Chapter Twenty-Seven: Meng Xiaodie Purchases Music

“Tch... Is that all? Flowery words, but even Gu Badou is just so-so...” Feng Jingzhe curled his lips. Accustomed to the finest verses of the Tang and Song dynasties, he truly did not find anything remarkable about the poem that had just been recited. Tonight, he had come simply to enjoy the banquet—and perhaps to see if there was a chance to retrieve his silver from Su Zixuan. Judging by the situation, the silver was out of reach. Now that his stomach was full and he had sampled the after-meal fruit, this man of little ambition was already thinking of heading home for a good night’s sleep.

“Third Young Master Feng, such arrogance! Are you saying even the esteemed Gu Badou’s poetry fails to impress you? Or perhaps the tune of yours, supposedly worth three hundred taels of silver, is finer than this poem?”

“Heh... you, Zheng, why don’t you save your breath! All night long, you’ve done nothing but try to provoke me—really, how dull! I’ll tell you the truth: if before, I thought there was an eighty percent chance my song could win the courtesan contest, now I’m absolutely certain. Believe it or not...” Feng Jingzhe crossed his fingers in a gesture like a cross, and without waiting for rebuttal, stood up and left the table.

“Fugui, let’s go! I’ll treat you to mutton broth outside...”

“Young Master Feng, please wait... My lady has bought your song...” Zheng Yongxiang, who had been about to sneer, was interrupted as a young maid hurried over, holding a small wooden box. Her words naturally drew the attention of everyone present.

“Ha... So someone here does know what’s valuable!” The young maid wasted no words, simply placing the box on the table and opening it. Inside was a small stack of silver notes, along with a scattering of loose silver.

“This is all my lady’s savings, a total of two hundred and eighty-seven taels. I hope you will not think it too little...” Meng Xiaodie had only been in the business for less than a year; most of this sum had been saved since she was a child.

“Perhaps Meng Xiaodie is just grabbing at straws. Feng Jingzhe is a fool—even if he has a bit of money now, he’s nothing more than a nouveau riche upstart. What good song could he possibly have? And really, what song could ever compare to Master Gu’s poetry?”

“Three hundred taels for a song from that Feng fellow—that’s like throwing a meat bun at a dog, you’ll never get it back...”

“She should take her money back. With Master Gu here, no one can threaten tonight’s courtesan.”

This was the consensus. Any woman for whom Gu Badou composed poetry would be instantly famous.

In fact, Xiaodou’er thought the same, but her mistress had made up her mind. If she failed to win the contest, then having or not having this bit of private money would make no difference—the outcome would still be a tragedy.

“My lady said this: she believes in Young Master Feng! Please, grant her the song...”

“Haha... That’s easily done! Come on, this song is special—I’ll have to teach it to you in person...”

Feng Jingzhe threw back his head and laughed, striding straight up the stairs.

“What are you standing around for? Quickly, lead the way to your lady’s room! Hahahaha...” His impatient manner made the onlookers grind their teeth in fury. The madam of Warm Jade Pavilion, seeing this, hurried after him as if confronting a mortal threat. After all, their money tree needed watching—Feng Jingzhe had a record, after all.

Meng Xiaodie had witnessed everything from the upper floor, and now her heart was restless and uneasy, even tinged with secret regret. She chastised herself for being too impulsive; after all, Feng Jingzhe’s reputation was terrible. If he tried anything untoward, what would she do?

As she struggled with her thoughts, the door opened. Instinctively, Meng Xiaodie shrank into a corner. First in was Xiaodou’er, followed by Feng Jingzhe. Seeing the girl trembling like a startled rabbit, he was left speechless.

Good grief, just how filthy must this Feng Jingzhe’s past have been, for every girl to act as if he were a ghost?

To him, she was just a little schoolgirl—there was nothing about her that could stir his desire.

“Bring me brush and ink. I’ll write out the lyrics first, then hum the melody. With your skill, I’m sure you’ll pick it up quickly.”

He spared no unnecessary words, getting straight to the point.

Xiaodou’er was taken aback, having expected a long, drawn-out argument. She had never thought he would be so direct. Urged on by Feng Jingzhe, she snapped back to herself and hurried to get paper and brush.

Green bricks and lacquered tiles, a white horse treads on fresh mud, evening falls, wildflowers and banana leaves stain the dusk with red scarves...

Raindrops fall from the eaves, smoke curls from kitchen fires, tossed and turned by time—where are you, still so familiar...

Searching and seeking, so cold and lonely, the crescent moon sets as crows cry above an old well...

Bits and pieces, drop by drop, in dreams there are blossoms, in dreams a field of green...

Long hair trailing ripples, white cloth spreads over rocks, the river child poles a long boat across the years...

Raindrops fall from the eaves, smoke curls from kitchen fires, tossed and turned by time—where are you, still so familiar...

Searching and seeking, so cold and lonely, the crescent moon sets as crows cry above an old well...

Bits and pieces, drop by drop, in dreams there are blossoms, in dreams a field of green...

As Feng Jingzhe penned the lyrics to “Slow, Slow Song,” Meng Xiaodie, who had not dared hope and had only tried out of desperation, found her eyes growing brighter with each word.

Clearly, this was not a classical lyric, but a series of simple, irregular lines—yet these lines together painted a breathtaking portrait of the southern rivers.

The lyrics, scarcely more than a hundred words, were swiftly finished. Feng Jingzhe looked up at Meng Xiaodie, who was still trying to fit the words to melodies she had learned.

“This song is unlike any melody in use today. Let me sing it for you once...”

His voice, with this body, was excellent—comparable to Huo Zun’s.

When he finished, the two women in the room and even the madam standing at the door were dumbfounded.

Simply put, it was too beautiful. Such a new and strange style of melody—they had never heard anything like it. Having studied music since childhood, Meng Xiaodie’s sensitivity was the keenest of all.

Now she was utterly certain: she was going to become a sensation—no, more than that; this melody was destined to become a classic.

“I remember you play the pipa—it’s a perfect match for this song! All right, work on it yourself. Our transaction is complete—song for silver, both settled...”

After making absolutely sure Meng Xiaodie had memorized the tune, Feng Jingzhe made no further delay and left at once.

By the time the mistress and her maid came back to their senses, he was already halfway down the stairs.

“Xiaodou’er, quick—go find the madam and tell her I must rehearse a new song. Have her arrange for me to perform last, as the grand finale...”

The madam of Warm Jade Pavilion had been waiting outside the whole time and needed no prompting—she was already off to make the arrangements.

There was no need for much persuasion; with Tang Hongdou’s dazzling performance and Gu Beichuan’s poem as competition, the other courtesans had already given up, resigned to their fates. Whether they performed early or late no longer mattered. Since Meng Xiaodie wanted to make a last-ditch effort, they were happy to watch the spectacle.

Feng Jingzhe, for his part, had no interest in lingering to watch his own masterpiece performed. Waiting for a schoolgirl to take the stage? He’d rather go home early and sleep. Even if the schoolgirl was beautiful, with a childlike face and—well, you know.

As for the silver from selling the song, he had never intended to take it anyway. It was Su Zixuan who had swindled him before, not Meng Xiaodie.

Yet this act inevitably sparked gossip. After all, Feng Jingzhe had only stayed upstairs for the briefest time. Given his reputation, if he’d managed a private moment with a beauty, he would have shamelessly clung to her, impossible to drive away. But now, not only had he left, he hadn’t even taken the box of money. Anyone could guess—the so-called song must have been a sham. Otherwise, why would he leave so quickly, with the courtesan contest only half over?