The 15th Year of the Chongzhen Reign (1642).
The markets were desolate, and silver was becoming increasingly precious. The hearts of the people were restless; everyone sought to find a non-sinking beam for themselves atop a collapsing edifice.

The “The Spring Bliss Pavilion” (Chunxi Pavilion) on the Qinhuai River in Jinling was a place a silk merchant from Suzhou and Hangzhou like myself was obliged to visit. Outside the tower echoed the weeping water sounds of the Qinhuai, unchanged for a thousand years; inside, however, was a suffocatingly warm breeze, a mixture of precious ambergris incense and the stench of cheap liquor. A single banquet hosted here could settle more business than a month of hard toil in the shop. Tonight, I was entertaining Registrar Wang from the Jiangning County Office. I had specially chosen a private booth overlooking the river, where one could see the flickering lights upon the water. We were separated from a box seat booked by a newly risen power only by a screen of speckled bamboo painted with the motif “Seeking Plum Blossoms in the Snow.”

During the meal, we spoke of our respective bright futures, as if by speaking loudly enough, those soap bubbles could turn into mountains of gold and silver. From the neighboring booth, a coarse, booming voice was pontificating. Hearing the flattery of his sycophants, I realized it was the newly appointed Battalion Commander Wang of the Imperial Guard (Jinyiwei). Originally a salt merchant from Yangzhou, he had somehow found a connection and now wore the prestigious Flying Fish Robe. The people at his table hailed him as “My Lord” with every breath, a tide of obsequious praise. I chuckled inwardly; it seems that when people in this world strip off their outer robes, the insides are all the same.

“This humble one knows a little of the art of physiognomy,” I said, raising my cup and leaning toward Registrar Wang. “Observing Your Honor’s aura, your forehead is full and broad, and your glabella glows red. Who is to say that one day you will not ascend the Hall of Audience and become a Grand Minister?”
Registrar Wang found this immensely pleasing. Twisting his beard, he waved his hands repeatedly, mouthing humble denials of “I dare not, I dare not,” yet he drained his cup in one gulp, quickly becoming flushed with drink.

When the waiter brought fresh wine, Registrar Wang, perhaps finding mere drinking dull, raised his voice and shouted downstairs: “Invite Miss Suxue up here! Have her sing two songs for me and Master Nan to liven things up!”

Before long, the beaded curtains rustled lightly, and a woman dressed in a moon-white tunic walked slowly in. This was Suxue. She cradled a seven-stringed zither in her arms. Her figure was slender, and though her brows held the customary docility of the pleasure quarters, there was a hidden coolness in her eyes—like the concealed tip of a brush in calligraphy, or a flower blooming amidst dense leaves. Unlike the other girls in the pavilion who were heavily rouged, she wore only a small white pearl flower in her hair, giving her an air of scholarly elegance. Rumor had it she was the daughter of an Imperial Censor of the Donglin Faction in the capital who had been stripped of his post; she was well-versed in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting. Since coming to Jinling, she had become the top courtesan of the Spring Bliss Tower. But the times were bad these last two years; guests either indulged in carnal pleasures with famous prostitutes or were too consumed by worry to be entertained. It was rare for her to perform even one song a day.

She bowed gracefully before Registrar Wang and me, saying softly, “Greetings, Master Wang, Master Nan.”

Registrar Wang, likely wanting to show off his “refinement” in front of me, waved his hand. “Miss Suxue, no need for formalities. I have long heard that your rendition of ‘Mist and Clouds over the Xiao and Xiang Rivers’ is unrivaled in Qinhuai. Would you trouble yourself to play it for us today?”

‘Mist and Clouds over the Xiao and Xiang Rivers’ is a masterpiece of the guqin, lofty in artistic conception and a supreme test of finger technique and state of mind. Upon hearing this, a light flashed in Suxue’s eyes, as if she had found a kindred spirit. She solemnly placed the zither on the table, tested the tone, and then, with a light pluck of her pale fingers, a string of notes clear as pearls rolling on a jade plate flowed forth. As the music rose, the greasy vulgarity of the private room seemed to be washed away, and even my mind involuntarily settled into calm. The sound was soft as the mist of the Xiao and Xiang waters, slowly rising to shroud the Nine Doubts Mountain.

Before the section “Mist and Rain over Dongting Lake” was finished, just as the mood was entering its finest realm, the coarse voice of Battalion Commander Wang from behind the screen next door exploded:

“Stop, stop, stop! Who are you playing this rubbish for? Bland and tasteless, it’s putting me to sleep!”

With one shout, the music stopped abruptly, like a silk thread snapped by force.

Suxue’s fingertips froze on the strings. I saw her back straighten instantly, and the blood drained from her face. The booth fell into a deathly silence; even the sound of cups and chopsticks clinking ceased.

Battalion Commander Wang seemed extremely satisfied with this effect. He laughed loudly, “I’m in high spirits today, and I don’t want to hear this old, toothless, mournful trash! Come on, sing me the popular tune ‘The Hanging Branch’. Sing it well, and this Lord will reward you heavily!”

‘The Hanging Branch’ was the most popular vulgar ditty in the streets; its lyrics were bold and its tune frivolous—the favorite side dish for lechers. To ask Suxue, known for her purity and elegance, to sing this was tantamount to slapping her face in public.

I saw Suxue lower her head, motionless for a long time. Her hand resting on the zither showed knuckles turning white. I could feel the stormy seas raging in her heart. Registrar Wang’s face turned green then white; he wanted to say something diplomatic, but fearing the power of the Imperial Guard, he dared not utter a word.

“What’s the matter? Will you play or not?” Battalion Commander Wang said impatiently, casually tossing two ingots of silver onto the floor. The heavy silver hit the floorboards with a dull thud. The sound struck our hearts like a drumbeat.

Just as I thought she would flick her sleeves and leave, she slowly raised her head. The humiliation and struggle on her face had been tidied away completely, replaced by a nearly perfect, professional, charming smile.
“It was this slave’s lack of tact to disturb Commander Wang’s elegance,” she parted her red lips, her voice so steady not a ripple could be heard. “I shall sing ‘The Hanging Branch’ for My Lord.”

She gently pushed the simple guqin aside, as if pushing away another version of herself. Then she stood up, abandoning even the instrument. Beating time with her hand on the edge of the table, she began to sing crookedly to that frivolous rhythm. She sang extremely well; every turn of the melody carried just the right amount of seductive implication. Her eyes wandered, her posture alluring; she possessed more amorous flair than any girl in the tower who specialized in bawdy tunes.

Next door, Battalion Commander Wang and his crowd erupted in cheers and obscene teasing, throwing reward money like rain. When the song ended, Suxue adjusted her dress and bowed, then slowly bent down to pick up the broken silver and copper coins one by one. Facing their mockery, she simply smiled slightly and said, “My Lords jest,” before bending down to continue picking up the money.

Registrar Wang gave a few dry laughs, trying to blend his laughter with theirs. He brought the wine cup to his lips, but in the end, he could not drink it.

I, however, could no longer hear the clamor. My gaze was fixed solely on her smiling face. That smile was like a wooden mask at a temple fair, hiding even the tears.

In that moment, I thought of myself.

I remembered a few days ago, in order to obtain a warrant from the Governor of Yingtian, I presented the only heirloom left by my late father—a Song Dynasty Duan inkstone I had treasured for years—to Advisor Zhang, who loved calligraphy. Advisor Zhang took the inkstone, glanced at it casually, and then used it to weigh down a piece of paper written with a greasy menu. Was the smile hanging on my face then not exactly the same as Suxue’s humble and sincere smile now?

She pushed away the guqin for silver. I offered up the inkstone for my future.
So it is; we are the same. In this turbid world, we have all inserted a straw mark on ourselves, waiting for someone to ask the price.
The only difference is that she sells the elegance within the zither’s song, while I sell the pitiful ideals in my heart. Our “moral bones” were broken and defiled by a ‘Hanging Branch’ and a greasy menu.

Laughable! I actually deluded myself into thinking I could use money to buy her momentary smile, to appreciate her “character”!
In this era, where is there any character left! The moral character spoken of in the sage books has long been stolen and switched by those “saints” full of benevolence and morality, used to build their own monuments. What is left for us vulgar people rolling in the mud is nothing but a hollowed-out, worthless shell.

Suxue finished gathering the reward money, curtsied towards Battalion Commander Wang’s side, and never looked at us again.
Registrar Wang, somewhat dissatisfied, whispered to me, “She is just a woman of the wind and dust after all; she has no backbone, playing such tunes for amusement. Let us ignore her.” Having said this, he drained the wine he had held at his lips.

I raised my cup and drained it; the wine was more bitter than gall. As cup after cup of clear yet bitter wine went down my stomach, I distinctly saw a straw mark stuck in the hair of Suxue as she picked up the money. I looked down into my wine cup, and my reflection showed that I, too, had one on my head. Though when I looked closely, it was only a hairpin.

The straw mark swayed in the wind, its meaning unmistakable:
“This item is for sale; to the highest bidder.”

NCC kicked his leg violently and woke up. The alarm clock showed 8:00 AM.
The morning light was faint. NCC scrambled to the teaching building, rushing to the Career Guidance Class that started at 8:30. On the podium, a senior student, acting as a representative of outstanding graduates, was passionately sharing his experience: “…Most importantly, we must find a job with dignity and realize our life’s value!” Thunderous applause erupted from the audience.

The counselor, face beaming with smiles, held up a mobile phone and weaved through the crowd, snapping photos from various “positive and uplifting” angles, ready to fill the next article for the official WeChat account.

NCC lowered his head and looked at the resume in his hand, just printed and still warm.
Listed there were NCC’s GPA, awards, and deliberately embellished internship experiences. To make it look more “valuable,” every word was weighed, every sentence filled with the utmost humility, just like a songstress at a banquet preparing to sing ‘The Hanging Branch’ with a thousand twists and turns.

In the entire classroom, only NCC heard, amidst the applause, the dissipating notes of ‘Mist and Clouds over the Xiao and Xiang Rivers’ and tasted that cup of incredibly bitter wine.

Annotations for the Reader

  • Chongzhen Year 15 (1642): The end of the Ming Dynasty. A time of famine, internal rebellion, and external invasion (by the Manchus), characterizing an era of despair and societal collapse.
  • Jinling / Qinhuai River: Jinling is an old name for Nanjing. The Qinhuai River was the renowned red-light district, famous not just for sex, but for high-class courtesans who were skilled in arts and poetry.
  • Jinyiwei (Imperial Guard) & Flying Fish Robe: The Emperor’s secret police and military guard. They were feared for their power to arrest and torture without trial. The “Flying Fish Robe” was a prestigious uniform granted by the Emperor, symbolizing high status and power.
  • Donglin Faction: A group of scholars and officials who advocated for moral integrity and reform. They were brutally purged by corrupt eunuch factions. Being a “daughter of the Donglin” implies a background of high moral standing and tragedy.
  • Guqin vs. The Hanging Branch: The Guqin is a quiet, scholarly instrument associated with high culture and contemplation. ‘The Hanging Branch’ (Gua Zhi Er) was a genre of popular, often bawdy folk songs. The contrast represents the clash between dignity/art and survival/vulgarity.
  • Duan Inkstone: A famous type of stone used for grinding ink, highly prized by scholars. Giving it away symbolizes giving up one’s identity as a scholar/gentleman.
  • The Straw Mark (Cao Biao): [Critical Cultural Concept] In ancient China, when selling items (or even children/people) at a market, a piece of straw or grass inserted into the object or the person’s hair signified “For Sale.” In this story, it is the central metaphor for self-commodification and the loss of dignity.