Chapter One
Endless moons, an opaque universe, thunder,
tornadoes, the quaking earth. Rare moments of peace;
forehead up against my knees, arms around my head, I
thought, I listened, I longed not to exist. But life was
there, a transparent pearl, a star revolving slowly on its
own axis. I was blind. My eyes stared into that other world,
that other existence that dwindled a little every day. Its
colors were extinguished, its images blurred. I was still
left with cries of astonishment and feeble sobbing. I was
oppressed by the impotence of these vague recollections,
burned by their melancholy. Who am I? I asked Death as it
crouched at my feet. Death moaned and gave no reply.
Where am I? I could hear laughter, voices saying,
"It will surely be a boy, my Lord. He is moving. He is full
of life."
It mattered little who I would be. I was already
weary of this vastness. I was weary of hoping, of waiting,
of being myself -- the center of the world.
I was soothed by the rustle of the wind. I listened
to the trickle of rain. Across my sky in which the sun never
rose, I could hear a little girl singing. I was lulled by
her gentle, innocent voice.
My sister, I foresaw great sorrow for her. A hand
tried to caress me. But a wall lay between us. Oh Mother,
the shadow outlined against the screen of my thoughts, do
you realize I am already old, condemned to live within the
prison of your flesh?
In the depths of the lake, in the sepia-colored
waters, I swiveled round, curled up into a ball, spread my
limbs, turned circles. Day by day my body grew, weighing
heavily on me, strangling me. I would have liked to be the
prick of a needle, a grain of sand, the flash of sunlight in
a drop of water; I was becoming flesh, an exploding flesh, a
mountain of folds and blood, a marine monster. One breath
raised me up and rocked me. I was irascible. I was furious
with myself, with the woman who was my jailor, with Death --
my only friend. They waited for me. I heard someone whisper
that the boy would be called Heavenlight. The rustle of
preparations hampered my meditation. They spoke of clothes,
celebrations, wet nurses: plump, white, and sturdy. They
were forbidden to speak my name, for fear that demons would
possess my soul. They were waiting for me to pick up where
their own destinies had left off. I felt pity for these
fervent creatures, so affable and eager. They did not yet
know that I would destroy their world to build my own. They
did not know that I would bring deliverance— but with fire
and ice.
One night I awoke with a start. The waters were
seething. Furious waves broke over me. I held myself
tightly, struggling with my fear and concentrating on my
breathing, on my gnawing pain. When the tide surged, I was
launched into a narrow opening. I slid between the rocks. My
body bled. My skin tore. My head imploded. I balled my fists
to stop myself from screaming.
Someone pulled me by my feet and slapped my
buttocks. With my head hanging down, my cries spewed from
me. I was wrapped in a cloth that flayed me. I heard a man’s
anxious voice: "Boy or girl?"
No one replied. The man grabbed me and tried to
tear open my swaddling.
He was interrupted by a woman’s quiet wail:
"Another girl, my Lord."
"Ah!" he cried before dissolving in tears.
A dozen women watched over me as I grew. Three wet
nurses took turns quenching my thirst. My appetite was
frightening. I was already laughing. My eyes were great
black pearls rolling in their sockets. I looked on the world
day and night, never wanting to sleep. My mother was worried
by my constant agitation; she called on a number of exorcist
monks. But no one succeeded in expelling the demon from me.
I eventually grew weary of their fears. Behind the gauze of
my mosquito net, I pretended to sleep to have some peace,
while a woman sang as she rocked my cradle. Another waved a
fan to waft away the odd fly that had strayed into the
perfumed universe. With my eyelids closed, I let my thoughts
fly away.
The kingdom that Father ruled as absolute master
was divided into two parts. The Front Quarter was reserved
for men. Stewards, secretaries, accountants, cooks, pages,
valets, grooms, guards, and lackeys busied themselves from
the first light of dawn. Government officials took their
orders and set off on horseback. Troops of soldiers
undertook training exercises all day long in the great
courtyard to the side. This virile world ended before the
vermillion gate where the gynaeceum began. Behind the high,
snow-colored wall lived hundreds of women: old, young, and
little girls. They wore their hair in topknots pinned with
flowers and had jade rings threaded into their silk belts.
It was the eighth year of Martial Virtue;1 fashion favored
the pallor of early spring: dresses were crocus yellow, the
soft green of narcissus leaves, the pleasing pink of cherry
blossom, and the crimson of the sun reflected in a lake.
Sweepers, servants, seamstresses, embroiderers, bearers, wet
nurses, cooks, governesses, stewards, gracious attendants,
singers, dancers . . . all of them moved slowly, with
composure, and spoke in hushed tones. They rose at dawn,
bathed at dusk. They were the flowers of my father’s garden,
blossoming to compete with the beauty of one person alone.
Mother dressed soberly. Her least little cough was
a command, her every gaze an order. She was naturally
elegant. Fashion changed, a flitting butterfly, Mother
maintained an eternal springtime. She was of the Yang clan
from the Hong Nong region; one of the thirty most noble
families in the Empire. As a daughter, niece, and sister to
eminent ministers, a cousin to imperial brides, and a close
relation to the Emperor and the princesses, Mother wore her
dignity like a jewel, a cloak, a crown. She gave alms in the
monasteries and distributed food to beggars. She was a
fervent Buddhist, observing a vegetarian diet and showing no
interest in the turmoil of this lowly world. She copied out
the sutras in her careful hand and dreamed of reaching the
land of Extreme Joy, the kingdom of Buddha Amida, He who
launches countless rays of light.
Mother was cold, delicate, soothing. Her gentleness
was cutting and opaque and reminded me of the jade disc that
hung over my cradle. I wanted her. I grew agitated waiting.
She would appear from time to time after several days'
absence. When she arrived, her long silk train and her
endless muslin shawl set the curtains to my room aquiver.
The ground kissed by her slippered feet whispered with
pleasure. Her perfume went before her. It smelled of
sunlight, snow, the East Wind, flowers laden with happiness.
She never took me in her arms, happy to contemplate
me from a distance. My eyes consumed her hungrily. Her lips
were two scarlet petals. Her face was as perfectly smooth as
a mirror. Beneath her eyebrows, which had been shaved and
redrawn in the shape of cicada wings, her eyes betrayed her
disappointment. She had desired a boy.