Chapter 70: That Person Alone in the Corner (Part Two)

Chapter Seventy: That Person Alone in the Corner (Part Two)

“It’s all made up, complete fabrication. When I wrote that poem, I wasn’t thinking about my mood or anything like that!” Zhang Qian silently lamented in his heart, but he could do nothing in the face of the elders’ enthusiastic interest.

However, he could hardly tell these venerable gentlemen before him that, before Li Longji ascended the throne, the royal family was rife with bloody power struggles, where a single misstep could bring disaster upon anyone; he would rather advise them to stay as far away as possible.

Nor could he confess that, instead of jointly recommending him for office, they might as well persuade the court to grant him royalties for his water gates, windmills, and well-drilling patents, so that he could sit idly at home while wealth poured in.

Least of all could he reveal to Zhang Shuo—who would become the renowned Chancellor of the Zhenguan era—that he himself was currently scheming to exploit a loophole in the bureaucracy, purchasing a rank of regular fourth grade merely for show. Whereas, if he accepted their recommendation, he’d at best attain a subordinate eighth grade, not even half as high.

Thus, he could only put on the demeanor of a humble junior, bowing respectfully to their instruction.

Just then, Zhang Ruoxu’s house servant brought up warmed white wine. He Zhizhang invited Zhang Qian to sit and drink with them. But Zhang Qian had little desire to endure further admonishments by a group of elderly men, and so quickly excused himself with a smile, claiming he’d already made plans to meet Wang Zhihuan and Wei Daowei, and it would be impolite to further delay.

Having once been young themselves, He Zhizhang easily guessed that Zhang Qian found their conversation tedious. With a shake of his head and a good-natured complaint, he said, “If you already had plans with Ji Ling and the others, why didn’t you say so earlier? You’ve wasted enough of this old man’s time! Off with you! Daoji is right—a young man should be with other young men, not always lingering among us old fellows and catching our stale air!”

“Then, please allow me to take my leave!” Zhang Qian, as if granted amnesty, bowed to them all with a smile. He walked away at a measured pace, but only once he was far enough did he lift his sleeve to wipe away the sweat and oil from his face.

Looking around, he could not find Wang Zhihuan anywhere. Instead, he saw Wei Dao and Wei Gangjing, both with broad, grinning faces, squatting before the musician, chattering away. The future “Sage of Cursive Script,” Zhang Xu, clearly did not regard Wei Dao as a rival; he simply picked up a brush and transcribed onto a scroll each of the recently composed or previously prepared chrysanthemum poems for all the assembled talents.

“I’ve got it! Zhao has one as well!” A youth with almond eyes and sword-like brows strode quickly over, saluting Zhang Xu with cupped hands. “My calligraphy is unworthy of display; I must trouble you, Brother Bogao, to take up the brush.”

“No trouble at all! Zixiao, just recite it!” Zhang Xu replied affably, returning the courtesy as he dipped his brush in fresh ink.

“The title is ‘Plucking the Chrysanthemum.’” The youth, Zixiao, stood tall and recited slowly, “Golden blooms fill the garden beneath the sun, unafraid of autumn winds or frost begun. Though all praise the peony’s glorious hue, I alone cherish the chrysanthemum’s subtle perfume!”

Finished, he offered a humble “Forgive my poor effort” to his companions, cheeks flushed, and quickly retreated to his seat.

“This poem suits me perfectly! Allow me to match it with music and sing for everyone!” Perhaps eager to escape Wei Dao’s persistence, or truly moved by a line of verse, the musician straightened, smiled, and began to pluck the strings. Tinkling notes fell like pearls on jade, a cascade of crisp sound.

When the prelude ended, she truly raised her voice and sang “Plucking the Chrysanthemum” to the accompaniment of the qin. Her voice, lingering and melodious, pierced straight to the soul, making one feel as if wings had sprouted from their sides.

“Excellent, excellent!” Applause burst out like thunder once more. The young scholars eyed Zhao Zixiao with envy, clapping with all their might. Some cheered while pulling out their own newly composed or long-prepared chrysanthemum poems from their sleeves, asking Zhang Xu to copy them in his elegant hand.

“I have one too!” A tall, thin youth in his twenties hurried over and offered a sheet of white paper with both hands. “Brother Bogao, may I trouble you to enhance this poem with your calligraphy? Munanfeng is deeply grateful!”

“No need for such formality!” Zhang Xu smiled as he took the paper and glanced at it, then returned it to the young man and turned to write: “Seeking the Chrysanthemum. The autumn wind sighs through winding corridors, a faint fragrance lingers in a hidden yard. Why does a single stalk stand by the path, unwilling to vie with other flowers for admiration?”

Though not the most ornate, the poem’s alternation of movement and stillness conjured a vivid scene. The musician was delighted, preparing to set it to music and sing for the group. Unexpectedly, a short, stout man burst in, shoving aside the struggling Wei Dao, and cried out, “A request for the great musician! I am Lu Ting, styled Zhongda, a direct descendant of the Lu clan of Fanyang. My father, courtesy name Zhengming, is Assistant Minister of Personnel…”

“I have long admired your esteemed father! Today, meeting Brother Zhongda, I see indeed that a tiger’s son is no dog!” The musician’s creative flow was interrupted, and annoyance flickered across her face. She shifted slightly away, grasped the sword propped beside her, and held it before her chest.

Lu Ting, oblivious to her coldness, pressed forward, brimming with pride. “You flatter me! I too have admired you all for a long time. Today I have composed a poem, and I beg you to perform it for everyone’s refinement!” He produced a sheet of paper from his sleeve and recited loudly: “The title is ‘Admiring the Chrysanthemum.’ If the chrysanthemum blooms yet none appreciate its beauty, must the flower not feel lonely as well? Listen well—Rosy red and violet fill the garden, yet no bees or butterflies dance among them. One day the autumn wind will scatter them away, but their pure fragrance will remain in the world.”

He closed his eyes, stroked his chin, and struck a pose of immortal elegance, though his round figure was more resistant to autumn winds than the autumn sun, which gleamed off his shiny brow.

“A fine poem, a fine poem!” Wei Dao, vexed by the man’s rudeness, clapped and called out, “Such lofty ambition and smooth phrases! And it’s so easy to recite, it fills one’s belly with autumn wind—three days without food or drink, and you wouldn’t feel hungry!”

“Indeed! Not just three days—three months without missing food, I’d say!” someone else chimed in, laughing and winking at the others.

But Lu Ting failed to hear their sarcasm. Feeling deeply appreciated, he seized Wei Dao’s sleeve and exclaimed, “Gangjing! Everyone says you are learned and broad-minded. I had my doubts, but today I believe it! Come, come—while the musician tunes her instrument, let me explain the allusions in my poem…”

“Brother Lu, forgive me. I too just finished a poem, and was about to ask Brother Bogao…” Wei Dao, originally spoiling for a fight, was so flustered at being mistaken for a confidant that he could not be angry or upset. He could only try to pull Zhang Xu over as a shield.

But before he could finish, he caught the musician’s warning glance and felt a chill run down his spine. He swallowed his words, resigning himself to being dragged off by Lu Ting to hear an exposition of his “masterpiece.”

Zhang Qian, having only met Wang Zhihuan and Wei Dao earlier, had not yet mingled with the other young talents. Seeing Wei Dao trapped by Lu Ting, he had no desire to join their misery. So he quietly circled around and found a secluded stone table at the edge of the gathering, where he poured himself some yellow wine prepared by the servants and sipped it slowly.

After only a few mouthfuls, a sudden “twang” sounded in his ear—the musician had snapped a string, and could play no more. The group lamented the loss, but their poetic enthusiasm was undiminished. One after another, they came forward, either writing their own verses or having Zhang Xu transcribe their chrysanthemum poems onto a shared roll of mulberry paper.

Watching his peers “submit their work,” Zhang Xu grew nervous. His own “On the Chrysanthemum,” which had already earned Zhang Shuo’s criticism of “decadent,” could hardly be presented again. Nor did he wish to improvise a new one and risk outshining Lu Zheng’s infamy as the worst poet, making himself the butt of scholarly jokes. After weighing his options, and seeing no one was paying him any mind, he simply stood up and, borrowing from Emperor Gaozu of Han, slipped away to relieve himself.

When he’d entered the gardens earlier, led by Wang Zhihuan, he hadn’t noticed the size of Zhang Ruoxu’s estate. Now, sneaking out alone, he quickly lost his sense of direction.

After passing through two corridors and a pavilion, he still couldn’t tell north from south. To make matters worse, a genuine urge to relieve himself arose.

Not daring to wander further, Zhang Qian hurriedly turned back, aiming to return to the garden and find a servant to guide him to the privy. Yet, though the raucous voices of the poets sounded close, and he hadn’t actually gone far, the stone-paved paths never seemed to lead him back to the garden entrance.

In his growing anxiety, he suddenly heard the muffled sobs of a girl from behind a bamboo grove—soft, but so out of place amid the distant revelry.

Zhang Qian paused, instinctively wanting to investigate. But after a few steps, he hesitated and shook his head. This was Zhang Ruoxu’s home, and the sobbing girl was clearly young. Zhang Ruoxu kept many concubines, the youngest about Ziju’s age. If the girl crying in the bamboo was one of Zhang Ruoxu’s little concubines, what business would it be for Zhang Qian to go over and offer comfort?

No business of mine—best to stay out of it!

In that instant, wine and nerves vanished alike. Zhang Qian quickly retreated, eager to slip away. But before he could return to the stone path, he heard the girl’s soft voice behind him:

“Don’t be afraid. Your parents didn’t mean to leave you behind. Hush… They must have had no choice. Hush…”

Her words, hoarse yet gentle, were threaded with sobs, like a needle piercing through Zhang Qian’s cloak, skin, and bones, straight into his heart.

“Really, believe me. In this world, what parent does not love their own child? Hush…”

“Hush… Just grow up well, and one day you’ll find them. Hush… And if you can’t find them right away, don’t worry. If you live well, surely they’ll be proud of you…”