Chapter 25 Bamboo Marks
The rain in Changan always carried a muddy smell that would not wash away.
I squatted in a corner of Liulichang, wiping newly gathered old things with a wet cloth.
Among a pile of dusty bronze and jade, there was a bamboo-woven trinket the size of a palm. It felt light in my hand. It was a crooked cat, one ear missing a corner, its tail broken too. Somehow the bamboo skin had been rubbed bright, with a warm layer of patina.
"You're taking in this piece of junk too?
" The neighboring stall owner leaned over and spat from his pipe.
"A man out of the palace the other day said they cleared some old things from behind Taiji Hall.
There were bamboo-woven pieces among them.
They said... they said they were left by the late Lord Consort. "
My fingertip paused. The wet cloth smeared a patch of water across the belly of the Bamboo Cat.
The late Lord Consort's surname was Wen.
That was something even a three-year-old in Changan knew.
The histories wrote that he was "virtuous and loyal, assisting the late Emperor in settling the nation." They did not mention that he had been a man, and they did not mention why he had hanged himself in the Heavenly Prison.
I only heard the old people in the streets say that on the day that Lord Consort died, peach-blossom snow fell over Changan.
The late Emperor held his corpse and sat in the Heavenly Prison for three days and three nights.
The blood on the dragon robe tangled with the falling peach petals, red like a fire that would not burn out.
"I heard," the neighboring stall owner lowered his voice, knocking his pipe bowl against his shoe with a hard rap, "that in his late years the late Emperor often stared blankly at a bamboo-woven cat. That cat looked just like the one in your hand. It was missing an ear too."
I tucked the Bamboo Cat into my robe and fished out a few copper coins for the seller.
The road home had to cross Vermilion Bird Avenue. When I passed the old site of Wen Manor, I saw several craftsmen putting up scaffolding. They said the new emperor meant to build a Shrine of Remembered Worthies here, to house the spirit tablets of the Wen Clan.
Sunset fell on the broken walls. Weeds in the brick seams were gilded. For a moment they looked like the histories' account of the Wen household in its full glory.
At night I had a dream.
I dreamed I stood in the study of the Eastern Palace. Candlelight wavered, filling the room with sandalwood.
A youth in a moon-white brocade robe was bent over the desk, weaving something from bamboo strips. The slats cut his fingers until they bled, and he did not seem to notice.
Beside him sat a young master in a black long shirt, copying scripture with his head lowered. The brush tip hung over the paper, but his gaze had fallen into the youth's hair, with a helpless smile.
"So clumsy," the young master in the long shirt reached out and snatched the bamboo strips. "You can prick your hand even weaving a cat, and you still want to learn to weave a Rabbit Lantern?"
The youth looked up and laughed, showing two small fangs. "Then teach me. When I learn, I'll weave you a Rabbit Lantern, prettier than the ones at the lantern festival."
The young master in the long shirt said nothing. He only picked up the scissors and carefully trimmed the hangnail from the youth's fingertip.
Candlelight jumped on their joined hands, warm like spring sun.
When I woke, rain was falling outside the window. The Bamboo Cat in my arms had been warmed by my body.
I touched its missing ear and suddenly remembered what the neighboring stall owner had said, that before the late Emperor died, he clutched that Bamboo Cat and said over and over, "Wen Yan, I learned how to weave a Rabbit Lantern."
After the rain stopped, I took the Bamboo Cat to the Imperial Mausoleum.
The old tomb keeper said the Lord Consort's cenotaph was inside, separated from the late Emperor's tomb by only a wall.
Every year at Qingming, someone would send two Rabbit Lanterns anonymously. One was pasted with plain white paper, one covered in bright yellow silk, hung side by side on the cypress before the tombs.
When the wind blew, they turned unsteadily, like two shadows that would not leave.
I set the Bamboo Cat before the tombstone of the Lord Consort. There were no words on the stone, only some blurred scratches, as if someone had drawn over them again and again with a fingernail. Years had passed, and a thin layer of moss had grown.
As I left, I heard the tomb keeper humming an old tune. The melody was soft like spring water in Jiangnan.
He said this was the piece the Lord Consort used to play. After the late Emperor took the throne, he ordered the score carved into the beams of Moon Gazing Tower. Later the tower collapsed, and the piece was lost.
"I heard," the old man narrowed his eyes, looking toward the distant green hills, "that around the time Young Master Wen left, the late Emperor shut himself in the tower and played this piece all day. Three strings snapped. His fingertips were all blood."
Wind passed through the cypress before the tombs and made a rustling sound, like someone answering in a low voice.
I looked back at that unmarked stone, then at the magnificent imperial tomb next to it. I suddenly felt that this wall between them might have been farther than the distance between life and death.
Back at Liulichang, I set the Bamboo Cat in the most visible place, and beside it a small wooden plaque that read, "Old thing. Not for sale."
A white-haired old eunuch passed by, saw the Bamboo Cat, and suddenly wept.
He said he had once served in the Eastern Palace, and had seen the Crown Prince hold this Bamboo Cat and wait for Young Master Wen in the snow for three hours.
"How good it was then," the old eunuch wiped his tears. "The Crown Prince was not yet a lonely emperor, and Young Master Wen was not yet..."
He did not finish. He only bowed deeply to the Bamboo Cat.
When the sun went down, the Bamboo Cat's shadow was pulled very long, falling on the bluestone like a shallow mark.
I touched the Bamboo Cat's missing ear and left it in the light.
Like that lost piece, like those two Rabbit Lanterns that appeared every year, and like this Bamboo Cat missing an ear.
They were all keeping, for the people who had missed each other, a stretch of time that could not be returned to.
Rain began to fall again, pattering on the dark tiles of Liulichang, like someone lightly plucking qin strings.
I put the Bamboo Cat into a wooden box and suddenly thought that perhaps one day someone who understood it would come, and take it to Jiangnan to look around.
I had heard the peach blossoms there bloomed more brilliantly year after year.