observed One-Cough from behind a folded panel.
“The word ‘hack’ or ‘slaughter’ is incorrect in describing my job,” One-Cough began in a surprisingly soft tone. He was a small-headed, stocky-framed man with short, thick arms. “The correct word is ‘slice.’ That’s what I do. Slice. I’ll hold the knife backwards by the handle-that is, with the dull edge near my elbow and the blade facing out. When I receive the action order, I’ll push the knife right in from behind Su Shun’s neck. Most people awaiting death aren’t able to stand on their feet by the time they are brought to me. Nine out of ten have problems kneeling straight. So my assistant will keep the guy’s shoulders up by grabbing his queue. I’ll be standing behind Su Shun, a little bit to the left so he won’t see me. In fact, I will begin observing him the moment he is escorted onto the stage. I’ll study his neck in order to locate a spot where I can cut in.
“When I start, I’ll first tap his right shoulder with my left hand. I only have to tap lightly-he’s jumpy enough. The point is to alarm him so his neck will stick up, and I will immediately push my elbow. The blade will go right in between his spinal knuckles. And I will shove my knife to the left all the way, and before the edge comes out, I’ll raise my leg and give a kick to the body so it falls forward. I have to kick fast, otherwise my clothes will get drenched in blood, which my profession considers bad luck.”
The day of Su Shun’s execution came. Yung Lu told me later that he had never witnessed so many people at a beheading in his life. The streets were packed, as were the rooftops and trees. Children had filled their pockets with rocks. They sang songs of celebration. People spat on Su Shun as his cage went by. When he arrived at the place of execution, his face was covered with saliva and his skin was torn by rocks.
One-Cough emptied a bottle of liquor before he got on the stage. He could hardly believe that he was beheading Su Shun, for in the past he had taken orders from Su Shun to behead others.
As for Su Shun, he called his own failure “a boat turned upside down in sewage.” He shouted to the laughing crowd that “there is a salacious affair going on between the Empresses and the Imperial brother-in-law Prince Kung.” In no time Su Shun’s head rolled like a common felon’s.
I was haunted by the execution. The images Yung Lu described were vivid in my head. An-te-hai told me that I cried loudly in my dreams and said that all I wanted was to give birth to a dozen children and live the life of a peasant woman. An-te-hai said that in my sleep my neck wouldn’t stop twisting from side to side as if I were dodging the blade.
Su Shun’s immense fortune was divided among the royals as compensation for the abuse they had suffered. Overnight Nuharoo and I became wealthy. She purchased jewelry and clothes, and I paid for spies. The attempted assassination on me had shattered my sense of security. With what money was left I bought Su Shun’s opera troupe. In my lonely life as an Imperial widow, the opera became my solace.
The court voted and passed a proposal I submitted in the name of Tung Chih granting the promotion of Yung Lu and An-te-hai. From that moment forward Yung Lu held the highest position in China’s military. He was responsible for protecting not only the Forbidden City and the capital but also the entire country. His new title was Commander in Chief of Imperial Forces and Minister of the Imperial Household. As for An-te-hai, he was given Chief Eunuch Shim’s job. He earned a second rank, that of court minister, which was the highest a eunuch was allowed to achieve.
After all the tumult, I needed a few days of quiet. I invited Nuharoo and Tung Chih to join me at the Summer Palace, where we floated on Kunming Lake, away from the wreckage caused by the invaders. Surrounded by weeping willows, the lake surface was covered with flowering lotus. After the summer the fertile fields resembled the countryside south of the Yangtze River, the region of my hometown of Wuhu.
Tung Chih insisted on staying in Nuharoo’s large boat, which was filled with guests and entertainers. I floated by myself, with An-te-hai and Li Lien-ying in charge of the oars. The complete beauty of the place washed over me. I was so relieved that my troubles seemed finally to be over. I had visited the Summer Palace many times before, but always with the Grand Empress Lady Jin. She had so gotten under my skin that I had no idea of what the palace really looked like.
It had originally been the capital of the Northern Sung Dynasty in the twelfth century. Over the years, emperors of different dynasties added numerous pavilions, towers, pagodas and temples to the grounds. In the Yuan Dynasty the lake was expanded to become part of the Imperial water supply. In 1488, the emperors of the Ming Dynasty, who were fond of natural beauty, began building the Imperial residence by the lake. In 1750, Emperor Chien Lung decided to duplicate the scenery he admired around West Lake in Hangchow and in Soochow to the south. It took him fifteen years to build what he called a “town of poetic charm.” The southern architectural style was faithfully copied. When it was finished, the palace was transformed into a long living scroll painting of unrivaled beauty.
I loved walking the Long Promenade, a covered corridor divided into two hundred sections. I began at the Invite-the-Moon Gate in the east and ended at the Ten-Foot Stone Pavilion. One day when I stopped to rest at the Gate of Dispelling Clouds, I thought of Lady Yun and her daughter, Princess Jung. Lady Yun had forbidden me to speak with her daughter when she was alive. I had seen the girl only at performances and birthday parties. I remembered her as having a slim nose, a thin mouth and a slightly pointed chin. Her expression was absent and dreamy. I wondered if she was well and if she had been told about her father’s death.
The girl was brought to me. She had not inherited her mother’s beauty. She was wearing a gray satin robe and looked pitiful. Her features had not changed and her body was stick-thin. She reminded me of a frosted eggplant stopped in the middle of its growing. She dared not sit when invited to. Her mother’s death must have cast a permanent shadow on her character. She was a princess, Emperor Hsien Feng’s only daughter, but she looked like a child of misfortune.
But it was not just that she had Hsien Feng’s blood, or that I had any guilt about her mother’s ill fate. I wished to give this girl a chance. I must have already sensed that Tung Chih would turn out to be a disappointment, and I wanted to raise a child myself to see if I could make a difference. In a way, Princess Jung offered me consolation after my loss of Tung Chih.
Even though Princess Jung was Tung Chih’s half-sister, the court wouldn’t allow her to live with me unless I officially adopted her, so I did. She proved to be worthy. Scared and timid as she was at the beginning, she gradually healed. I nurtured her as much as I could. In my palace she was free to run around, although she barely took advantage of her freedom. She was the opposite of Tung Chih, who thrived on adventure. Nevertheless, she got along with my son and served as a form of stability for him. The only discipline I requested of her was that she attend school. Unlike Tung Chih she loved to learn and was an excellent student. The tutors could not stop praising her. She bloomed in her teens and wanted to reach out. I not only encouraged her but also provided her with opportunities.
Princess Jung grew into quite a beauty when she turned fifteen. One of my ministers suggested that I arrange a marriage for her to a Tibetan tribal chief-“as intended by her father, Emperor Hsien Feng,” the minister reminded me.
I discarded the proposal. Although Lady Yun and I had never been friends, I wanted to do her justice. She had spoken of her fear that her daughter would be married to a “savage.” I told the court that Princess Jung was my daughter, and it was up to me, not the court, to decide her future. Instead of marrying her off in Tibet, I sent her to Prince Kung. I wanted Jung to have a private education and learn English. When she was done, I intended for her to be my secretary and translator. After all, the day might come when I would personally speak to the Queen of England.
Twenty-four
THE PREPARATIONS for my husband’s burial were finally complete. It had taken three months and nine thousand laborers to build a special road to carry the coffin to the Imperial tomb. The bearers, all of the same height and weight, practiced day and night to perfect their steps. The tomb was located in Chihli province, not far from Peking. Each morning a table and chair were placed on top of a thick board weighing the same as the coffin. A bowl of water was placed on the table. An official climbed over the shoulders of the bearers to sit on the chair. His duty was to watch the water in the bowl. The bearers practiced marching until the water no longer spilled from the bowl.
Escorted by Yung Lu, Nuharoo and I took a trip to inspect the tomb. Officially it was called the Blessed Ground of Eternity. The earth was rock hard and covered with frost. After the long ride, I stepped down from the palanquin
