Empress Orchid - Anchee Min [89]
“What’s a sheemai?” I asked nervously. The curtain separated the doctor and me. Lying on my bed, I couldn’t see the man’s face, only his shadow projected by candlelight on the curtain. I stared at his hand, which was inside the curtain. It rested on my wrist, with its second and middle fingers pressing lightly. It was a delicate-looking hand with amazingly long fingers. The hand carried with it the faint smell of herbal medicines. Since no male but the Emperor was allowed to see the females in the Forbidden City, an Imperial doctor based his diagnosis on the pulse of his patient.
I wondered what he could examine while the curtain blocked his eyes, yet the pulse alone had guided Chinese doctors to detect the body’s problems for thousands of years. Sun Pao-tien was the best physician in the nation. He was from a Chinese family with five generations of doctors. He was known for discovering a peach-pit-sized stone in the gut of the Grand Empress Lady Jin. In terrible pain, the Empress didn’t believe the doctor but trusted him enough to drink the herbal medicine he’d prescribed. Three months later a maid found the stone in Her Majesty’s stool.
Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice was soft and gentle. “Shee means ‘happiness,’ and mai means ‘pulses.’ Sheemai—happy pulses. Lady Yehonala, you are pregnant.”
Before my mind recognized what he said, Doctor Sun Pao-tien withdrew his hand.
“Excuse me!” I sat up and reached to pull at the curtain. Fortunately An-te-hai had clipped it closed. I was not sure whether I indeed had heard the word “pregnant.” I had been suffering from morning sickness for weeks and didn’t trust my hearing.
“An-te-hai!” I cried. “Get me the hand back!”
After a busy movement on the other side of the curtain, the doctor’s shadow returned. Several eunuchs guided him to the chair and his hand was pushed in. It was obviously displeased. It rested on the edge of my bed with the fingers curled inward like a crawling spider. I could care less. I wanted to hear the word “pregnant” again. I picked up the hand and placed it on my wrist. “Make sure, Doctor,” I pleaded.
“There is success in all fields of your body.” Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice was unhurried, each word spoken clearly. “Your veins and arteries are beaming. Beautiful elements blanket your hills and dales …”
“Eh? What does that mean?” I shook the hand.
An-te-hai’s shadow merged with the doctor’s. He translated the doctor’s words for me. The excitement in his voice was unmistakable. “My lady, the dragon seed has sprouted!”
I let go of Sun Pao-tien’s hand. I couldn’t wait for An-te-hai to remove the clips. I thanked Heaven for its blessing. For the rest of the day I ate almost continually. An-te-hai was so overjoyed that he forgot to feed his birds. He went to the Imperial fish farm and asked for a bucket of live fish.
“Let’s celebrate, my lady,” he said when he came back.
We went to the lake with the fish. One by one I freed the fish. The ritual, called fang sheng, was a gesture of mercy. With each fish that was given a chance to live, I added to my stock of goodwill.
The next morning I woke up to the sound of music in the late-summer sky. It was from An-te-hai’s pigeons, flying in circles above my roof. The sound of wind pipes took me back to Wuhu, where I had made similar pipes from water reeds, which I tied to my own birds and to kites too. Depending on their thickness, the reeds would produce different sounds. One old villager tied two dozen wind pipes to a large kite. He arranged the pipes in such a way that they produced the melody of a popular folk song.
I got up, went to the garden and was greeted by the peacocks. An-te-hai was busy feeding the parrot, Confucius. The bird tried out a new phrase it had just learned: “Congratulations, my lady!” I was delighted. The orchids around the yard were still in bloom. The flower’s long slender stems bent elegantly. The leaves stood like dancers holding up their sleeves. White and blue petals stretched outward as if kissing the sunlight. The orchids’ black velvety