Empress

TWO

The horizon kept receding further. The road forked and melted into the sun. The roar of the River Han and the seagulls’ cries disappeared. The greens, blues, ochres, and mirrored reflections of the paddy-fields vanished. On the far side of the River Huai, the hills smoothed out, and the trees had lost their leaves. Rivers and dry reeds sprang out of the black earth and its metallic glitter. The wind whipped up, squally gusts tormented the fields, and straggly wheat stalks moaned. The horses and oxen lowered their heads to battle against the wind. Little Sister had taken refuge in my carriage; wrapped in furs, we tried in vain to keep warm. All day long I listened to pebbles clattering against the wheels and the howling of the north wind, which deadened my thoughts. My heart was dry; I had no tears left.

One morning, in that ocean of uninterrupted buffeting, I discovered the Yellow River stretching its frozen length away toward the sky. Countless trading caravans had already carved a white track through the ice. Early that afternoon it snowed: The snowflakes of the north, larger than a child’s hand, were like millions of birds twirling in the sky. Black and gray became opacity and transparency. The wind dropped. We were dark smudges strung out across this immaculate world as we forged ahead.

Ten days later, just as the fleeting sunlight was about to be eclipsed behind the mountains, hundreds of men and women dressed in white appeared in the snow waving funeral banners. My brothers and cousins dismounted and ran over to meet them.

My heart felt constricted. The thing I so feared was about to happen: I would discover my origins.

A great uncle, head of the Wu clan, took us to the village. My brothers prostrated themselves in the Temple of Ancestors to announce our return. An ageing aunt, mistress of all the women, took us into a house lit by white lanterns. The meal provided for us in mourning was ice cold. Somewhere a dog howled. In the middle of the night, Little Sister came to join me, and we shivered in my bed, which was hard as a sheet of iron.

The next day, in Father’s old bedroom, I witnessed the calling of his soul. The coffin and offerings were positioned behind a curtain of gauze. Members of the family tore their clothes and beat their foreheads on the ground, wailing and lamenting. The sorcerer danced until a powerful voice rose up from his throat. He turned to face the north, where the Kingdom of Shades is to be found, and shook one of Father’s tunics, calling on him and singing:

The sorcerer collapsed. His assistant took the tunic from between his limp hands and disappeared behind a curtain.

The soul had returned from the south. After a life of conquest, my father, who had changed his own destiny by leaving the land of his ancestors, had come back to the house of his birth.

His end had reached his beginning.

Dignitaries, officials, and distant relations hurried to us from the four corners of the region. Once again I prostrated myself behind Mother and my brothers while they received gifts and condolences.

I had no tears left, no voice left. I hid my face behind my sleeves and twisted and squirmed to make myself scream.

Why should Father-a hero as pure as a celestial being, as perfect as a lozenge of jade-have been born into a village where the three hundred members of his clan shared such gloomy houses linked by narrow passageways? Why was his beaming face already melting away behind the coarse features of his relations? I became obsessed with their clumsy gait and their grating accent. These men had his eyes, his ears, his hands, his beard. They offered me fragments of ugliness with which to construct another father.

And there was the dead wife: Her shadow hovered over everything. Without telling Mother, I went to the cemetery to reassure myself that she was really dead. Her tomb was huge, the size of a house, looming up in the middle of a well-tended wood of silver birch. I recognized Father’s handwriting carved for all eternity into the impressive stone plinth. He told of the inconsolable sadness of having lost an exemplary wife who had raised their children, tended to their grandparents, and encouraged harmonious relations between members of the clan. I also found two more modest graves for two sons who had been taken by the same epidemic that took their mother. On their plinths Father expressed his regret that he could not leave the Capital and take part in the funeral ceremonies. His responsibility as Minister for Major Works kept him at Court, he said, but every evening his heart escaped to the motherland.

The Wu village was haunted: I could see those dead brothers, two plump, pink little boys playing outside my door. At night I could hear that wife spinning silk. Father had come back, but he was no longer a minister or governor delegate: He did not even know I existed. He spat on the floor, talked loudly, and ate greedily; he loved this illiterate but submissive and thrifty woman; he watched his sons with satisfaction- he had high ambitions for them!

Father’s coffin went into the Temple of Ancestors. Once the funeral gifts had been displayed and their donors’ names proclaimed, the hearse was raised.

At the head of the cortege, men in white brandished images of the gods to drive away demons. A hundred musicians played trumpets and drums. A hundred Buddhist and Taoist monks recited prayers of appeasement. Hired mourners, with their sparse hair and their blood-splattered faces, ripped their clothes and chanted lamentations. The endless procession wound its way across the plain, between the fields of sprouting wheat. The trees ruffled their green veils, and a scarlet sun rose. The sky leaned in. I had never seen anything more dazzling than the clouds that accompanied Father on his journey to the Shades.

As the fourth son of a modest councilor at the administrative offices in the eastern capital, my father, Wu Shi Yue, had grown up behind brick walls blackened by smoke and punctuated by crudely constructed windows. Very early, the child had displayed a tremendous appetite for knowledge: He delighted in mathematics, geography, and history. The heroes of antiquity and the emperors who founded dynasties became his idols. His cousins made fun of him; they called him “the Madman.” At fifteen, he left the village and traveled in the north of China. He found friends who became associates. Against the advice of the clan, he set himself up trading in wood. At the time, Emperor Yang of the Sui dynasty was obsessed with the sumptuous palaces that the Empire was feverishly building. At thirty, Wu Shi Yue had accumulated the region’s first great fortune. He was noticed by Li Yuan, the military governor of the province, and became his advisor. In the seventh year of the Great Quarry, the conquest of Korea failed. Emperor Yang carried on with his huge building works with no concern for a people exhausted by military conscription and land taxes. Revolts broke out, and provincial governors proclaimed independence. Wu Shi Yue realized that the Sui dynasty had lost its Celestial Mandate and that the world was waiting for a new master. He offered his personal fortune and his book, Strategy, to Li Yuan. He encouraged him to rise up in revolt.

In the thirteenth year of the Great Quarry, Li Yuan marched on the Capital. Wu Shi Yue was in charge of his munitions and supplies. When the victor of that war founded the Tang dynasty and proclaimed himself emperor, he conferred a noble title on Wu Shi Yue and presented him with land, residences, and slaves.

Wu Shi Yue was appointed Minister for Major Works, and he undertook the rebuilding of the ravaged empire. He restored roads, rebuilt bridges, dug canals, and irrigated fields. He developed agriculture, local craft industries, and trade. He contributed to the Book of Legislation. When his wife and two of his sons died, he did not have time to go home. Touched by his devotion, the Emperor ordered that he remarry, this time to a girl from the Yang clan who was famed for her virtue and erudition. The wedding was an occasion of great pomp and ceremony: Princess Sunlight of Gui conducted the celebrations. Born a commoner, Wu Shi Yue could see that his career would be safeguarded by an alliance with the most powerful nobility of the Central Plain. He was promised the position of Great Minister; he was to be a great politician who would leave his mark in history… But life had other surprises in store for him.

He had a furious longing for sons from this second union, but three daughters came into the world. In the ninth year of Martial Virtue, when Wu Shi Yue was posted in the Yang province, he heard that there had been a coup in the imperial palace and that the Emperor had abdicated in favor of his son. The new sovereign did not trust generals of the previous emperor: He appointed Wu Shi Yue as Governor Delegate of the Li province and kept him far from Court. Wu Shi Yue was pained by this disgrace. He died of sorrow at the age of fifty-five when he learned of the retired emperor’s death.

My father, who had come so close to fulfillment, had failed.

IN THE VILLAGE, the banquet was in full swing. Every house had its doors and windows flung open as guests drank toasts and devoured feasts. During the period of deep mourning, children of the deceased were forbidden wine, meat, or cooked dishes. With my cold rice soup for every meal, I was growing slender as the funeral coins scattered on the roads. Trying to flee from all the noise and bustle, I wandered through the maze of passages and galleries.

I walked out around a wall-screen, and a garden appeared. The buttercups and pear trees were in blossom. A few rocks formed an island in the middle of a tiny pond. Some men were sitting out on the veranda watching a master of tea boiling water on his stove. I curtseyed to them briefly before scuttling away. A voice called me back:

“Don’t be frightened, young lady, come closer.”

I turned back and went over to the steps where I curtseyed again.

“Judging by your mourning, you must be a daughter of the Lord of the Ying kingdom,” said a man sporting a white beard, dressed in a tunic of dark brocade. “What is your name?”

“Heavenlight.”

“Do you know who I am?”

I looked up, and, after looking him over carefully, I replied slowly and clearly:

“You are Governor Delegate of our province of Bing, the Great General Li of the second imperial rank. Your portrait hangs in the pavilion of the Twenty-Four Veterans of the dynasty. The Chinese people venerate you. His Majesty, the sovereign, appointed you as master of our funeral ceremonies. My Lord, I thank you for being here. In heaven, Father is grateful for the honor you do him.”

The Great General smiled.

“It is rare to hear a little girl speaking with such assurance. Come up the steps, I would like to offer you a cup of tea.”

Beneath the veranda I bowed deeply before sitting amongst the adults.

The Great General spoke to the officials around him: “The Lord of the Ying kingdom was a cultured man who had a nose for business. During the war he excelled as manager of our finances. He spoke little, considered his every word, and worked hard and long. His opinions were always valid. What a shame that he has left us!”

These words felt like a spring of cool water bubbling through my arid heart. I bowed right down to the ground to thank him. The honorable guest asked me about my age, about my mother’s grief, my favorite books, and my friends. When he learned that I could ride, he smiled and talked of his Persian steeds, their training, and their exploits.

I had never had a long conversation with an adult, but the Great General spoke simply, without affectation. He listened to me patiently and enthusiastically. His questions were blunt, but his candor gave me confidence; his smile encouraged me; he made me forget that I was a little girl, and I spoke to him on equal terms.

Time flew by, and the general had to leave. In the middle of the garden, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Heavenlight, you are an exceptional little girl. I shall take responsibility for your destiny!”

The authority in his voice reminded me of Father’s. I was overcome with a most poignant sadness. My tears returned.

MY TENTH YEAR was one long dream pervaded by the image of a catacomb dug into the belly of the mountain. I could not shake off the memory of the death chamber peopled with ceramic statuettes: guards, servants, dancers, horses, camels, houses, and dishes. All around the coffin there were chests and earthenware pots full of clothes, weapons, manuscripts, scrolls of paintings, ornate belt buckles, and an emerald ring carved in the shape of a tiger’s head. Suddenly the stone door would close while I was still inside the cave. I struggled to climb back up the slope, but my knees kept giving way, and the icy cold of the underground world was already drawing me in. The smell of damp earth was suffocating. I started to scream: “The mountains are eating me!” But no one heard, no one came to help me.

Great General Li sent me a Persian colt branded with the symbol of his stables. This honor impressed the clan, and Eldest Brother appropriated him. The very next day my horse became his mount.

In the countryside women did not receive an education. To keep the books and tend to the house, they needed only a few figures and as many ideograms to measure the world on the scale of their own minds. All day long three generations of women stayed in their houses spinning, weaving, and embroidering. Mother had never had any contact with that world. She knew nothing of manual skills. She was appalled by their raunchy jokes and embarrassed by their shameless conversations and uninhibited laughter; therefore, she kept away from their gatherings and took refuge in solitude.

The fact that she was different ruffled the other women. They interpreted her silence as contempt. The jibes and insults they hurled over the wall came crashing down in our courtyard: “When you marry a cockerel, you become a hen; when you marry a dog, you become a bitch. When you marry a commoner, you become a commoner. She’s no more noble than we are!” “They think they’re such princesses. They’re just three more mouths to feed and nothing more!” “Parasites!”

Mother remained impassive, fingering her wooden rosary. She had not been taught to defend herself, but she knew how to draw the strength to resist from her Buddhist faith. Our living conditions were deteriorating, and our mourning was becoming a penitence. The clan sold most of our domestic staff. My brothers had cut our allowance back by three-quarters. Meals were distributed from a communal cooking stove, and they often contained rotten vegetables and rice mixed with pebbles. The boiler room ran out of our share of hot water for baths. Sometimes, certain doors were never opened along the passageways, pinning us in. Mother had never complained. Religious fervor made her deaf and blind.

But the clan was pitiless and went to extremes in persecuting us.

At the request of the two brothers, the Council approved their decision to put their mother’s remains with my father’s. When this news was announced, Mother fainted. If the former wife was to be interred in her master’s tomb, Mother would be forbidden to be by his side. Upon her death, she would be repudiated for all eternity. She came to a moment later, without a word, without so much as a sigh. It was the only time I ever saw her falter.

However much I worried about Mother’s health, she seemed to grow stronger as our lives deteriorated. Her soul already lived amid the marvels of Buddha’s world. Immune to the horror’s of daily life, she thought only of her future life. Her body withered, but her face grew radiant. Intrigued and fascinated, I watched this small, fragile woman dominating the turmoil of destiny with a particular kind of strength that goes by the name of serenity.

I was ashamed of my anger. I prayed at the foot of the statue of Amida. I tried to see this world as a shadow-theater filled with illusions, and I sometimes remembered a house of light, color, and vastness. That was on the other side of eternity. At eleven, I was already an old woman. I was sliding through life like a pebble sinking to the bottom of a well. I had decided to accept the village and its walls daubed with grotesque paintings. I had decided to accept the mismatched plates, the smoking candles, the filthy basins, the foul stench of the latrines, and the women who spat on our door. Happiness had died with Father. I had learned to defy sorrow with my eyes open.

PRAYER DID NOTHING to subdue my hate. The desire for revenge was a venomous gall that infiltrated my organs a little more every day.

One morning my anger exploded.

Sheep, the son of a cousin and a sturdy youth, was head of a gang of adolescents who loitered around the village. When they saw Little Sister and me, they would impersonate us and make fun of our good manners. We usually responded to this provocation by looking away. On that particular day, I was holding Little Sister’s hand and crossing an alleyway when the boys appeared from behind some trees. They chanted in chorus: “You’re just sluts! You’re just bastards!”

I felt my pulse pounding at my temples. I stopped and sneered: “My grandfather and my maternal uncle were Great Ministers. My mother is the Emperor’s cousin. We are noble, and you, you are commoners, barefoot and worthless, lowlier than dogs!”

“The maternal line counts for nothing,” Sheep replied. “Who do you think you are? You’re a commoner just like us! Commoner!”

The chorus went on all the louder: “Commoner! Commoner! The toad wants to think he’s an ox. He puffs himself up… and up… and bursts!”

Ever since infancy, my identity had been modeled on Mother’s, and she never tired of describing how powerful the Yang clan had been in the days of the old dynasties. Her tales had communicated their pride to me and to be called a commoner by that gang of urchins was one insult I could not tolerate.

I let go of Little Sister’s hand and threw myself at Sheep. With one swift blow of my head, I knocked him to the ground. No child from the village had ever dared insult this gang-leader who was known for his strength. Dumbstruck, the gang stepped back and let me roll on the ground with my opponent. Having recovered from the initial daze, he was now punching me. Strangely, this did not hurt; I screamed and struggled, making full use of my nails. Somewhere in the grass, my fingers brushed against a large stone. I picked it up and brought it crashing down on Sheep’s head.

Back at home, Mother washed me, dressed my wounds, and did not scold me.

“Venerable Mother,” I said as I lay on my bed, “Sheep said that your heritage counts for nothing. Only the father’s origins count. Am I a commoner like all my cousins?”

She thought for a moment and replied: “Long ago the Emperor of Peace from the ancient Zhou dynasty had several sons. The lines on his second son’s hand featured the august word ”warrior. When he divided up the Empire, he gave him the domain of Wu, and all his descendants bear its name. Now, the kingdom and the palaces have disappeared, and wars have scattered the former inhabitants of the Yellow River region. A new people emigrated into the alluvial plain. Your origins have become a secret that ill-educated men will never know. It is true that in The Book of Identities your father’s clan, Wu, is classified as a Minor Name. But don’t forget that the source of your clan goes back to time immemorial. One of your ancestors is the Emperor of Peace, venerated by sovereigns from all the former dynasties!“

As a punishment, the clan council voted to have me locked up. There was a dilapidated pavilion called Regret in the cemetery. An elderly guard passed food to me through a tiny window, and I lived in darkness with rats, fleas, and cockroaches. During the day I lay with my hands behind my head and drifted in and out of sleep. The silence of the cemetery was more deafening than the roar of a river. When the sun disappeared, the wind would wail mournfully like a woman. Footsteps, snapping twigs, someone breathing; all these sounds hovered round the walls. I closed my eyes and saw colored shapes, dancing flames, white figures and threads of red. When I opened my eyes, I could make out ghosts in the darkness. They wanted to strangle me, to drag me into the eternal shades, but I would chase them out of my room, furiously shaking a broom.

Over the three months after my release from the pavilion, I secretly hoarded rat poison. When I had accumulated a large enough dose, I slipped into the stables.

A few days later the horse that had been a gift from Great General Li Ji died. Eldest Brother blamed it on his groom who fled, fearing a fatal punishment. The men of the clan regretted this death for a long time. They would sigh and say: “He was a magnificent steed.”

FIVE NIGHTS SPENT in the Ancestor’s cemetery-that was enough to impress all the children in the village. Sheep could not hide his admiration: His gang of urchins became my escort and my servants. The summer of my twelfth birthday was upon us. To the south of the River Long, the shy retiring hills shrank into a cloak of mist; to the north of the Yellow River, the shameless mountains revealed their forests and their peaks like open books.

I came of age to serve the Goddess of Silk. Every morning, barefoot and without a ladder, I would climb the mulberry trees and pick the tenderest leaves to feed the silk worms. Up in the tops of the trees, I could sense their roots tunneling through the dark earth and see their gnarled arms embracing the sun. Their luxuriant foliage whispered the mysteries of an invisible kingdom. Sometimes I would glimpse the train of a mauve tunic or a green stole. The girls of the village said it was one of the Goddess’s servants coming to oversee our work.

Out in the fields the sprouting wheat and maize, the sorghum and sugar cane creeped toward the sky. Soon they surrounded our village. At noon, when the adults were resting with straw hats over their faces, I would run through this ocean of green waves and play war games with the young boys of the clan.

At dusk I would sit by the gate, resting my head on my hands, and watch the clouds bedecking themselves in shimmering colors. The cumulus clouds created faces, mountains, lakes, and drifting boats. Sometimes they would reveal palaces with roofs of crystal, embellished with gold columns and steps of lapis lazuli.

The period of deep mourning came to an end. After the ceremony in which I first wore my hair in a topknot, I was ready to fulfill my destiny as a woman. The clan began having talks with a number of local families, but Father’s death had diminished my value, and my brothers were offering only a meager dowry. The few families that showed any interest in this alliance were those of minor landowners.

Mother rejected these unworthy suitors. The Clan Council were impatient to find me a husband and decreed that they would forego her opinion. Mother, who had always been so conciliatory, then lost all her calm. She ordered that we should pack our things and go back to the Capital. The cousins confiscated our belongings and our carriages. I watched this conflict with detachment. At thirteen, I had lost my childish puppy fat; I was fine and slender and wore trousers like a boy. I was not afraid of marriage. Ever since Eldest Sister had left, I had understood that this banishment was every girl’s inevitable future. I could marry an untouchable, a dwarf, a madman, an old man… and it would be a pleasure to be exiled from that village. I pitied Mother for her blindness: The men of the clan would impose their authority. Sometimes, weary of the ridiculous arguments, I thought it might be simpler to set fire to the grain stores one windy night-the village would perish in the flames, and I would be done with this miserable world.

One morning, an ordinary morning like any other, when I was sharing out the mulberry leaves to the silk worms, a military messenger arrived at the village and gave a letter to the head of the clan. As I swept the courtyard, the elderly uncle unrolled the letter and read it. I was wandering dreamily through the woods, listening to the birdsong, when the head of the clan went to see Mother and showed her the confidential communication. On my return I thought the village seemed strangely quiet; children stood watching for me in doorways; the men were drinking in the principal room; the women were behind curtains, sitting round Mother and smiling at me.

The Great Uncle told me the news: Great General Li Ji, Governor Delegate of our province, had spoken highly of me at the Imperial Court. I was to be called for by a decree from the sovereign to go into service in the Forbidden City.

DISCONCERTED BY THIS unhoped-for honor, the clan decided to move us into a larger, more comfortable house, although they did not actually return our belongings. The women looked at us differently: I could see indignation and envy in their eyes. I lost the freedom to run through the fields and the right to wear trousers. I was confined to my apartments and was subjected to treatments to lighten my skin, which had been tanned by the sun.

Two years after our conversation over a cup of tea, I could only half remember the Great General’s face, which I had scarcely seen. But his voice still rang in my ears: It had a magnificent resonance, like some magical scale that allowed my imagination to climb toward a world of inaccessible heights.

The Emperor was no common mortal! As the Son of Heaven, he had the celestial mandate to govern all men. He was protected by the gods, taught by great philosophers, and watched over by benevolent spirits; he was a demigod. His mind was agile as an eagle, his body majestic as a dragon. In the Imperial City, he had the support of ministers and generals, the heroes of our world; in the Inner City, the most beautiful women took turns to fulfill his least desire. To serve the Emperor was to venerate Heaven and Earth, which blessed us with peace and prosperity.

Mother was distraught. She gave me lessons in applying makeup and dressing myself. She crammed my head full of her recipes for cosmetics and medicines. She oversaw my trousseau and tried as best she could to explain the rules of Court to me. Her monologues would sometimes grind to a halt, and she would be unable to hold back her tears and sighs. Going to the kingdom of the divine Emperor would be a one-way journey; I was giving up the outside world forever. The sovereign had no fewer than ten thousand serving women in his gynaeceum. Only very few ever found favor with the Emperor and knew the joys of motherhood. I was too wild, not beautiful enough, and I did not have a powerful father behind me: I had no hope of standing out. I would live and die there, an ephemeral flower living one brief season and never truly blooming.

A delegation of imperial servants dressed in yellow and white tunics arrived. Their leader, a clean-shaven man with a voice like a woman’s, inspected the house, explained what form the ceremony would take, gave every detail of the codes of protocol, and ordered pavilions to be built to receive the imperial edict. The summer passed, and the red mulberries turned black behind their foliage. The day of my departure drew near. Mother gave me no peace with her frantic advice and warnings. Little Sister followed me everywhere. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of torpor; my desperate longing to leave the village made me immune to their pain.

An envoy of warriors arrived and presented me with the dowry offered by the Governor Delegate: bolts of brocade, jewelry, books, and fans. When they left, I drifted through the village. I could hear crickets and grasshoppers chirping in cracks of the walls. I felt sorry for those immutable houses: I could not wait to leave.

At dawn one morning, a troop of horsemen appeared on the horizon. All three hundred members of the clan greeted them on bended knee. The Palace envoy stepped down from his carriage, came into the courtyard, and climbed the steps. He unrolled a document and raised his voice: “The second daughter of Wu Shi Yue, descended from a respectable clan, has studied the rites since infancy and has learned to deport herself peacefully and graciously. Her fame has spread through all the gynaecea in the Empire. In keeping with ancient rulings, the Court now honors her with a position in the inner service, with the title of Talented One of the fifth impend rank. Accept the sovereign’s wish, his immeasurable glory and eternal light!”

A cheer of gratitude rang out: “Ten thousand years to the Emperor! Ten thousand years of well-being to the Emperor! Ten thousand and ten million years of well-being to the Emperor!”

My heart leapt with pride. As Talented One of the fifth rank, I immediately overtook my brothers in the imperial hierarchy; they were officials of the seventh rank. The next time we saw each other they would have to prostrate themselves at my feet!

Mother and Little Sister wept. To console them, I pronounced these words that had been tumbling round my heart for days: “My position at the Palace is our one opportunity. Have confidence in my destiny. Do not weep.”

Tears are the weapons of the weak and the condolence of the powerful. Little Sister ran behind my carriage. She was no longer a child; she had become a pale, slim adolescent. She waved her arms and was soon nothing but a dark shape in the vast blaze of autumn.

Lulled by the jolting carriage, I too cried. I hated myself for being cold and hard. Little Sister loved me more than I loved her. I was the tree that had stretched its foliage over the entire kingdom of her life. She was a stowaway who had huddled in the safety of my shade. Without me, she would wither and dry up.

ONE MORNING LONG Peace detached itself from the clouds on the horizon. Lit up by the sun, its tall ramparts topped with armed pavilions and surveillance towers looked like a celestial crown laid down on the Central Plain.

A crowd had gathered at the gates. The blues, reds, yellows, and greens of trousers and tunics jostled together, and the wind spread the smell of spices, incense, urine, and fruit. Under the willow trees along the moat, there were horses, oxen, and camels grazing, sneezing lazily, and dozing. There were men in turbans sitting on mats outside their tents. While they waited for a pass to go into the town, they sat eating and haggling amongst themselves. My carriage and its escort traveled past this hubbub of different languages and headed into a long tunnel carved out of walls.

I felt swamped by the sheer noise of the largest city on Earth. The loud cries of the street hawkers mingled with the clatter of horses’ hooves, the lowing of oxen, the din from various workshops, and the chiming of bells. From behind the curtain at my window, everything seemed to gleam. The trees vibrated. The air was full of silver clouds. I devoured every sight: the horses’ sumptuous bridles, their riders’ extravagant hats, the pilgrim monks in their ragged clothes, the trading stalls, and their heaps of wares. There was a succession of enclaves surrounded by high walls. I held tightly to a little purse that had a lock of Mother’s hair plaited together with Little Sister’s. I found comfort in the thought of all those aunts and cousins who had never left their corner of the countryside. I thought of my mother, who had given up all this; of Little Sister, who would marry a country peasant; of her square courtyard; her beasts of burden; and her fields. I swore to myself that one day I would give them new dignity.

My carriage was already traveling through eternity. I was tiny, alone, and naked. I was moving toward a man, a god, and an empire.

AT THE END of the Avenue of the Scarlet Bird, a crimson wall transformed into a thin line and then into a mountain chain. Having followed the moat around the Imperial City, the military escort came to a halt by a doorway; only carriages could go inside. After walking a short distance, the retinue also came to a halt. Some women held the curtain aside, and I saw a wide pathway paved with golden bricks in the middle of wood. An exquisite fragrance filled my nose. The bustle and noise of the world of men had stopped. I was surrounded by a perfectly unblemished ceremonial silence. I could hear my heart beating. How vulgar that beating sounded now!

A group of servant women greeted me respectfully. They were holding golden basins, silver containers, and towels of woven gold thread, and they asked me to wash my hands and face, then to climb into a litter. I was carried through the forest and then through more walls and gateways. As I made my way deeper and deeper into that sacred land, I began to hear almost imperceptible sounds, the whisper of the leaves, a plucking of stringed instruments, and the tinkle of waterfalls.

We stopped in front of a moon-shaped gate, and I was invited to step down and go into a pavilion. I sat waiting in the middle of a room decorated with frescoes, facing a doorway that looked out over a calm courtyard where a rockery was smothered by an ivy with red berries. Four young girls came toward me along a gallery, taking slow swinging steps and keeping their heads lowered. They came up the steps and into the room with soap, towels, glasses, jugs, and bowls. They washed my hands again and rinsed out my mouth. When they disappeared in a rustie of silk, four more girls appeared to set out a number of low tables and cover them with small dishes.

At home, eating heartily was a great pleasure. Under the gaze of these distinguished servants, I was afraid they might laugh at my manners, so I ate only a few mouthfuls. I was astonished by how refined the imperial dishes were: The vegetables were the texture of meat, the meat tasted like game, and the game looked like flowers.

A bronze bathing tub was brought in; it had a bas-relief design of a huge water lily surrounded by leaves. The bath water was blended with fragrant oil and scented tree bark. Two servants scrubbed me, soaped me, rinsed me, and dried me. Their moves were precise and practiced.

An elderly woman arrived escorted by a legion of young women in men’s dress. She wore the tunic of a woman of letters, a man’s headdress, and shoes with square toes that curled backwards. She introduced herself and then took my pulse and inspected my hair, my eyes, my tongue, and my breath. In a high, curt voice, she dictated to two scribes the color, smell, and shape of my orifices. She asked me to undress, then measured my hands, arms, shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs, ankles, feet, and toes. “Round, square, triangular, bony…” she described. “Red, pink, white…” She asked me to lie down on my back and spread my legs. I obeyed but not without blushing. She made them write down the width and length of my parts, and she penetrated my belly with an ice-cold instrument. “Virgin!” her inspection concluded.

Toward the end of the day, I was visited by a man in a yellow tunic and a lacquered black hat; he was accompanied by many servant women and young men. He had a large belly and a double chin, and, in the powder and rouge of his face, his eyes were just two long slits emphasized by black lines. He greeted me deferentially, complimented me on my appearance, and asked me to follow him. As I walked there were groups of servants going the other way, carrying pink and mauve lanterns. Apart from the rustle of footsteps and clothing, all of them remained absolutely silent.

Gardens and pavilions slipped in and out of my field of vision. Above the gathering darkness, the sky was the color of blood. I thought of Mother, of our dilapidated house. Back there, they would have started the harvest. At this time in the evening, the women would be walking with their children under the cypress trees, the men would be drinking rice alcohol, and great-uncle would be telling ghost stories.

I was frozen by the perfumed air of the Forbidden City.