Chapter Four: Under the Red Temple Festival
When Yang Yaozong was about to leave, Bruno insisted on pressing a pot of mint into his arms before he would let him go. Helpless, Yang Yaozong could only carry the plant as he turned away, feeling Bruno’s eager gaze behind him.
On the way, the little maid took the flower pot from his hands and hugged it to her chest. The pungent smell of the mint made her sneeze several times. “Young Master is truly impressive, speaking the language of foreigners!” she said. Yang Yaozong was about to reply with a smile when he suddenly felt something tap lightly on his right shoulder.
Turning around, he saw two fair-skinned youths in demon masks standing behind him. One was slightly taller, reaching his forehead, holding a folded fan in his right hand, idly tapping his own left palm as he gazed at Yang Yaozong with smiling, crescent-moon eyes.
Yang Yaozong noticed that those eyes, the only part visible, were smiling with a hint of allure. The slender hand holding the fan was delicate, and as he looked the youth up and down, he saw that although shorter and slimmer than himself, the figure was tall and slender, with a kind of even, balanced plumpness. He thought to himself that this must be another young lady disguised as a man, out for a bit of fun—much like Miss Mu, who had treated him before. But Miss Mu, as he recalled, was a little shorter than this youth and, besides, if she saw him, she’d most likely pretend not to know him rather than approach him so directly.
Yang Yaozong mused inwardly, “Do these young ladies think everyone else is a fool? It’s not so easy for a woman to convincingly pass as a man; it’s not just about figure, but also about appearance and bearing.”
The false youth seemed deliberately to lower her voice, saying, “Brother, your learning is profound. I saw you speaking to that foreigner in his own tongue just now, and he was so moved. You also seem quite familiar with that little white flower. I, too, have a fondness for flowers but could not name it. Would you enlighten me, brother?”
Hearing her call him “brother” and herself “little brother,” Yang Yaozong could easily tell, despite her efforts to disguise her voice, that she was a woman. He rolled his eyes inwardly, then smiled without answering her, turning instead to the little maid holding the mint and said, “Xiaohua, would you like to hear a joke? Once, a tiger was bitten by a snake and became very angry. The tiger chased the snake all the way to the riverbank, where the snake slipped into the water. The tiger waited on the shore, and suddenly a turtle surfaced from the water. The tiger pounced, pinning the turtle and saying, ‘So you think I won’t recognize you just because you’re wearing a vest?’”
The little maid burst out laughing. The shorter of the false youths also laughed, but, sensing the taller one’s mood, quickly stifled her laughter, her shoulders shaking. A moment later, after regaining her composure, she scolded, “You’re so rude! My lady asked you humbly, and you...” Suddenly realizing her slip, she stomped her foot in anger, throwing Yang Yaozong a resentful glance, then turned to her own “lady,” uncertain whether to call her “miss” or “young master.”
The taller “youth,” upon hearing the joke, realized Yang Yaozong had seen through her disguise and was making fun of her. Seeing her companion accidentally expose her identity, she gripped her fan tightly, glared at Yang Yaozong, and no longer bothered to disguise her voice. “Since you’ve seen through me, I won’t pretend anymore, but as a scholar, you are rather rude. I have my reasons for dressing this way.”
Yang Yaozong laughed, “I’m hardly a scholar. If you have questions, we can discuss them, but with all your ‘brother’ this and ‘little brother’ that, I still see a young lady in disguise. Anyone can tell, except perhaps yourself. So I told a joke for everyone’s amusement, and as a gentle warning—today you met a kind soul like me, but if you met someone with bad intentions, you might end up in a real predicament.”
The shorter youth pointed at Yang Yaozong angrily, “You are too much!”
She wanted to say more, but the taller one stopped her with a gesture. The disguised lady smiled, “You say I’m in the wrong, but speak so righteously. In thanks for your warning, to show my sincerity...” She paused, then slowly removed her mask with her left hand and lifted her head, revealing a stunningly beautiful face.
Her brows were arched like distant mountains, lips naturally red, eyes bright and sparkling with light. She lowered her body in a graceful salute. “Brother, do you find my sincerity sufficient now?”
Her companion was so shocked by the gesture that she exclaimed, “Mi...ss...!”
Yang Yaozong was momentarily stunned, only returning to himself when the little maid tugged his sleeve. He thought, “Damn, is this girl trying to seduce me? Is my resistance to beauty really this poor?” But something felt off; when he looked again, the lady had replaced her mask, standing primly in place, watching him.
Yang Yaozong guessed she was rebuking him for his earlier rudeness. He shook his head with a smile. “Women and petty men are hard to deal with! Still, you’d do well to change your attire when going out, and as for the mask—best keep wearing it, even after the festival.”
The lady could not help but laugh. She studied the frail-looking man before her. In their brief acquaintance, she felt he was different from other scholars—knowledgeable, yet claiming not to be; unorthodox in manner, but approachable, making light banter feel natural. She found herself letting her guard down.
Having heard the little maid call him “young master,” she asked, “What is your honorable surname? I heard this young sister call you ‘young master’...” She gestured to the maid.
Yang Yaozong smiled, “My surname is Yang, and I am married. You mustn’t entertain any improper thoughts about me.”
The lady was briefly taken aback, murmuring “Honorable... surname...” before shaking her head with a soft laugh. She found his reply amusing—when she asked his surname, he replied with the customary “Honorable surname is unnecessary.” As for improper intentions, she shook her head, silently assuring she had none.
Yang Yaozong asked, “Now that you know my surname, may I ask yours, fair lady?”
They were now walking side by side. The lady laughed, “You’re not very honest. I only know your surname, and now you want my name? I’ll not tell you.”
Yang Yaozong didn’t mind, and laughed heartily, “Very well! We are all exiles in this world; why must we have known each other before to meet now? Meeting someone as clever as you makes me realize how very honest I am.”
“All exiles in this world; why must we have known each other before?” The lady glanced sidelong at him, but Yang Yaozong kept his gaze forward. “Young Master Yang is truly talented. Such a line—‘All exiles in this world; why must we have known each other before?’—but what is the rest of the poem?”
Seeing her bright, earnest eyes, Yang Yaozong could only smile ruefully. “Impromptu—just that one line came to mind.”
The lady stopped, looked at him, then smiled and caught up. Finding him so unrestrained, she asked again, “May I ask about the flower from earlier?”
Seeing her genuine curiosity, Yang Yaozong explained it thoroughly—the little white flower, its fruit, the chili pepper, turning from green to red, its taste and culinary uses.
The lady nodded approvingly. “According to your explanation, I must buy several plants to cultivate myself.” Then she smiled, “But what do you want with the mint? Though it can clear the mind, relieve heat and inflammation, many dislike its strong scent. In Jiangsu and Zhejiang, wild mint is common; in spring and summer, many pick the tender leaves, blanch them to remove the pungency, and eat them cold.”
Yang Yaozong nodded, admiring her knowledge. “I don’t really have any purpose for it, just wanted to make its scent a bit fresher.” He plucked a leaf, wiped it, and chewed it, frowning at the bitterness. He thought of blowing a breath at her, but realizing that would be too bold for a first acquaintance, he covered his mouth and nose and made an exaggerated show of enjoying the freshened breath.
The lady’s cheeks reddened beneath her mask, but she nodded in understanding.
Yang Yaozong picked two more leaves and offered them to her. “You can try this at home as well. I’m thinking if mint juice were mixed into tooth powder, it wouldn’t just clean the mouth but also relieve toothache and freshen breath.”
The lady’s eyes sparkled, clearly impressed by the idea.
So Yang Yaozong, the lady, and their two maids strolled and chatted for about an hour. Eventually, feeling tired, he led them to a teahouse by the Qinhuai River to rest. They sat by a window on the first floor, while upstairs, gifted scholars and beauties were laughing and discussing poetry.
Yang Yaozong sipped tea with the lady, occasionally glancing at the laughter and banter of the flower boats across the river. He was genuinely weary, and this weariness made him somewhat melancholy. Amidst the lively scene of the capital, his thoughts drifted to his unseen wife, Nangong Qingyi, and his father-in-law, Nangong Zhan—wondering if they had reached the frontier, whether they had set up camp, and how their battles with the nomads were faring. As if speaking to Xiaohua or perhaps to himself, he wondered, “What is Nangong Qingyi doing right now?” The little maid, hearing his question, looked at him and thought of her own mistress. Her eyes grew red, and she looked down in silence.
Then Yang Yaozong softly recited:
“Mist shrouds the cold waters, the moon veils the silk,
At night, moored by Qinhuai, near the taverns,
The singing girls know not the sorrow of a fallen nation,
Across the river, they still sing ‘Flowers of the Rear Courtyard.’”
A sense of ennui and boredom came over him. This festival atmosphere, compared to his previous life, felt hollow. The so-called talent and beauty upstairs were all about poetry and flattery—he could not blend in and felt utterly uninterested.
Noticing his somber mood, the lady across from him sensed the change. Having heard his softly recited verse, she realized the depth of its meaning—so much loftier than the shallow praise and cheer of the so-called poets upstairs. She grew increasingly curious about him. “He looks so frail, even more so than most scholars, but he has a heart for the nation. Truly, he is not like those shallow scholars who only seek a beauty’s smile.”
Yang Yaozong, feeling stifled by the surrounding merriment and his own complicated emotions, stood to leave, bidding the lady farewell and instructing the little maid to settle the bill.
As he turned to go, he found two graceful young women blocking his way. One wore a flowing white dress and a wing-shaped mask covering her upper face; the other wore green and a fox mask.
The girl in white seemed startled by his sudden movement and stepped back. “You...” she began, but didn’t finish.
Yang Yaozong simply smiled and answered, “Alright!”
The green-clad girl and the lady sitting across from him both burst into laughter. The green-dressed girl stuck out her tongue and hid behind the girl in white.
Seeing the white-dressed girl unmoving, staring at him, Yang Yaozong lowered his head and studied himself, then raised his head and said with a laugh, “Sister, if you keep staring at me, I’ll be embarrassed. I know my looks put Pan An to shame—even with a mask, my charm cannot be hidden—but still, a man can feel shy.”
The green-clad girl giggled from behind her companion.
The lady across the table laughed as well, as if waiting to see a good show. Yang Yaozong shot her a glance, but she ignored him, her bright eyes full of amusement.
The girl in white glared and muttered, “Shameless, frivolous, lecher!”
Yang Yaozong looked at her, puzzled—how had he become a lecher just by speaking? Before he could say anything, Xiaohua greeted the two girls with a curtsy, “Greetings, Miss Mu, Miss Qin,” as if reminding him of their identities.
Hearing Xiaohua say “Miss Mu,” Yang Yaozong looked the girl in white up and down, his gaze lingering a moment on her chest. “So she’s not flat-chested after all—definitely wearing a chest binder. What a waste to bind such a fine figure,” he thought.
The girl in white seemed to sense his lingering gaze, especially on her chest, and blushed deeply. She raised her hand and slapped him across the face.
The slap was sharp and clear, ringing out even in the noisy teahouse. Everyone nearby turned to stare, mouths agape. The green-clad girl looked back and forth between Yang Yaozong and the girl in white in shock. She tugged at the white dress. “Qinghan, sister...”
The girl in white, feeling the sting in her palm and her heart pounding, was both embarrassed and surprised by her own action.
She was none other than Miss Mu, who had treated Yang Yaozong not long ago. Earlier, while discussing poetry upstairs with friends, she’d seen Yang Yaozong enter below, masked and accompanied by Xiaohua. Thinking bitterly of Nangong Qingyi off fighting for the country while he was free and at ease, she’d descended with Miss Qin to confront him. She meant to scold him but, overhearing his conversation and the poem he recited, she hesitated—torn between anger and a growing sense of something deeper.
Yang Yaozong was stunned by the slap. He rubbed his face, straightened his mask, and suddenly stood. Though he looked frail, the force with which he stood and the glare he gave the girl in white made her and her companion step back in fright. Xiaohua cried out in alarm.
Yang Yaozong took a step forward, locked eyes with the girl in white, and left only two words: “How tedious.” With that, he strode away.
Xiaohua saw him heading for the door, hurriedly left a few coins on the table, bowed to the girls, and chased after him. The lady sitting at the table glanced at the dumbfounded girl in white, shook her head with a smile, and left as well.
Only Miss Mu and Miss Qin remained. Miss Mu stood staring out at the Qinhuai River, lost in thought.
Outside, Xiaohua caught up with Yang Yaozong, who was waiting for her at the door. She looked up at his reddened cheek and asked, “Young Master... does it hurt?”
Yang Yaozong rubbed his face and joked, “You should say, ‘Young Master, you’ve gained weight, and your cheeks are rosy!’”
The little maid laughed, her worry melting away.
Behind them, the lady’s voice called out, “You’re still in the mood for jokes. You ought to thank me—if not for my disguise today, you’d surely have gotten into more trouble.”
Yang Yaozong laughed and shook his head. “I enjoyed our conversation today. As the saying goes: ‘If fate wills it, we may meet a thousand miles apart; without it, we may not even clasp hands across a table.’ Let us part here—until we meet again.”
The lady looked reluctant but, seeing his fatigue, nodded. “Farewell then, Young Master Yang.”
Yang Yaozong nodded, took Xiaohua, and started back the way they’d come, waving as he went. “Goodbye.”
The lady watched his departing figure, murmuring, “If fate wills it, we may meet a thousand miles apart; without it, we may not even clasp hands across a table...” This Young Master Yang was truly different from the rest. With such talent, she wondered how she’d never heard of him before. In this brief encounter, he had brought her a joy and surprise she had never known, leaving her reluctant to see him go.