Chapter LXIII

I'm up all night to get LXIII

Zhang, Gao, and Louis continued their discussion with but a glance towards the Little Whirlwind and me.

“Gentlemen,” Zhang admonished his companions. “Let us not be coarse. That is not how we do things in this country. Sybaritic delights! Our courtesans are refined. You haven’t even given the ladies a proper look much less allowed them the opportunity to display their wit—and that is the true heart of their appeal.”

Louis glanced over his shoulder at us; I’d not been mistaken as to his identity. “They look appealing enough to me without any wit. Why add sauce to a seasoned duck?”

I didn’t like where this conversation was tending.

“I’m not a lady,” I blurted. “We might as well get this out of the way. No need for any embarrassing misunderstandings.” I looked to Louis. “It’s me, Tomás.” I said to Gao, “Hu Laowai.”

Louis spun fully on his cushion to face me.

“Quesada,” he said. “I’m shocked.” But his look was more of bland concern than surprise. “How can it be that you’ve fallen on such hard times?”

“I—”

He immediately cut me off. “No, no need to explain,” raising his hand to fend off further protests. “I’m not one to judge what others choose to do to get by in this world. And if your need was great enough to reduce you to prostitution, I suppose I can only offer my sympathy. And my patronage, of course. Have no worry on that score. I may not enjoy it, but you won’t lose a customer just because I know you to be a man. I’ll just have to make a sacrifice for an old friend.”

But he’d been incapable of keeping a straight face for more than half of this speech: the corners of his mouth inching upwards in grin, his tongue darting to stretch his cheek with each moment’s pause.

“You knew it was me before you even looked,” I said, only in that moment realizing it to be true.

He shrugged.

“While you were getting ready, Mister Wei came up to tell us about the little joke that you two had planned.” It was Farmer Gao who spoke. “He thought it would be even more amusing if the joke were at your expense rather than ours.”

“We’d just been discussing you, actually,” Captain Zhang added. “Remarking on the coincidence that we three strangers, drawn together so unexpectedly, should all have a common acquaintance... And here you are! But now who is this with you? I can see why you might wish to play a joke on me after our travels together, but who am I to your companion, there?”

“Well—” I began.

“I’m of no relation to you,” Tang said. “I was just helping for the sake of my friendship with Xiao Hu.”

“And your name is?”

“I am known on river and lake as Little Whirlwind Tang.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Zhang smiled drunkenly. “It’s hard to believe that one as beautiful as yourself could be a swordsman.” He quickly adopted an overly sober expression. “Not to mention that such a thing would be against the law, if true. Carrying weapons, your forehead unshaven... No, I think it more likely that you’re actually a woman.”

“Joke all you like, but as it happens, I truly am a woman,” Little Whirlwind huffed. “My name is Qiaomei. But sometimes I find that a man’s clothes make it easier to travel without harassment.”

I looked to her uncertainly, and her nervous smile in return seemed to say that she spoke the truth. How blind I’d been in so many ways!

“Of course,” Zhang laughed. “Let us say no more of it. But please, come join us.” He motioned to cushions on either side of him. “We can’t just have you standing there. Have a cup of wine. And since you’re dressed the part, you might as well amuse us with some witty conversation. What were we talking about, anyway?” Zhang asked, wrinkling his forehead at Louis and Gao.

“The coincidence of our all knowing Tomás,” Louis reminded him.

“Right,” Zhang nodded. “And now we have even more of a coincidence.” He looked back up at me. “Aren’t you going to sit down already?”

And so we sat and drank and talked and listened, explaining to each other the stories of how we’d all happened to come together. Farmer Gao was the first to tell his tale, repeating what he’d already explained to Captain Zhang the night he’d been captured. This version of things gave Tang and me a cue on how we should present our own story. I was still having trouble processing the fact that she was female, but I suppressed my astonishment as well as I could for the sake of presenting a consistent narrative for Zhang.

The details aren’t important. He claimed we three had been part of a caravan of merchants, performers, and others all on their way from the north country to the south who’d unfortunately run into a gang of salt-smugglers. They’d captured Gao, hoping he’d be worth a hefty ransom, but dyeing his skin with tea he’d managed to sneak away. And shortly after this, he’d run into Captain Zhang and his men.

The story didn’t strike me as particularly plausible. Parts of it would have strained my credulity past its breaking point even if I hadn’t know it to be a complete fabrication. But Captain Zhang seemed to accept it for the moment. From the expression on his face, I suspected that he was simply too drunk to protest.

“I think I’ve heard that story somewhere before,” he slurred. Tang and I assured him that every detail was true, and that we’d come to Yangzhou hoping to find our friend.

Louis told his story next, taking his time to tell it well. But for the purposes of the present volume, it is only necessary to relate that—after traveling to Jiangzhou with Fathers De Fontaney and De Visdelou—he’d made his way to Yangzhou by himself. This journey, as he told it, was not without incident of the most astonishing variety, centering mostly around his sojourn at a temple haunted by what seemed to be the ghosts of two beautiful young women, though it also featured such lurid details as hopping corpses and dwarfs imprisoned in jars. But I shall reserve that tale for a future volume of its own.

“But how did you decide to come to Yangzhou?” I asked once he’d finished.

“Well, De Fontaney had already claimed Nanking,” he shrugged. “And besides, this city’s fame stretches across the empire. You know I’ve always been a lover of poetry. In any case, I’ve been here for a few months, but I just met Captain Zhang and Mister Kohn last night, at a restaurant in town where they serve the most delicious fried rice. Zhang introduced himself with a comment that he seemed to have a knack for finding all of the Europeans in China, and I remarked that it wasn’t so strange, as we tend to stick out in a crowd... But in short, we passed a pleasant evening, and he invited me to join him here today. And then you showed up.”

“Yes, I think I’m beginning to smell a foreign conspiracy,” Zhang laughed drunkenly.

Before any of us could respond, the door to our room burst open, and in rushed a band of five or six roughnecks with black sashes tied around their waists and white scarves around their heads. Each was carrying a long machete, except for one who stepped forward and bowed to us politely. His machete was at his waist.

The Image:

A dwarf in a jar.

Translator’s Commentary:

The hopping corpses sound like the jiangshi, or “hopping vampires” of Chinese folklore. Stories tell of Daoist priests commanding them with bells to lead them hopping down the road to be buried in their home prefectures. This likely stems from the historical practice of “corpse-driving,” wherein corpse drivers would tie the bodies of dead laborers to bamboo sticks and carry them by night across the country for the same reason, the uneven weight giving the appearance of hopping. The dwarf in a jar is a less common motif. The only similar account I can find is in the Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio (Liaozhai), by Pu Songling. That tells of a magician who carries a small boy around in a wine bottle and makes him sing Chinese opera songs for money. One day a magistrate learns that the magician shrunk the boy just to get use him for entertainment like this, and he has the magician killed. The boy never regains his normal size. I think to properly interpret the meaning of these details, I’d probably need to translate the “Ming” volume of Quesada’s “General History,” as that one is centered around Louis’s journey from Jiangzhou to Yangzhou. If I had to throw out some armchair interpretation, I’d say that the Pu Songling story might be a veiled commentary on Manchurian rule. He makes a point in the beginning of his account to say that this happened in the reign of the Kangxi emperor—that is, during the time that Le Comte and Quesada were in China. In this scenario, the magician (pointedly not a Daoist or a Buddhist, but rather something foreign, shamanic) would represent the Qing, the boy in the wine bottle singing Chinese opera for change would represent the exploitation of Chinese culture on the Qing’s part, and the Magistrate would represent traditional Chinese values fighting back against the Qing. The boy never returning to full size… perhaps the futility of trying to return Chinese culture to its former grandeur? I don’t know. I’m just spit-balling.

Editor’s Judgment:

Little Whirlwind is a girl? Whaaaaat?