In a quiet little garden, startled geese soared into the sky with the wind,
On the boundless green leaves, feathered friends frolicked in shadows of red
Some of the guests cried out in admiration.
Continuing on their crisscrossing journey through the garden, they stopped to admire the banana shrubs and firecrackers flowers, with the explosion of tiny clusters of red blossoms. Then they climbed to the second floor to check out the octagonal courtyard, with its skylight, followed by a hike to Sea-gazing Tower to gaze at the distant horizon, where the sky met the ocean. They also got to read the poems left by literati on the loggia and admire the exquisite dragon carved on the doors and partition walls. After watching mandarin ducks splashing in the water, they found themselves trapped between man-made forests and hills. Many stops later they finally arrived at Fascination Scene Stage.
Separated by water and twenty feet from Yinghong Pavilion, Fascination Scene Stage opened on three sides and was encircled by short railings spaced between posts. Behind it was a towering wall with two ornamental doors featuring literary and military themes.
The play that had been put on at lunchtime was long over, so the guests went up onto the stage to examine the double-sided carved screen wall. The front presented Chen San and Wuniang, a drama that had been in circulation for centuries. Regardless of their chronological appearance in the play, all the characters were painted on the six-foot-high walclass="underline" beautifully dressed Wuniang and her alluring maid high up in her private residence; Chen San, who had sold himself into bondage to be with her, standing next to a broken mirror; Wuniang’s enraged father being soothed by her mother. The only exception was Ma Jun, who would later come to carry Wuniang off in a sedan chair; he was standing to the side, slowly waving his fan, for he wouldn’t be on stage for a while yet.
The rousing play was etched on the front side of the screen, while the backside was carved with slender window lattices to hint at the notion of “nothing in and nothing out,” which, with light pouring in through the lattices, highlighted the similarity of the play to human life.
After viewing the screens, some among the guests sensed something stir on the other side, but forgot they were on a stage until they turned around to see Yinghong Pavilion across from them, lined up with chairs from the earlier performance.
With the pond before them, they could still see the Cape lilacs by the pavilion, where the late-blooming plants blanketed the trees with tiny white flowers. The Cape lilacs seemed to be all stamens and pistils; with no solid petals, the flowers looked dispersed and illusory. The many white flowers were like layers of misty clouds and fog over Yinghong Pavilion, as if ready to descend and surround the small structure and make everything vanish without a trace.
Under the hazy, melancholic Cape lilac flowers, the guests slowly came to Flowing Pillow Pavilion, recently renamed Zhu Zuyan Memorial Hall, its original furnishing intact and the photos he’d taken hanging on the walls.
Scenes in the black-and-white photographs, which had been carefully stored away, were still clearly visible, though somewhat yellowed. By contrast, the colored photos, which had been sent for development in Japan, surprisingly showed little change in color and quality. Lotus Garden’s predominately indigo tone was elegantly reproduced over and over on the woodwork, giving the visitors an illusion that nothing had changed after so many years and that everything would continue the way it was for ages to come.
Locked inside a large, purple sandalwood cabinet that had been fitted with glass doors were two hundred and thirty-two cameras, alongside two hundred and fifty-four lenses; on the wooden shelves of a large new cabinet were forty-seven stereo systems, accompanied by speakers of various size, turntables, and amplifiers.
Naturally, another round of amazed cries erupted, intermingled with whispers among the guests.
They left Flowing Pillow Pavilion and continued on the tour, traversing narrow spaces created by walls, buildings, small bridges, embankments, winding loggias, and ponds. Unable to take in the whole garden in one view, they spent three hours on the tour, one in which each step afforded them a new sight and each turn opened up a new vista.
Some guests hung around; Lin Xigeng, who was taken by members of Lucheng gentry and officials to survey local construction and potential real estate investments, did not return to Lotus Garden until after the sun had set.
Dinner was served in the banquet hall in Lotus Tower, with a nonfunctional kitchen, so the food, simple daily fare, was brought over from the Upper House. The aging Mudan, who remained table side to serve, was no longer capable of doing any household chores, so she supervised two female helpers and continued to be in charge this time when she returned to Lotus Garden with Yinghong. The similarly ancient Luohan, observing the old rules and absenting himself during mealtime, was sent by Mudan to wait outside Lotus Tower, where he would spring into action when needed.
Yinghong and Xigeng sat on opposite sides of a large, round rosewood table in the main hall. Still feeling excitement from the tour that afternoon, he talked animatedly about Lucheng. Yinghong, now tired, was not paying much attention when he abruptly changed the subject:
“The local gentry and elders all think you ought to donate Lotus Garden to the government, which would take over its management. You really needn’t go through so much trouble to set up a foundation. It doesn’t seem legitimate, and the garden doesn’t have what it deserves. That’s what they said.”
Yinghong laughed softly.
“How could I give my father’s garden to a regime that had persecuted him?” She paused and continued in a firm voice:
“I can’t.”
“That’s all in the distant past. What’s the point of bringing it up again?” Lin said with a rare tenderness in his voice.
“Yes, it’s all in the past. That’s why I want this garden to belong to Taiwan, to the twenty million Taiwanese, not to any government that oppresses its people.”
Lin went quiet, and they sat in silence as they ate. It was a while before he began again with some hesitation:
“Quite a few people are also against your decision to include Zhu Feng in the clan history, saying that, no matter what, he was a pirate and did not deserve the amount of effort and money that you’ve spent in research and investigation.”
She gazed at him with a look of surprise.
“But the facts show that he was indeed our ancestor. We can’t disown him simply because he was a pirate, can we?”
“That’s not the reason for their objection. Some families in the Zhu branch openly refuse to accept the family record you created.” He continued with his usual willful directness, “I think they’re afraid of Zhu Feng’s wife, the woman who swore a vicious oath of revenge.”
He reminded her:
“Don’t you remember the malicious vow that people still talk about?”
She shook her head.
“Didn’t the woman swear that whoever dares to include Zhu Feng in the family record will bring ruination to the Zhu clan?”
She looked at him calmly.
“Don’t tell me even you’re afraid.”
He was quiet; a shy look that had long been absent flashed in his eyes briefly. It disappeared almost immediately, but in that instant Yinghong experienced a vague feeling that it hadn’t been all that many years since she met him.
She looked at him silently. He hadn’t changed much, except that he’d put on a bit of weight; and yet there was something different about his expression. Gone were the poise and expansiveness; he now seemed more grounded, with more gloom showing between his brows. No longer coming across as insecure and fidgety, he seemed somewhat aloof but sure of himself, quite composed; gone also was the momentary apprehension and shyness that occasionally flashed in his eyes.