Night of the Courtesan

Night slowly descended, and the seaside lost the bustle of daylight—only a few people remained in the pavilion by the shore, chatting idly. In the distance, lights in the shops began to flicker to life, piercing the darkness like stray meteors lost upon land. After finding Ye An and the others, Ye Qianran and Zhuge Liuyun walked together at an unhurried pace toward Chang’an Street. At night, Chang’an Street was even livelier and more raucous than during the day. Thousands of candles illuminated the thoroughfare, turning night into day. Citizens gathered in teahouses and playhouses, listening with keen interest to the latest tale, “The Prince’s Marriage,” newly composed by a renowned storyteller. Every open space was occupied by youths competing in kite-flying, wheel-racing, and firework displays—heads tilted skyward, they delighted in the peaceful application of gunpowder. Shopfronts were wide open, revealing tidy, spotless establishments where attentive attendants greeted guests with warm smiles. From the taverns came the sounds of music and singing girls, mingled with the clinking of cups and hearty laughter. Wooden carts rolled in steady processions through the lamplit streets. Chang’an at night was alight with song and dance—a vision as splendid as a paradise on earth.

Yet, despite the dazzling scene before her, Ye Qianran could not shake a feeling of sorrow that weighed upon her heart. She could not bring herself to rejoice. Meng Lanyi held her hand all the while, and she managed only a faint, forced smile, unwilling to spoil the evening’s mood. Her elder sister Meng had kindly invited her out for some diversion; she could not be the one to dampen everyone’s spirits.

They dined at Penglai Pavilion and took rooms at the finest inn nearby. Exhausted, Ye Qianran returned to her chamber, collapsed onto her pillow, and felt both body and soul utterly drained. Why did loving someone bring such pain? Her grandmother had once advised her never to fall for a man with a past, for such men could never give their hearts wholly. Even as he cherished you, he would still hold on to another lodged deep in his memory—such love would only bring weariness. The man she now loved had only the past in his heart; she didn’t even have the slimmest chance. If it were a contest fought face-to-face, she might not be afraid, nor would she shrink away, nor feel so helpless. But his past was an indelible part of him, carved into his very being; even time could not teach him to forget. What right or virtue did she possess to make him forget?

She had never before suffered in matters of love and had been heedless with others’ affections, never considering anyone else’s feelings. Was her present misery a lesson handed down by fate?

Juanbi knelt at her bedside, watching with concern and not knowing what had caused her young mistress such distress. She looked pleadingly at Lülian, who was selecting candles at the table. Lülian could only shake her head helplessly.

Outside, there was a gentle knock at the door. Lülian opened it quietly, careful not to disturb Ye Qianran. It was Meng Lanyi and her maid Qingge. Meng Lanyi pointed inside and asked softly, “Is your mistress asleep?”

Lülian bowed her head and whispered in her ear, “No, she isn’t asleep. We don’t know what happened; she’s lying on the bed, upset, and won’t speak to anyone. Miss Lanyi, perhaps you can comfort her.”

She beckoned Juanbi out, and the two left, closing the door behind them until only the two young women remained inside.

Meng Lanyi sat down by the bed and gently patted Ye Qianran’s back, her voice soft as a spring breeze. “Sister, what’s wrong? Have you suffered some grievance?”

Ye Qianran lay on her pillow and shook her head, saying nothing.

Meng Lanyi sighed, her slender fingers slowly smoothing Ye Qianran’s long, cascading hair. Her tone was soothing. “There’s no need to hide anything from me, sister. I am a woman too—who better to understand your feelings?”

Something stirred in Ye Qianran’s heart. Slowly, she raised her head. Only then did Meng Lanyi see her reddened eyes and the tear-streaks on her fair cheeks.

Meng Lanyi’s brow furrowed; she reached out to wipe away the traces of tears, her voice catching, “Why are you crying?”

Looking at Meng Lanyi before her, Ye Qianran felt a thousand grievances surge within her. Tears brimmed and fell, one after another, onto her pale blue phoenix-tailed skirt, leaving faint blossoms of wetness. Her voice trembled, “Sister, have you ever loved someone?”

Meng Lanyi paused, but quickly recovered with a slight smile. “Why do you ask such a question all of a sudden?”

“What would you do if the person you loved didn’t love you back?”

A face flashed through Meng Lanyi’s mind, but she smiled and replied, “If the one I loved didn’t love me, why would I keep loving him? Why waste my feelings on someone who doesn’t care for me? Don’t you agree?” She leaned in to ask. She could guess at the truth and could only comfort her this way, for indeed, this was what she believed in her heart.

Ye Qianran shook her head. “But can one simply stop loving someone just because one decides to?”

Meng Lanyi took her hand and said with a warm smile, “Then find another. There are thousands of fine men in the world—how could you, with your beauty, not find a good husband?”

“Don’t give up an entire forest for the sake of a single crooked tree.” Meng Lanyi imitated a man’s voice in mock seriousness.

Ye Qianran couldn’t help but laugh. “Where did you pick up such a twisted saying, sister?”

“It’s not twisted at all! My cousin is always saying it and lives by it, too. If he heard you, he’d raise a fuss,” Meng Lanyi teased with a mischievous glint.

Ye Qianran wiped her tears with a smile. Sometimes, just voicing your troubles lightened your heart.

Meng Lanyi looked at her with playful reproach, tapping her on the forehead. “A grown girl, still crying—aren’t you ashamed?”

Ye Qianran felt a surge of warmth, grasped her sleeve, and murmured, “Thank you for not disdaining me and for making me laugh. To have met you is truly my good fortune over three lifetimes.”

Meng Lanyi feigned disdain, giving her a sidelong glance, as if to say, “Only now do you see how wonderful I am?”

After that, both burst into laughter.

It was a long time before they managed to compose themselves. Then Meng Lanyi told Qianran the real reason for her visit. Passing through the main hall earlier, she’d noticed people whispering excitedly. She’d sent Qingge to inquire and learned that tonight was the Capital’s grandest dance festival at the Warm Pavilion—the most illustrious brothel in the city. All the famed courtesans would gather to compete in dance, each eager to display her talents.

Meng Lanyi added, “Haven’t you always wanted to see the renowned beauty of the capital? Here’s a perfect opportunity.”

Ye Qianran’s eyes sparkled. “You mean…”

“We can disguise ourselves as men! I want to see for myself what this Gu Qingcheng really looks like, to be praised like a celestial maiden.” Meng Lanyi’s tone carried a faint note of envy.

Ye Qianran burst out laughing. “And you tease me for wanting to see her—aren’t you just the same?”

Meng Lanyi shot her a reproachful look, but immediately asked Qingge to bring in the men’s clothing she’d prepared. The two of them hurriedly changed and strode out, each with a paper fan in hand.

Outside, they found Juanbi, Lülian, and Qingge all dressed as young pages, waiting for them. The maids insisted on tagging along, seizing such a rare chance to satisfy their curiosity. They looked at Qianran and Lanyi with pleading eyes. Ye Qianran could only shrug, warning them sternly not to speak or cause a scene, or she’d throw them out. The two promised obediently, and the group of five set out westward.

As soon as they stepped over the threshold of the Warm Pavilion, Ye Qianran was struck dumb. The place lived up to its reputation as the city’s finest establishment—it was a vision of extravagant luxury. There were marble screens, rosewood furniture, celadon porcelain from Ge kiln. The main stage on the first floor was drum-shaped and carved from pear wood, draped with a scarlet carpet. Long silk banners, embroidered with intricate designs, hung from the ceiling. On either side of the stage, tassels and wind chimes swayed and jingled in the breeze, while the seats below teemed with people, most of them clearly from wealthy or noble families, and even a few princes and high officials. A twin staircase, carpeted in red, led to the second floor, crowded with brilliantly dressed women—most likely the courtesans’ attendants. The upper floor formed a great semicircle, from which the crimson ribbons hung down to the stage below. Private rooms were screened with crystal curtains, their occupants hidden from view, but surely of even higher status. When the wind stirred, the colored tassels danced and the wind chimes rang out. Everywhere one looked was red, everywhere luxury—the Warm Pavilion truly deserved its reputation as a land of tenderness and a hero’s grave. Those who had been never wished to leave; those who hadn’t, longed to come. If she were a man, Ye Qianran thought, she wouldn’t want to leave either.

Meng Lanyi laughed at her for her lack of composure, but Ye Qianran made no retort.

Because they arrived late, they could only stand at the edge with the other latecomers—a true case of gold being easy to come by, but a seat hard to find.

Just then, a buzz rose from the crowd. Ye Qianran looked up as a woman stepped onto the stage. She wore snow-white robes, her hair black as ink, her entire being graceful and resplendent. Her uplifted face was exquisite, her almond-shaped eyes full of charm. Gasps of admiration rippled through the hall. She bowed elegantly and announced, “As with those before me, I’ll dance only if someone can best me in a contest of wit. If anyone can leave me speechless, I’ll dance for him. Which gentleman will try first?”

The crowd groaned collectively—previous contestants had set fiendishly difficult challenges, and none expected hers to be any simpler. Eyes darted about, each waiting for someone else to step forward. At length, a well-dressed young man stood and laughed, “I’ll give it a try.”

The woman smiled, “Then let’s begin. I’ll start a phrase with the word ‘dance’; you must immediately continue with another such phrase. We’ll go back and forth until one of us is stumped. Do you understand?”

“I’m all ears,” he replied.

“Dance the brush, composing prose”—“Dance with words, wielding the pen.”

“Dance of phoenix and dragon”—“Dance with skirts, sing with fans.”

…

“Dance with words, twist the law”—“Dance in robes, sing with fans.”

“Dance…” The woman could not continue and, conceding with a rueful smile, said, “Sir, your knowledge is admirable. I yield and will dance for you.”

The crowd erupted in cheers as the gentleman withdrew discreetly. The woman began her solo. Her movements were light and graceful; she seemed to float like a swallow, supple as clouds, her arms soft as willow, her steps blooming like lotus flowers. She danced like a butterfly amid blossoms, like water flowing gently—so enchanting one felt drunk on fine wine, unable to resist. When the dance ended, she slipped away, leaving the hall awash in murmurs of admiration.