The Corpse Reader (49 page)

“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.

Ming listened attentively.

“From what you say, this woman seems to have ample motives.”

“They’re really only circumstantial, though. Also, why shouldn’t she detest the emperor, given what she went through at his hands? But I know that from there to deciding to kill…it’s quite a leap…You should meet her,” he added, looking down.

“And who says I haven’t? The strange thing is that while you’ve spoken at length about her charms, you don’t see that you might be getting your thoughts and desires mixed up.”

Cí felt his whole face turn red.

“What do you mean?” he retorted. “Blue Iris couldn’t truly hurt someone.”

“Really? So I suppose you know why Emperor Ningzong removed her from service?”

“Because she made his father ill. She drove him mad because she stopped sleeping with him.”

“I wonder who gave you that version of events! I find it very odd that you don’t know the story. It’s common knowledge. The old emperor didn’t go mad because she stopped allowing him to have her,” Ming said, looking reproachful. “He went mad because she poisoned him.”

Cí’s stomach turned. He didn’t want to believe it and cursed himself for falling for her charms. How stupid could he have been? His soul for one short night of pleasure? He was about to ask Ming for more details when a sentry came in and leaned up against a wall, as if to indicate he wasn’t leaving. They wouldn’t have any privacy now. Cí decided to give up, said to Ming that he must
allow a doctor to look at his legs, and left the room feeling terribly confused.

He tried to look at the situation from another point of view. When it came down to it, her motive was strong, and she hadn’t even tried to hide her hatred for the emperor’s father. The perfume was a direct link to the victims. But he still hadn’t found out why Blue Iris might have wanted to kill four people—three of whom seemed distant from the emperor. At least, he needed to find out why
one
of them had been killed; he was convinced that if he solved one case, the others would quickly follow.

He decided to go to Soft Dolphin’s quarters again. There was something he needed to check.

Guards were still posted there, and, as always, Cí’s pass was checked and his name recorded. Once inside, he headed straight to the room containing the antiques. The majestic poem that had first drawn his attention was in the same spot, and he wasn’t wrong. It was by Li Bai, the one that had been missing from Blue Iris’s collection: number eleven.

He noted that the white frame was curved, just like those he’d admired in the
nüshi
’s pavilion. Taking it down, he checked the mark it had left on the wall, and then did the same with the other canvases hanging there. This done, his face was a mixture of rage and satisfaction. On his way out, it occurred to him that it might be worth looking in the register, and the sentry let him. Cí didn’t recognize most of the names, but he soon came across the one he’d been looking for: The calligraphy couldn’t have been clearer. Two days after the disappearance of the eunuch, Blue Iris had visited these rooms.

His heart pounded. Suddenly the truth was within reach.

He still had time before his meeting with Iris to take another look at the remnants from the bronze maker’s workshop.

Everything seemed to be falling into place. But when he reached the room where the remnants were being kept, there was
no guard outside. He walked slowly into the darkness and thought he was being careful, but he tripped over something and fell. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the objects he and Bo had so carefully sorted were scattered around. He cursed whoever had done it. He went back to the door and opened it wide to let in some light. What had been taken? He went over to where they had stacked the molds and was horrified to see they’d all been smashed up into tiny pieces. It looked like a club, now lying on the enormous anvil beside him, had been used. Suddenly there was a sound above him; he grabbed the club and peered up toward the attic where he and Bo had piled the pieces of iron.

Seeing nothing up there, he went back to inspecting the remains until he found a bag containing the plaster used to extract the positives from the molds. He put it aside and then heard another sound, a crack, louder this time. Again he looked up toward the attic and caught a glimpse of a crouching figure. And that was all he saw, because suddenly an avalanche of joists, railings, and pieces of wood fell on him, burying him.

Cí dared to open his eyes only when the dust started to settle. He could hardly see anything, but at least he was alive. He was thankful to have slipped under the anvil, which had sheltered him. But his leg was caught beneath an iron bar and he couldn’t move, much as he tried. Gradually, rays of light began filtering from the doorway through the dusty air, and suddenly a figure was in front of him. Cí couldn’t say anything. He was sure it was the same person who had caused the attic to collapse, and he couldn’t get away. He gulped, his saliva thick with dust. He grabbed a metal bar and prepared to defend himself. He was about to strike out when the person spoke.

“Cí? Is that you?”

It was Bo. He felt a flash of relief, but he didn’t let go of the metal bar.

“Are you OK?” asked Bo, beginning to clear the debris trapping Cí. “What happened?”

Bo managed to get Cí free and helped him out of the room. Cí sucked in the dust-free air. Still feeling suspicious of Bo, he asked why he had been there.

“A sentry came and told me the door had been forced open and the room ransacked. I came to see.”

Cí was far from convinced. Whom could he trust? He had trouble walking, though, and asked Bo to help him back to the Water Lily Pavilion. He was worried his attacker might come after him again.

On their way, Cí asked what progress there had been in taking the portrait around.

“Nothing yet,” said Bo. “But some news on the hand. The flame tattoo wasn’t actually a flame tattoo.”

“Meaning?”

“I had Chen Yu, a well-known tattooist at the Silk Market, examine it. He’s thought to be one of the best, so I believed him when he said it.”

“Said
what
?”

“The salt had erased part of the tattoo. There would have been a circle also. It wasn’t a flame at all, he said, but a yin-yang.”

“The Taoist symbol!”

“Exactly. But Chen Yu was even more specific,” Bo continued. “In his opinion, the man must have been an alchemist monk, because the pigment was cinnabar, which can only point to occultists. They use cinnabar in their experiments to formulate the elixir of eternal life.”

As soon as Cí got back to the pavilion, he pulled out the green ceramic fragments he’d been piecing together. What had just happened at the palace made it clear he was going to have to be careful with his evidence.

He shut the door behind him and took out the piece he’d found just now. He had a feeling it was going to complete the puzzle. He was putting the pieces away again when Blue Iris came in without knocking.

“They told me you’d been in an accident,” she said, sounding worried.

“Yes, and a pretty unusual one, too. Actually, I’d say it was more like an attempt on my life.”

Blue Iris’s eyes grew wide, which emphasized their strange grayness.

“What—what happened?”

Cí thought it was the first time he’d ever heard her say something lacking conviction.

“I thought
you
might be able to tell me!” he said, grabbing her by the wrists and throwing her onto the bed.

“Me! I don’t under—”

“No more lies! I wanted to believe Kan was wrong, but he was right all along!”

“What is this?” she cried. “Let go of me! Let go or I’ll have you flogged!”

He let go and she leaped from the bed, backing away from him in the corner of the room. Cí pushed the door shut and went toward her, trapping her in the corner.

“That’s why you seduced me, isn’t it? Kan warned me about you. He told me all about your plot against the emperor. I wanted to believe he was wrong, and it nearly cost me my life. But your ruses are all played out now. Your lies won’t help you anymore.”