The Last Empress (12 page)

In Alute's imagination I had posed a great threat. She might have fantasized about her life as regent, and I was the only obstacle she needed to overcome. The way Alute worded her letter sounded confident. The fact that she had no doubt she was carrying a male child was in itself evidence of a mental disorder.

Grandchild or no grandchild, the possibility would continue to haunt me. What saddened me was that the death of her husband had aroused no sympathy in Alute. If she had truly loved Tung Chih, she wouldn't have murdered his child.

It hurt me to think of the possibility that my son was cheated out of his only love. The thought led me to other possibilities, such as the reasons behind Tung Chih's addiction to whores. Was it because he was denied affection? Tung Chih was no angel, but he was a child who had always been hungry for love.

I tried to stop my thoughts from dwelling on guilt. I told myself
that Tung Chih and Alute were once true lovers and that should count and continue to count.

Before spring, an official accused me of "precipitating the Emperor's relapse." I paid no attention to this; the idea was ridiculous. What I didn't expect was that the story made its rounds and was picked up and published by a respected English journal. It made me the center of an international scandal—the prime suspect of Emperor Tung Chih's "murder."

"The loving Alute was visiting Tung Chih on his sickbed," the article read. "She complained about her mother-in-law's interfering and domineering ways, and she was happily looking forward to the day Tung Chih would be well again. It was at that moment the raging Dowager Empress Lady Yehonala entered. She rampaged through the room, seizing Alute by the hair and hitting her while Tung Chih suffered a terrible nervous crisis, which caused the fever to return and eventually to kill him."

I dreamed of ice floating on a lake in the midst of its melting, thin and fragile. The ice didn't look like ice but pieces of rice paper. Tung Chih had no idea what southern China's winter looked or felt like. He was used to the solid ice of Peking winters. He was never allowed to skate on the frozen palace lake; instead he watched his cousins play all day long. The most Tung Chih was allowed was to tie straw strings around his shoes so that he could walk on the ice with the help of his eunuchs.

In my childhood memory, winter was always cold and damp. When the northwest wind blew strong against the windows and made the panes rattle as though someone were knocking, Mother would announce that the coldest part of winter had arrived. Because the temperature never really dropped below freezing in the south, few of the houses had heaters.

I remember Mother taking out all of our winter clothes from cases made of sandalwood. We put on thick cotton jackets, hats and scarves, and everyone smelled of sandalwood. When it was cold in the house, people went out into the street to warm themselves under the sun. Unfortunately, most southern winters were sunless. The air was damp and the color of the sky remained gray until the season passed.

Today I woke in a well-heated room. Li Lien-ying was so grateful when I didn't push away my breakfast that he was almost in tears. He served me a southern-style meal: hot porridge with preserved tofu, root vegetables and peanuts, with roasted seaweed and sesame seeds. He told me that I had been ill and had slept around the clock.

I looked up and my neck felt stiff and achy. I noticed that the red lanterns in the room had been changed to white. Thoughts of Tung Chih returned, and my heart suffered a stabbing pain. I pushed to get myself up. My eyes caught a pile of documents lying on the desk.

"What must I know?" I asked.

There was no response. Li Lien-ying looked at me as if he didn't understand. I realized that I was still used to An-te-hai's ways and that Li Lien-ying hadn't yet learned the role of being my eunuch secretary.

"You may brief me, starting with the weather."

Li Lien-ying was indeed a quick learner. "The icy wind has been blowing down sandstorms from the desert," he began, helping me to dress. "Last night the braziers were lit in the courtyards."

"Go on."

"Li Hung-chang moved his army from Chihli on your orders. He has secured the Forbidden City. Governors of the eighteen provinces have hurried to get here, some by carriage and some on horseback. They are entering the gates at this moment. Yung Lu has been notified of the situation and should be here within days."

I was surprised. "I did neither the ordering nor the summoning."

"Empress Nuharoo did."

"Why didn't she inform me about it?"

"Empress Nuharoo was here several times while you were sleeping," Li Lien-ying explained. "Her exact words were 'Tung Chih has left no heir, and an emperor has to be chosen.'"

"To the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing! Palanquin!" I ordered.

Nuharoo was relieved when she saw me enter the hall. "Three candidates have been suggested." She presented me with notes of the day's discussion. "All members of the Imperial clan are present."

Although my fatigue persisted, I tried to look as if I had never left the court. I examined the candidates. The first was a two-month-old named P'u-lun, grandson of Emperor Tao Kuang's eldest son—my husband's brother Prince Ts'eng. Since Tung Chih's "Tsai" generation was followed by the "P'u" generation, the infant was the only nominee who complied with Imperial family law, which stated that the successor to the throne could not be a member of the same generation as his predecessor.

I quickly dismissed P'u-lun. My reason was that my husband had told me that P'u-lun's grandfather Prince Ts'eng had been adopted from a junior branch of the Imperial family and so was not of the true
bloodline. "We know of no precedent for the grandson of an adopted son to mount the throne," I said.

The truth behind my rejection was that I had some idea of the kind of man Prince Ts'eng was. While pleasure-seeking had been his hobby, he was a corrupt political radical. He had little respect for me until he learned about my son's death. He knew that I would have the power to choose an heir.

When an advocate of Prince Ts'eng's, a court official, produced a document from the Ming Dynasty's records proving the prince's legitimacy, I reminded the court, "That particular Ming prince's reign ended in disaster, with the prince himself captured and murdered by the Mongols."

The next male child in line was Prince Kung's eldest son, Tsai-chen, Tung Chih's former playmate. As hard as I tried, I could not forgive the fact that he had introduced Tung Chih to the brothels. I rejected Tsai-chen by saying, "The law requires that the living father of an emperor retire into private life, and I don't think the court can function without Prince Kung."

I wanted to yell at Nuharoo and the court: How could we entrust a playboy with the nation's responsibilities? I would have ordered Tsai-chen's beheading if he were not Prince Kung's son!

The last one in line was Tsai-t'ien, my three-year-old nephew, son of Prince Ch'un, my husband's youngest brother, who was also the husband of my sister, Rong. Although we would be violating the "no-same-generation" rule if we selected Tsai-t'ien, we had no other option.

In the end, both Nuharoo and I gave our votes to Tsai-t'ien. We let it be known that we would adopt the child if the court were to accept our proposal. In fact, I had already been thinking about adopting Tsai-t'ien. The idea came when I learned that three of my sister's children had died "accidentally" in their infancy. The deaths were regarded as the work of fate, but I was aware of Rong's mental condition. Prince Ch'un complained about his wife's ongoing deterioration, but no action was taken and Rong was given no treatment. I was concerned for Tsai-t'ien's survival the moment he was born. I had spoken to Rong about putting him up for adoption, but she insisted on caring for the baby herself.

Tsai-t'ien was underweight for his age and his movements appeared wooden. His nurses reported that he would cry through the night, while his mother continued to believe that feeding her child a full meal would kill him.

The child's father encouraged the adoption. "I am willing to do everything to help my son escape his mother," Prince Ch'un told me. "Isn't it enough that three of my sons have died under your sister's care?" When I expressed concern about his own separation from Tsai-t'ien, he said he would be fine, since he had children with his other wives and concubines.

Next the court heard a report on the character and history of the nominee's father. I was not surprised that Prince Ch'un was found to be a man of "double characters." I had learned from my husband, Emperor Hsien Feng, that "brother Ch'un would tremble in every limb and fall into a faint at his father's temper." And yet he was also "the big braggart" of the family. Prince Ch'un represented the hardliners of the Manchu clan. While claiming to have no interest in politics, he had been a longtime rival of his own brother Prince Kung.

"My husband can't help but be a man of honesty because his lies are too dumb," my sister used to say. Prince Ch'un was tireless in telling the world about his philosophy of life. He constantly expressed his disgust of power and wealth. Displayed in his living room was a couplet of his own calligraphy warning his children of how wealth would corrupt, destroy and cause disaster. "Without power means without danger," the couplet read. "And without wealth means without disaster." Although Ch'un was a prince, he neither held significant titles nor performed court duties. Nevertheless, he had not been shy about demanding increases in his annual taels. He even criticized Prince Kung, complaining about his brother's compensation for hosting parties for foreign diplomats.

Despite all that, and with Yung Lu working in the background to persuade the clan members, the court gave its approval of Prince Ch'un. Tsai-t'ien was seriously considered and finally chosen. The last remaining obstacle was that Tsai-t'ien was Tung Chih's first cousin and by law could not officiate at Tung Chih's grave. In other words, Tung Chih could not adopt his cousin as a son and heir.

After days of debate, the court decided to have another open vote.

Outside the wind blew, and the lanterns in the hall flickered. The votes were counted: seven men voted for Prince Ts'eng's grandson P'u-lun, three voted for Prince Kung's son Tsai-chen, and fifteen voted for Prince Ch'un's son, my nephew Tsai-t'ien.

While Prince Ch'un told the court that it would be unnecessary to secure the approval of his wife regarding the official adoption of
Tsait'ien, I made it clear that the decision would not become valid until the court received Rong's assent.

Knee-high weeds clogged the lawns and ivy covered the pathways. Inside my sister's grand mansion, diapers, food, dishes, bottles, toys and stained pillows were strewn about. Roaches darted across the floor and flies zipped through windows. Rong's eunuchs and maids whispered to Li Lien-ying that their mistress allowed no cleaning.

"Orchid!" Rong came to greet me. She looked as if she had just climbed out of bed. She wore floral-patterned, bright pink pajamas, and on her head was a woolen hat suitable for a snowstorm. Her breath gave off a rotten odor. I asked how she had been and why she wore the hat.

"Strange creatures have invaded my mind," Rong said, guiding me through her cluttered hallway. "I have been having headaches."

We entered the living room and she collapsed into a large armchair. "The creatures have been feeding on me." Pulling over a silver tray filled with cookies, she began to eat. "They love sweets, you see. They leave me alone every time I eat cookies. Tricky creatures, nasty."

My sister was no longer slim and beautiful. Folks back in Wuhu used to say, "When a woman is married and gives birth, she turns from a flower into a tree." Rong was a bear. She was twice as big as her former self. I asked how she felt about her son being selected Emperor.

"I don't know." She made loud chewing sounds. "His father is a con man."

I asked what she meant.

She wiped her mouth and fell back into the chair. Her belly stuck out like a pillow. "I thank Heaven I am not pregnant." She grinned. Bits of cookie clung to her mouth. "But I told my husband otherwise." She leaned over and whispered, "He said that it was impossible, because we haven't done you-know-what for years. I told him this pregnancy was made by the demons." She started to laugh. "That scared a scorpion out of him!"

I didn't know what to say. Something was terribly wrong with my sister.

"Orchid, you are incredibly thin. You look awful. How much do you weigh?"

"A little over a hundred ten," I replied.

"I've missed you since Mother's burial." Instantly Rong broke into tears. "You never care to see me unless there is business."

"You know that is not true, Rong," I said, feeling guilty.

A eunuch came in with tea.

"Didn't I tell you that this house serves no tea?" Rong yelled at the eunuch.

"I thought the guest might like—"

Get out," Rong said.

The eunuch picked up the cups and gave Li Lien-ying a resentful look.

"Idiot pud-nut," Rong said. "Never learns."

I looked at my sister and then said gently, "I came to see Tsai-t'ien."

"The little debt seeker is napping," Rong responded.

We went to the child's room. Tsai-t'ien was sleeping under his covers, curled up like a kitten. He looked a lot like Tung Chih. I reached out to touch him.

"I don't want this child." Rong's voice was strangely clear. "He has given me nothing but trouble and I am sick of him. Truthfully, Orchid, he will be better off without me."

"Stop it, Rong, please."

"You don't understand. I am scared of myself too."

"What is it?"

"I don't feel any love for this child—he is from the underground. He made his three brothers die so that he could have his turn to slide through my body and live. When I was pregnant I wanted him so badly, but after he came out, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. I dream of my three dead children all the time." Rong began to sob. "Their ghosts have come to tell me to do something about their younger brother."

"You will come around, Rong."