The Emperor’s Chair

Ever wondered if the beautifully carved furniture at the Forbidden City you adored so much and took so many photos of are original?

His short legs were dangling from the chair like ripe cherries ready to drop, making him look like a naughty child punished by sitting on a high chair but still wriggling about. His left arm was comfortably spread on the square table made of the same wood as the horse-shoe backed armchair – reddish-brown, worn out, but very pleasing on the eye. Sitting comfortably high above all of us he displayed all the mannerisms of the Emperor proudly sitting on his throne. Except the high chairs and table barely fitted into the small space that housed lounge, kitchen and bedroom all together.

Tim, my loyal guide, and I were sitting on very low and uncomfortable stools, staring at the Emperor like a pair of eager-to-please courtiers, hanging on every single syllable. The Emperor was making sounds but I didn’t speak any Chinese. For Tim the Emperor was making sense, talking about his life before he retired to the hutongs in Beijing instead of one of the high-rise flats scattered around the city.

The squat houses lining the busy street somewhere in the hutongs area of Beijing all feature one outside window and one door. Once inside the establishment and under the impression that you are entering one household, the natural light and greenery of the courtyard challenge your expectations. You are entering a fortified dwelling in the centre of Beijing where few families are squeezed into a small space within the rectangular configuration. Those dwellings are mainly built of brick and plastered with cement for protection in the long and cold Beijing winter, but in some parts of the houses, the oldest parts, you can see mud used as a building material.

From the main street the houses all look the same to me and I would probably get lost here while venturing out to get a newspaper or on the occasional night out. The main colour of the street is grey, broken by a gust of gold coming from the random basswood trees.  The street is so dynamic even though there are not many shops around and if it were not for so many people around, one might mistake it for an affluent area of Beijing.

The Emperor, sensing my doubts about his abode in this part of Beijing, reinforced his decision to move here, in the hutongs, where chickens would cross the paths of fast paced rickshaws, commented on the fresh air of the courtyard which was, I must admit, in short supply all around China.

Mrs Chu, a humble and gracious lady, was carefully listening to the conversation while making tea, but without any desire to join in.  I was worrying how I would cope with her best porcelain without making a fool of myself, when she, as a great host, pulled a smaller table of lesser quality and placed it in front of Tim and me. She sat alongside her husband and my wondering mind could see them wrapped in deep yellow, almost golden, robes covered in dragons, nine preferably to fit the Emperor's status, mimicking Yongle and his wife, Anne. I couldn’t remember the Emperor Yongle wife's full Chinese name as there are too many consonants and my little brain can’t put them in the right order. And her name Anne was given to her after she converted to Catholicism. Could Mrs Chu's secret name be Anne? I looked at her again with the biggest smile I could produce without showing the shiny plate inserted in my gum holding a few teeth together, courtesy of extreme pub-hopping around London.

“No. She is too obedient and dedicated to her Emperor to convert.”

Before tasting the tea, I obeyed all the unwritten rules – I sniffed it tenderly with my left hand holding the bottom of the cup, lifted it to Mr Chu first and then to Mrs Chu, thanking them for their kind hospitality. The Longjing tea, the best in the country, produced in the tea capital of China, Hangzhou, and bought at the local shop, tasted sumptuous.

“How old is this?” Devilishly smiling, Mr Chu tapped the table with his short finger. I had seen those tables in the Forbidden City where the guide would make a point of saying they were not antiques but fake. With the Cultural Revolution everything was gone. Where? He didn’t know.

“No nails or glue.” the Emperor added proudly.

“And it’s from tree grown on the Hainan Island.” translated Tim.

The only thing I could remember from the tropical island of China, Hainan Island, was the overcrowded beaches with people offering live crocodiles for souvenir photos.  Not trees! And my knowledge of Chinese antiques was based on a few trips to Panjiayuan market in Beijing where the artefacts spread on newspaper in the street looked the same as the multi-million exhibits shown in glossy Sotheby's brochures. I was hoping to see original antiques in palaces across the country but instead I was finding empty rooms with bare walls and the occasional modern piece of furniture. The inventory at the tea room in Chengdu looked the same as the table and chairs Mr and Mrs Chu were using.

Considering there was no protection on the surface of the table, like a cloth or tray to put the hot teapot on, I guessed that the wood, even though it looked so nice, wasn’t that old.  

“The table must be younger then you.”

And the corner of his lips, tightly closed until now, opened up showing teeth in a variety of yellow hues. I felt stupid. Tim took his jacket off and started translating very fast.

“Ming Dynasty, 300 to 350 years old.  Mr Chu was working as architect in 1925 and was given a table and two chairs as a token for the good work he did preparing the city for its opening to the public for the first time.”

“Is the teapot from the Ming Dynasty too?”

“Oh no, no, no…we got it from our daughter for our wedding anniversary.”