The Lychees of Chang'an · Conversa

The Grain Rain in the city of Chang'an began with a nightmare. Before dawn, a sudden crack of thunder shook three roof tiles from the eaves of the East Market, sending them crashing onto the bluestone pavement below, where they shattered into fine powder. Immediately after, a torrential downpour ensued, turning the entirety of Zhuque Avenue into a muddy, yellowish river. No one noticed that deep within the palace gardens, three main branches of the old peony—which Emperor Xuanzong had personally watered for twenty years—were snapped overnight under the weight of a collapsed rain canopy. When the news reached the Shanglin Office, Li Shande was crouching in front of the sweet osmanthus tree in the side courtyard. Pinching some soil between his fingertips, he brought it to his nose to sniff. It was too dry, completely unlike when his wife, Jinniang, was still around. Since that woman had been gone for over a year, even the tree had begun to wither. He had just poured the water from his bucket along the roots and hadn't even set his heavy boots down firmly when he heard a gong clanging in the front office—a gong sounding on a rest day meant either a fire or a corpse. His knees creaked as he stood up, and the frayed thread on his worn sleeve grew a bit longer, like a day that could never be fully unraveled. By the time he arrived, Director Liu had already gone through three different faces—first cursing the blind heavens, then cursing the gardeners for eating idle bread, and finally, upon seeing Li Shande arrive, his face suddenly smoothed out as if ironed flat, creasing into a wide, beaming smile. "Shande, you've come at just the right time." Director Liu slapped a roll of bright yellow silk into his palm. "This matter... is meant for none other than you." Director Liu lowered his voice. "This task was pushed down from above, and I had to put someone forward. Shande, the final payment on your old house, at the end of this year..." Li Shande shut his mouth. He remembered yesterday when Xiu'er leaned on his knee and asked, "Daddy, will our sweet osmanthus tree ever bloom again?" His daughter's eyes were exactly like her mother's, bright and clear, capable of seeing right through a person. That evening, Director Liu hosted a banquet at Zuixian Tavern. His colleagues took turns proposing toasts, each cup accompanied by words like, "Brother Shande is the most dependable of us all," "Brother Shande has a degree in Mathematics, this task must go to you," "Brother Shande, do not decline, it is merely a signature after all." By his third cup, Li Shande felt something was amiss—he usually didn't drink, nor did he attend such social gatherings, yet tonight he was pinned to his chair, unable to move. The wine was warm, the words were hot, his hand was held by someone else, and the brush was forced into his fingers. He saw the characters "Lychee Preserve" written on the document—dried lychees, that was no difficult task. The vermilion ink fell, and he affixed his signature. By the time the gathering dispersed, he could barely stand. He supported himself against the wall as he turned the corner of the East Market alley. The rain-slicked bricks were slippery as if greased. He tripped, falling flat into the muddy water, and the roll of silk slipped from his chest, unfurling on the ground. He reached out to pick it up just as the moonlight broke through a gap in the clouds— Beside the character for "Preserve" (煎), there was a faint, dried smear of paste. It had been pasted over. Shaking, he peeled back a corner, and a character was revealed beneath. Fresh (鲜). Fresh Lychees (荔枝鲜). Kneeling in the mud, he looked up and saw the moon was perfectly round, like a peeled lychee. At that moment, he thought of Jinniang—the night she left, the moon had been just as round. Grasping his hand, she had said: Don't let the sweet osmanthus tree die. The entire city of Chang'an resumed its routine the next morning—some calculated ledgers, some killed, some planted trees, and some waited to draw their nets. Unbeknownst to anyone, a single lychee seed was rolling down a hillside in Lingnan, traveling over mountains and ridges along an unmarked route toward this sleepless city five thousand miles away. Sealed inside that seed were the lives of everyone. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>