'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:
Beating their chimes in rhythm, the three others joined the singing:
I wish my son had stayed for the entire performance.
