by Elsa Hart
Hamza twisted in his saddle to look at his friend. “You seem to know this path well. You have ridden it before?”
“I have.”
The storyteller’s gaze remained on his friend for a long moment before he turned back to the road. “You were not so reserved when I knew you as the little patchwork scholar of the mountains,” he said. “What has this city done to make you so quiet?”
Li Du gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “The city is not to blame. On the contrary, I have been given ample opportunities to reenter something close to the life I once knew.” He hesitated, thinking of the courtyard conversations he had avoided, the invitations he had ignored, and the family ties he had neglected. “I have gone to some trouble to be left alone,” he said finally. “I’ve become unused to answering questions.”
“I noticed,” said Hamza. “And I will tell you that nothing good ever came of being invisible. I have a story to illustrate this point—” He stopped himself. “But it will keep. You have answered one question. Now answer another. Why do you know this road?”
“I know it,” Li Du said slowly, “because I occasionally teach calligraphy to the children of a family outside Mentougou.”
Hamza gave an approving nod. “Good. Now that we have cured you of your reticence, I have several other small questions. They are as follows. First, why aren’t you in your library? Second, and related to the first, why is a man who saved the life of an emperor employed as a humble secretary? Third, why did you send me through the sandy deserts to fetch for you a single, priceless volume? Fourth, have you discovered the answer to—”
“We are here,” interrupted Li Du, drawing his horse to a stop outside a building with a cheerfully listing patio. At the base of a dusty set of stone stairs, a huge cauldron sat over a fire, savory clouds advertising its contents. From inside the courtyard came the regular sound of a knife cutting rice dough into noodles, as steady as a ticking clock.
Hamza abandoned his demands with a mutinous scowl, but was soon distracted by the food and company. Though they finished their soup quickly, they remained behind long enough for Hamza to conclude, for the benefit of rapt customers, his account of a puzzle involving ravens, which was solved at last by a clever vizier in the court of a king.
Chapter 15
The Glazed Tile Factory was built on a green hill, at the base of which was a village. After they had made arrangements at the Mentougou inn and settled their horses in its stable, Li Du and Hamza walked up a winding path to a wall draped like a necklace over the hilltop. The servant manning the gate escorted them up and over the crest of the hill to the other side.
Like its counterpart within the capital, the factory bustled with laborers at work processing clay, cutting tiles, and tending fires. But unlike the Black Tile Factory, which was tightly constrained by the city that surrounded it, the Glazed Tile Factory seemed to have grown out of the hill. Where the Black Tile Factory gave an impression of gray solidity, the Glazed Tile Factory was a place of color. Miniature mountains of tiles gleamed yellow and green. Mythical creatures, ready to be fitted to roof ridges, presided in glassy coats of glaze.
The servant brought them to an airy room in a building nestled in the dappled shade of an elm, away from the smoke and clamor. The interior was furnished like an office, but its original function appeared to have been abandoned in favor of other activities. Tools, their handles and blades obscured by chipped layers of dried clay, were arranged on shelves built for books. The floor was patterned by the bristle marks of a broom scraped through clay dust. One corner of the room was occupied by a man bent over a spinning potter’s wheel. His right hand was concealed within the vessel that rotated at the wheel’s center. His left moved steadily up the clay, controlling its liquid shape with steady fingertips.
“Master Ji,” said the servant. Receiving no response, he repeated the name.
The man did not look up from his work. “Has Lao made the fire too hot again?”
“There are two officials from the capital here to see you.”
The object on the wheel, which had taken the form of a vase, wobbled and collapsed. The man raised his head and fastened anxious eyes on Li Du and Hamza. Observing Ji Daolong for the first time, Li Du could not help but note the stark contrast between the two factory owners. Where Hong had embraced the businessman’s access to society’s elite, Ji was clearly a man of his craft. His lean torso was offset by powerful arms and shoulders. His hands and arms were gloved in watery clay. The silver hair at his temples was singed from frequent dealings with fire. Li Du guessed his age to be around fifty.
“I didn’t expect a ministry representative so soon,” said Ji, before Li Du could introduce himself. He stood up, washed his hands in a basin of water, strode to a desk, and began shuffling papers. “I had intended to be more prepared for your arrival, but there have been so many contracts this season that I have not had the time. I must beg your patience. If I could have one more week to—”
“I think you misunderstand,” said Li Du. “I have come, with my assistant, from the North Borough Office. I was sent by Chief Inspector Sun to interview you in connection with a criminal investigation.”
“Investigation?” Ji stared. “What crime has been committed?”
Li Du hesitated. It seemed that Ji had not been told of his friend’s death. Ji, comprehending that his visitors had not come to review contracts, left the papers on the desk and began to clear two chairs of clutter. He instructed the servant hovering at the door to prepare and serve tea, and invited Li Du and Hamza to sit.
“You were expecting someone from a ministry,” said Li Du, taking the chair that was proffered. Hamza, ignoring the other chair, began a leisurely inspection of the room.
Ji sat down on the stool by the potter’s wheel. “The Ministry of Rites has scheduled an audit of their construction contracts, but I was not expecting a representative until next week. I intended, by that time, to have the contracts in their proper order. In my anxiety, I gave you a disrespectful welcome, for which I apologize.” He glanced uncertainly at Hamza, who was perusing a small collection of porcelain vases displayed on a table, then turned back to Li Du. “You say that a crime has been committed?”
Li Du leaned forward, holding Ji’s gaze with his own. It was a gesture of sympathy that allowed him to watch the other man’s reaction closely. “I am sorry to inform you that your friend, Pan Yongfa, is dead.”
“Dead.” Ji echoed the word with apparent bewilderment. Then his eyes widened. “Pan is dead? But how? When?”
“His body was discovered three days ago in the office of the Black Tile Factory.”
“You must mean there was an accident. A fire?”
“His death was not an accident.”
“Are you saying he was—Pan was—”
Li Du nodded. “It is a case of murder.”
“I cannot believe it.” Ji’s fingers beat a nervous tap on his knees. “How did it happen?”
Because Sun had instructed him that there was no reason to withhold the basic details of the crime, Li Du provided a succinct account of the discovery of the bodies. He concluded by informing Ji that Hong had been arrested.
When he finished, Ji let out a long breath. “I see,” he said. “I see.” He looked down at his hands, staring at the white tracings that had settled into the lines of his palms. “Pan may have washed the clay dust from his hands, but he was an Anhui man. His family will want him brought home.”
Two servants arrived carrying tea trays, and a period of silence followed while cups were arranged and filled. When they were gone, Li Du spoke. “While the circumstances suggest that Hong is the culprit, there has been no confession. Because of this, the chief inspector wishes to make broad inquiries. He sent me here to speak with you because, according to Pan’s concubine, Lady Ai, you and he were close friends.”
Li Du perceived a fleeting hint of displeasure in Ji’s expression. “Close friends?” Ji shook his head. “In her distress, Lady
Ai must have misrepresented the strength of our connection. Pan was an Anhui man, and Anhui men support each other when they are far from home. But we have not been close friends since I left Anhui—nearly thirty years ago. Pan was still a boy, and I was barely old enough to be called a man.”
Li Du withdrew his notebook and stylus from his satchel as Ji continued. “Our families were friends. I was already an apprentice at my father’s kiln when Pan began coming over to watch us work. I taught him to throw bowls. He was only a small child, but he had a good sense for clay. I thought he would run a kiln of his own one day. But his family knew he was clever, and decided he was destined for the exams. He disappeared into the classroom, and I eventually traveled here to work for my uncle.” Ji glanced through the window at laborers stacking tiles. “When my uncle died, I became the owner.”
“You must have seen Pan when he came to take the examinations.”
Ji considered this. “I don’t recall that I did. He had already passed them when I saw him next. I went back to Anhui to be with my mother, who was ailing, and to mourn her when she died. I saw him then.”
“And soon after that, Pan was assigned to the capital.”
Ji picked up a fist-sized ball of clay and began to roll it into a sphere between his palms. “About three years ago. He came to visit. I set him up with a few connections, but he didn’t need much from me. He was an official with a coveted job in the capital.”
“Then you didn’t see him often over the past three years?”
Ji shook his head. “We dined together occasionally, when I had business in the city.”
“You visited his home?”
“Once or twice. But Pan preferred to meet at a restaurant called The Green Door, in the opera district. It makes a good Anhui dish.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Ji hesitated. “I did see him a few days ago. How many was it? Five, I think. There was a party.” A thought seemed to occur to him, and his eyes widened. “Of course, that is more significant now. It was at the home of Hong Wenbin.”
“You mean the literary party,” said Li Du.
“Yes.”
“Then you know Hong well?”
Ji shook his head vigorously at this. “Only professionally. Roofs need black tiles to keep out the rain, and they need glazed tiles to make them beautiful. We often collaborate on contracts. I was only invited to his social gatherings when the invitation list was extensive. There must have been forty or fifty guests that day.”
“There was a book assigned for discussion,” said Li Du. “I have forgotten the title. Do you remember?”
“Yes, a book.” Ji’s tone was vague. “I didn’t read it. As I said, I’ve been very busy this season. I wouldn’t have attended the party at all, except that I was in the capital that day, and thought my absence might be taken as an offense. Was it something about a pear?”
“It was called The Bitter Plum.”
“A plum, of course. I remember now. The title reminded me of the master who taught me my craft. He told me that a man who works with glaze should be able to produce every color that appears in the flesh of a fruit, capturing both hue and translucence.” He looked as though he would continue, but then, seeming to recall the grave subject of the conversation, lapsed into silence, waiting for Li Du’s next question.
“Then the last time you saw Pan was at that party,” said Li Du. “Did you and he speak?”
“Only briefly. We exchanged pleasantries.”
“Did he mention anything unusual, or confide anything to you?”
Ji considered the question before he answered. “No,” he said finally. “He was enjoying himself. It was a pleasant afternoon, until the storm.”
“What is your opinion of Hong?”
“Hong? He is more a businessman than a craftsman. Even though we both make tiles, we do not have much in common.”
“Have you ever seen him behave violently?”
“Hong drinks too much. Everyone he knows has seen him behave violently.”
“Then you would believe him capable of this crime?”
Ji replied quickly. “Certainly I would. Hong was jealous of all his possessions, his beautiful wife among them.”
“You knew Madam Hong?”
“I met her at a New Year celebration some years ago, and have seen her at one or two parades in the capital.”
“What did you know about her, other than that she was beautiful?”
Ji took his time with the question. “It would not surprise me to learn she had secrets.” He set down the sphere of clay and picked up a porcelain bowl from the shelf behind him. He turned it, causing a flash of light to travel slowly around its interior. “When glaze is fired at a low heat, it does not become one with the clay beneath it. Madam Hong gave the same impression. Her face and her thoughts were not as closely connected as they are for some people.” Ji looked at the bowl, the outside of which bore, in sepia and rose enamel, an illustration of wild geese among reeds. “I also know that she had fine taste in art,” he said. “Hong displayed their collections proudly, but it was Madam Hong who found the treasures.”
“And Pan never spoke of her to you?”
“No, but as I have said, we were not that close. I would not have expected him to confide something so personal to me. I don’t know why he would have pursued a married woman when there are many beautiful actresses and concubines in the capital, not to mention his own Lady Ai. But again, I did not know him well.”
“Were you in the city two nights ago?”
“No. I was here, working. The renovation of the examination complex has demanded more time than anyone anticipated. The tiles are only now ready to be taken from their kiln. I’ll be overseeing their placement the day before the exams begin, though I would not have chosen to complete the work so near the deadline.”
“I was told by Hong’s manager that the tiles required were not the standard size.”
“Just so.” Ji’s expression warmed a little. “You must have been speaking with Hu. He’s a good man for the job. I would hire him here, if the Black Tile Factory closes.”
Li Du became aware of a gentle clattering sound coming from one corner. He turned to see Hamza standing over a basket, shifting its contents between his fingers. When Hamza noticed that he had attracted attention, he withdrew an object and held it to the light. It was a round piece of ceramic, not much larger than a pebble, glazed a soft white.
Ji stood up. “A project of mine,” he said as he crossed the room to where Hamza stood. “In every dynasty, emperors have challenged master glazers to produce colors to their specifications. The color you are holding was requested by the Xuanzong Emperor, who believed that the humblest colors were the most beautiful. He asked for a vase the color of steam from a rice pot, when the sky behind it is cold and blue.”
Hamza looked delighted. “But that is exactly expressed,” he said. “A marvelous accomplishment.”
“My family did not earn renown by making thousands of black and yellow roof tiles,” said Ji. “My ancestors made tiles for the emperors of the past in the great southern capital. Climb to the top of a hill in Nanjing, and you will see rainbows and gardens of color, protected from wind and rain and time. They will not fade. Such splendor is not known here.”
Li Du had also risen, and was scanning the shelves near where Hamza and Ji stood. On them were bowls and boxes of various size and color, containing rocks and powders. He was about to speak, when the sound of a footstep announced someone at the door. They all turned to see a laborer whose face was smudged with soot. He bowed apologetically and addressed Ji. “We are concerned about the temperature of the fire in the eighth kiln.”
Ji’s face tensed. He addressed himself to Li Du. “With the greatest respect, if you are satisfied with my answers, I beg you to let me attend to this matter. The early stages of firing are critical.”
Li Du said he had no more questions to ask at present. They left the room together, Ji lo
cking it behind them with a heavy padlock. Ji made his excuses and hurried ahead, leaving Li Du and Hamza to follow at a more measured pace. They crested the hill, and saw Ji come to a halt at an earthen kiln with a roaring fire at its mouth. The kiln master began to shout instructions at the laborers, who were feeding branches into the flame. Smoke and sparks surrounded them, causing the workers to turn away and wipe their streaming eyes. Ji, seemingly impervious to heat, kept his attention on the fire. He turned only once to watch Li Du and Hamza go, his expression unreadable through the smoke.
The sun was low when they arrived at the outskirts of the village. “I think he was hiding something,” said Hamza. “Why did he lock the room behind us when we departed?”
“Because,” Li Du answered, “the contents of those bowls and boxes were more valuable than an equal amount of gold.”
Hamza appeared interested. “But they looked like bowls of powder and humble rocks.”
“They don’t reveal their color until they are made into glaze,” Li Du replied. “But I have seen illustrations and read descriptions. Those were rare agates, so rare that they are reserved, like the finest fruits and silks, exclusively for imperial use.”
“Ah,” said Hamza. “The obvious conclusion is that he is a prince in disguise.”
“Alternatively,” said Li Du mildly, “he has a supplier willing to circumvent the rules.”
They had entered the village square, in which the residents were just concluding a celebration of the birthday of the local deity. A stage on which a play had just been performed was being dismantled, the potted chrysanthemums carried away. They had almost reached the inn when a shouted greeting from the edge of the square stopped them.
They turned to see a man crossing the square toward them at a rapid stride, evading with easy movements, in spite of his significant height, the villagers, monks, and acrobats moving through the space. He was soon close enough for Li Du to recognize the rigid features, which were softened by a gentle steadiness of expression.
