China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

intimacy and constant surprise, making the place as a whole seem an even larger domain than it was.

They passed over a miniature humpbacked bridge that crossed an empty pond. “Red carp for the fishpond, I thought,” Yao remarked.

“Excellent.”

The path led them to a walled garden, entered through a circular moon gate. The garden had been cleared, but not yet planted. “You’ve thought about plants?” Guanji asked.

“A lot of peonies,” Mr. Yao replied.

Guanji paused. “May I suggest you don’t make peonies your main statement,” he said. “I’ll tell you why. At least two of the lake villas are already famous for their peonies. I’d advise you to consult a professional and devise something unique, all your own.”

“Thank you.” Yao was appreciative. “That sounds wise. Just a few peonies then, to please my wife.”

“Of course.” Guanji smiled. “One should always please one’s wife.”

“My wife can be willful,” Mr. Yao remarked with a laugh, “but I count myself a fortunate man.”

“Ah,” said Guanji. “You might try some plum blossom trees,” he remarked casually, “to complement the cypresses you have in here.”

Having left the walled garden, they followed the path, which led up a few steps. At the top of the steps, Guanji suddenly stopped, struck by a thought. “What about a philosopher’s stone?” he said, pointing to a site just ahead.

The karst limestone rocks with their exotic shapes and mysterious cavities remained as popular as ever with the rich who could afford them.

Mr. Yao gave a wry smile. “You mean, General, that there’s no point in my pretending to be poor.”

“None at all.” Guanji laughed. He rather liked this intelligent merchant.

—

He learned more about his host when they went inside. The villa had already been comfortably furnished, with solid, excellent-quality tables and chairs and divans covered with expensive silk brocade. Some lacquerware. But he noticed several more interesting items.

The first, by the entrance, appeared to be a very fine blue-and-white Ming vase on a table. Or was it?

“You are wondering,” remarked Mr. Yao, “whether that is a Ming vase or a copy.”

“No copy, surely, could be so fine,” Guanji replied politely.

“At one of my potteries in Jingdezhen, we make a copy of that vase which even experts, at first glance, have mistaken for the genuine article. This, however, is the Ming original.”

They went down a passageway past other treasures.

Entering the room where they were to be served tea, Guanji noticed a cloisonné pot. Modern cloisonné was plentiful enough, but with time, it disintegrates. Ancient cloisonné, therefore, was greatly prized. Some jade figures caught his eye. Han, two thousand years old. “You are a connoisseur, Mr. Yao,” he said.

“Not really, General.” Yao gave a self-deprecating smile. “Just well advised.”

Guanji bowed his head. His host might be a newly made gentleman indulging his vanity, but he knew what he was doing.

“You may be acquainted with them already,” Guanji offered, “but thanks to my late uncle I know most of the antique dealers in Hangzhou personally, and I should be happy to share my thoughts as to which ones best merit your trust.”

“You are most kind,” said Yao. “Ah.” He looked up. “Here is my wife.”

—

She was perfect. Can one really say that of anybody? Perhaps one can, he thought. If he’d been struck by her beauty when he briefly met her at the temple, that was only enhanced by what he was experiencing now. She was serving them tea.

There was nothing stiff or formal about the Chinese ritual of serving tea. The aim was to make the guest feel welcome, at home, at peace. Every move was simple and practical. The warming of the teapot and the wide, bowl-shaped cups with hot water; the gentle tipping of the dark twists of tea leaf into the teapot. The scenting cup offered to each guest to sniff the tea’s aroma; the first infusion in the teapot; then the pouring of the tea, straining the leaves, into a jug, from which the cups were carefully half filled, no more, with the clear, delicately scented liquid.

Only one detail of the tea ritual was not strictly practical. This was when the guest gently tapped two knuckles on the table to say thank you—referring to the charming tale of how once, centuries ago, a certain emperor who was traveling incognito and staying at an inn poured tea for his own servant, who, so as not to give the emperor’s identity away, made this almost invisible gesture, to indicate the kowtow.

What made Bright Moon so special, then? She served the tea flawlessly, but so did the serving girls in the teahouses. No, it was the grace with which she did the whole thing. It was almost magical.

And how did she achieve that? Guanji tried to analyze it. Her posture, the way she held herself perhaps. For she sat very correctly, with her back slightly arched—but only so far as nature intended. She was perfectly centered, her face in repose.

He noticed that her breasts had a beautiful curve, not large, yet womanly.

And suddenly he desired her. It wasn’t the usual mixture of curiosity and lust he experienced with most pretty women. This was something more. I may be falling in love, he thought.

“I have told my wife,” said Mr. Yao, “that you know more about this area than anyone on the lake.” This was clearly an invitation to him to say some words to her.

“Your husband gives me too much credit,” he said politely. “But it is true I was born in the garrison at Zhapu, up the coast here, and my uncle was a well-known printer and literary figure down the road in Hangzhou. So I suppose it was natural I should come to the West Lake to retire.” He smiled. “I am sure you know the charming legend of how the West Lake was formed.”

“I do, sir,” she said. “The Sky Empress tried to steal the magical White Jade Stone that the Jade Dragon and the Golden Phoenix guarded, and finally, during a battle with her army, the Jade