discussed the Jin.”

Cí cleared his throat. He didn’t really know what questions to ask. Maybe he could consult Ming—that way, he could also check to see if Kan was continuing to make sure the old man was cared for. Cí excused himself, saying he had to visit a sick friend first, and then attend an appointment, but maybe they could meet at midday.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Cí left feeling weighed down by worries. He didn’t want to admit it, but he felt less and less convinced of Blue Iris’s innocence.

Ming had been taken to a modest but clean room in the same part of the palace as Bo’s offices. He looked somewhat improved, though the violet bruising on his legs was worrying, and when Cí asked if any doctor had been to see him, Ming shook his head.

“I don’t need one anyway,” he grumbled, straightening up between groans. “I’ve managed to wash myself, and the food isn’t that bad.”

Cí looked at the tiny bowl with leftover rice in it. He kicked himself for not bringing fruit and wine. He decided to tell Ming everything about the situation with Blue Iris and his growing doubts about her. He listed various suspicions about the ex- nüshi , but then defended her.