by Elsa Hart
“Finally,” said the man. “I have caught you when the sun is setting, and it is too late for you to say you must hurry back to your business in the city. You will come to my house for dinner. My wife will be overjoyed, and would not forgive me if I permitted you to refuse.”
Chapter 16
“Li Du!” The cry came from behind a green hedge of silkworm thorn, from which emerged not one, but three children, who repeated Li Du’s name in a chirping chorus. Two boys, close in age, ran across the garden with reckless enthusiasm, followed by a younger girl who could not have been more than five years old. All three were dirt-smudged and bedecked in leaves that had caught in their clothes and hair.
They teetered to a halt in front of Li Du, who regarded them with a serious expression.
“What,” asked Li Du sternly, “were you doing tearing up the hedges of this beautiful garden?”
“We were escaping the ghosts,” answered the little girl.
“Through the secret tunnels,” said the smaller of the two boys, who seemed to think further explanation was required. “The ghosts don’t know about the secret tunnels, so they can’t follow us.”
Li Du accepted the answer with equanimity. Hamza cocked his head thoughtfully. “Running is a fine way to start,” he said. “But often, the best way to stop a ghost from chasing you is to turn around and ask it what it wants.”
As the children considered this, Hamza directed a questioning look at his friend. “These are my pupils,” said Li Du. He turned back to the children and addressed them in the tone of a disciplinarian. Their sparkling eyes and smiles made it clear that the affect didn’t convince any of them. “I hope,” he said, “that when you saw the acrobats on stage today, you studied their movements, and are prepared to apply your observations of form to your next calligraphy lesson?”
With obvious effort, giggles were repressed, and three heads nodded dutifully. But, liberated by the permissive atmosphere of celebration, the children could not contain their delight for long. In eager voices, they began to tell their guests about the day’s adventures.
“Li Du, you should have told us you were coming.” The words came from a woman who entered the courtyard through a keyhole door, on the other side of which another vibrant garden was illuminated by the sinking sun. She looked at the children, took in their muddy clothes and red cheeks, and smiled with rueful maternal indulgence. She herself was neatly attired in a robe of pale gray with a pattern of white flowers, cinched at the waist by a woven red belt. Over her shoulders she wore a blue shawl, and her hair was pinned up with flower pins in a matching blue. Though her face was youthful, hard years had marked their passage at the corners of her mouth, and several streaks of gray shone in her hair. Her curiosity when she beheld Hamza was almost instantly replaced by a delighted smile. “You must be the storyteller!” she said.
“My reputation,” said Hamza, bowing, “has spread to many lands.”
“Li Du has told us all about you,” she said. “I knew you at once.”
The children, who were of the age to know an adventurer of their imaginations when they saw one incarnated, stole shy, fascinated glances at Hamza. The woman returned her attention to Li Du. “There is no lesson scheduled until the end of the month,” she said. “What brings you to Mentougou?”
Hamza spoke first. “A crime,” he announced.
As if she had stepped into shadow, the radiance vanished from the woman’s face. Her eyes, full of worry, fixed on Li Du’s face.
“There is no danger here,” he said quickly. “The incident took place within the walls of the capital, at the Black Tile Factory. I was sent to speak to the master of the Glazed Tile Factory, who has some connection with the parties involved.”
“I see,” she said. “I hope Ji Daolong is not in any trouble? The children are always sneaking over the walls of the factory to collect shards with colored glaze on them. They seem far more fascinated by broken chips than with any of the fine vases in our own home.” Though she smiled, her face was drained of its previous brightness.
“Very wise,” said Hamza, who seemed eager to make up for the worry he had inspired. “Broken pieces are certainly more interesting than intact objects. I once found a relic in the desert, a chip of an ancient blade, which set me on a quest of three years to try to find the rest of it. Yet, when I had finally collected all the shards and restored the blade to its original form, I was disappointed to see that it was only a dull sword with no significant magical properties. The adventures I had while gathering the pieces—in them reposed the true value of the treasure.”
They were joined at this point by the man who had hailed them in the village square. He wore rough clothing that emitted a faint smell of sun-warmed hay and leather. His gaze moved across the faces of his children and came to rest on the woman with unselfconscious affection.
Li Du turned to Hamza. “I have not yet formally introduced you,” he said. “This is Cao Mei, and her husband, Cao Yun.” Waving away formalities, Yun ushered them to an inner courtyard, where four servants were setting out dishes on a long table. At the center were two large bowls of rice as bright as snow. As the number of dishes increased and savory aromas mingled, Hamza inhaled deeply and appreciatively. Green peppers gleamed in oil. Crisp-fried mint leaves covered plates heaped with spiced meat. Plump mushrooms cushioned slivered red peppers. Hamza sighed. “I have not seen such a magnificent table since I was invited to the feast of a princess celebrating her victory over a monster that had terrorized a kingdom,” he said. “And that food, which I believe incorporated choice pieces of the monster, did not appeal nearly so much as this.”
The little girl mouthed the word monster to one of her brothers, her eyes wide.
“It tasted best in the stew,” said Hamza.
“The village celebrations merit a special dinner,” said Mei. “Lacking monsters, we have made do with mushrooms,” she added with a smile. She nodded to the children, for whom places had been set. “We will all eat together, and you will be very respectful of our guests, even though Li Du is never as strict with you as he should be.”
There were nods and solemn promises, and the dinner began. Hamza, after tasting and praising each dish, turned to Li Du. “How did you become a tutor in this house?”
“That is a long story,” Li Du said. “But to share its most important point, Mei and Yun were the first to offer me hospitality on my return to Beijing and, by fortunate coincidence, they had three talented children in need of a calligraphy instructor.” Li Du infused the words with subtle finality and was relieved when Hamza did not ask further questions.
Yun surveyed his table, his family, and his guests with kindly, contented eyes. “What brought you to Mentougou today?” he asked Li Du.
It was Mei who answered. Mei frowned rarely, but when she did, the expression formed deep lines, testifying to a time in her life when her burdens had been heavier. “Li Du is investigating a crime committed in the capital,” she said. “He came to speak with Ji Daolong.”
Yun’s expression became concerned. “Can you tell us more, or is the matter confidential?”
Li Du was aware of the children’s rapt attention. “It is not confidential,” he said. “But the details are not for the ears of children. The matter should be resolved soon, but until it is, perhaps it would be best if they stopped climbing the walls into the Glazed Tile Factory.”
The children received a stern lecture. Once promises of obedience had been extracted from them, Mei turned to Li Du. “You are tired,” she said. “And we have kept you from resting your mind. Why are we discussing anxious subjects, when it is a day of celebration, and we have a storyteller among us?”
The words elicited trembling excitement from those present under the age of ten, who had been, it now seemed, waiting with barely contained impatience to question Hamza.
“Have you really been a pirate?”
“Did you really travel with the wild horse caravans?”
“Is it tr
ue that you know magic?”
Hamza smiled and straightened his shoulders. His chin tilted downward in the aristocratic posture that had become so familiar to Li Du during their travels. “Scholar,” said Hamza. “How can you bear to teach children with such ungoverned imaginations? What exaggerations have you been spreading about your friend, who is a very serious man?” Hamza looked apologetically at the children. “I am, by profession, a calculator of taxes,” he said. “Perhaps after dinner we can practice equations?”
His eager audience protested vehemently. Hamza’s eyes glinted. “Now that I turn my mind to it, I recall that I have sailed in a pirate ship,” he said. “A flying pirate ship,” he added. “I have also traveled with horse caravans that trade in jewels of hidden power. As for magic, I may have some experience with it.”
As the light faded, the candles and the eyes of the children grew brighter. The plates were refilled, the servants hovered delightedly in the doorways, and the day turned to night.
* * *
A light drizzle began to fall as Li Du and Hamza made their way back to the inn.
“Mei speaks with an accent I have not heard,” said Hamza.
“She comes from Jiangsu, in the distant south,” Li Du replied. “Her father traveled north and settled in the capital. She remained in the south with the man to whom she was betrothed.”
“Yun?”
Li Du shook his head and explained. “Mei has endured more pain than many. Yun is her second husband. She never speaks of her first marriage, but I know it was an unhappy one. Her father told me once, after many cups of wine, that of all his children, Mei was the one he had failed. He blamed himself for marrying his daughter to an unkind man. Perhaps it was not so terrible that her husband died, and yet to become a widow so soon after becoming a wife, and to lose her father not long after—” Li Du’s voice trailed into silence. “For all her grief,” he went on after a moment, “she has found happiness. I have never seen such a loving partnership between husband and wife.”
The silence that followed was broken at last by Hamza. “When we traveled together with the caravan of Kalden Dorjee, you spoke to me of a man called Shu, who was your teacher.”
Li Du started to speak, but found he could not. Hamza went on. “He taught you how to eliminate moisture from air, to mend pages with needle and thread, to banish the little creatures that eat words, hidden deep in shadowed shelves.”
Li Du’s mind returned to the last time he had spoken to Hamza about his past. They had been sitting beside the crumbling courtyard wall of a dusty inn, deep in the western mountains. Li Du had been holding a battered bowl gingerly between fingers stiff from cold, and lacerated by wooden saddles and kindling. He had told Hamza about the man whose crime had been the reason for Li Du’s exile, and also the reason for his return.
“Yes.” Li Du took off his hat and wiped the rain from his eyes. “Mei is Shu’s daughter.”
Chapter 17
The rain stopped and the sky cleared. Moonlight fell through the needles of a potted pine onto a stone table, on which stood two bottles. A third was propped above a brazier of glowing coals. As the only guests at the inn, Li Du and Hamza had the courtyard to themselves. They sat at the table opposite each other, Li Du studying his empty cup.
“When I met you,” said Hamza, “you missed your library so much that you walked its hallways in your dreams. It has been two years since you returned home. I was sure I would find you back in those hallways, arranging and rearranging books, humming to yourself, a contented bear in a cave.”
Li Du lifted one of the bottles and shook it. Finding it empty, he picked up the other one and, with a hand that was not quite steady, filled first Hamza’s cup, then his own. “Another Li Du, perhaps,” he said. “In another library.”
“It is a great sacrifice on my part,” said Hamza, “not to pursue this idea of numerous versions of the scholar Li Du. It brings to mind a story I once heard of a prism with unusual properties of multiplication. But witness my restraint, as I limit myself to the most obvious question. Why is this Li Du not in his library?”
Li Du took a long sip of wine. “Because it was closed. That section of the palace is no longer accessible to librarians or scholars from outside the palace walls. Even if I occupied the same position I used to, I would not be allowed there. I doubt it’s even a library anymore.”
“But why was it closed?”
Li Du took another sip, then lifted a hand and waved it in a vaguely explanatory gesture. “For reasons,” he said. “Official reasons.”
“My dear librarian,” said Hamza. “I speak many languages, but the language of bureaucrats is not among them. Make your answer more interesting, please. What official reasons?”
“Too many doors,” Li Du said. “Too many rooms. Too many dark corners. And all too near the Emperor. The library was an ideal place for secret meetings. Too ideal. A repetition of the events of the forty-first reigning year could not be risked. In that year, the library played host to nine conspirators who planned to kill the Emperor and restore the Ming heir to power.”
“They were obviously unsuccessful,” said Hamza.
Li Du traced a finger across the table, turning the spiky shadows of pine needles into a maze. “They came very close. By the time the final would-be assassin was struck down, only a single courtyard wall separated him from the garden in which the Emperor strolled.”
A light breeze made the shadows quiver, and Li Du turned his attention away from them. “The ensuing investigation did not last long. It led to the arrest of my teacher, Shu. And it ended—” Li Du picked up his cup again. “It ended at his public execution.”
“And you were sentenced to exile,” said Hamza. “For your friendship with him.”
Li Du did not appear to have heard Hamza’s words. “Shu never denied the accusation,” he said. “He confessed to treason.”
Hamza reached down to the brazier, lifted the warm bottle, and filled their cups again. “And you believed him, or convinced yourself that you did, until the spy we met in the snow told you that you, along with everyone else who accepted his guilt, had been misled. He told you Shu was innocent. So you decided to return, and prove that your teacher did not commit the crime for which he died.”
Li Du nodded, remembering the cold night on the far western border of the empire, and the voice that had hissed through the cutting mountain wind. Shu was innocent. At the time, Li Du had considered the possibility that he had lost his mind, that the whispering voice had not been that of a man, but of a ghost, telling Li Du what he had always, secretly, known. Shu was innocent.
Returning to the present, he watched steam blur the air above his cup. “I needed access to ministry records. I needed to know what the city knows: who has been found innocent, and who has been found guilty; who has lived, and who has died; who has power, and who defers to it. So I did what it is sometimes necessary to do in Beijing. I made use of a family connection. I obtained a job at the office of Chief Inspector Sun in the North Borough.”
“Is he a close relative?” asked Hamza.
Li Du did not look up. “No,” he said. “I wanted to avoid those relatives who would feel personally invested in my reintroduction to society, and those relatives who would pay close attention to my behavior.” He tripped slightly over his next words. “Chief Inspector Sun is the brother of An, my—She was my wife.”
“Your wife?” Hamza’s lips thinned to a line as he pressed them together in an obvious effort to control the torrent of questions now occurring to him. “Your wife,” he repeated.
“She is no longer my wife,” Li Du said. “She obtained permission to leave me after I was sentenced to exile. She has a new family now, and lives in the east.”
Hamza began to ask a question. To Li Du’s surprise and relief, he stopped himself. With an expression of supreme self-sacrifice, he motioned for Li Du to continue with his account. Nodding thanks, Li Du went on. “I explained to Sun that I was in need of a job, and
asked him to take me on as his assistant. I believe I convinced him that I was an eccentric, reclusive scholar.”
“My friend,” said Hamza. “You are an eccentric, reclusive scholar.”
Li Du’s answering smile was faint. “The situation has benefitted both of us. Sun obtained an assistant willing to do the paperwork he detests, and I obtained a position that gave me frequent excuses to run errands to the ministries. Each time I went to deliver a message, consult a case record, or review a statute, I searched for records connected to Shu’s trial.” He stopped to rub his tired eyes. “I had to be very careful,” he said. “It took me a year to find the relevant records, and it has taken me a year to read them, a few borrowed pages at a time.”
“And?”
“I read the transcript of Shu’s interrogation. I read reports on his family and friends. I read my own interrogation and sentence.” He paused, his mind filling with confused recollections of the past two years. How many invisible hours had he claimed in dim record rooms, when there had been no one to notice his absence from where he was supposed to be, or his presence where he wasn’t? How many files had he slipped quietly from their places? How many pages had he quietly turned? His fingertips had grown accustomed, as they had once been, to the varied texture of paper, his eyes to the infinite spectrum of black ink. No longer a librarian, but a lone voyager through the city’s archives, he had held tight to the thin thread of relevance that led him from one record to another, as if through a dark maze.
Some turns had led him to information that was new to him. Others had augmented his understanding of what he already knew—it was within this maze that he had read, with silent compassion, the official report submitted to the Emperor from a Jiangsu magistrate, detailing the tragic circumstances of the death of Mei’s first husband. Still others had taken him to painful reminders of all that he wanted to forget, and never would. He had been confronted with the record of the dissolution of his marriage, at the request of his wife’s family, and the subsequent record of permission being granted for her to remarry.
