orange juice
we are all talk
“Your Majesty!”
（“皇上！”）
The concubine begs, her mascara somehow stubbornly sticking to her eyelashes. She’s very pretty. I love the makeup they paint on actors for period dramas.
The emperor kicks her off his feet and the guards raise their swords in attention. How dare she, a mere concubine who only had favour for a few weeks, grab the Heaven’s Son in such a manner?
“Here you go, talking nonsense again!”
（“你可是又是胡说！”）
He shouts, shaking his robes vigorously as if ridding himself of her filth. I am busy cracking open peanut shells to watch his expression, but as I scrape my nails against the slight opening of the shell, I imagine a man’s anger — furrowed brows, slightly flushed face and clenched jaw.
While the camera closes in onto the concubine’s face — shining eyes, wet cheeks and parted lips — I try not to think about the nonsense that people spout about the male gaze. The male gaze is the helpless female, the bossy corporate woman, the Madonna whore, the dragon lady. I really don’t care at this moment. I really can’t crack open these peanut shells without help.
She continues crying, elegant sobs that are more like a canary’s song pouring out from her throat. Wow, I think, she’s very pretty. Meanwhile, the music switches just at the right time: from high strung notes twining into melancholic plucks of the guzheng, slow and thoughtful. Aware of the audience’s desires, the camera moves in closer. A crying woman is always portrayed as beautiful on screen – it is femininity in one of its most stereotypical forms; she becomes delicate: tears roll down her cheek and slide down the angle of her jaw to meet at her chin. Comically, the sound effects team decides to cue the drip of a single teardrop against the marble floors.
Then there’s a jump cut to the emperor. His chest is heaving; he’s still angry. They had fought in front of the officials, after she was accused of stealing the imperial seal.
“I should remind you – do not forget where you came from. To be human, you can never forget who you once were.”
（“朕得提醒你 不要忘记自己的身份 做人可不能忘了本。”）
Sneering, he turns to his guards. They’re all in rows, standing along the walls of the throne room. With his yellow robes glowing underneath the candlelight, he orders his guards:
“Come, drag her out!”
（“来人啊 把她拖下去！”）
The guards begin moving instantly. Despite the armour weighing them down, they are efficient. Their swords are now strapped to their sides, and only their hands can be weapons. Without missing a beat, they grip the concubine’s arms but do not begin throwing her out yet.
We’re given a wide shot, from up above to demonstrate how small she is. With some half-hearted struggling, she is given some time to plead her case. Letting out a tortured cry, she begs again:
“I know I was wrong, please have mercy, Your Majesty!”
（“嫔妾知道错了 皇上饶命啊！”）
She doesn’t defend herself very well. The emperor won’t be swayed with just that, I think. He’s got plenty of other concubines, and while the space of Imperial Consort is wide open, she’s no longer up for consideration because of her crimes. Any ruler of a nation must have an iron heart.
Predictably, he doesn’t deem her worthy of a reply – merely a huff of exasperation and a scowl.
I’ve done it! The peanut shell parts gracefully, revealing the two little prolate spheroids. Flicking my fingers, I try to get the bits of dust from the shell off my hands and into the folded paper box on my lap. There’s this earthy scent with just a slight roasted nuance, staining my hands. Picking the nuts from the shell, I place one into my mouth.
The emperor ignores her screaming. He has no mercy for any thieves. I get that – I wouldn’t want to forgive a thief either, you know? Like, I own lots of important things that I wouldn’t want anyone to steal. Seems fair. Nodding along, I crunch the peanut between my teeth. The breaking of the seed rings in my ears; I have to remember to limit myself, or else I’ll hurt my jaw.
Then, the concubine is finally dragged out. She claws desperately, and I am reminded of a pontianak – at the hands of a man, is a woman who loses her life. She returns with a vengeance, clothed in deathly white and armed with enough malice to kill. They like to tell stories of these spirit women; tall tales of clawed fingers and long black hair, all women who are dedicated to haunting and dragging down more people to accompany them in their graves. If this concubine dies, maybe she’ll come back like that. She’s very pretty, and pretty women tend to always come back on television.
I swallow, but there are still bits and pieces of the peanut buried in my teeth and scraping against my tongue. So I eat another one – I’ll rinse it all out when I’m done.
The room is abuzz with conversation amongst the ministers and the emperor is slumped in his throne, a hand pressed against his temple in order to soothe his headache. He looks like he’s about to communicate telepathically with someone, and in the television haze, I keep my reception open for him. Tell me which concubine you’re sleeping with tonight, I will.
Then, a brave official steps up. He has his head bent in reverence, and he says, “Your Majesty, I understand that you must have had your mood ruined by that insolent wench. Please allow me to make a suggestion, to improve your day.”
You are the tapestry of everything beautiful; you are the clothing folds and the spaces between.
“A low ranking official like you, thinks that he is worthy of making a suggestion to me?” The emperor replies coldly, still looking for subordinates to trample upon.
I cannot be there – your crevices only allow room for one; I am only one. You are there, spun silk and spider thread.
“No, Your Majesty! I beg of you, please hear me out!”
Fabric moves swifter than a person – it is water, and when you shake it, ripples travel through it.
I’m hearing him out. I’ve stopped chewing. Sincerely, I am listening. The official has sweat beading on his forehead and I’ll bet everything that it’s cold sweat, the clammy kind that’s covering the expanse of his palms right now.
“Speak,” the emperor says. The screen loves him, it peers close to his face, allowing the rest of us to scan his features. There’s the gentle furrow of his brow, the indicator that he’s too exhausted to care. He has heavy eyelids that give him a drowsier look, as if he’s about to fall asleep from how fucking boring filming is.
I am a person: I cannot be shaken out like a dirty rug, and so I cannot rid myself of the crumbs and dust coating my body. I cannot be compacted unless you are cruel to me. I cannot be beautiful like fabric.
“I have been working with scholars you see,” the official begins to ramble, his hands twitching from his sides, severely tempted to gesticulate if not for the emperor’s sensitive temper. “And commoners as well. It has taken months of work, lots of testing with tea and some materials from foreign lands – I understand that nobility may not be as welcoming towards such methods, but we’ve engineered something. We’ve experimented, trial and error and trial and error. We’ve created.”
You can be held in my hands.
The official’s voice is hitching up in excitement, his eyes wide and a grin threatening to break out across his face. Unfortunately, he has to keep a polite, restrained smile. In court, manners are above anything else. “Please, let me present to you–”
Liquid can leak through the gaps between my fingers. I’m prone to letting things slip from my grip. It’s a habit of mine; please be kind to me, I say as I reach out for you.
My god, what a chore. Yawning, I reach for my glass of water. There are still bits from the peanut shell dotting my palms, but I keep my firm grasp around the cup.
“I present to you: orange juice!”
Yet, thankfully, you are cloth. So you cannot slip out so easily.
My lips part. The cup nearly slips from my grip. I see the official bring out a cup of orange juice: the camera zooms in, the official’s hand is strangely still, a filter shifts over the video, all sparkling and bright. I see the emperor’s tailored expression of surprise that is sown with curiosity. I see the other officials staring in awe; everyone is impressed by the foreign substance. I am numb.
It’s an advertisement? For orange juice? What episode is this even? Fuck, I don’t remember.
“Television will do anything nowadays,” I huff.
And together, we are beautiful.