Marianne thinks back to the tetchy, paranoid, solitary Papa who left for China and returned a changed man. She nods. ‘He had been suffering l’ennuie for some time. A severe case will drive a vampire to request eternal slumber, the only escape from the unbearable weight of immortality. A change of scenery and routine can sometimes help, which is why Mémère allowed him to sail so far from home. As the head of House Durand, Mémère is honour and duty bound to grant La Grande Morte to anyone who requests it, even Papa.’
Lady Gi speaks softly. ‘He may have wanted that before he left for the Middle Kingdom, but the letter he wrote a year later shows he was no longer in the same frame of mind.’
Jing is quiet for a moment. ‘We should head back so we can send Big Wang an update.’
At the door, Marianne says, ‘Mémère is hosting a party tonight to celebrate your return to House Durand.’ She looks hopefully at Lady Jing. ‘Bar 228 is a favourite gathering place for those loyal to House Durand. We would be honoured if you and your friends would join us.’
Jing glances at Tony, then asks, ‘Will anyone be naked?’
‘Almost everyone,’ Marianne says. At the Celestials’ shocked expressions, she hastily adds, ‘Please don’t be alarmed. No one will approach without your invitation. The level of nudity indicates whether we are willing and able to indulge.’
This does not reassure the Celestials. Only when Marianne tells them the best jazz band in Paris will be playing that they consent to come. As they leave, a servant hands Jing a wire basket filled with six metal flasks.
At Jing’s questioning look, Marianne explains, ‘Our most loyal pursuivants wished to honour you with a token of their blood to ensure you are well provided for during your stay in Paris.’
Twenty-Seven
The Journal
Gigi and Ah Lang head to the courtyard with Ahn and Yue Gui to compose a message to Big Wang and the Jade Emperor. Tony has another migraine, so he returns to his room to sleep it off.
My father’s journal is a heavy presence in my pocket. I pull it out and run trembling fingers over the battered leather cover. Inside these pages is my father: his thoughts, his perspectives on life, in what he says, in what he doesn’t, as well as in the strokes of his pen. What if I don’t like him? What if he’s like Maximilien, entitled and arrogant?No.I won’t indulge in what ifs. The truth is in my hands; I only need open the pages and read.
Curling up in the armchair by the window, I flip to the first page and immediately wince. Impatience and carelessness deform the character strokes. Angry slashes riddle each line. This was not a happy man.
Taking a deep breath, I start to read.
28 July 1834. Forêt de Tronçais –ArrivedLeft Paris early this morning.MémèreUnableIntended to mist to Lyon,butfatigue set in. Will set off again in the morning.
29 July. Lyon –MarseillesTomorrMarianneI rested in the comfortable crook of a large branch halfway up an old oak tree.TheWhenI
30 July. Marseilles
31 July. Marseilles. DepartedMy words are but pointless banality.
A sour ache blooms in my chest at his frustration and hopelessness. If not for the knowledge that he meets my mother and heals from his pain I would have stopped reading. But very soon, his tone changes. From hopeless to cantankerous, to downright funny, especially the entries about the Englishman, Crispin, a dreamer who sees the good and beauty in everything, even the stinkiest of camels, while my father plays a curmudgeon who pretends not to enjoy the Englishman’s company. I skim the passages, skipping the sea voyage and overland journey to Likiang, and start reading again at the point he meets my mother.
27 Sept. Jade Dragon Temple, Likiang – Halfway round the lake was an old stone bridge that led to a dilapidated building. ‘Jade Dragon Temple’ was inscribed on the wooden plaque of its entrance gate. I was about to cross the bridge when a melody, like laughter on the wind, caught my attention. I wonder what Crispin would have made of it. Since I had located my lodgings for the night, I followed the music to a nearby pavilion straddling the lake and shoreline.
Lanterns hung from the eaves, casting a soft glow over a young woman kneeling before a long stringed instrument. A zither, if my memory serves. Her hair shone in the lantern light, cascading over her shoulders like silk, half pulled into an ornate bun. Her dress was the soft yellow of ripe quince, crossed at the front and tied with a sash at her waist. Her fingers flew over the strings, plucking and strumming.
I laugh at the depiction, knowing the scene very well. “Solitary maiden by the lake” is one of the hulijing’s favourite man-hunting ruses – they get to play their favourite music, wear theirfavourite ta-ta cinching dresses, and for hardly any effort at all, they are beset with mortals pressing for their attention, drawn into their trap like flies to a pile of turd.
The bouquet I observed on entering the forest radiated from the woman. I watched undetected for some time. When the wind changed, the woman’s head snapped up as the music came to an abrupt stop. Her pupils were pinpoints. No mortal eyes could see me, shrouded as I was in shadow. Yet she perceived me.
Instead of running, or attacking, her gaze slid from me, and she seemed to search the forest again. Her expression became timid, almost nervous. She nodded to herself. Raising trembling hands to her instrument, she began to play. Hesitantly at first, but slowly she sank into the music and seemed to forget her earlier distress.
I can scent fear from miles away. This woman was not the least bit afraid. She was putting on a show. Why? I edged the lake, staying under cover of shadow, until I stood not ten paces from the pavilion. While the woman feigned ignorance, her ears twitched whenever I moved. She was tracking me as much as I was tracking her. A predatory shiver I thought long dead ran through me. I stepped forward into the pool of lantern light.
It pleased me to note my father was no dummy and knew right away my mother was pretending.
A sudden discordant note quivered in the night air. Raising an arm she shielded herself with a cascade of silk. She was not a great actor for I could see her peering at me through the sheer fabric. ‘Contain myinterruption,’ I said. ‘This humble one basks in your glory.’
She lowered her arm, revealing an elegant sweep of eyebrows over a piercing gaze. ‘You are far from the village, my lord. I am all alone.’ She paused, narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean by intruding on a defenceless maiden’s privacy so late at night?’ It was barely nine o’clock.
‘I have no ill intentions, my lady. I merely heard your music and wished to pay my respects.’ Her gaze raked me from head to toe, twice. With a show of resignation, she sighed and patted the silk cushions next to her. ‘Since you’ve interrupted me, you might as well join me for a cup of jiu.’
I ought to have left, but I was seized with the idea that this might be a diverting story to tell Crispin so I accepted her invitation and joined her. The lady handed me a cup of clear spirit. Beneath its honeysuckle aroma was the unmistakable acrid stench of aconite, a neurotoxin.
