Chapter 69: Alone in the Western Tower

"Mr. Huang, sing us a song!... Mr. Huang, sing us a song!... Mr. Huang, sing us a song!"
Faced with his students’ keen and eager enthusiasm for ancient Chinese songs, Huang Guolun did not dally. He waved his hand at them and said, "If you want to hear it, I’ll give it a try."

A chorus of delighted cheers erupted from the students, so loud it took some time before the room settled again.

Huang Guolun closed his textbook. "I’ll try singing a poem I’m fond of—the Southern Tang Emperor Li Yu’s 'Longing to Meet—Alone I Ascend the Western Tower.'"

Tang Juan, the class literature representative, exclaimed excitedly, "Wow, that poem is so heartbreaking! I didn’t know Mr. Huang liked such styles of verse."

In truth, Huang Guolun was not exclusively fond of this style. It was simply that the melody of this particular tune suddenly surfaced in his mind.

Not only the melody, but also two vastly different versions: one as sung by Teresa Teng, the other by the Tang Dynasty band. Perhaps it was because both Teresa Teng and Zhang Ju of Tang Dynasty passed away in May 1995, within three days of each other, that this curious combination took root in Huang Guolun’s mind. Regardless, the song’s tune was deeply imprinted on him.

Before he began, Huang Guolun explained to his students, "'Longing to Meet' was originally a tune from the Tang Dynasty music bureau, also known as 'Crying of the Crow at Night,' 'Autumn Night Moon,' or 'Ascending the Western Tower.' It consists of thirty-six characters; the first stanza uses level tones, the second alternates between oblique and level. The most famous examples are Li Yu’s two poems under this title: 'The Spring Blossoms Have Withered' and 'Alone I Ascend the Western Tower.' Today, I’ll set to music the latter, with the melody as I hear it in my mind. I hope you can feel a little of the beauty and charm of ancient Chinese music. No matter how it turns out, no shouting or interruptions please—let’s not disturb the other classes."

He cleared his throat, sipped tea to moisten his voice, and as the students watched and listened in rapt anticipation, Huang Guolun was about to begin.

At that moment, a graceful figure appeared at the entrance to Class 5, Grade 11—the very same Sun Yanzhen who was heading to the staff cafeteria for lunch.

On her way downstairs, she’d heard a commotion from this classroom—students seemed to be urging Mr. Huang to sing. Like a cat following the scent of fish, she’d wandered over.

And, as luck would have it, she’d arrived just in time.

She didn’t move too close to the door, not wanting to disturb either Mr. Huang or his students.

Instead, Sun Yanzhen leaned casually against the corridor wall, arms crossed, and smiled as she watched Huang Guolun prepare to sing.

Inside the classroom, the students' eyes were fixed on Huang Guolun with the eager hope of parched grass awaiting rain.

Huang Guolun let his emotions swell, inspired by the melody in his mind. Unbidden, he thought of Chen Jia, and the sorrow of loss in his heart grew stronger still.

The moment he began, his voice, imbued with a weathered, soulful quality, captured the entire classroom atmosphere in his grasp—

"Wordless, I climb alone the western tower;
The moon, like a hook;
Lonely, the plane trees in the deep courtyard lock in the clear autumn..."

Carried away by Huang Guolun’s exquisite voice, students felt as if they had journeyed back to the Tang and Song dynasties. Goosebumps prickled across their skin.

Those who knew the poem understood: in the eighth year of the Kaibao era, the Song dynasty conquered Southern Tang. Li Yu, the last ruler, lost his country, surrendered in humiliation, and was held captive in Bianjing. Because Li Yu had once defended his city against Song, Emperor Taizu bestowed on him the title "Marquis of Disobedience," and from then on, Li Yu endured the life of a prisoner. "Alone I Ascend the Western Tower" was composed during this time, a work of piercing sorrow at exile and loss.

Though some scholars theorize the poem was written earlier, a mere lament of palace life, a careful reading of the text makes that difficult to believe.

The poem’s emotion is clearly that of profound longing for a lost homeland, the bitterness of a fallen kingdom—its heavy tone and plaintive cadence are heart-rending.

Huang Guolun set this mournful anguish to a fitting melody, and in his heart, the longing for his late wife mirrored the poet’s yearning for his lost nation. That opening line, "Wordless, I climb alone the western tower," captured the very soul of desolation, so much so that even Sun Yanzhen outside the door felt compelled to pay silent respect.

As he sang, "Lonely, the plane trees in the deep courtyard lock in the clear autumn," emotion, scene, verse, and melody merged in perfect harmony.

In that instant, Sun Yanzhen’s mind overflowed with musical visions, picturing the last emperor of Southern Tang, with no one to talk to, ascending the quiet tower in sorrow and solitude.

A waning moon cast its light on Li Yu’s solitary figure—so bleak, so tragic!

What a profoundly tragic tableau!

It was the first time Sun Yanzhen had ever been so vividly moved by a song’s imagery.

In Huang Guolun’s words, this was nothing less than musical synesthesia.

Of course, the chief reason she could conjure such a poignant scene was that Huang Guolun sang with both technical mastery and true spirit. The heavy expression on his face was worthy of a poetry recital onstage.

Sun Yanzhen had never taken much interest in traditional Chinese music, but listening to just half of "Alone I Ascend the Western Tower" left her with a newfound reverence for it.

Inside the classroom, the students were equally entranced.

Several girls found themselves holding their breath.

They had already felt the boundless sorrow and longing in Li Yu’s words while reading them.

Now, with Huang Guolun’s unique musical interpretation, the poem’s mood was instantly elevated.

Those with artistic sensibilities felt nearly suffocated by the intensity of this mournful melody, as if they were standing in Li Yu’s place, seeing the same lonely plane trees.

Bai Yao, from the moment Huang Guolun started singing, had held her breath, as if his voice had seized her very soul.

Though she had long regarded him as a musical genius, adept in every genre, this was the first time she’d heard him perform such a rare ancient tune, and the impact was overwhelming.

It was no less astonishing than someone watching her solve a fiendishly difficult math problem in a minute.

For Huang Guolun, it seemed no musical challenge was too great; he could resolve any riddle with ease. He was truly remarkable.

At this moment, Huang Guolun was completely immersed in the song.

"White hair three thousand zhang, arising from sorrow as long as this!"

With the irrepressible longing for Chen Jia in his heart, he lent his grief a tangible voice—

"Unbreakable, tangled still,
Such is parting sorrow,
A taste beyond words lingers in my heart..."

With just a few lines, he conveyed an ancient sorrow that echoed through the ages.

In the final, profound sigh, Huang Guolun, using the intangible to evoke the intangible, blended a touch of ethereal clarity with his timeworn voice, sending everyone’s thoughts soaring into that boundless, lonely, chill night sky.

A work of such genius goes straight to the soul of anyone who hears it—words cannot describe it, only the heart can understand.

The bell suddenly rang.

As Huang Guolun and the students were still wrapped in the lingering tide of sorrow, the harsh sound of the end-of-class bell cut ruthlessly through the moment.

On any other day, the students would have longed for the final bell of the morning’s last class.

But today, this sharp clang was like a spear, shattering their enjoyment of ancient Chinese music, leaving them resentful.

Huang Guolun, however, smiled. The bell’s jarring sound had pulled him out of that inescapable sorrow and longing he was so reluctant to mention.

Outside, Sun Yanzhen was startled by the bell. Not wanting to attract attention, she left the door and turned away.

She didn’t go downstairs, though, but headed straight for the corridor by the faculty offices on the same floor, planning to wait for Huang Guolun and discuss the matter of setting classic poems to music.

From this "Alone I Ascend the Western Tower," Sun Yanzhen could sense Huang Guolun’s longing for his late wife.

She’d already been deeply moved when he sang "Not That Simple," suffused with an unbreakable, profound love for his lost spouse.

After being cheated on by a man, Sun Yanzhen now valued faithfulness and depth more than anything else.

Even before she realized Huang Guolun’s exceptional talent, what she liked about him was his sense of responsibility and loyalty.

Now that his depth and devotion had been magnified by his musical gifts, Sun Yanzhen found him all the more trustworthy.

Just as Huang Guolun seemed to deliberately keep a distance between them, Sun Yanzhen was likewise careful not to let that distance grow too great.

He would never let them get too close, but she wouldn’t let them drift too far apart.

In this, Sun Yanzhen was more clear-sighted about their relationship than he was.

Clearly, Huang Guolun had not yet fully moved past the grief of losing his wife.

As for herself, she was guiding her first high school class.

For the next two years, it was unlikely Huang Guolun, with his unsettled heart, would find a new mother for Huang Tao.

She, too, planned to devote more time and energy to her work during these two years.

After she graduated her first class, if Huang Guolun remained single and reliable, she would draw their relationship close—so close that even minus fifteen centimeters wouldn’t seem too little.

For now, though, her focus was on her own first-year class.

Hearing Huang Guolun sing this ancient poem, Sun Yanzhen was struck by how much class and sophistication it lent.

If their class choir could perform a piece using a famous ancient poem, it would surely outshine the conventional performances of other classes. She was waiting for Huang Guolun to discuss just this.

After Sun Yanzhen left, the classroom of Class 5, Grade 11, erupted into applause.

Praises for Mr. Huang’s singing flew everywhere.

Huang Guolun didn’t linger for their flattery. With a smile, he called, "Class dismissed," and slipped away.

On the way back to the office to put away his lesson plans, he spotted Sun Yanzhen.

"What are you doing here?" Huang Guolun asked as he walked over.

"Waiting for you to have lunch. My treat today."

"No need. I can’t even use up all the cafeteria allowance on my card."

"Then you treat me."

"You didn’t bring your card?"

Sun Yanzhen nearly puffed her cheeks in exasperation. Any other male teacher would have leapt at the chance to treat her to lunch—she wouldn’t even have to ask. But this blockhead actually asked if she’d forgotten her card... In two years, there was no way he’d find a new mother for Huang Tao. Absolutely none!