After much prompting, Ren confided the activities that took place each day and night in the bedchamber. Once everything was revealed, the doctor could not fault one party or the other for a lack of enthusiasm, knowledge, frequency, or ingestion.
“Perhaps something else is causing your wife’s lovesickness. Is there something else she wants?” the doctor asked.
Ren left town the next day. I didn’t try to follow him, because I was busy with Ze. Madame Wu, on instructions from the doctor, entered the ( 1 6 8 )
bedchamber, opened the doors, and took away the heavy curtains that covered our windows. The heat and humidity so common in Hangzhou during the summer months filled our room. It was horrible, but we tried our best to be dutiful daughters-in-law by adapting, putting our personal feelings and comfort aside, and complying. I stayed as close as possible to Ze to offer her solace from the intrusion. I was gratified to see her put on another coat over her jacket. Mothers-in-law can tell you what to do, and we can appear to submit, but they can’t watch us every minute.
Three mornings later, Ren returned.
“I went to every village between the Tiao and Zha rivers,” he said. “My persistence paid off in Shaoxi. I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner.” From behind his back he brought out a copy of The Peony Pavilion, with parts one and two together in one volume. “This is the best gift I could ever give you.” He hesitated then, and I knew he had to be thinking of me. “I give you the entire story.”
Ze and I collapsed in his arms with happiness. What he said next convinced me that I was still very much in his heart.
“I don’t want you to be lovesick,” he said. “You’ll be better now.”
I thought, Yes, yes, I will be better. Thank you, Husband, thank you.
“Yes, yes,” Ze echoed and sighed.
We had to celebrate.
“Let us celebrate,” she said.
Though it was still morning, servants brought a bottle of wine and jade drinking cups. My sister-wife was not accustomed to drinking and I’d never had wine, but we were happy. She drank the first cup even before Ren picked up his. Each time she set down her cup, I touched the rim and she’d fill it again. It was broad daylight and the windows were open to the heat, but there was another kind of light and heat that husband and wife began to feel. A cup, another cup, and another cup. Ze drank nine cups.
Her cheeks were dizzied by the tide of wine. Ren was far more chaste, but he’d made his wife glad and she repaid him with our combined gratitude.
The two of them fell asleep in the early afternoon. The next day, Ren woke up at his usual time and went to his library to compose. I let my sister-wife, so unused to wine, continue to sleep, because I needed her to be fresh and ready.
( 1 6 9 )
Dreams of the Heart
wh e n th e sun st ruc k th e h ook s of th e b e d c ur -
tains, I roused Ze. I had her gather up all the small pieces of paper she’d been writing on during the last few months and sent her to Ren’s library. She bowed her head and showed him the papers in her hands.
“Might I be allowed to copy my commentary, along with that of Sister-Wife Tong’s, into our new copy of The Peony Pavilion?” she asked.
“I’ll allow it,” he said, not even looking up from his papers.
I thought how lucky I was that marriage had not closed the door to his broad-mindedness, and my love for him deepened.
But let me be clear: It was my idea for Ze to copy my commentary into the new volume. It was my idea for her to add her comments to my comments. And it was my idea for her to continue the work I hadn’t finished when my mother burned Volume Two. It made sense for everything to be in the one new book.
It took two weeks for Ze to finish copying my commentary neatly into the first half of our new volume. It took another two weeks for her to organize her little pieces of paper and transcribe them onto the clean pages of the second half. Then we began to add new comments in both halves.
The Dao tells us that we should write what we know from experience and that we have to move outside the mind and come in contact with real things, people, and experiences. I also believed what Ye Shaoyuan wrote in ( 1 7 0 )
his introduction to his daughter’s posthumous literary collection: It may be that the numinous spirit of the written word does not perish and so, too, bestows life after death. So when I had Ze write, her expressions about the opera’s struc-ture and plot were more extensive than what I’d written as a lovesick girl in my bed. I hoped Ren would see Ze’s handwriting, hear me, and know he could have me still.
Three months passed. The sun stayed behind clouds and sank early in the day. Windows were closed and draperies hung. Doors shut out the constant chill and braziers were lit. This change in the environment was good for me and stimulated my mind. For weeks I stayed transfixed by my project, barely allowing Ze out of the room, but one night I watched and listened to Ren as he talked to my sister-wife before retiring. He sat on the edge of the bed with his arm around her shoulders. She seemed very small and delicate next to him.
“You’ve grown pale,” he said. “And I see you’re thinner.”
“Your mother complains about me still, I see,” she commented dryly.
“Forget your mother-in-law. This is your husband speaking.” He touched the circles that hung like dark moons beneath her eyes. “You didn’t have these when we married. It hurts me to see them now. Are you unhappy with me? Do you need to visit your parents?”
I helped Ze with the proper response.
“A girl is only a guest in her parents’ home,” she recited weakly. “I belong here now.”
“Would you like an excursion?” he asked.
“I’m content here with you.” She sighed. “Tomorrow I will pay more attention to my toilet. I’ll try harder to please you—”
He cut her off sharply. “This isn’t about pleasing me.” When she trembled in response, he went on in a gentler tone. “I want to make you happy, but when I see you at breakfast you do not eat or speak. I rarely see you during the day anymore. You used to bring me tea. Do you remember that? We used to chat in my library.”
“I’ll serve you tea tomorrow,” she promised.
He shook his head. “This is not about you serving me. You’re my wife and I’m troubled. The servants bring dinner and you do not eat. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask the doctor to come again.”
I couldn’t bear his distress. I slipped down from my place in the rafters, hovered just behind Ze, then reached out with my fingertip and touched the back of her head. We were so close now, so intimate, that she followed ( 1 7 1 )
my directions without resistance. She turned her head and without a word covered his mouth with her own. I didn’t want him to worry and I didn’t want to hear his concerns.
My methods for silencing him had always worked in the past, but not tonight. He pulled away, and said, “I’m serious about this. I thought bringing you the copy of the opera would cure your illness, but it seems only to have made it worse. Believe me, this is not what I intended.” There I was again, sneaking into his mind. “Tomorrow I’m going out and will return with the doctor. Please be ready to receive him.”
When they got in bed, Ren wrapped his arms around Ze, pulled her back against his chest, and held her protectively.
“Beginning tomorrow things will be different,” he whispered. “I’ll read to you by the fire. I’ll have the servants bring our meals and we’ll eat alone.
I love you, Ze. I will make you better.”
Men are so sure of themselves, and they have such courage and conviction. They believe—truly believe—that they can make things happen just by speaking words, and in many cases they can. I loved Ren for this and I loved seeing his effect on my sister-wife. When I saw the way the warmth of his body bled into hers, I thought of Mengmei caressing Liniang’s cold ghostly flesh back into existence. As Ren’s breathing slowed and deepened, Ze’s breathing responded in kind. I could barely wait for him to fall asleep. As soon as he did, I dragged Ze from the marital bed and made her light a candle, mix ink, and open our project. I was excited, invigorated.