Jade Dragon Mountain (5 page)

Li Du pictured the dark silhouetted iron dragons, their serpentine forms holding aloft a sphere composed of tilted rings. He nodded.

The Jesuit was nodding back at him with some pride. “That instrument—I designed and calibrated it. Of course, I was only a novice at the time, but I assure you, it was entirely of my design. So you understand my excitement at seeing a library here in this rural place arranged according to ideas that have long held great fascination for me. Your cousin must be a fine scholar.”

He asked the question innocently enough, but something in Li Du's face made the Jesuit's eyes flash with mischief. “I see,” he said, with a chuckle.

“As an astronomer,” said Li Du, “you must be in great anticipation of the coming eclipse.”

“Indeed I am, though I am not alone in that. I have heard that there will be thousands here to witness it. Decadence beyond imagining … but that is only to be expected. When I was in Beijing the Emperor was making his own study of astronomy. Has he continued?”

“I believe the Emperor's attention was called from it by his many other pursuits. He appointed a Bureau of Astronomy.”

“That is a disappointment. He was very promising. He might have learned to make his predictions himself, without the aid of astronomers. That would have reduced the need for pretense. And who is to say that the wise use of mathematics is not in itself divine?”

Beginning to understand Tulishen's concerns, Li Du replied cautiously, “The Emperor has great respect for Jesuit scholars, but it is not permitted to speak of their work in a manner that impugns the Emperor's divine—”

“Great respect, yes,” said the Jesuit, not hearing, or ignoring, Li Du's gentle warning, “for our clocks and our maps, not our faith. I must confess that this does not sadden me as it should. Our efforts have brought us here, have they not? To this empire. I am thankful that I was allowed to see it, when so many others who wish to have been turned away…”

“But come,” he continued. “I will introduce you to my friend.”

They had gone only two steps when the Jesuit stopped, distracted by a book on the shelf next to him. He picked it up and opened it. “The
Ming History
,” he said, holding the vermilion-bound volume close to his face and peering at the text. “I recall that the authors who first attempted this were all executed. Unfortunate men, commissioned by their conquerors to write the history of the defeated dynasty. A deadly exercise in tact. This appears to be the later edition. Hm. Well, come and drink some tea.”

Li Du's anxiety on the old Jesuit's behalf was approaching alarm. But the Jesuit appeared unconscious of any misstep, and replaced the book with a sigh and a wistful smile.

*   *   *

At the far wall of the library were two doors. The one on the right was closed, and brilliantly painted with gold and silver dragons holding pearls in their jaws. The Jesuit, following the direction of Li Du's glance, said, “I've heard it called the ‘hall of hidden treasures.' The people of your country have a wonderful habit of giving tantalizing names to all your rooms and gardens.”

As he spoke, he ushered Li Du through the open door on the left into a room filled with light. It was an enclosed veranda with windows that looked down a steep incline to the south. The sun had come out and the room's stone floor radiated warmth. The space was empty but for a jumble of wooden racks in one corner, and a low table and chairs in the center.

At the table sat a man with broad shoulders, an angular face darkened by sun, and a short black beard oiled to a point. Li Du guessed that he was slightly younger than Li Du himself, but it was difficult to say for sure. He wore a belted tunic, voluminous trousers, and high leather boots rubbed smooth by stirrups and saddles. He nodded in greeting, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the Jesuit began again.

“Hamza, this is the librarian Li Du, cousin to the magistrate. I knew it at once—there is no mistaking the face of a librarian in a library. I am afraid I startled him, but we will reassure him with tea.” He turned to Li Du. “I have a passion for the tea of this province. This red tea especially. In my opinion, there is no tea that compares to red tea. It has the ability to stimulate the mind without the irritation of coffee. I could drink it all day. It drives out the superfluous humors. I also drink it every evening. It lends clarity to my dreams. But let me pour it for you. Let us not call a maid. I do not like to be fussed over.” He motioned Li Du toward one of the chairs.

“Sit here. This is the room for sunning books, but I am told the season is not right for that, so now it is a room for drinking tea and sunning old scholars. Please have a seat. I wonder if we have met before? No, you must have been just a small child when I was in Beijing. You cannot be older than forty-five. And now I realize I have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Pieter van Dalen. I am called Brother Pieter.”

The man seated at the table said, in competent but less fluent Chinese, “And my name is Hamza. I am a traveling storyteller by vocation.”

“And by avocation,” added Pieter, and went on, conversationally, “in keeping with the traditions of his tribe. I refer to his profession, for he is of the brotherhood of Homer and Taliesin—in keeping with tradition, he is a wanderer on this earth.”

Pieter displayed none of the cynicism, none of the bored defeat that Li Du associated with scholars. The joyful spontaneity of his speech warmed the room almost as much as the sunshine.

Pieter turned to Hamza. “But I do not know whether you choose to travel or are doomed to it. Perhaps the fairies have placed you under a geas, my friend. I wonder if we can help you placate them.”

Hamza raised his eyebrows. “You Christians think that all the magical spirits of the forests are demons hunting your souls. We are more sensible. Our djinn may be good or evil, as may men. I knew a woman who one day was fishing on the shores of the Caspian Sea. When she drew in her nets she saw a strange bottle shining blue amid the struggling silver fish—”

“Enough!” Pieter interrupted, smiling and shaking his head. “We are becoming acquainted with our new friend. Do not confuse him with false tales before we have told him any true ones.” He addressed Li Du. “You must be cautious when you speak to this man. He is a performer and, like all quality performers, he can inhabit different personalities as it suits him. Never assume you are talking to one, when you might be talking to another.”

Hamza acknowledged this with a slight bow.

In the last five minutes Li Du had heard more conversation than he had in the past three years, and he struggled for something to say. “The magistrate told me that you met in India,” was all he managed.

“On the road from India,” said Pieter. “Hamza had already found the caravan of Khampa traders, and I was fortunate to join them also. Very hospitable people, those merchants from Kham. Hamza tells me that he is of a Mughal family, but has been in Aleppo, or was it Istanbul? He is employed by a Frenchman to collect the stories called
The Arabian Nights
. Blasphemous, and, needless to say, extremely popular with the nobility in France.”

Hamza nodded. “He is willing to part with his silver to get them. But I do not know why people want to buy the tales bound up in books. A storyteller leads an audience through the underworld. It is unwise to navigate these places without a guide.”

“Ah,” said Pieter, delighted, “but perhaps the librarian, the guardian of silent tomes, disagrees. Shall we debate?”

Hamza smiled and stood up. “Another time, perhaps. I have an assignation with a language tutor.”

“May we assume,” said Pieter, “that this tutor is a pretty young woman?”

“I have made but little study of your religion,” said Hamza, “and yet I believe that question is outside the scope of your knowledge.”

“You are correct in that,” said Pieter, pleasantly, “though I did live some years in the world before I took the cowl. And what of you, my good librarian?” He turned to Li Du. “Are you married?”

Li Du hesitated. “I was,” he said.

Pieter closed his eyes and bowed his head. After a moment he looked up, and Li Du read genuine grief in his expression. “I am very sorry,” Pieter said. “That is a terrible loss, a most terrible loss.”

The misunderstanding was inevitable, and Li Du debated whether there was any appropriate way to correct it. He was not a widower. He and his wife had married according to the arrangement made by their respective families, and had maintained a cordial, if never warm, relationship. They had not been blessed with children. Upon Li Du's sentence of exile, his wife had been released from the marriage under the principle of destined divorce, which held that the immoral action of a husband could dissolve a union, if that was the wish of the wife's father. Li Du's wife had gone back to her home, relieved that the situation had not turned out any worse for her. The last Li Du had heard, her father had begun negotiations for her to marry a man of wealth and good standing in her own city.

But before Li Du had decided whether to speak, Pieter, in an apparent effort to spare Li Du painful memories, returned the conversation to its previous topic. “But what need have you for a language tutor?” he asked Hamza. “Your Chinese is almost as good as mine, may the Lord pardon my boast.”

“That is true,” replied Hamza, with straightforward immodesty. “But the magistrate has hired me to entertain his guests with a story tonight. If I am to do well, I must know by what names the demons of this country are called. The universal villains, heroes, and clowns have no power if no one recognizes them.”

“Go, then, to your research,” said Pieter, cheerfully.

After Hamza had gone, Pieter shook his head in puzzlement. “A strange fellow,” he said. Then he turned an attentive face to Li Du. “Hamza is fortunate. He carries his stories with him. For you it is more difficult. We have among our Christian saints one Jerome. Like you, he was a librarian and a wanderer. When he wandered, he longed for his books, and when he was with his books, he longed to travel. Is it so for you?”

Li Du, unsure how to respond, said after a moment, “I do miss the library.” He spoke quietly, his gaze directed at a dark stain on the surface of the low table.
Spilled tea leaves
, he thought idly.

Pieter sighed. “It is appropriate for a library to be like the heavens. One should be able to consult books as easily as one enjoys the night sky. I am a great admirer of words, you know.”

“Of—of words?”

Pieter took this as an opening to a conversation. He leaned forward. “Our departed brother, Athanasius Kircher, was one of the wisest Jesuit scholars, if at times a little eccentric. He wanted to assign every unique word a written symbol, and to teach those symbols to every person in the world. Consider the implications. Spoken languages could remain as varied as they ever have been, but everyone would be able to communicate with each other. And it was your written characters that inspired him! When a person from Japan says
takara
and a person from China says
bao
, they may resolve their confusion by writing what is in their mind. Both will write
.” He traced the character quickly with his finger on the table. “And there is no reason why a man from England, or Holland, couldn't do the same, and simply pronounce the word
treasure
or
schat
. There are some flaws in the theory, but what an idea, no?”

Pieter spoke with the eager curiosity of a student only just beginning to glimpse the possibilities of an endless universe. He was soon distracted by a new idea, and the minutes passed quickly as Li Du listened and the old Jesuit talked.

Li Du was aware, as Pieter spoke, of movement in the library. He heard the silken rustle of robes, the click of a cane on tile floor, and the thump and scrape of heavy objects in the adjacent room. He had the impression of shadows moving past the door, and, obeying an instinct he could not explain, he said suddenly to Pieter, “You should be careful of what you say in this place.”

“Ah,” said Pieter. “You think I am unwise? But I am an old man, too old to worry about words that powerful people do not want spoken. In my final years I have no wish to waste time and thought on what I should not say.”

Li Du persisted. “The
Ming History
, and the Emperor's use of Jesuit science…”

Pieter made as if to wave Li Du's words away, then stopped. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps you are right. I know well that the Kangxi fears this province that he does not know. I know also that the last of the Ming rebels still hide and plot in nearby forests. With several brothers of my house among them, I fear. I know that one of the East India Companies has sent a representative with tribute. These are dangerous times. The Companies are not to be trusted. They are more powerful than the Emperor knows. They are ruthless. No one here wants an old Jesuit like me talking about what is happening behind the stage.”