by Elsa Hart
“Ah,” said Father Calmette, breaking in. “I can explain that. We have a young man employed here as one of our clerks. The day after the storm, we were lamenting the damage to the roof. I must say, Li Du, that while my affection for this city will never abate, I have learned in my years here that building construction is not always effected in the most efficient manner. This is understandable. There is always so much of it happening. We were indulging, I confess, in complaints unworthy of guests who have received such lavish hospitality in a foreign place. The young clerk I mentioned—his name is Hu Erchen—overheard us, and informed us that his father is the manager at the Black Tile Factory. It was at his suggestion that we sent Father Aveneau to commission the tiles, hoping to speed the repair.”
“Hu’s son works for you here?”
“He does. We call him by his given name, Erchen. Would you like to speak to him?”
Li Du considered the question briefly, then nodded. “I believe the chief inspector would want me to talk to anyone with a connection to the factory,” he said.
“Certainly, certainly,” said Father Calmette. “But I will warn you. The poor boy is one of your exam candidates this year. He is usually more articulate than you will find him today.”
The three of them left the church and entered one of the side buildings. Li Du was relieved to be ushered into a room cheerfully cluttered with books, globes, brushes, and candles burned down to solid pools of wax in bronze candlesticks. A profusion of papers were stacked like cliff faces against the walls.
The room appeared to be empty. Closer scrutiny revealed a still figure slumped over one of the desks. Father Calmette shook his head, wearing a concerned expression, and advanced quietly. Li Du saw that it was a young man in blue robes, with a hat that had fallen from his head and rested on the desk. His cheek was pressed to the paper in front of him, and he was asleep.
At Father Calmette’s touch on his shoulder, the head shot up, revealing a cheek smeared with ink. The young face was gaunt and drained from exhaustion. Words bubbled from him. “When I see the green vase at the end of the hallway, I read the inscription on the base, and it contains the fourth chapter of the Doctrine of the Mean, which says—” He began to rifle the papers on his desk in desperation. “Which says,” he whispered. “Which says—” He lifted wild eyes to meet Li Du’s. “Is it today?”
“No,” Li Du said gently. “There are still nine days until the examinations.”
The young man moaned and dropped his head into his hands. Then, suddenly realizing that Li Du was his elder, and probably his superior, he scrambled to his feet. “Sir,” he said. “My apologies.” He bowed to Father Calmette and Father Aveneau, clearly confused.
“There is no apology necessary,” Li Du said. “I took the exams myself, once upon a time.”
The young man’s expression was easy to read. At that point, he wanted nothing more than to be in Li Du’s position, in the position of anyone who had passed the exams, no matter what their current circumstances.
“This is Li Du,” said Father Calmette. “He came from the North Borough Office to speak to Father Aveneau.”
Hu Erchen looked up with worried eyes. “About the murders?”
Li Du nodded. “Yes. You are the son of Hu, the manager at the Black Tile Factory?”
“Yes.”
“I assume your father has told you what happened.”
Erchen nodded. “He says they think it was Hong who killed them, the owner of the factory.”
“And does your father believe it?”
“I don’t know. I—the story is so awful. Of what happened. I keep thinking it was one of my dreams, or something a fortune-teller told me. My mind is so full of texts. But it’s true? Madam Hong and Pan are dead?”
Li Du nodded. “Did you know them?”
Erchen shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. “I’ve seen Madam Hong. And Pan—I’ve met him. But I didn’t know them.”
Li Du hesitated, unwilling to scare the young man unnecessarily. “Since you have a connection to the factory, I must ask, only as a formality, where you were the night before last.”
“I—” Erchen blinked, and Li Du watched his face turn even paler. “I was at home, studying. I am always at home studying if I am not here. But I—I can’t really remember. All the nights have begun to seem like the same night, one long night, until the examinations. I’m sorry. I can’t think very well.”
“I have not forgotten what it is like to be in your position,” said Li Du. “Be at ease. Your answers were clear enough.”
“Perhaps,” said Father Calmette kindly, “you have stayed here long enough for today. You have attended to your duties very well. If Li Du is satisfied with your answers, I suspect you would like to devote the afternoon to your own studies?”
“Yes,” breathed Erchen. “Yes, yes, I would. Thank you. Thank you.” He bowed and made his way out of the room, his thin shoulders hunched and his hat askew, the full satchel misshapen by sharp corners of books.
When he was gone, Father Calmette began to organize the papers scattered across his desk. “I am concerned about that young man,” he said. “I have seen many examination candidates over the years, but none have—what is your saying? None have ground through the ink stone with as much ferocity as that one.” His rheumy blue eyes indicated the door through which Erchen had passed. “Don’t you think so, Father Aveneau?”
Father Aveneau, who did not appear to have been listening, asked Father Calmette to repeat what he had said.
“I was saying that we are concerned about Erchen.”
“Erchen? Oh, yes.”
“When he is not working,” went on Father Calmette, “he speaks of dreams and omens.”
“All the candidates are anxious,” said Li Du mildly. “Six thousand have come to take the exams, and no more than two hundred and fifty can pass.”
“So few?”
“Those who pass are guaranteed an official position, and there are only so many official positions to be given.”
“How fortunate the three of us have reached a time in our lives when we can read what we want to read without fear that someone will make us recite what we have learned,” said Father Calmette, resting a contented gaze at a shelf piled high with books. “But I have not asked you about your spectacles! Have they been of use to you?”
“Of great use,” said Li Du. He opened his bag and drew out the small wooden box in which he kept them. A little over a year ago, he had been persuaded to assist the Jesuits with a Chinese translation of Aesop’s Fables. At the conclusion of the project, Father Calmette had presented Li Du with the spectacles, having noticed Li Du’s tendency to stand up at his desk and look down at the pages from a distance.
“They do not strain your eyes? Here. Read something for me now and allow me to observe.”
Obediently, Li Du put on the spectacles. Then, casting about for something to read, he picked up one of the pages from the corner of the desk. “‘Beijing is composed of two cities,’” he read. “‘The first, in which stands the Emperor’s palace, is called the city of the Manchu. The second is the city of the Chinese.’”
He stopped abruptly. “I apologize. I did not mean to read a personal letter.”
Father Calmette chuckled. “A personal letter? What an idea! You must know that all our letters are read by the censors. Read on, and you will see.”
Li Du heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced at Father Aveneau. If the priest had not been attentive before, he was now. His strange green eyes were fixed on the paper Li Du held. Li Du looked back at Father Calmette, who gestured for him to continue.
“‘The two cities join one another,’” he read. “‘And each is four leagues round.’” The phrase four leagues had been struck through with a thin line, and beside it was written, in Chinese, a simple command to “remove specific distances.”
“We are never sure what we will be instructed to change,” said Father Calmette. “Which is why we mu
st send draft upon draft to your censors, and recopy draft after draft until one is deemed acceptable. Four leagues? What harm, I wonder, is there in conveying to our patrons and superiors the length and breadth of these remarkable walls?”
Li Du continued to scan the letter, in part because it was interesting to see the arrangement of Beijing explained by a foreigner, and in part because he wondered what was making Father Aveneau watch him so intensely.
All the great streets which are drawn by a line from one gate to another have a body of guards in them. These soldiers, who have the power to take all persons who make the least disturbance into custody, stand night and day with their swords drawn. The smaller streets, which come into the greater, have gates made in the form of a lattice through which all persons who pass along are seen. The lattice gates are shut at night, by the soldiers, and opened for none but those who can give a good account of themselves. No person is permitted to ramble about in the night.
“We must not forget that we are committed to teach at the Observatory today,” said Father Aveneau.
“Ah! Of course!” Father Calmette tapped the side of his head lightly with one finger and gave a self-deprecating smile. “A lesson in armillary spheres. But do not think less of me, Li Du. I may not remember the hour, but I can still chart the heavens. You must promise to visit more often. Do not let another year go by. And in regard to your present task, I pray: ‘In everything we do, O Lord, give us a desire to seek out the truth.’”
Chapter 9
Li Du bought a bowl of noodles from a street stall outside Xuanwu, one of three gates set in the wall that divided the Inner from the Outer City. He ate quickly but appreciatively, and continued south into the bustling streets of Liulichang, a neighborhood so popular that it regularly tempted Bannermen out of their luxurious Inner City homes, down to the Outer City in search of entertainment. Its central thoroughfare was a confusion of horses, mules, carts, sedan chairs, and the occasional camel. Outside shops and at alley intersections, there was a perpetual swelling and ebbing of crowds, gambling on games of cups and balls, consulting fortune-tellers, or purchasing potions from doctors eager to describe the promised effects of their tinctures.
Of the numerous bookstores that, in addition to antiques, characterized the commercial atmosphere, Wu’s was the smallest. The door was covered by a single panel of white cloth, which was always clean, and had the word book painted at its center in blue. It was squeezed between an antique store, from which spilled piles of burnished relics, and a tea shop that displayed its stock, dried and pressed into disks the size of plates, in stately rows on shelves.
Li Du had to squeeze through a knot of customers in order to enter. They were all unmistakably exam candidates, pinched, drained-looking men who seemed to be following each other, each wanting to know what the others thought it was important to buy, and each too study-addled to remember what they had come in to purchase themselves. Through the milling hats and shoulders, Li Du signaled a greeting to the bookseller, Wu Yingfen, who sat behind a desk piled high with neat stacks of papers and volumes.
“Li Du!” called Wu. “Are you here for the Gazette?”
“I need a book,” Li Du said, but his inherently quiet voice apparently failed to reach Wu, who cupped a hand behind an ear and shook his head. Li Du pointed toward the shelves.
Wu’s mouth opened in an ah of understanding. He smiled and raised an eyebrow, his expression promising gentle mischief. “Gentlemen!” he called out. He lifted three thin, identical volumes up in the air. “I have just received three copies of the thirty-second reigning year examination questions, complete with the winning answers! These are the last—”
There was a rush to the desk. Li Du braced himself against the force of movement that threatened to knock him over. Amid the cacophony of claims and arguments, he made his way to the now accessible shelves. He found what he was looking for between a collection of ghost stories—the third of five volumes—and an edition of a popular parody. He waited for the frenzy to die down, then took the book to the front of the store.
“Thank you,” he said to Wu.
“They’re losing their minds,” said the bookstore owner. “If they aren’t trying to memorize another five books in the days they have remaining, they’re drinking too much and acting like fools at salacious operas. If I wasn’t doing such good business, I’d close the store and go visit my brother in the country.”
Li Du doubted it. Wu was as attached to his store as a bird to its nest. On the rare occasions that Li Du saw him out of it, the bookseller seemed highly conscious of his exposure to the unpredictable currents of the city. Within his store, he was at ease. Now he picked up the book Li Du had selected and raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never known you to take an interest in frivolous novels,” he said.
“Is it really so frivolous? I heard that it was recently discussed at a literary gathering.”
Wu directed a disbelieving look at the cover. “Not a high-minded gathering, I assume. A literary discussion of a book intended only for diversion? What could there be to discuss?” He shrugged and set the book down. “But there are radishes and cabbages—people have their preferences. If you find something of interest in this tangle of capers and crimes, please tell me. Perhaps I missed an allusion.”
He placed his hand on a neat pile of slim volumes beside him. Their covers were yellow, and Gazette was printed in red on the front. “I assume you would also like one of these?” At Li Du’s nod, Wu slid a copy across the desk. “The only exciting news this month is the return of Prince Yinzao.”
“From the north? He has been gone a long time.”
“Almost nine years,” said Wu. “Out of favor, rumor has it, but perhaps back in it now? There are grand festivities and parades planned for his welcome.”
“Are there?” Li Du did not follow closely the numerous celebrations connected to the Emperor’s twenty-two princes, which multiplied the holidays on the city calendar so significantly that it sometimes felt as if there were more festival days than regular days.
“Between that and the examinations, the city will be quite busy,” said Wu. Perceiving Li Du’s lack of interest, Wu added, “And there is a discussion of the storm. You know that lightning struck the foreign church?”
“I have seen the damage. At least there was no fire.”
Both men glanced at the shelves with a book lover’s unease at the thought of flame. Li Du opened his satchel, removed several copper coins from their string, and gave them to Wu. “Is it correct?”
“It’s too much for a favorite customer,” said Wu, and handed one of them back. “Someone has been asking for you.”
“Who?” Li Du was only mildly curious. Former acquaintances sometimes sought him out, eager to learn what had happened to him during his exile, and what exactly he had done to inspire the Emperor to end it. Some wanted to increase their social currency with gossip; others hoped he had some influence at court that could be useful to them, or some weakness that they might exploit. His answer was the same one he had given the clerks at the North Borough Office. The Emperor is merciful.
“I had never seen him before,” said Wu. “I don’t think he was Chinese or Manchu. Ah, I can see that piques your interest.”
Li Du met Wu’s inquisitive look without a change in his own expression. “Are you sure I was the one he wanted to find? What did he say?”
“He asked if I knew the librarian called Li Du. I told him the Li Du I know is a secretary at the North Borough Office, and that he could look you up in the register if he wanted.” Wu indicated the copy he had on his desk of the book listing all public employees, their occupations, and their places of residence. “Someone you met during your travels, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Li Du said. “Did he say anything else?”
“He said he was personal friends with the author of this book.” Wu tapped the cover of a yellowed tome.
Li Du looked at it. “The author of that book is unknown.”
> “That is exactly what I told him.”
“It was also written three hundred years ago.”
“I told him that, too. It’s a good thing the fellow didn’t seem to be visiting in the hope of passing the examinations. Do you know who it might be?”
Li Du rubbed the back of his neck and tried to look disinterested. “I can’t think of anyone,” he said finally. He thanked Wu and left the store. Under the hot sun, the muddy edges of puddles had become cracked and pale. Li Du had to move at a shuffle with pedestrians and riders packed between the balustrades of marble bridges. Sedan chairs, lacquered and decorated with swinging silk tassels, lumbered through the crowds, cotton robes clinging to the sweating shoulders of the sedan bearers.
A bright red spot amid the brown and gray clutter of leaves and mud caught his attention and made him stop. He stared at the tiny pool at the edge of the street, his thoughts suddenly saturated with the seeping color. His gaze shifted upward to where the decapitated body of a rat dangled at knee height from a length of twine strung beside the door of a dumpling stall. The proprietor, following Li Du’s look, indicated a roughly painted sign above the little body. A warning to all rodents who conspire to enter my shop. He pointed invitingly at the dumplings sizzling in a pan. Li Du swallowed, shook his head, and hurried away. Feeling tired, he adjusted his hat and shifted his heavy satchel to a more comfortable place on his shoulders. It was the hour of the goat, and the day was far from over.
Chapter 10
As usual, Li Du was able to enter the North Borough Office quietly. The soldiers posted outside glanced at him with brief, apathetic recognition, and the outer door stood open wide enough for him to slip through without provoking its worn, creaking hinges. Within the outer wall, three buildings faced a barren courtyard. To the left stood the long, drafty hall occupied by the clerks and their desks. Directly ahead was a reception hall with a faded countenance and a somnolent droop to its tiered roof. Li Du bore right across the courtyard to the third building, which contained his little office, appended like a closet to that of the chief inspector.
