to the yamen to see the First Lady, but if they come out odd, I won’t go, and I’ll give up my dream of ever being with him.
And so she began: one petal, two petals, three . . . nineteen. An odd number. A chill settled over her heart; her mood plummeted to the depths. No, that didn’t count. My prayer lacked devotion, so it doesn’t count. She plucked another flower from the tree, bigger and fuller than the first one. This time she held it in both hands, closed her eyes, and mouthed a new prayer: Gods in the heavens, Immortals on earth, give me a sign . . . She began with the petals in a mood of extreme solemnity: one petal, two petals, three . . . twenty-seven. Again, an odd number. She tore up what was left of the flower and flung it to the ground. Her head hung disconsolately on her chest. Xiaojia walked up.
“Do you want to wear a flower, my wife?” he asked in a cautious, fawning tone. “Here, let me pick one for you.”
“Get away from me!” she thundered before spinning around and storming into the house, where she lay down on the kang, covered her face with the comforter, and sobbed.
Crying helped a little. She got up, washed her face, and combed her hair. Then she took a pair of half-sewn shoe soles out of her dresser, sat cross-legged on the kang, and began to sew to keep her restlessness under control and avoid having to listen to the animated chatter of the women out on the street. Her husband, foolish as ever, followed her into the house.
“They’re all going to see the Magistrate’s wife. Aren’t you going?”
That threw her back into a state of turmoil.
“People say they’re going to pass out sweets. Take me along so I can grab some.”
With an exasperated sigh, she said to him, as if speaking to a child, “Are you still a little boy, Xiaojia? This is an event for women only. Why in the world would you want to go, a hulking man like you? Aren’t you afraid the yayi would drive you off with their clubs?”
“But I want to grab some sweets.”
“Go out and buy some if you want them so badly.”
“They don’t taste as good as the ones you grab.”
The lively chatter of the women on the street rolled into the house like a fireball and singed her painfully. She jabbed her awl into the shoe sole; it snapped in two. She threw the sole, with the embedded awl, down onto the kang, and threw herself down on it right after. Upset and confused, she pounded the bed mat with her fists.
“Is your belly bloated again?” Xiaojia asked timidly.
Grinding her teeth, she shouted:
“I’ll go! I’ll go see what that dignified wife of his is like!”
She jumped down off the kang and drove all thoughts of the recent flower petal fiasco out of her mind, acting as if there had never been any hesitation where the matter of meeting the Magistrate’s wife at the yamen was concerned. Once again she filled the basin and washed her face, then sat down at her mirror to put on makeup. The face looking back at her, powdered and rouged, had slightly puffy eyes, but remained as lovely as ever. Reaching into her wardrobe, she took out the new clothes she had hung in preparation for the visit, and dressed in front of her husband, who was aroused at the sight of her naked breasts. “Be a good boy, Xiaojia,” she said, as if he were a child, “and wait for me at home. I’ll grab some sweets for you.”
Dressed in a red jacket atop green trousers beneath a floor-length green skirt, Meiniang looked like a cockscomb flower transplanted onto the street. Warm southern breezes carried the fresh fragrance of ripe yellow wheat on that resplendent sunlit day. It was the season for women in love, teased by those warm spring breezes. Burning with impatience, Meiniang wished that she could transport herself to the yamen in a single step, but the full-length skirt kept her from walking briskly. A restive heart agonized over the slow pace and was tormented by the distance that lay before her. So she scooped up the train of her skirt, lengthened her stride, and quickly overtook all the bound-footed women, who proceeded in mincing steps, hips undulating from side to side.