The Memory Palace of Passion and Pain - Part 6
Suppressed Confessions
Walking out through the door
You turn to smile once more
Will you feel my love when you're alone?
In a world so far from home?
Here I confess
I may be falling down
May break
And here I'm ashamed to wish I could run
Could hide 'til peace comes
There's so much that we share
Our secrets and all our fears
I'm afraid that time will change
What we have here
Now that our journey is apart
How different our days will be
What will you see that you can't tell me?
Here am I
Holding on to love
More than life
But here-here we are saying goodbye
Not forever I hope
Tell me, what will I do without you?
Despite having made the decision to leave, I would always find a reason to stay just one day longer. First I waited for us to finish the dictionary. Then I waited for Matteo to recover from a cold. Still later, I waited for the ideal weather. But deep within, I knew the true reason for my lingering.
Sometimes I am still wondering if I would really be able to act on my decision if it was not for a conversation that made me painfully aware of the fact that I had been playing with fire all along.
I was describing to Matteo the memory places where I stored the Confucian Classics, when he suddenly interrupted me: “What is this building?”
“The library of Alexandria,” I answered truthfully and without a second thought. I had long broken all rules, taken down all barriers between us.
“But that is ... that has been destroyed centuries ago,” Matteo continued in a flabbergasted tone, “you could not have possibly...”
“Been there?” I interrupted him, slightly worried about where the exchange was heading. “I could not, could I?” I continued with a forced smile. “Some time ago you told me about the destruction of the greatest repository of knowledge of the ancient world. Forty thousand volumes gone in a single fire ... it left a lasting impression on me. I re-created the library for myself.”
“But ... I would swear you were not describing an imaginary building.” Matteo’s voice was low now.
No, I was not describing an imaginary building. When still standing, the library of Alexandria had been one of the few places in the world where I could find peace and tranquility. In its underground corridors I could escape the smell of human blood and the temptation it still presented for me, and peruse the ancient scrolls all on my own. When it burnt down, I lost that safe haven of mine, and thus it was naturally one of the first buildings I adopted for my memory system. In fact, it held far more than just the Classics. All works of eastern and western philosophy I could get hold of in Matteo’s little library were here too, and I derived a very unique kind of pleasure from restoring the magnificent library to its full glory in my mind.
But it was way too careless to let Matteo into this particular corner of my memory. I should have known that, given his observation skills and acute mind, he was bound to identify the inconsistency between my account of the library and an “imaginary building”. I noticed he was still regarding me suspiciously.
“It ... has to be, right? Imaginary ...” I muttered, completely at loss for words.
For some time, we remained silent, and although I could feel Matteo was waiting for an explanation, there was nothing I could say. In the end he got up and left the room without a word or as much as a glance at me.
I knew he would forget, or certainly forgive me this little incident, but more such slips would inevitably come, and I could not be sure how many Matteo could handle.
It took a few days before Matteo regained his trust in me, and it took me a few more to fake a letter from a distant relative and bribe a young boy to bring that letter to me into the Jesuit residence. The letter said my mother had died, and as the only child, I was to return to Peking to take care of her burial immediately.
I packed a few old rags into what appeared like a traveller’s sack, said goodbye to all my fellow servants, and stopped by in the kitchen to mark the box with the Longjing cha with the three signs of Matteo’s Chinese name: 利玛窦.
At dusk, and with a heavy heart, I approached the study. Matteo was already there. One look at him sufficed to tell me that he knew I was leaving and came to say goodbye. He stood up as I approached him, and I slowly, carefully took his hands in mine and looked in his eyes, somewhat surprised that he let me do that. For a few moments, the world around us dissolved into nothingness.
But reality refused to be thought away. Matteo took a step back and reached into one of the chests that stood against the wall. Taking out a small pouch, he handed it to me, saying: “Here, Daoming, Take this, and bury your mother with full honours. I will keep you in my prayers. May the Lord be with you.”
“I will keep you in my thoughts too, Matteo,” I whispered back to him. His expression did not betray whether he noticed that I called him the name that nobody had called him for years.
I turned around, and half walked, half ran out of the study, out of the Jesuit residence and into the dim light of the evening sky. I kept one of the coins that Matteo had given me and hung it around my neck. The rest I gave to the first pauper I met on the street, remembering that Matteo’s god was especially fond of the poor and the weak. I would not need the coins for the kind of journey I had in mind.
I set out for the port of Aomen, planning to board one of the Portuguese ships that were heading home loaded with porcelain. The mission under Matteo’s leadership maintained a busy contact with the Portuguese merchants. In fact, Matteo himself engaged in clever mercantile activities of his own for the profit of the mission, and thus I had all information I needed to be able to find my way to, and into, the right ship. I knew that if I attempted to get aboard openly as a young Chinese woman travelling alone, I would probably be seized as a runaway slave or concubine. My European clothes were lying rotten in my nameless grave at the Christian cemetery in Goa, and I knew I would not be able to procure a credible costume without arousing unnecessary suspicion.
Instead, having covered the 450 miles that separated Nanchang from Aomen, I simply crawled into one of the boxes that held the porcelain to be transported to Portugal, covered myself with straw that was used to protect the porcelain from breaking, and closed the lid over me. In the morning, carpenters would come and shut the boxes tight from without, but I did not mind. After all, I needed some rest to calm the storm of emotions that raged within my mind and concentrate on the tasks that awaited me.
And yet, as I lay in the darkness and allowed the soft sound of the sea to slowly lure me into a sleep-like state, my last conscious thought was with you, my marvelous, gentle Matteo. Were you thinking of me too, now that I was gone? Would Mnemosyne remind you of what we shared?
... to be continued
Reconstruction of the interior of the library of Alexandria
- The initial song is the song Daoming never sang for Matteo.
In reality, it is Sleepthief’s “Here I Confess,” and I only altered three words. I think it summarizes this chapter very well. I was really stunned when I heard the lyrics. If you want the full experience, you can listen to the song here It is truly amazing.
- The destruction of the library of Alexandria was a widely circulated meme in the Renaissance. My source here is Lydgate, Fall of Princes, Book VI, 2590. It’s mid-15th century and based on Latin sources which Matteo Ricci would have known very well. Daoming’s sources are, of course, first-hand.
- Aomen is the Chinese name of the Portuguese colony and port of Macau (Macao).
- Nanchang: in the course of Daoming’s stay, the Jesuits have moved several times. When she left China, the mission was based in Nanchang.
Link to Summary and Chapter List
Walking out through the door
You turn to smile once more
Will you feel my love when you're alone?
In a world so far from home?
Here I confess
I may be falling down
May break
And here I'm ashamed to wish I could run
Could hide 'til peace comes
There's so much that we share
Our secrets and all our fears
I'm afraid that time will change
What we have here
Now that our journey is apart
How different our days will be
What will you see that you can't tell me?
Here am I
Holding on to love
More than life
But here-here we are saying goodbye
Not forever I hope
Tell me, what will I do without you?
Despite having made the decision to leave, I would always find a reason to stay just one day longer. First I waited for us to finish the dictionary. Then I waited for Matteo to recover from a cold. Still later, I waited for the ideal weather. But deep within, I knew the true reason for my lingering.
Sometimes I am still wondering if I would really be able to act on my decision if it was not for a conversation that made me painfully aware of the fact that I had been playing with fire all along.
I was describing to Matteo the memory places where I stored the Confucian Classics, when he suddenly interrupted me: “What is this building?”
“The library of Alexandria,” I answered truthfully and without a second thought. I had long broken all rules, taken down all barriers between us.
“But that is ... that has been destroyed centuries ago,” Matteo continued in a flabbergasted tone, “you could not have possibly...”
“Been there?” I interrupted him, slightly worried about where the exchange was heading. “I could not, could I?” I continued with a forced smile. “Some time ago you told me about the destruction of the greatest repository of knowledge of the ancient world. Forty thousand volumes gone in a single fire ... it left a lasting impression on me. I re-created the library for myself.”
“But ... I would swear you were not describing an imaginary building.” Matteo’s voice was low now.
No, I was not describing an imaginary building. When still standing, the library of Alexandria had been one of the few places in the world where I could find peace and tranquility. In its underground corridors I could escape the smell of human blood and the temptation it still presented for me, and peruse the ancient scrolls all on my own. When it burnt down, I lost that safe haven of mine, and thus it was naturally one of the first buildings I adopted for my memory system. In fact, it held far more than just the Classics. All works of eastern and western philosophy I could get hold of in Matteo’s little library were here too, and I derived a very unique kind of pleasure from restoring the magnificent library to its full glory in my mind.
But it was way too careless to let Matteo into this particular corner of my memory. I should have known that, given his observation skills and acute mind, he was bound to identify the inconsistency between my account of the library and an “imaginary building”. I noticed he was still regarding me suspiciously.
“It ... has to be, right? Imaginary ...” I muttered, completely at loss for words.
For some time, we remained silent, and although I could feel Matteo was waiting for an explanation, there was nothing I could say. In the end he got up and left the room without a word or as much as a glance at me.
I knew he would forget, or certainly forgive me this little incident, but more such slips would inevitably come, and I could not be sure how many Matteo could handle.
It took a few days before Matteo regained his trust in me, and it took me a few more to fake a letter from a distant relative and bribe a young boy to bring that letter to me into the Jesuit residence. The letter said my mother had died, and as the only child, I was to return to Peking to take care of her burial immediately.
I packed a few old rags into what appeared like a traveller’s sack, said goodbye to all my fellow servants, and stopped by in the kitchen to mark the box with the Longjing cha with the three signs of Matteo’s Chinese name: 利玛窦.
At dusk, and with a heavy heart, I approached the study. Matteo was already there. One look at him sufficed to tell me that he knew I was leaving and came to say goodbye. He stood up as I approached him, and I slowly, carefully took his hands in mine and looked in his eyes, somewhat surprised that he let me do that. For a few moments, the world around us dissolved into nothingness.
But reality refused to be thought away. Matteo took a step back and reached into one of the chests that stood against the wall. Taking out a small pouch, he handed it to me, saying: “Here, Daoming, Take this, and bury your mother with full honours. I will keep you in my prayers. May the Lord be with you.”
“I will keep you in my thoughts too, Matteo,” I whispered back to him. His expression did not betray whether he noticed that I called him the name that nobody had called him for years.
I turned around, and half walked, half ran out of the study, out of the Jesuit residence and into the dim light of the evening sky. I kept one of the coins that Matteo had given me and hung it around my neck. The rest I gave to the first pauper I met on the street, remembering that Matteo’s god was especially fond of the poor and the weak. I would not need the coins for the kind of journey I had in mind.
I set out for the port of Aomen, planning to board one of the Portuguese ships that were heading home loaded with porcelain. The mission under Matteo’s leadership maintained a busy contact with the Portuguese merchants. In fact, Matteo himself engaged in clever mercantile activities of his own for the profit of the mission, and thus I had all information I needed to be able to find my way to, and into, the right ship. I knew that if I attempted to get aboard openly as a young Chinese woman travelling alone, I would probably be seized as a runaway slave or concubine. My European clothes were lying rotten in my nameless grave at the Christian cemetery in Goa, and I knew I would not be able to procure a credible costume without arousing unnecessary suspicion.
Instead, having covered the 450 miles that separated Nanchang from Aomen, I simply crawled into one of the boxes that held the porcelain to be transported to Portugal, covered myself with straw that was used to protect the porcelain from breaking, and closed the lid over me. In the morning, carpenters would come and shut the boxes tight from without, but I did not mind. After all, I needed some rest to calm the storm of emotions that raged within my mind and concentrate on the tasks that awaited me.
And yet, as I lay in the darkness and allowed the soft sound of the sea to slowly lure me into a sleep-like state, my last conscious thought was with you, my marvelous, gentle Matteo. Were you thinking of me too, now that I was gone? Would Mnemosyne remind you of what we shared?
... to be continued
Reconstruction of the interior of the library of Alexandria
- The initial song is the song Daoming never sang for Matteo.
In reality, it is Sleepthief’s “Here I Confess,” and I only altered three words. I think it summarizes this chapter very well. I was really stunned when I heard the lyrics. If you want the full experience, you can listen to the song here It is truly amazing.
- The destruction of the library of Alexandria was a widely circulated meme in the Renaissance. My source here is Lydgate, Fall of Princes, Book VI, 2590. It’s mid-15th century and based on Latin sources which Matteo Ricci would have known very well. Daoming’s sources are, of course, first-hand.
- Aomen is the Chinese name of the Portuguese colony and port of Macau (Macao).
- Nanchang: in the course of Daoming’s stay, the Jesuits have moved several times. When she left China, the mission was based in Nanchang.
Link to Summary and Chapter List