sang vierge

Chapitre 4

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [18]: No, it's too dangerous here, no way...

I want... You have no idea how much I miss you! I've endured all those soldiers' mistreatment here just to see you, Qin Se! Give me... Qin, give me...

He murmured and licked my neck and ears, dazed and confused, tearing at his clothes. Lian Lei, the last man before I became Myrtle, the last man of Qin Se. I gently pushed him away, then gently embraced him. Lian Lei, I already smelled of cattle and sheep on me.

The carpet left a stinging, pricking mark on my bare back. I opened my eyes; he was gone.

He left after a long and bitter separation, a life-or-death bond. He left me with a tear that fell on my chest, a heart-wrenching longing, and a pool of cooled fluid from his lower body before departing. Lying on the ground, I looked around the golden tent; Su Rile's golden goblet, silver knife, and several other treasures were nowhere to be found.

Lian Lei. I can't say if there's a smile on my face. I straighten my clothes and get up to clean up the mess. I still have time to clean it all up before Su Rile returns. No, I'm afraid you don't know, Lian Lei, I truly don't resent you. Just like the day you sold me to the madam of Hongluanxi, abandonment after the first time can happen again. Lian Lei, I don't resent any outcome I could have foreseen.

Because no one knows the truth about you better than I do. A man who can suppress his feelings but won't deprive himself of pleasure, a man living a life of hedonism. Whether you love me or not is no longer important. I think you yourself don't even know.

Please love me as a gambler loves their chips. (A libation is offered.) Because there can never be another kind of relationship between us. A forever truthful lie.

Surile didn't pursue the theft; he didn't even bother to ask. It was only when he was about to drink that he realized his usual golden goblet was missing. I stepped forward and said, "General, it was my carelessness..."

"Never mind." He waved his hand impatiently. "What does it matter? It's just a cup." He called the soldiers into the tent and ordered them to fetch another wine cup, a large one. He pulled me close. "Myrtle, you lost my cup, so I'll use you to replace it." Then he laughed heartily, seemingly finding the loss of the golden goblet amusing, a rather novel reason for drinking and joking.

I think it wasn't foolishness or generosity. It was simply an inherent trait of this nomadic and plundering people. For thousands of years, their nomadic lifestyle has been passed down through generations. They have never cared for anything beyond their weapons and herds of livestock. Because as long as their army is strong and powerful, they can take anything they want. Wealth is spent and then returned, in the name of their bows and arrows. What isn't theirs is never cherished. Even General Suril, who commanded a large army, never particularly admired these exquisitely crafted objects. He wanted them; having them all around him was merely a way to demonstrate his power and ruthlessness.

"Myrtle, you are my beloved woman. Mongols are never stingy. I will give you whatever you want," he said. Therefore, he didn't pursue the golden goblet, the silver knife, or the other jade, stone, and agate wine vessels and decorations in the tent… He practically emptied the place. Suril simply clapped his hands, and a new batch immediately appeared, even more precious and rare. He held a dark, warm, and subtly lustrous old jade wine cup, carved with coiled dragon patterns, its antiquity astonishing. This cup alone is priceless, I thought. Who knows which noble family it originally belonged to, a treasure passed down through generations. But Suril never paid it any attention. His greater interest lay in my lips. He wanted me to take the place of the lost golden goblet, to hold each sip of strong liquor between my lips and teeth before feeding it to him… Suril was childlike in delight at this rare and mischievous idea he had come up with.

How could you know this trick is just a cliché in the brothels of the South? I, the honest and hot-tempered Mongol general, think as I sip from a full jug of vodka. Ah, on a certain day in the misty rain on the Pearl River, the gentle ripples felt even through the boat's planks. Peeling a glistening lychee, lips meeting, tongues entwined, feeding it to someone… that sweet, intoxicating drug, that aphrodisiac, making him willing to remain a Lingnan native forever… Gone are the days of the beautiful, twin mandarin ducks. Gone are the poems and tales of old Jiangnan. Gone is the lover who vainly urged me to wait, leaving behind only half a bed of marital bliss, empty. I lightly touch these lips carved from bluestone; at this moment, only the domineering ecstasy of vodka fills my mouth.

The spring breeze is intoxicating, and so is the snowy plains. This spiciness gradually builds up to pain, then numbness. Later, there's even a warm, exhilarating feeling throughout my body, a truly invigorating sensation. I laughed drunkenly as I wrapped myself around him, and began to untie the precious belt around his waist. General, you've led me to a wondrous land that has banished all sorrows of ages past.

Drunk and oblivious to the passing days, I lingered in this golden tent, clinging to a man of a foreign race. To the Mongols, he was already half a foreigner. To me, it was an even greater distance, a blood barrier as different as the paths of the living and the dead. But I didn't care. Besides blood, we could exchange other fluids, couldn't we? The same warm, sticky feeling, emanating from the deepest part of our bodies. I knew that wandering flowers bloom the same wherever they land, so I gradually felt at ease. So, let's love as we go, even if we don't love each other, it's not a big deal. This place felt completely foreign; I was like Cai Wenji, adrift among the barbarians, with nothing and no one reminding me of the past. Until one day, a soldier came to report that a Han Chinese was requesting an audience with the general outside the camp.

"Hmm? What are you doing?" Surile, like a leopard, immediately became alert. Could it be a traitorous spy? Is he alone?

Yes, General. The Han man said he had come to ransom someone from the General. He said he was willing to offer rare treasures and pay any price to get that person back.

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [19]: ...Mandarin ducks cannot be separated from their mates. I close my eyes. I know who it is, as certain as I believe everything he does will be in vain. Only this person, only him, bought my imperfect night with the nine stars aligned without complaint. That's good, it makes me even more charming. He said. This is the person in the world who knows how to enjoy me the most. Ah, mandarin ducks. Listen to how beautiful this voice is. In an instant, the time of separation vanished, as if there were no distance. So melodious, so close, nine parts longing, one part reunion, my beloved, you have come. You have finally come to find me. I open my eyes, and he is right in front of me. So real, as if he has never left my side.

Cho. Where can one find out the whereabouts of this beloved pet who betrayed her promise and sold Hehuan? That's not difficult. The news that Hongluanxi's top courtesan was forcibly taken by the Mongol general must have been widely circulated long ago. A trivial gossip in Guangzhou, a clumsy imitation of the legend of Zhangtai Liu. So, do you want to emulate Cao Cao's redemption of Wenji from the barbarian lands with a thousand pieces of gold? My beloved, my patron who slowly drinks bitter tea by my bedside. He ventured alone into heavily guarded territory, carrying a dark camphor wood box. Cho, is that little peach still blooming in your heart? She has betrayed your tenderness by tempting you to risk your life in this den of wolves and tigers.

"General," he spoke slowly. "The woman beside you is the one I love most. I beg you to allow her to return to my side. Here are the most precious treasures and antiques I could find. I will offer anything to let you take her."

His fair hands gently lifted the lid of the box. A dazzling light shone forth. He was filled with astonishment. "Chuo, you, the one who found love in this land of flowers, willing to part with a nine-star alignment for my virginity, you'd give up any treasure for my return. When I entered your eyes and heart... Chuo, are you so attached to your little peach?" I saw his crystal-clear eyes reflected on me, blurred with pain.

Suryl glanced at the box without moving, still holding me tightly on his lap. He pulled my face up. "Myrtle, is this man your ex-husband?"

I didn't have time to answer. He suddenly stood up and walked to Zhuo, his broad shoulders completely obscuring his figure in the brocade robe. Like the shadow of a towering mountain, I couldn't see Zhuo, but suddenly heard a crisp clapping sound.

You Han dog. Get lost.

Surile turned slightly, revealing half of his face sculpted from rock. His high, straight, hooked nose cast a disdainful gaze upon all living beings. The deeply etched lines at the corners of his mouth made him appear like a Vajra in a Buddhist cave, his arrogance and steadfastness unchanging for millennia. His long eyelashes framed deep, captivating eyes, yet tinged with an unspoken contempt.

"Get out! I don't talk to beasts. Take your boxes and get out!" He raised his hand and slapped her again. "The Mongols want treasures, so they just steal them openly, you incompetent Han dogs! But today I don't want your treasures. I'll teach you that Surile isn't a greedy little man. Now get out of here right now, or you'll be executed on the spot!"

Then he raised his head and looked away again. A lion's rules are strength. Victory or defeat. To have or not to have. Simple and brutal, he was always accustomed to giving orders and disdained bargaining with the weak. Faced with anything, he always offered only two choices: obedience or death. Ah… Ah… My breath aches, a pulling pain. Even if it's just for that one tender phrase, "Mandarin ducks"… Ah, why must I always force myself to face the ending I foresee? I see through it all, but it's useless.

...The seven-fragrant carriage was abandoned in the rain-soaked military camp, left to be touched and even roughly destroyed by the Mongol soldiers, their exquisitely crafted purple silk reins torn and dragged through the mud. Never before had I felt so clearly amidst these tents that this was Guangzhou. The thousand-year-old sorrowful miasma of Lingnan lingered, an indistinct ambiguity that never truly dissipated. The bitter mist and river waters did not illuminate the roof beams for those who had departed. Leaning against the window, I watched that figure in the pale blue brocade robe disappear alone into the rain and mist...never to return. His despair pounded into my heart step by step. This too was a meeting of minds, a cruel irony.

He gazed at Suril's thick, golden-brown braids coiled into thick loops and the fluffy fox tail on his hat. He gazed, gazed, then silently lowered his eyes. He turned and left without a word. He could say nothing, he could do nothing.

You Han dog. Get lost.

Mandarin ducks cannot be separated from each other.

Get out of here right now, or you'll be executed!

This ending was as I had anticipated. A forlorn figure abandoned the carriage and walked alone through the mud, like a snail dragging its fragile shell. Well, let it drag on, at least to shelter from this storm. Though under a collapsed nest, no egg remains unbroken. Chuo, you once said that the splendor of the Six Dynasties and the poetry of the Tang and Song Dynasties combined couldn't compare to Xiao Tao, but in the end, she couldn't escape her own fate, could she? This is how you should be. This is the only way you can be.

Alas, fleeting years, sorrowful winds and rains, even the trees are thus. Who can summon the red-scarved and green-sleeved beauties to wipe away the hero's tears? Leaning against the window, I laughed again. Ah, so it turns out you were never a hero from beginning to end, and I was never the pair of green-sleeved beauties to wipe away a hero's tears. When the land is shattered, heroes and heroines, chivalrous spirits and tender feelings—those stories, both tragic and poignant, are forever just stories. You and I both know, Ah, that we are merely ordinary men and women struggling to survive in this chaotic world. Selfish and numb, trapped by a sea of desires within our hearts. Only in our small world of cosmetics and silks were you the calm and decisive king, and I your unwavering queen. You were weak, I betrayed, my beloved, neither of us owes the other anything, and from now on, neither of us will remember the other.

You, a man as pure as jade, refined and polished. I once tried to deceive you with a mere wax pellet. So today, let me return to you a back that is no longer intact, and you return to me a back that refuses to shatter. Very well. We are done. My love, in truth, neither of us was the flawless, perfect jade in the other's heart. Silently reciting the words of love to you, please bid farewell to your little peach with steps that never look back.

"I don't care how many men you've had before." The golden-armored general's voice resounded like a divine decree from behind. "You are my woman, and you can only love me! If you betray me, I will kill you."

Yes. My naive lion of the grasslands. His only rule is strength, his only distinction is life and death. I fill my golden jug with strong liquor and drink down the spiciness he's instilled in me. I've grown accustomed to that taste… Surile, General, I'm starting to miss your savage charge and your chiseled features. Wu Gang, who tirelessly chops the cassia tree under the moon every night, where are you? No matter what, you never strayed from your rules, did you? Until the very end, you always followed them.

The strong live, the weak die. Each gets what they deserve. Tonight I drink the last jug of vodka from your tent, a farewell to you. I know you'd like to see me say goodbye this way. What flows is strong liquor, not tears. General, I was once your woman.

It was an ordinary thing. A month after that rainy day, the Mongol general Surile, who had been ordered by the emperor to suppress the southern rebels, died at the hands of the rebels in a fierce battle. So ordinary. A clay pot is bound to break at the well, and a general is bound to die on the battlefield. Surile, you died at the hands of the Han people you insulted and slaughtered, my own kind. When the news came, the only thing I did was open a bottle of strong liquor from your birthplace, the one you taught me to love, and now I use it to mourn your soul. Come, General, just like the first time you held the golden goblet and forced it to my lips, saying you had to drink this cup, just like now, before me.

Suryl, let's drink!

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [20]: I wonder what he looked like when he died. I don't want to imagine a bloody battlefield. My bloodthirsty Asura, my war god. This ending is perfect for you. They say you and your beloved steed, Qianli, perished in the chaos of war. You are my lucky general. Xiang Yu cannot ascend on the back of his steed, Wuzhui. May you also gallop freely on your other path.

I drink this last glass of vodka as I bid you farewell. Whoever you are, I truly miss you tonight. But the time has come; it's time to go. Surrey, this last glass of vodka is poured into the starry sky; may its flavor carry you back north. We must say goodbye.

You go where you're supposed to go, I'll go where I'm supposed to go.

V. The figures are adorned in fine silk, their skin translucent like solidified cream.

The madam watched me cry, a rare, heartfelt compassion welling up within her. Over the years, she had almost forgotten the genuine tears she shed, mostly just a few drops of filthy, sordid sympathy, which she herself couldn't distinguish clearly.

She said: "My daughter, we're truly inseparable. Look at you, coming back to Hongluanxi, I knew you couldn't bear to leave your mother..."

The drawn-out small talk. I turned my face away, knowing that some things didn't need to be heard, and some people would never come back. All I could do was continue, and smile at people when I was awake.

I sat in the flower-lined path and bamboo pavilion, my eyes gleaming with vibrant colors, my figure like a lotus just beginning to bloom. Such beauty did not come from my heart; it was natural and complete. It is as if Bi Gan, with his exquisitely intelligent mind, was not a handsome man. I am the opposite of him. My heart often does not know where to stop or where to rest, often forgetting that its body needs the guidance of a soul.

I easily crane my slender neck, lost in thought about something I don't even have. I beckon to people, but I don't need them. My icy demeanor chills anyone who tries to approach me. They say my thoughts are intricate and elaborate, but no one has the heart to blame me, for I am beautiful, a beauty that is high above.

I said I was going on a trip, and the madam prepared carriages and horses for me. She dared not disobey me; she was terrified by the bewildered and helpless expression that sometimes appeared on my face. She shouted to the servants: "Quickly prepare the sedan chair, quickly burn incense, quickly set up the brocade parasol, quickly pack the five-flavor food box, quickly accompany Myrtle to relax."

Her nagging concern, her insincere tone, was genuine. But I still thanked her, with that "you treat me well, I'll treat you well" kind of politeness, her words always so courteous, so polite that everyone would be touched by my understanding. My lips trembled as I said, "I'll take care of myself." But I broke my promise the very next moment, standing in a tall building somewhere, gazing into the distance.

Trees, reeds, houses, sandbars.

Blue, ochre, red, green.

The serene and tranquil scenery blends with the complex world within my heart. I want to record it, but I'm not good at writing, painting, singing, or expressing myself. It turns out I'm incapable of anything; all the beautiful praise is merely superficial. Am I the Goddess of the Luo River, Bao Si, or Empress Jia, or simply a speck of red dust, bearing the sorrow that distinguishes me from all others because of my color?

Light clouds obscured the sun as I savored a pastry shaped like a plum blossom.

Who's singing in the building: "Year after year, day after day, autumn after autumn, generation after generation. Gathering and parting, joy and sorrow. Lying alone on a bed, a lifetime in a dream. Seeking a group of acquaintances, sometimes we meet, sometimes we meet, all of us are equally familiar, singing and chatting."

It turns out I'm not the only one feeling this way; many lament the fleeting nature of time, the relentless march of years, the unpredictable nature of gatherings and separations, and the fickle nature of joy and sorrow. Life is like a dream, our faces age before our hearts, waiting to grow old after last night. I want to lie quietly in the vast expanse of time, painting my own portrait on silk.

The servant girl called out: "Change our young lady's tune to a cheerful one."

The coins she threw out were thrown back. Xiao Nu went over to argue, but someone slapped her across the face. The man glared at her angrily and said, "I only ever sing my songs to myself."

The young servant raised her head only to his gaping mouth, and dared not argue any further. Like a defeated barking dog, she returned to my side dejectedly. The man lowered his face and began to paint. He was imitating Liang Kai's "Li Bai Wandering and Singing," his brushstrokes vigorous and upright, his style soaring. But before he finished, he tore it up, angrily cursing: "An imitation is an imitation, and a complete fake at that! Yuchi Jihua, how despicable you are!"

After saying this, he burst into tears. So spontaneous! I was willing to stop staring blankly and look at him, lifting the beaded curtain to see the man who had just played the five-stringed zither and watched the wild geese fly away. He was more genuine than I was, just like his name, Jihua, the radiance of the bright moon, knowing how to express himself from the heart.

He hadn't noticed me yet, while I was carefully observing him. His ancient and serene eyes were filled with tears; what an otherworldly and refined face he possessed, like a silk handkerchief from a dragon palace, slender and beautiful. The plate in my hand fell to the ground, and only then did he notice me, both of us stunned.

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [21]: He said: You...

Then I forgot what I was saying.

Seeing this, the servant suddenly became smug again. He shouted: "My daughter is not someone a poor, lowly commoner like you would even look at!"

He picked up the paperweight, a heavy copper block. The little servant was so frightened that she squatted down and huddled together, crying out, "How dare you smash it! I belong to Hongluanxi!" Her voice trembled.

His arrogant demeanor amused him, and he burst into laughter, pulling a gold medal from his chest—a sacred relic from the imperial palace. He approached the young servant, tapping him on the head with the medal, saying with each tap: "Do you judge a book by its cover?" "Does Hongluanxi have a more powerful background than mine?" "Who do you think you are?"

The young servant hurriedly kowtowed, displaying his ability to change his tune at will. He pleaded, "Grandpa, please spare me," utterly devoid of dignity.

He persisted, his arrogant and unruly demeanor unusually imposing. I caught a glimpse of his every expression in that brief moment, utterly unpretentious. Could someone so openly displaying joy and sorrow truly have come from the palace? When Yu Chi Ji Hua faced me again, he was still softly rebuking me, muttering to himself.

Who do you think you are?

Yuchi Jihua, you traitorous lackey of a fallen nation.

He walked towards me and lifted my face with his fingers. Two people, one male and one female, both with refined and elegant features.

"Is that Hongluanxi's girl?" he asked. "Go back and tell the madam that the court painter wants to keep you for seven days. Dress yourself up nicely tonight, and I'll come looking for you."

The voice was rigid and lifeless, like a puppet on a string, a manipulated official's tone. The arrogant man died in the blink of an eye, splitting into another person, a fake man forced to change his appearance to survive in the chaos of the world. The light in his eyes vanished in an instant; his heart was like a fleeting ephemera, its blooming and dying happening even shorter than before. A mask grew from his flesh, ready to self-destruct upon being peeled away.

He stormed off. As for me, I wanted to sleep a little longer. Little Nu was rubbing his head at my feet, muttering curses. I handed him a piece of rice cake and patted his head with my fan. I wasn't trying to comfort some begging pet; who says they aren't pitiful?

I'm sleepy.

Close your eyes and summon a night-blooming cereus.

What a handsome and dashing man!

Please come into my dream quickly.

I would like to hear him say that the beautiful woman is like his homeland.

That night, as usual, I didn't wear heavy makeup. Gold powder mixed with rouge, myrtle on my face was my trademark—gold leaf, outline, fill, and powder applied. A few strokes of ornate lines left only a dull gray in the world. The madam paced back and forth beside me, trying to persuade me. "Daughter," she said, "this is a court painter, a grand occasion! Your portrait might be presented to the Emperor. Daughter, you should at least dress more properly."

"Is this considered untidy?" I asked her in return.

"No, no, that's not what Mom meant." The madam stammered, this old woman who became spineless at the sight of money.

Since nothing looks good, I might as well not wear anything at all. I started to take off my clothes, and she panicked and quickly pressed my hand down.