Chapter Fifty-Seven: It’s Not Just Beautiful Women Who Can Deceive
Chapter Fifty-Seven: It's Not Just Beautiful Women Who Can Deceive
“Zhi Zhang rides a horse as if sailing a boat, eyes blurred, falling asleep at the bottom of a well. Ru Yang drinks three measures before heading to court, drools at the sight of the wine cart, regrets not being assigned to Wine Spring. The Left Chancellor spends ten thousand coins a day, drinks like a whale swallowing rivers, enjoys his cup and avoids the wise. Zong is a graceful young man, raises his glass with a white-eyed gaze to the blue sky, radiant as a jade tree before the wind. Su Jin fasts in front of embroidered Buddhas, often escapes from Zen in drunkenness. Li Bai drinks a fight's worth and writes a hundred poems, sleeps in taverns on the Chang’an market, ignores the emperor's summons, calling himself the Immortal of Wine. Zhang Xu becomes the Grass Saint after three cups, removes his hat before nobles, scatters ink and paper like clouds and smoke. Jiao Sui stands out after five measures, his eloquence amazes every table.”
Looking at these three elders, addicted to drink as if it were their lifeblood, Du Fu’s “The Song of Eight Immortal Drinkers” echoed naturally in Zhang Qian’s mind.
In that instant, his eyes grew moist, and his heart softened immeasurably. It was as if a wanderer, gone from home for years, returned and suddenly saw the uncles and elders who cared for him in childhood, now white-haired and aged.
With He Zhizhang’s habit of tasting even medicated oils when his craving struck, Zhang Qian suspected Du Fu’s poem about Elder He drunkenly falling asleep at the bottom of a well was not exaggerated, but pure depiction.
This old man lived long, loved drinking, and was carefree and open-minded, treating the world as a game from the era of Empress Wu to the flourishing reign of Kaiyuan. With gentle, discerning eyes, he discovered new stars for the Tang literary world. With the title of “Exiled Immortal,” he personally pushed Li Bai to the pinnacle of poetry.
“Though he achieved the highest rank, he always recognized his own limits, never sought power; survived under three emperors—Wu Zetian, Zhongzong, and Xuanzong—yet never involved himself in political strife, never stained his hands with blood; as a literary giant, he never envied younger talents, gladly offering a hand for them to climb.” This was how the literature professor at university spoke of He Zhizhang, his face full of admiration and longing.
The professor spent his life in awe of He Zhizhang and yearning for the glorious Tang era, but he regretted never living in the same age as Li Bai and Du Fu.
But Zhang Qian had arrived, and felt an instant kinship with Elder He. How could he not cherish this fortune?
So, even if only to let Elder He live as long as history records, and to let Elder Zhang Ruoxu leave a third poem behind, he could not let them keep drinking perfumed water and medicated oils. Especially since his versions were subpar imitations, far inferior to the originals. (Note: Zhang Ruoxu left only two poems in history.)
Moreover, Du Fu’s “The Song of Eight Immortal Drinkers” included Ru Yang Prince Li Jin, Monk Su Jin, and the obscure Jiao Sui, but not Elder He’s drinking companion Zhang Ruoxu, leaving Zhang Qian somewhat melancholy.
Clearly, Elder Zhang Ruoxu did not live to see Du Fu witness the “Eight Immortal Drinkers.” Otherwise, that song so revered by wine lovers would have been nine or even ten immortals. After all, Elder Sun Anzu was close to Elder He too; if Jiao Sui was included, Sun should not have been left out.
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“Elders, even if perfumed water and medicated oil are harmless, they are still medicines, and long-term use is unpredictable,” Zhang Qian quietly wiped his eyes, turned to He Zhizhang, Zhang Ruoxu, and Sun Anzu, and smiled, proposing, “But what you love is really the spirits used as ingredients. So, I think instead of drinking medicine, you should drink liquor directly. The taste is purer, and it avoids the unknown risks of medicinal ingredients.”
“That liquor—did you brew it yourself? Is there much left?” He Zhizhang immediately turned, eyes shining, as if afraid Zhang Qian would renege.
“Wine is my desire, perfumed water too. To have both is best. Fine wine for myself, perfumed water for beauties!” Zhang Ruoxu quoted in a scholarly tone, his gaze mischievous like a child who’d stolen sugar.
Sun Anzu said nothing, simply handed his gourd to Zhang Qian. Whether liquor or perfumed water, he wouldn’t rest until Zhang Qian filled his gourd.
Since Zhang Qian had agreed, he couldn’t back out. He took the gourd with a smile and explained quietly, “To be honest, the liquor wasn’t brewed. I had Ren Cong and Guo Nu buy ordinary wine, and then used my master’s secret method to refine it repeatedly. Most of it went into perfumed water and medicated oil as base…”
“Wasteful!” Sun Anzu cut him off after four words.
“Perfumed water is nice, but it’s just cosmetics, not fit for the main stage. Young friend, you should focus on making wine; perfumed water and medicated oil can be occasional side products!” Zhang Ruoxu, surrounded by many concubines, spoke generously.
“So it’s made from ordinary wine—I was puzzled last night! You only arrived a few days ago, don’t seem to have a treasure bag, and didn’t even need to ferment grains, yet produced such fine spirits!” He Zhizhang, well-read and experienced, spoke with care. “That’s good, then I won’t have to send people searching for other fine wines when I return. Let’s keep it simple—just open your furnace again and refine a thousand or so pounds. The three of us can split it, and it’ll get us through this winter!”
“A thousand pounds?” Zhang Qian’s eyes widened.
Well now—the perfumed water workshop hadn’t even opened, and it was already turning into a distillery! Private custom, just add a pretty bottle and it could pass for Maotai. Only sold to friends, never to outsiders!
“Is that a lot?” He Zhizhang glanced at him, then suddenly realized, “I see, you’re worried about supply of the base wine. That’s easy—one of my less accomplished relatives runs a brewery in Weinan, sending barrels of wine to Chang’an daily. I’ll have him deliver thirty thousand pounds to you! Not as fine as the best, but better than the poor stuff on the market.” (Note: “Qingzhou Official” means fine wine; “Pingyuan Governor” means poor wine, from the “Shishuo Xinyu” of the Northern and Southern Dynasties.)
‘No wonder you can drink yourself into a well! You run a brewery at home!’ Zhang Qian realized, muttering inwardly, ‘Makes sense—with your drinking, if your family didn’t own a brewery, you couldn’t afford it!’
Still, he didn’t dare let He Zhizhang provide raw materials for refining high-proof liquor. So he smiled and politely declined, “You exaggerate, Elder. A few dozen pounds of fine wine hardly deserves to be exchanged for your best stock. It’s just that refining takes time.”
“How long? I can wait today. Tomorrow, though, I must return to Chang’an to deal with dull paperwork!” He Zhizhang deflated like a punctured ball, his voice weak.
“Will it be ready by the Double Ninth Festival? Ji Weng and I plan to invite some young people here to enjoy chrysanthemums. If we have your fine wine, they’ll be more inspired in composing poetry!” Zhang Ruoxu, less addicted than He Zhizhang, added softly.
“Refine as you wish—I can wait, and drink as much as you make!” Sun Anzu pointed to his large gourd, determined, “But today, please fill it for me. You said most went into perfumed water and medicated oil. The rest would be wasted—better split it among us!”
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“Rest assured, elders—I won’t let you leave empty-handed today!” Zhang Qian was utterly convinced by these old wine-lovers, smiling as he nodded.
“I knew young friend was honest and wouldn’t disappoint us!” Before Sun Anzu could thank him, Zhang Ruoxu stepped in, quickly heading to the door, lifting a large gourd from the basket held by his page.
“Didn’t you only meet Sun on the road?” Zhang Qian sensed something was amiss, frowning.
“Coincidence, coincidence!” Zhang Ruoxu refused to meet his eyes, shoving the gourd into Zhang Qian’s hands, hastily explaining, “Actually, my main purpose today was the perfumed water. Ah, too many women at home—never a moment’s peace!”
“The medicated oil, though fragrant, is still a medicine; how can it be used daily to suppress the craving for wine?” Unable to bear “bullying” the younger man, He Zhizhang smiled as he revealed the truth. He too strode to the door, taking a third gourd from his attendant and handing it to the hapless Zhang Qian.
“Elders, you are titans of literature, renowned in medicine!” Zhang Qian finally realized he’d been duped by these old foxes, caught between laughter and tears.
No wonder they coordinated so perfectly earlier.
No wonder Sun Anzu didn’t care when Zhang Qian mentioned the toxicity of camphor oil.
They hadn’t drunk medicated oil at all!
The so-called drinking medicated oil to curb their craving was just a ploy to make him reveal his method for refining spirits, and obediently fill their gourds!
Dizzy—after thirteen hundred years of progress, he was still outwitted by ancients!
Who says the ancients were always honest?
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