Don’t Cry, Tai Lake

your passion,
    while the water runs on,
    never-ending, like my feelings.
    To his surprise, Chen recognized the song as one composed by Liu Yuxie, another well-known Tang dynasty poet. It was a sort of boat melody for lovers in ancient times.
    “Well done,” Shanshan said, clapping her hands.
    “Bravo!” Chen said. “I’ll add ten yuan to the fee.”
    The sampan man’s eyes, Chen noticed, seemed to be anchored on Shanshan. Perhaps he was singing to her, reminded of his own younger days. She must have been aware of it too. She smiled good-naturedly at Chen as she patted his hand across the table.
    The sampan kept gliding on, the sampan man still singing, declaring passion unchanged from time immemorial.
    The willow shoots green,
    the river water smooth,
    she hears him singing
    across the waves.
     
    It shines in the east,
    it rains in the west.
    It is said not to be fine,
    but fine to me.
    Chen was amazed. It was another boat song by the same Tang dynasty poet, and the second stanza contained a clever pun that was both about and not about the weather.
    In the distance, there were a couple of rowboats, some sharp-nosed, some blunt. One of them seemed to be checking nets in the waves, just the way it was done in the Tang era. However, factories also loomed along the lakeshore, with their smokestacks pouring out smoke against the brownish hills. Not far away, several water birds were seen scavenging among washed-up dead fish.
    “One more,” Shanshan said to the sampan driver.
    The Qing River meanders
    against myriads of willow shoots.
    The scene remains unchanged
    as two decades ago …
    The same old wooden bridge,
    where I parted with her,
    brings no news, alas,
    for today.
    The last song astonished Chen with its abrupt sad ending. He looked up to see the willows lined along a curving stretch of the bank, just as in the poem.
    Where would he be in two decades? Would he remember this day in the boat? he wondered.
    “We also provide a special boat meal,” the sampan man said, wiping sweat off his forehead with his hand. “Fish and shrimp, all fresh and live, straight out of the water. I’ll throw in the net right now, if you like.”
    “That would be interesting,” Chen said. He had read about boat meals—where a fresh catch was prepared there and then, cooked on a tiny stove, and served in the cabin.
    But then he caught a glance from Shanshan. She didn’t say anything, perhaps reluctant to be a wet blanket again, but he knew her reservations about the contaminated lake. There was no point discussing it, however, in the presence of the sampan driver.
    “Well, we’re not that hungry,” he said. “Not now, thank you.”
    “Thank you,” she echoed.
    “That’s fine. You have my boat for the whole day. No rush on the meal,” the sampan man said in good spirits, stealing another look at her. “Now, I happen to know a boat meal story.”
    “Yes, tell us the story,” she said.
    “This story is the supposed origin of the well-known dish called Emperor Qianlong’s Live Carp. This specialty is available in some fancy restaurants, served on a willow-patterned platter with the carp’s eyes still turning.”
    “Really!” Chen said, also intrigued.
    “According to the story, Emperor Qianlong, of the Qing dynasty, was exceptionally fond of traveling incognito. During a trip south of the river, disguised as a merchant, he was caught in a storm at night. When he finally boarded a sampan, he was cold and hungry as a drenched wolf. Now sheltered, he paid some silver for a meal. The boat girl was young and capable, dressed in a blue homespun tunic and shorts, bare-legged and barefoot, all alone in the sampan. She pulled out an urn of Maiden Red—”
    “That’s the name of some Shaoxin rice wine, right?” Shanshan inquired, now in higher spirits too.
    “Yes, it’s traditional for people to bury an urn of rice wine underground when a daughter is born. It would then be unearthed on important occasions years later—for instance, when she gets married. Anyway, back to the story. That urn of Maiden Red must have been stored for years. It tasted so mellow that he drained several cups without taking a break. Soon he was beginning to forget he was an emperor. The boat girl took pity on him, still looking as wet as a chicken drowning in a pond. She fried for him a live carp she’d just caught from the river. The fish turned out to be too large for the small wok in the boat, so she had to fry it with its head