In the library, I thumb through a biography of the Empress Dowager Cixi. I'd stumbled upon this book while browsing, the photo of her stern face eyeing me from the cover, through the generations. She had held an iron grip on the politics of China though she had begun as a lowly sixth rank concubine, and in her face I could see the harsh lines of the years she had spent as shadowy puppet master of the throne.
But what had her life been like, truly? My hand droops, my vision goes unfocused, and my mind dons its time-travelling cloak, back to the days of Imperial China...
September 1884, Forbidden City, China
A soft dizi tune breezes through the open doors of the chamber. Outside, I watch the waters of the pond, a shining azure, gently lapping against the grey stone walls of the palace exterior, fenced by a ring of manicured bushes.
Turning my gaze inwards, I am greeted by the diminutive maroon walls of the administrative wing in the Hall of Mental Cultivation. It is a dark room, the mahogany brown wood of the desk almost blending into the floor, a stark contrast against the mess of yellow parchments strewn on top of it. The report sitting on the very top of the pile must have been what Cixi was thinking about, before I kicked her out of her mind.
Skimming it, I swallowed hard. China had suffered a devastating blow in Vietnam, under the direction of my once-closest ally, Prince Gong.
From the history books, Cixi had seized this opportunity to depose Prince Gong and his followers, presumably to consolidate her own political power. It made sense – Prince Gong had been becoming a thorn in her side, threatening a divided authority, a divided empire. He could not be allowed to continue in his role.
Pulling out a blank parchment, I prepare to write the official announcement of his dismissal. But I can't seem to find where she keeps her stationery. Opening drawers, brushing aside other reports, this desk contains the millions of different threads she must hold in her head, and I am simultaneously in awe and in fear of what I have thrust myself into.
Amidst the faded yellow, I spot a flash of colour. It's a relatively amateur painting of two women, strolling side by side through the palace. They are dressed in the garments I used to wear as a concubine, hair twisted and adorned with beads, a small entourage of eunuchs trailing behind. They are laughing, linking arms, amidst a bright summery day.
Turning it over, my heart pangs and plummets to my feet. Yimeimei, I painted us taking a walk around the gardens. It is my favourite memory of us as concubines, when things were simpler, and we had nothing to talk about but ourselves. Now, it's like we have nothing to talk about but politics, but we are where we always wished we could be. I thank the Gods our friendship is the one thing left untouched by the imperial hierarchy.
It has been three years since Ci'an died. Three years since Cixi started to rule wholly alone, tempered no more by Ci'an's conciliatory nature – or her quiet friendship and support, it seemed.
Leaning back in my chair, I gaze at the words conscientiously written on the back of the painting. China had enjoyed a prosperous period of peace during the Tongzhi Restoration, when Cixi and Prince Gong had been aligned, when the arrangement between them had been held up by more than political convenience but by a mutual trust and respect, mediated by Ci'an. Regardless of whether relations between Cixi and Prince Gong had really irreparably deteriorated, China could be all the better for them both remaining in power.
But as I reread the report, the clearer it was that my decision was the naive one. China's defeats were impossibly vast, and Prince Gong's leadership was being roundly criticised by the troops and by the advisors. The mission had been an abject failure and Cixi, as the ruler, had been utterly shamed by its loss. Prince Gong had to go.
Taking a final look at the painting, I carefully rolled it up and tucked it into my sleeve. Ci'an had been my last refuge, my freedom to be me. From now on, I am only the Empress Dowager Cixi.
Finally retrieving my quill, I dipped it in ink, preparing to issue the official dismissal.
October 2026, Shenzhen, China
A harsh cacophony of noise slams into my ears. All around me, things are whizzing past at speeds even horses could not possibly keep up with, flying through the air faster than any hunting bird has flown. The buildings look wholly different, too – the blue tint of glass sending sun rays ricocheting off every pane of every tower, flashing up and down with the movement of the clouds.
It is dizzying, this new world. But the worst part is that I seem to be carrying all of my things, myself, on my arm. Where have my entourage of eunuchs disappeared to?
My legs start to move, and the woman whose body I am inhabiting brings me inside one of the towers, stepping through a gate and squeezing inside a metal box that moves. She is jostled, clutching her bag to her chest, feeling the sticky sweat from running to work clinging to her skin. She steps out into a room with a low ceiling, bright white lights of a strident colour I have never seen shining down on the partitioned rows. Sitting in one of them, she sets her bag down and I recognise the deep sigh that leaps out from the bottom of her chest. It is a sigh of discontentment, one which I have frequently partaken in when my orders are disobeyed.
She reaches for the items on her desk and the rectangular screen flickers to life. A voice calls and she swings around, straightening her blouse as she heads to another room. She seems stressed, her heart pumping quicker with every passing minute, as the man's voice drones on and on in the distance. He is criticising her work, her dress, her attitude.
She heads back to her desk, slumping in her chair. She turns her screen back on and starts to change her work. She spends the day making changes to suit the man. I keep waiting for her to start scheming to replace him, to teach him a lesson, but she just keeps working steadily as the clock ticks by on the wall.
At a certain time, like clockwork, she stands up and I see multiple bobbing heads across the rows doing the same. They step out of the frigid room, pack themselves back in the metal box, and step back out onto the same dizzying street. The woman walks to an underground chamber and into another metal box, bursting at the seams. She leaves, and makes her way into another tower, another door in the wall, another room – this time at least with a higher ceiling.
She sits around a table with her family and has dinner. Her elderly parents smile as she tells them about the big project she is working on that she hopes will get her a promotion. Their happiness warms her a little, but it does little to ease the heaviness that I have been feeling her carry since I stepped into her body.
And I am extraordinarily confused. In this world, women are freely able to work and achieve their career aspirations. In my world, I wrangled power with great difficulty, and always stayed one step ahead of my political rivals who would have preferred to rule instead. It is a strange feeling of uncertainty that this system does not seem to have a single person in charge. It is a burdensome feeling that this woman, like me, cannot be herself, although she has the freedom to choose anything she desires.
We live behind curtains. One day, we shall draw them back.
