022. Like a Dream

There were too many people, and he was seated too far back. Li Xi stared so hard his eyes nearly fell out, but still couldn’t make out what Emperor Li Chun actually looked like. However, the woman in palace attire seated by his side was impossible to miss—her hair adorned with pearls and jade, her robes bright and splendid, making her the dazzling focus of all eyes. At such a solemn occasion, anyone permitted to appear publicly could hardly be an ordinary consort. Li Xi vaguely recalled that Li Chun, despite having reigned for many years, had never appointed an empress; the position remained vacant until his death. Who, then, was this woman enjoying honors equal to those of an empress?

Li Xi fell into a moment’s contemplation. But his interest quickly shifted to the state banquet set before him—mutton jelly, venison, egret cakes, fried meatballs. The selection was limited, the dishes monotonous, and the flavors little to his liking. The wind soon cooled everything. Chopsticks poised midair, Li Xi found nothing he wanted to eat, and realized with regret how much he missed the bowl of shrimp wontons and sesame cake he’d had that morning.

What a shame, he thought. The grand feast prepared with such care by the Palace Provisioning Bureau was wasted on him; he preferred the simple fare of a village woman’s kitchen. Was he, by nature, not destined for wealth?

With a sigh, he picked up a fried meatball and took a bite. The crisp crack gave way to a mouthful of oil—astonishingly, the filling wasn’t shepherd’s purse, pork, or chive and egg, but pure lard! Not a scrap of crispy residue, just unadulterated lard.

Rolling his eyes, Li Xi looked around. Not far behind, an imperial censor in green robes stood watch. He dared not spit the mouthful out, so, gritting his teeth, he forced it down. The oily nausea made him wish he could stuff twenty steamed buns into the chef’s mouth.

Appetite utterly lost, even the legendary imperial wine tasted sour. So much for palace nectar—it was nothing compared to the strong kick of common spirits.

Li Xi, helpless, despised himself anew: a pauper’s fate, through and through.

Silently, he vowed: Even if they invited me to live in the Taiji Palace, I wouldn’t go! I’ll go fish at the Daming Palace instead. I’ll steam, boil, fry, braise, or even roast everything I catch—anything would be better than this.

Thus, he began to dream up a specialty restaurant—serving all eight great cuisines, official dishes, Tan family recipes. He’d already chosen the name: “Uniquely Flavorful.” The “unique” would mean one of a kind, not just one signature dish. He’d start as head chef, train apprentices, then manage as executive chef, even set up a culinary academy to train new talent. Once he had enough staff, he’d open branches everywhere—Chang’an, Luoyang, Taiyuan, Chengdu, Jiangling, Yangzhou. After that, he’d go public...

The thought put Li Xi in a much better mood. He poured himself three cups, and a new idea blossomed: he should start a few wineries too—beer, baijiu, red wine! Of course, first he’d need to find a master brewer. Cooking, thanks to his wife’s careful instruction, he could manage, but brewing was a mystery. Even if he wanted to blend spirits, he’d need to find the right alcohol first. After the rubber tire project fizzled, the brewing plan never even got off the ground.

A bitter sense of defeat crept over him.

To win hearts, Emperor Li Chun commanded Crown Prince Li Heng to toast Liu Zhen and several vice-commanders in person, and had young princes and imperial grandsons toast other high-ranking officers. Imperial eunuchs were dispatched to offer wine to lower-ranked officers like Li Xi.

A court performance quietly pushed the banquet’s atmosphere to its peak. On the stage, a meter high, sixteen palace dancers—full-bodied, fair-skinned, in feathered robes and rainbow silks—appeared, their faces exquisite as paintings, their necks and midriffs bare.

Li Xi’s spirit revived instantly, all his earlier vexation swept away.

So this was the legendary Tang dynasty court dance? If only he had a little folding stool to get closer. He could stare as much as he liked—no wife to twist his ear now. Without that, why not look his fill?

His eyes grew a little moist, and, miraculously, his ears felt hot. Over a thousand years later, watching a documentary called “Daming Palace,” his ears had burned just the same. Now, a thousand years earlier, sitting in the predecessor of Daming Palace, he witnessed the true splendor of the Tang court’s music and dance—ears hot, but where was the one who used to twist them?

Grey Wolf said: “I love frying pans!”

Li Xi wanted to say: “Who will come twist my ear now?”

The sixteen dancers performed “Splendor of the Rainbow Robes” to perfection. At the climax, Li Xi stood and applauded with all his might—just as his wife would, whistling during performances. He hadn’t brought his whistle today, but the applause was a must. He clapped, tears in his eyes.

Many eyes turned toward him, but only one hand poked him—a censor in green robes, eyebrows knitted, face dark and forbidding, as if someone owed him money. His companion, beaming, gently advised, “Sit down, young man, you’re blocking our view.”

Embarrassed, Li Xi smiled and sat.

As the dance concluded, the banquet’s atmosphere surged. The initial solemnity vanished; even the censors were engrossed in the show. No one sat at their tables any longer—everyone mingled, toasting each other, laughing and shouting in all dialects.

These were rough-and-ready men—after a few words, they’d warm up, then start pouring drinks for each other. To keep track of who drank, they played drinking games, guessing and calling, the noise ringing out.

On stage, the strings continued, the dancers whirled.

Above, the ministers took turns toasting the emperor, all joy and harmony.

Li Xi felt as if everything before his eyes were both unreal and all too real, as if he’d dreamed it before.

...

Li Xi was drinking and chatting with Wang Jian, the new governor about to depart for Chengde, when Liu Motong and Shi Xiong arrived together. Liu Motong had just been promoted to officer in the Divine Strategy Army and was full of springtime pride. They sat, one on either side, addressing Li Xi as “Brother Yang” with great affection. Seeing old friends reunited, Wang Jian politely excused himself to drink elsewhere.

Shi Xiong, holding a delicate gilded plum-blossom cup, sipped blood-red wine, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy with drink. He joked half-seriously, half-mockingly, “Brother Four, you’re doing well for yourself. Here’s a toast. Take good care of us in the future.”

Li Xi replied with a smile, “What are you saying? Everything I have today is thanks to the support of my elder brothers. I’ll never forget this kindness as long as I live.”

Liu Motong quietly sipped his wine and said nothing, but Shi Xiong gave a cold snort, his face dark and unfriendly.

Glancing toward Li Lao San seated nearby, Li Xi met his eyes. Li Lao San gave a sheepish smile, face flushing as if caught in some mischief.

He understood at once—Li Lao San must have reported everything he’d said and done in the palace to these two. They’d come to call him to account.

“Brothers, let me explain everything in detail.”

“No need,” Liu Motong said, pressing a hand warmly to Li Xi’s shoulder. “We already know—Lao San told us everything. You did exactly right, handled it smartly. Prince E, known as the ‘Little Tyrant of the Capital,’—what’s the saying? ‘Renowned across two bureaus and three palaces, lording over Chang’an for ten thousand years.’ He’s left at least a hundred officials, civil and military, smarting. For you to go toe-to-toe with him and come out unscathed—that’s rare, brother! Before long, all of Chang’an will know your name.”

Liu Motong gave his shoulder a hearty pat.

“Brother, I…”

Li Xi was about to explain further when a man approached—a tall, slightly stooped eunuch in a yellow robe patterned with flowers.

“Consultant Li, do you remember me?” The man, about thirty-six or thirty-seven, smooth-faced and beardless, smiled at Li Xi.

“Eunuch Qiu, it’s you! How wonderful…”

Li Xi quickly stood and greeted him with a flourish, grinning from ear to ear.

The newcomer was none other than Qiu Shiliang, accompanied by a young eunuch carrying a lacquered tray with a square-bottomed, flower-carved bronze jug, a white jade cup, and a green jade cup. Qiu Shiliang was making the rounds, offering wine.

Hearing Li Xi’s words, Qiu paused for a moment, brows knitting slightly, but his eyes only grew warmer and more genuine.

“Consultant Li, by imperial command, I offer wine to those who have served the nation, in gratitude for your hardships on the frontier and loyalty to the court.”

With that, Qiu personally filled the white jade cup with amber wine. Li Xi received it, faced north toward the palace, toasted respectfully, and drained it. Then, filling the cup again, he said, “Allow me to offer this imperial wine to you, Eunuch Qiu.”

Qiu’s hands rubbed together with pleasure, his narrow eyes nearly vanishing in his smile. He filled the green jade cup and drank with Li Xi. In the space of a single cup, he sized Li Xi up three or five times—finding him more and more to his liking.

On this mission of offering imperial wine to the officers returning from the northwest, Qiu had been struck by how most of these rough soldiers, though respectful when accepting the emperor’s wine and forthright in returning the toast, had little time for him personally. At best, they’d give him a sideways glance; the more irascible would scowl outright.

Li Xi, after toasting the emperor, was the first—and perhaps only—one to remember the imperial envoy and proactively offer him a cup in return. Shaozhou was a distant post, and Yang Zan, this military consultant, was already ninth rank. The few others at his table had little rank but big tempers, each glaring as if daring Qiu to approach.

Qiu felt a pang of emotion. He’d never wronged these men—why did they hate him so? Was it not simply because he was a eunuch? Eunuchs wielded unchecked power, upended the court, and brought the empire to decline—such a dung heap of blame had been dumped on them, painting them as monsters, vampires, inbred aberrations, the lowest of the low. Dead or alive, they were despised.

It was enough to chill anyone’s heart.

“This young man may be a bit unruly, but at least he still treats us as human. That alone is enough,” Qiu thought, his gaze toward Li Xi growing warmer, even sincere.

After decades in the palace, Qiu’s heart was cold as iron. With no desires, he’d grown keen and shrewd, with an eye that could pierce any intrigue. He could see that, deep down, this youth truly treated him as a fellow man—and that was enough.

Having accepted Li Xi, Qiu’s words flowed freely. Literate and well-read, he was surprisingly witty and the conversation quickly became cordial. He even laughed aloud—a rare occurrence.

Half in jest, he said, “Though our acquaintance is brief, fate has brought us together. The first time we met you gave me a great gift. You, my friend, are my lucky star.”

There was truth to this. That morning, Qiu had accompanied Prince E, Li Zhan, to Taiji Palace at the emperor’s command. From the moment he received the order, his right eyelid had twitched non-stop. Prince E’s reputation as the “Little Tyrant of the Capital” was well-known.

Sure enough, the “Little Tyrant” did not disappoint. Before they were even halfway to Taiji Palace, Qiu fell into his trap. As the emperor’s attendant, he found himself utterly disgraced before the emperor’s beloved grandson. Li Zhan ordered his men to hold Qiu down, then personally painted a huge, colorful pattern on his face, naming him “Auspicious Beast.”

That was humiliating enough, but it didn’t end there. The “Little Tyrant” then tied a straw rope around his neck and paraded him through the palace, treating him like a performing monkey.

It was utter humiliation.

But what could Qiu do? Everyone knew what happened to those who resisted the little tyrant—not death, but something worse. After more than twenty years as a eunuch, Qiu knew his place: a eunuch was but a royal dog, and whether as dog or monkey, his fate was to be used for others’ amusement.

So be it. As long as he could keep the young prince amused and avoid blame, he was satisfied.

But when Qiu saw the dozens of carts of gold and jewels the little prince extorted, his heart turned cold. This time, the trouble ran deep. Such a sum would attract countless jealous eyes and stir up no end of gossip.

The storm of public opinion would demand an explanation. To censure Prince E would be to slap the crown prince’s face, and to do that would be to slap the emperor’s own. Could the emperor slap himself? No—so someone else would have to take the blame.

And that someone would be himself, the eunuch who’d “obeyed Prince E’s orders.”

Taking the blame was nothing new, but this was too much for him to bear. He felt as though a huge cauldron hung over his head, ready to crash down at any moment—a feeling of helpless doom, knowing disaster was coming but unable to move.

Yet the nightmare was not over. Even after realizing the trouble he was in, Prince E’s mischief was undiminished. Hearing that the victorious officers were bathing and changing in the side hall, the young prince grew curious: “They say the sparrows in the northwest are bigger than those in the south—is it true?”

Qiu, blushing, could only respond, “Northwestern sparrows are plump in winter and strong in summer; southern sparrows are plump in spring and strong in autumn. But by day, they’re all lazy, so it’s hard to judge.”

Finally, the prince dropped the idea of inspecting “sparrows,” but insisted on reviewing the troops as the self-styled “Grand Inspector of Northwestern Troops.” He was in high spirits; Qiu felt as though oil were poured over his heart.

If word got out that a prince had styled himself “Grand Inspector of Northwestern Troops” and reviewed the army, would people say he was just playing at childish games, or that he had ulterior motives? People’s tongues and ears were beyond control, and hearts were always drawn to suspicion.

But with the little prince so excited, Qiu dared not advise caution—he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

If not for the timely appearance of this “lucky star,” with a single laugh, who knows what might have happened?

Even now, Qiu still shuddered to think of it.

Now, with his benefactor close at hand, Qiu wondered if he should let him in on what was coming—a chance for him to seize a stroke of luck. The idea took root, impossible to shake.

Leaning in, Qiu whispered into Li Xi’s ear, “Tonight, the emperor is in high spirits and has specially granted the Hundred Flowers Dance. Afterward comes the ‘Scattering of Fortune.’ Watch carefully, Consultant Li, and don’t miss your chance.”

Li Xi, puzzled, was about to ask what the “Scattering of Fortune” was, but Qiu had already taken his leave.

By the time their conversation ended, Liu Motong and Shi Xiong had moved to Li Lao San’s table. Seeing Qiu off, Li Xi, clutching wine jug and cup, smiling broadly and staggering slightly, ambled over to join them. To outsiders, it was just another officer making the rounds for a drink.

Liu Motong drank quietly, Shi Xiong’s face remained dark and cold, and Li Lao San’s eyes flickered with awkward smiles. His feelings were complicated—this fake Yang Zan was far more troublesome than the real one. He seemed unremarkable, but when he acted, it was astonishing.

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