Xie Xianyu · Chat

On the ninth day of the ninth month, on Vermilion Bird Street, the autumn sun was just right. Xie Xianyu stood on the steps at the entrance of the Qingfeng Teahouse, a persimmon held in his hand. He didn't eat it—he only held it. Across the street was parked an unremarkable carriage with a black cloth canopy, its curtain hanging down; whoever sat inside was impossible to make out. He glanced at the carriage, neither walking over nor steering clear. He set the persimmon down on the stone lion beside the steps, brushed the dust from his hands, and turned to walk toward the end of the street. At the entrance of the tavern at the end of the street, Pei Que was leaning against a pillar with a newly opened jug of wine in his hand. Seeing Xie Xianyu walk over, he set the jug down on the table—without inviting him, and without telling him to go. Xie Xianyu sat down beside him and poured himself a bowl of wine. “You saw it?” Xie Xianyu asked. Pei Que didn't answer. He only lifted his chin a little, gesturing toward the carriage across from the teahouse. Xie Xianyu followed his gaze—the carriage was still there. But the corner of its curtain had stirred, as if someone inside had opened it a slit, then let it fall again. “He knows you're here,” Pei Que said. Xie Xianyu raised the wine bowl and took a sip, not answering. When the rim met his lips, he paused for a moment; then he took another sip and set it down. His voice was very soft: “He knows.” Across the street, by the window on the second floor of the teahouse, Shen Que had taken a seat at some point without anyone noticing. He leaned back in his chair, a bowl of tea at his hand, untouched; he only watched what was downstairs. Seeing Xie Xianyu and Pei Que sitting at the tavern entrance, he still didn't come down—he just turned the tea bowl in his hand once, rim facing outward. Pei Que saw the gesture. The corner of his mouth moved, and his voice dropped lower: “Your signal?” Xie Xianyu looked up at the tea bowl on the second-floor windowsill. The rim facing outward was the sign agreed upon between him and Shen Que: “all clear outside.” He withdrew his gaze, finished the rest of the wine in his bowl, and stood up. “A trip to the north of the city.” “Now?” Pei Que didn't get up; he only capped the jug and set it down on the table. “You only just got your people together today.” “Once they're together, it's time to move.” Xie Xianyu put the empty bowl back on the table and turned toward the street corner. Pei Que remained where he sat, watching him walk away. Only when the moon-white figure turned the corner did he reach out, pick up the empty bowl from the table, and turn it upside down. The bottom of the bowl pressed down on one corner of a slip of paper—one he had pushed across while Xie Xianyu was drinking. When Xie Xianyu reached the street corner, he paused one step. He didn't look back, but his hand reached behind him and took the slip of paper from the table with precision, tucking it into his sleeve. Then he kept walking. The roads in the north of the city were quieter than those in the south. Grass grew in the cracks between the bluestone slabs, and most of the shops on either side had their doors shut. Xie Xianyu didn't walk fast, but his steps never stopped. When he came to the side gate that had lain disused for years outside the eastern wall of the Crown Prince's residence, he stopped. The paint on the gate had peeled away, showing the whitened wood beneath. A slip of paper was wedged in the gap of the door, one corner sticking out an inch. He drew it out and unfolded it. On it were only two characters, written in a very steady hand—keep it. He stood there looking at those two characters for a while. Wind poured in from the mouth of the alley, stirring his sleeve and revealing the edge of an old scar on his left wrist. He folded the paper, put it into his sleeve, and turned to walk back. Not long after he left, the side gate was pushed open a crack from the inside. The person within saw the doorway empty and closed the gate again. When Xie Xianyu returned to Vermilion Bird Street, the black-cloth carriage was already gone. But the persimmon on the stone lion was still there. He walked over and picked it up—beneath the persimmon lay a slip of paper, smaller than the previous one, folded twice. He opened it: The tea has gone cold. Wen Jibai's handwriting. After reading it, he smiled once, tucked the persimmon into his sleeve, and turned toward the teahouse. At the foot of the stairs he met Shen Que coming down. Shen Que gave him a look: “You saw him?” “Saw him.” “What was his reaction?” Xie Xianyu reached into his sleeve and touched the slip that read “keep it”: “He told me to keep it.” Shen Que asked no more questions. He sidestepped to clear the stairwell and patted Xie Xianyu on the shoulder: “Save that persimmon for me. Don't eat it all by yourself.” Xie Xianyu didn't answer. He went upstairs and sat by the window. Sure enough, the pot of tea was still there, still warm. He poured himself a cup and held it without drinking right away. Outside the window, the sunlight was falling on the bluestone slabs of Vermilion Bird Street, and people came and went as if nothing had happened. Pei Que had already left. On the table at the tavern entrance only an upturned empty bowl remained, and where the paper had been pressed beneath its bottom, a faint crease was still left behind. The black-cloth carriage was gone too, and the persimmon from the stone lion had moved into his sleeve. Wen Jibai's note lay in his other sleeve, pressed against the paper that read “keep it” across a few inches of cloth. Shen Que came upstairs and sat down across from him. Between the two of them sat a table, a pot of tea, and two cups. No one spoke. Another gust of autumn wind blew down the street, rolling a few fallen leaves past the teahouse entrance. From the distance came the cry of a persimmon vendor, one call long and one short, just as usual. Xie Xianyu raised the cup of tea and took a sip. Warm. He set the cup down, took the persimmon out of his sleeve, and placed it on the table, curving the corner of his mouth slightly at Shen Que: “Kept it for you.” Shen Que looked at the persimmon, then at Xie Xianyu. He seemed about to say something, but in the end he only raised his own cup of tea and took a sip. Outside the window, the daylight shifted inch by inch, lighting up the newly replaced orchid on the teahouse windowsill until it was translucent—a single drop of water not yet dried still hung on the tip of a leaf, and no one could tell when it had been watered. Xie Xianyu leaned back into the chair, his gaze resting on the street beyond the window, on the direction of the north of the city in the distance. As if he were thinking of something, and as if he were thinking of nothing at all.