Read Online Peach Blossom Pavilion by Mingmei Yip - Free Book Online Page B

struck and destroyed everything-the goods, the ship, the sailors, and himself. So her family lost everything overnight, literally. Not only that, since they hadn't bought insurance, they had to pay for all the losses, including the goods to be delivered to Hong Kong and the compensation to the sailors' widows. After the father's costly funeral, there was nothing left. So her father's concubines sold her here to pay their debts.

    "Spring Moon was thrown overnight from atop the clouds to the ground. She was used to having maids serve her, and now she is bossed around. I was told she had a real nice and handsome fiance. So of course it revolted her to be molested by that disgusting police chief. Poor girl, that was her first day out, and she's already caused this big trouble."
    Pearl put away the qin, then took the pot and poured us both tea. We sipped in silence.
    Then I asked, "I don't understand why Spring Moon kept staring at me from behind the bamboo grove."
    Pearl looked me in the eyes. "She's envious of your beauty, especially those dimples of yours."
    "She told you that?"
    "No. But I can tell. I always catch her squeezing in her cheeks to have the illusion of dimples." Pearl sighed. "Hai, poor girl. She still doesn't have to sleep with customers. When she does, there'll be more ...
    "More what?"
    "Nothing."
    Moments passed. Pearl once again slid the qin out from its brocade cover and started to tune it. The seven strings, lightly touched, emitted soft, subtle sounds as if they were whispering the secrets of heaven. When Pearl had finished tuning, she meditated for seconds, then began to play. The melodies seemed to tell a very sad tale. Mesmerized, I imagined waves of melancholy sloshing gently through the room, caressing our wounded hearts.
    I also noticed something unexpected-the transformation of Pearl's face. During her pipa playing when she vigorously plucked the strings, she always looked animated and flirtatious. Her long hair would fall over her face and tremble like dark waves and her eyes would give out sparks like twinkling stars. But as she played the qin, her countenance composed itself into that of a scholar'sserious, serene, respectful. The fingers that pulled and plucked aggressively on the pipa now effortlessly glided and pirouetted, like dragonflies skipping over a brook, swallows touching water, or petals falling on waves.
    My mind was lifted away by Pearl's elegant playing to a quiet, far-off place where I could almost see Baba sitting under a shaded bamboo grove, playing a sad tune from his fiddle and smiling wryly at me.

    After she finished, we sighed simultaneously. I felt sorry that such wonderful music had to end.
    "Sister Pearl." I searched her eyes. "The qin sounds so beautiful-"
    She stared at me curiously. "You find this music beautiful?"
    Eagerly I nodded.
    "You're very gifted, Xiang Xiang. Not many young girls have the insight to appreciate qin melodies-"
    "Can you teach me how to play the qin?"
    Her face darkened. "No."
    "But ... why not?" I felt both surprised and hurt by her refusal.
    "Because I think you should concentrate on the pipa." Before I could protest, she went on, "Xiang Xiang, the qin won't make you famous and popular, but the pipa will."
    "Why? And how?"
    "Because the pipa's tone is short and its music tuneful. You can attract the customers' attention right away. But it'll take years of cultivation just to appreciate the qin, let alone to play it, and play it well. As women, we have only very limited years of youth and beauty. So by the time you've mastered the instrument, you've already lost both. Worse still, hardly any customers will be cultured enough to appreciate the qin-or your talent."
    "Sister Pearl," I searched her smooth, beautiful face, "but you've neither lost your youth nor beauty ...
    "Because I'm exceptional."
    I wanted to say that I, too, was exceptional.
    But she'd already taken a handkerchief and begun to wipe the instrument, as tenderly as if it were her