The Last Empress (7 page)

"Since you have to go back to the audience, I shall be brief." Smiling, Nuharoo took a sip of her tea. "I have been thinking how the dead like to hear the living cry on the day their spirits return home. How do we know that our husband does not desire the same?"

I did not know what to make of her words, so I muttered something about how the pile of court documents on my table was growing higher and higher.

"Why can't we create a picture of Heaven to welcome the spirits?" Nuharoo said. "We could dress the maids up in the costumes of moon goddesses and scatter them around in decorated boats on Kun Ming Lake. Eunuchs could hide in the hills and behind pavilions and play flutes and string instruments. Wouldn't Hsien Feng like that?"

"I am afraid it would be expensive," I said flatly.

"I knew you would say that!" She pouted. "Prince Kung must be responsible for putting you in such an unpleasant mood. Anyway, I have already ordered the party. Whether or not the court has the taels, the minister of revenue is responsible for paying for the Emperor's memorial. This is a small gesture."

Between audiences, I took time to take care of things that Prince Kung thought were unimportant. For example, an article came to my attention. It was published in
The Court's Updates,
a newspaper read by many government officials. It reprinted the essay of the top winner of that year's civil service examination, called "The Ruler Who Surpasses China's First Emperor."

The author flattered my son beyond belief. The choice of title was alarming. It told me that something unhealthy was developing in the heart of our government.

I asked for the list of examination winners from the judges. When it was delivered, I circled the author's name with a red brush pen. I removed him from first place and sent the list back.

It wasn't that I didn't enjoy flattery. Then again, I could distinguish between puffery and praise that was earned. But people tended to accept newspaper articles at face value. What I was afraid of was that if I failed to stop the tendency toward flattery, my son's regime would end up losing its valuable critics.

"I have not heard the whistling of the pigeons. What has become of them?" I asked An-te-hai.

"The pigeons are gone," the eunuch replied. Although his movements were still stylish and his gestures elegant, An-te-hai looked nervous and his large eyes had lost their brightness. "They must have decided to find a more genial home."

"Was it because you neglected them?"

An-te-hai was silent. Then he bowed. "I let them go, my lady."

"Why?"

"Because the cages don't suit them."

"Their cages are grand! The royal pigeon house is as big as a temple! How much bigger would the pigeons want? If you think they need more space, ask the carpenters to enlarge the cages. You can make them two stories high if you want. Make twenty cages, forty cages, a hundred cages!"

"It is not the size, my lady, nor the number of cages."

"What is it, then?"

"It's the cage itself."

"It never bothered you before."

"It does now."

"Nonsense."

The eunuch lowered his head. After a while he uttered, "It is painful to be locked up."

"Pigeons are animals, An-te-hai! Your imagination has become addled."

"Perhaps. But it is the same imagination that finds fault with the assumption of happiness and glory in your life, my lady. The good thing is that pigeons are unlike parrots. Pigeons can fly away, while parrots are chained. Parrots are forced to serve, to please by mimicking human words. My lady, we have also lost our parrot."

"Which one?"

"Confucius."

"How?"

"The bird refused to say what he was taught. It had been speaking its own language and therefore was punished. The eunuch training him did his best. He tried tricks that had worked in the past, including starvation. But Confucius was stubborn and didn't say another word. He died yesterday."

"Poor Confucius." I remembered the beautiful and clever bird, which was my husband's gift to me. "What can I say? Confucius was right when he said that men are born evil."

"The pigeons are lucky," An-te-hai said, looking at the sky. "High up they went and disappeared in the clouds. I am not sorry for helping them escape, my lady. I am actually happy for what I did."

"What about the reed pipes you tied on the pigeons' feet? Did you let them take the music with them? They would be fed under any roof if they brought music."

"I removed the pipes, my lady."

"All of them?"

"Yes, all of them."

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"Aren't they Imperial birds, my lady? Aren't they entitled to freedom?"

I was preoccupied with Tung Chih. Every minute I wanted to know where he was, what he was doing, and whether Doctor Sun Pao-tien was succeeding with his treatment. I ordered Tung Chih's menu sent to me, because I didn't trust that he was being fed properly. I sent eunuchs to follow his friend Tsai-chen to ensure that the two boys remained apart.

I was restless and felt caught in a mysterious force telling me that my son was in danger. Both Tung Chih and Doctor Sun Pao-tien avoided me. Tung Chih even went to work on the court papers so I would have to leave him alone. But my worry didn't go away. It turned into fear. In my nightmares, Tung Chih called for my help and I couldn't reach him.

In an effort to distract myself, I ordered a performance of a pon-pon opera and invited my inner court to join me. Everyone was shocked because pon-pon opera was considered entertainment for the poor. I had seen such operas performed in villages when I was a young girl. After my father was demoted from his post, my mother had ordered a performance to lighten his mood. I remembered how much I had enjoyed it. After I came to Peking, I longed to see one again, but I was told that such a low form was forbidden in the palace.

The troupe was small, just two women and three men, and had old costumes and pitiful props. They had trouble getting past the gate because the guards didn't believe that I had summoned them. Even Li Lien-ying could not convince the guards, and the troupe was released only when An-te-hai showed up.

Before the opera, I greeted the master performer in private. He was a bone-thin, half-blind man with rheumy eyes. I assumed that the robe he wore was his best, but it was covered with patches. I thanked him for coming and told my kitchen to feed the actors before they went on-stage.

The set was simple. A plain red curtain was their background. The master sat on a stool. He tuned his erhu, a two-stringed instrument, and began to play. He produced a sound that reminded me of fabric
being torn. The music was like a cry of grief, yet it was strangely soothing to my ears.

When the opera had begun, I looked around and noticed that I was the only one left in the audience besides An-te-hai and Li Lien-ying. Everybody else had quietly left. The melody was not quite what I had remembered. The tone sounded like wind riding high in the sky. The universe seemed filled with the fabric-tearing noise. I imagined that this was how spirits being chased would sound. My mind's eye could see stony fields and fir forests gradually being covered by sand.

The music finally faded. The master performer lowered his head to his chest as if falling asleep. The stage was silent. I envisioned the Gate of Heaven opening and closing in darkness.

Two women and a man entered the scene. They were wearing big blue blouses. They each had a bamboo stick and a Chinese chime made of copper. They circled the master performer and beat their chime to the rhythm of his erhu.

As if suddenly awoken, the man started to sing. His neck stuck up like a turkey's and his pitched voice became ear-piercing, like cicadas rattling on the hottest summer day:

There is an old lobster
Who lives in a hole beneath a giant rock.
It comes out to look at the world
And it goes back.
I lift the rock to say hello.
Ever since I have seen it
The lobster stays in its hole.

Day after day,
Year after year,
Quietly
Wrapped by darkness and water,
A confident creature
The lobster must be.

It hears the earth's sound
And witnesses its changes.
The mold on its back is growing
Into beautiful green.

Beating their chimes in rhythm, the three others joined the singing:

O lobster,
Know you I do not.
Where do you come from?
Where is your family?
What made you migrate and hide in this hole?

I wish my son had stayed for the entire performance.

I had begun to read
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms,
a Chinese emperor's history of the period following the Han Dynasty, encompassing four hundred years. The six volumes were as thick and heavy as large bricks. The book was a mere chronicle of victories, one following another seemingly without end. I had hoped to get to know the characters' interests, not just their military ventures. I wanted to know why these men fought, how each hero was raised and what role his mother played.

After reading the first volume, I came to the conclusion that the book was not going to provide what I was interested in. I could list the names of all the characters, but I still didn't understand the men. The verses and poems about famous battles were exquisite, but I couldn't grasp the reasons they were fought. It didn't make sense to me that men would fight for the sake of fighting. In the end, I comforted myself by thinking that I would be safe—and accomplish great things—as long as I could distinguish the good men from the bad. During what would be my fifty years behind the throne, I would learn that this was not the case. Often the worst plans were presented by my best men, and with the best of intentions.

I learned to trust my instincts more than my judgment. My lack of perspective and experience had made me cautious and alert. On occasion my insecurities would cause me to doubt my instincts, which resulted in decisions that I would come to regret. For example, I expressed reservations when Prince Kung proposed that we hire an
English tutor to teach Tung Chih about world affairs. The court was against the idea as well. I agreed with the grand councilors that Tung Chih was at an impressionable age and could easily be manipulated and influenced.

"His Young Majesty is yet to understand what China has suffered," one councilor argued. "The notion that England is responsible for the decline of our dynasty has not taken deep enough root in Tung Chih's mind." Others agreed: "To allow Tung Chih to be educated by the English means betrayal to our ancestors."

The memories of how my husband died were still fresh. The smell of the burning of our home—the Grand Round Garden, Yuan Ming Yuan—had not dissipated. I couldn't imagine my son speaking English and befriending his father's enemies.

After several sleepless nights, I made up my mind. I dismissed Prince Kung's proposal and told him that "His Young Majesty Emperor Tung Chih should understand who he is before anything else."

I would spend the rest of my life regretting the decision.

If Tung Chih had learned to communicate with the British, or traveled or studied abroad, he could have been a different emperor. He would have been inspired by their example and witnessed their leadership. He might have developed a forward-looking future for China, or at least been interested in trying.

It was a cloudless afternoon when Nuharoo announced that all was ready for the final selection of Tung Chih's bride. I went along because I felt I had to. In order to ensure Nuharoo's continuing support at court, I needed to maintain harmony between us. I felt unready to see Tung Chih married; I could not get used to the idea that he was a grown man. Wasn't it just yesterday that he was a baby lying in my arms? Never before had I felt so acutely the pain of being robbed of time with my child.

Because of Nuharoo's restrictions and my own court schedule I had hardly been a presence during Tung Chih's childhood. Although I had kept on my doorframe the marks measuring my son's height over the years, I knew few of his favorite things or his thoughts, only that he resented my expectations for him. He couldn't stand when I questioned him, and even my morning greetings made him frown. He told everyone that Nuharoo was much easier to please. The fact that she and I competed for his affection made matters worse. It was understandable
that he had little respect for me; I was desperate for his love. Yet the more I begged, the less he wished to be with me.

Now, all of a sudden, he was an adult. My time to be close to him was up.

With a smile on his face, Tung Chih entered the Grand Hall dressed in gold. Unlike his father, he would participate in the selection. Thousands of fine maidens from all over China were led through the gates of the Forbidden City to pass before the eyes of the Emperor.

"Tung Chih has never been willing to rise early, but today he was up before the eunuchs," Nuharoo told me.

I wasn't sure if I should take this as good news. His visits to the brothels haunted me. With Doctor Sun Pao-tien's help, Tung Chih seemed to have brought the disease under control. But no one was sure that he was completely cured.

Tung Chih would be given the liberty to do whatever he liked with his private life now that he had officially ascended to the throne. For him, marriage equaled freedom.

"Tung Chih's mischief is due to his boredom," Nuharoo said. "Otherwise, how can you explain his academic achievement?"

I wondered whether Tung Chih's tutors had been telling the truth about his academic progress. Nuharoo would immediately fire a tutor if he dared to report any failure. I had tested the tutors on Tung Chih's real abilities by suggesting that he take the national civil service examination. When the grand tutors became nervous and avoided all further discussion of the subject, I knew the truth.

"Tung Chih needs to be given responsibility in order to mature," Prince Kung advised.