City of Ink

by Elsa Hart

  Hamza agreed with enthusiasm to this suggestion. After setting the hour of the rooster as a tentative time to meet, they parted ways.

  * * *

  Bai’s home, smaller and less ostentatious than Tulishen’s, asserted that beauty was best expressed in cleanliness and precision. The courtyards were tightly cobbled in river stones, their patterns unbroken by a single weed or fallen leaf. Every door that opened onto a polished veranda was either fully open or fully closed. Even the sunshine on the potted plants seemed evenly distributed by a fastidious curator.

  Li Du was received in an airy pavilion shaded by trees. Bai was sitting at a desk, paper before him and brush in hand. He invited Li Du to sit on an attractive bench upholstered in spotless silk, but as Li Du approached it, he saw Bai’s gaze fix on the dusty hem of Li Du’s robes, then travel to his ink-stained sleeves.

  “Perhaps,” said Bai, “we would be more comfortable here.” He set his brush on its rest, and led Li Du to a plain ebony table with matching chairs.

  “I apologize for interrupting you,” said Li Du as they took their seats across from each other. “I hope I am not disturbing your preparations for the examinations.”

  “Preparations?” Bai’s smile lifted the corners of his silky white mustache. “The only preparation that remains for the examiners is to brace ourselves for the disappointment we will feel when we read answers submitted by inferior candidates. No, the task you have interrupted is only a minor one. Yet again, I am asked to submit a line of poetry to be carved into a stone outside a temple. It adds credibility, you know, the attention of a famous scholar.”

  “A generous gift of your time,” said Li Du.

  Bai gave a world-weary sigh. “Why they insist on building new temples instead of repairing the old ones, I cannot tell you. It is disgraceful that so many have been allowed to fall into disrepair. It is one thing to visit a dilapidated temple on a mountain—there is poetry in isolation and decay. But in the capital of the empire, a neglected temple is like a decaying tooth in the smile of an otherwise lovely woman.” The scholar paused to appreciate his own simile before shifting his attention to Li Du with a look of tepid curiosity. “What brings you to my home?”

  Li Du withdrew the notebook and stylus from his satchel and set them on the table. “Chief Inspector Sun has asked me to complete the report on his investigation of the murders at the Black Tile Factory. I was hoping you might assist me in clarifying several details related to the crime.”

  “An unsavory affair,” said Bai with a slight shudder. “I confess I am disappointed. I thought you might have come to discuss the reinvigoration of your career. A man of your credentials, really, there is no need for you to be reduced to such humble employment. Remind me—in what year did you receive your degree?”

  “In Kangxi twenty-seven.”

  “Kangxi twenty-seven,” Bai echoed with a smile. “A good year. You specialized in the Li-chi, didn’t you? Discuss the uses of ritual and music to bring order to society. A question that requires a candidate to demonstrate the completeness of his knowledge, while also inviting a touch of creativity.” The smile faded. “Your exile hindered your advancement, no doubt, but many of history’s finest poets drew inspiration from times of loneliness and adversity.”

  Li Du listened, his expression studiously blank. Bai gave a small shrug. “If you decide to renew your efforts, I will do all I can for you, of course. It pains me to think of you entering your twilight years being sent on errands. So, you are here to speak to me about the unfortunate events at the Black Tile Factory. I have, of course, been informed of the story’s conclusion, and I will tell you I am not surprised. Hong Wenbin was not a man in full possession of his reason.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you did attend the party he hosted shortly before the murders occurred.”

  Bai nodded. “I had misgivings, but I consider it my duty to support literary pursuits in the North Borough, even the mundane ones. It was a tiresome way to spend an afternoon. I regretted my decision to forego the monthly meeting of the Club to Debate Alternate Word Origins.”

  Li Du remembered a time when he had been a member of at least ten such clubs, some genuinely interesting, others merely pretentious. “It would be helpful to include in the report some insights into Hong’s state of mind. Did his behavior at the party suggest that he suspected the affair between Pan and his wife?”

  Bai considered the question briefly before negating it. “Hong was upset when Pan defeated him at a game of chess, but no more upset than he was after every loss. He was, without a doubt, inebriated.” Bai gave another sigh. “The trouble comes from opening our elite, educated communities to common businessmen. Hong was so desperate for approval, and so incapable of earning it, that he became unhinged. That is what drove him to excessive drinking, and to violence. Violence against others and, in the end, against himself.” The scholar lifted pained eyes to Li Du. “Do you have any other questions?”

  Li Du glanced down at his notebook. “In regard to the victims, I assume you were not acquainted with Madam Hong.”

  “Naturally not,” said Bai.

  “But your name was mentioned in connection with the murdered man, Pan Yongfa.”

  “Was it?”

  Li Du lifted his eyes, and saw that Bai appeared genuinely taken aback. “According to his concubine, Lady Ai, Pan was upset about the audit that he claimed had been instigated by you. As the Ministry of Rites official responsible for contracts with the kiln, he had been assigned the brunt of the work.”

  “Ah,” said Bai, his expression clearing. “Of course. My actions were in the interest of the neighborhood, and I make no apology for them. Recall that, in the past, there were kilns in Liulichang. They were closed due to excessive smoke, and Liulichang is now one of the most popular and attractive areas in the Outer City. It is time for the rest of the boroughs to rise to the same standard. Have you seen the black stains that threaten to coat the marble pavilions at Taoranting? It is unacceptable.”

  Li Du allowed his gaze to take in their pristine surroundings. “Your campaigns for the beauty of the city are well known in the North Borough Office, but how would an audit further your goal?”

  “I will explain,” said Bai. “Because my petitions were not receiving sufficient attention, I was forced to devise a new strategy. I had been told that the Black Tile Factory kept its documents in a state of utter disorganization, owing to Hong Wenbin’s poor leadership. There were numerous complaints from city businesses about delayed roof repairs, misplaced contracts, and so on. It was my hope that if the disgraceful state of affairs was made public, it would accelerate the relocation of the factory. That is why I suggested the audit not only to my contacts in the Ministry of Rites, but also to those in the Imperial Household Agency. I am pleased that both entities took my advice.”

  “The closure of the factory is almost guaranteed now,” said Li Du. “Given the death of its owner.”

  “I hope that is true,” said Bai. “Though of course I would not have wished for it to come about in such a sordid way.”

  Li Du nodded his understanding. “Then you did not know Pan Yongfa personally?”

  “I had met him,” said Bai. “He was often at parties.”

  “Did you speak to him at Hong’s gathering?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bai thought for a moment. “It was only a small thing. I hadn’t recalled it until now. I didn’t converse with Pan, but I did overhear him in conversation. It had nothing to do with his affair with Hong’s wife, but yes, I did find it strange at the time.”

  “Strange in what way?”

  Bai settled into the memory with the pleasure of those who like to speak about themselves. “It was toward the end of the afternoon. I left Hu—I assume you have met Hu Gongshan?”

  “The manager,” said Li Du.

  “Yes. His son is an examination candidate
. I believe Hu Gongshan had procured an invitation to the party solely in order to speak with me. The poor man hoped to convince me to mentor his son, right there, in the middle of a party, wearing clothes hardly appropriate for the event! I extricated myself as quickly as I could. But no sooner had I done so than my ears were assaulted with Hong’s drunken verse. I would have left the gathering, but it was starting to rain, and I did not want to be soaked going home. So I strolled away from the others, along a covered walkway, in an attempt to regain a state of equilibrium with my environment. It was then that I heard voices near to where I was walking. They were coming from the other side of a stand of bamboo. I could just barely make out three figures standing in a small pavilion.”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  “I am certain one was Pan Yongfa. I glimpsed his face, and heard him speak. But the others had their backs to me, and what with the obscuring bamboo and the rain, I could not see them.”

  “Were you able to hear what they were saying?”

  “Nothing clearly, though it seemed to me they were arguing. I only caught a few words. First Narcissus Temple. And after that, something about not being on time. And finally, I believe it was Pan who mentioned tunnels.”

  “Tunnels?”

  “Yes. I cannot get it to you in time; I will deliver it through the tunnels, or words to that effect.” Bai nodded at Li Du’s look of puzzlement. “It was nonsense, of course. I have never heard of a Narcissus Temple, or of any tunnels. All I thought at the time was that the covert meeting under cover of rainfall confirmed the impression I had always had of Pan Yongfa.”

  “What was your impression of him?”

  “That he was not as charming as everyone seemed to believe he was. I am a good judge of character. As a scholar and a moral man, I can sense corruption, and I cannot abide it. In my opinion, immorality hung about that man like an oppressive fragrance. If I were to speculate, I would say it was he who led Madam Hong to her fall from respectability.” After a pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “and to her death.”

  With this assertion, Bai stood up. “I hope I have been of some help, but I would advise you not to spend too much time writing a report of a case the facts of which are so tragically straightforward. I will tell you what I tell my students. Do not waste time on irrelevant details. One cannot write the whole truth, even with an ink pot as deep as the sea.”

  Li Du stood also. Thanking Bai for his time, he started toward the opening onto the veranda, passing the desk on his way. He paused beside it. However grating he found the examiner’s pomposity, he could not help but admire the scholarly accoutrements arranged across its surface. He ran an appreciative eye over the clean brushes, carved paperweights, and sheets of ornamented paper, until his gaze came to rest on a rectangular ink stone, carved in the classical proportions of the late Tang. It was lavender gray tinged with the iridescent green unique to Duanzhou slate.

  Looking at it, Li Du was drawn into a memory of a winter afternoon some fifteen years ago, when Shu had been so taken with a poem written by one of his granddaughters that he had decided to present her with an ink stone of her own. The proud grandfather had sat the little girl at his own desk and explained the properties of a quality stone. All good ink stones are hard enough to grind the ink to a fine consistency, yet smooth enough not to damage your brush, he had said. But it is a rare stone that grinds ink without making a sound. Do you know how it does it? Shu had paused for the anticipation of his listeners to reach its full strength. It does it by convincing the ink stick to be friends with the water, so that they agree to mix without arguing. You don’t want an argument on your desk when you are trying to compose a poem! And Shu had chuckled to himself at the image of the embattled writing materials.

  A hand intruded into Li Du’s vision, reaching across the desk to pick up a volume and move it to another corner. He looked up, realizing he had been lost for too long in his reverie, and saw that Bai was watching him with a small frown. “You look fatigued,” said the scholar. “Perhaps you should stay and drink a cup of tea. I am curious to know more about the years you spent outside the capital.” Without waiting for an answer, he summoned a servant.

  The servant who promptly appeared was a young man with an angular face and a serious set to his mouth. Upon seeing Li Du, he stopped short and stared at him for a moment with large, intent eyes that called to mind a bird of prey. Li Du was certain that within those eyes he could see surprise and recognition. He was sure he didn’t know the man, but as they continued to stare at each other, he felt that he had seen him before. Then the servant dropped into a bow. When he rose from it, his expression contained only polite deference.

  Li Du refused Bai’s offer of tea, thanked the scholar again for his patience, and made his way back across the manor’s elegant courtyards. He was conscious of his own footsteps, which sounded to his own ears like an intrusion on the studied serenity of the space. He almost expected one of the trees to chastise him. When he reached the manor’s exit, he found the threshold occupied by a maid sweeping dust from the stone. Even the brooms in this house are as neat as calligraphy brushes, he thought, observing the clean, even bristles.

  If he had turned, he might have glimpsed the old scholar engage in an urgent, whispered conversation with the falcon-eyed servant. By the time Li Du had left the manor, Bai was pacing the floor of his studio, glancing occasionally in the direction Li Du had gone with an expression of dawning alarm.

  Chapter 27

  It was late morning, and the dawn bustle had ended. Ministry officials were at their desks, markets were depleted of fresh fish, and breakfast vendors were resting as the leftover dumplings hardened in their trays. The sky had clouded over. As Li Du neared the North Borough Office, a light rain began to fall, tamping down the dust and making the air smell of damp, sun-warmed stone. Seeing an open restaurant, Li Du hurried to it and ducked inside.

  The windowless interior was barely bigger than a hallway. It contained only one other customer, a burly Manchu who sat hunched over a cup at a table near the back of the room. Between him and Li Du, an elderly woman with sleeves cinched tight around thin wrists sat beside a pan of small dumplings sizzling in oil. “It comes with the food,” she said, when Li Du asked for a cup of tea.

  “In that case,” said Li Du amenably, “I will have a plate of dumplings.”

  He took a seat at a sticky table. A man in an apron emerged from the back of the restaurant and presented him with a chipped bowl half full of lukewarm tea. The three tea leaves floating on its surface looked wan and apologetic. Li Du sipped it anyway, and, setting his thoughts against the backdrop of rain that curtained the restaurant’s narrow entrance, reviewed what Bai had told him.

  It was the mention of tunnels that confounded him. There were no tunnels in Beijing. Of that, he was certain. The ground beneath the city was so wet that any depression made in it was soon filled with water seeping in from every side. Any attempt to make a tunnel would only produce a new puddle, pond, or canal. Evidence of this was abundant. The lakes of Taoranting park, surrounded by balustrades and ornamented with pavilions, were an attempt to beautify the water pits left behind by excavated clay. If there were tunnels beneath the city, or ever had been, the scale of infrastructure required to build them would have made their existence impossible to conceal.

  If I cannot get it to you in time, I will deliver it through the tunnels. Could Pan have been referring to secret passages? Those were plentiful enough within the mansions and ministries, and certainly within the palace. But of what use was this speculation with no knowledge of what Pan might have been intending to transport, or to whom he had been speaking? Li Du let his mind drift. He watched the raindrops bouncing in from the street, studding the floor near the entrance.

  Six dumplings, greasy and hard, plinked as they struck ceramic. Li Du looked behind him and saw a plate being carried to the customer who sat at the back of the restaurant, slightly blurred by accumulated smoke. Another series
of plinks, and Li Du was handed a plate of his own. Flies hovered over the small bowl of crushed pepper paste at the center of the table. A dark crust had formed around its rim.

  According to Bai, Pan had also mentioned a place. Narcissus Temple. Could that be the location of the mysterious tunnels? Li Du had never heard of a temple by that name, but if it existed, there would be a record of it. Had he been within the quiet, cool halls of the library, Li Du would have been able to find the location of the temple with the same easy efficiency with which Hu installed a row of tiles. Librarians didn’t forget the locations of books within their libraries.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the squeaking scrape of a stool being drawn back. The Manchu, his meal finished, departed, leaving Li Du alone in the restaurant. He turned back to his cooling dumplings and forced himself to eat two of them. He glanced back. The woman who had served him his plate was poking the dying fire with a stick, sending little puffs of ash into the smoky air. He stood up, paid for his food, and slipped out into the rain.

  * * *

  The courtyard of the North Borough Office was gray and quiet. Chief Inspector Sun’s door was closed. Li Du navigated a path around the puddles that were expanding across the uneven cobblestones. As he stood on the veranda outside his door, trying to squeeze water from the sodden hem of his robe, a voice called out from the entrance through which he had just come. A messenger had arrived. From the other side of the courtyard, Li Du heard footsteps in the clerks’ office. A moment later, Mi emerged. Directing a look of displeasure at the rain, he beckoned from the covered veranda for the messenger to dismount and come to him.

  Noticing Li Du, Mi called across the courtyard to him. “We haven’t seen you since yesterday morning. What have you been doing?”

  Li Du gave up trying to wring moisture from his robe and straightened. “I’ve been obliged to conduct several additional interviews in order to make the report as thorough as possible.”

  Mi had cupped a hand to his ear. “You’re making more work for yourself,” he called. “Magistrate Yin would have his own clerks write the report if he expected it to be scrutinized.” He turned his attention to the messenger splashing toward him through the puddles, one hand clamped down on the flap of his satchel to keep it from flying open and exposing the paper to rain. Once he was under the roof, he bowed and presented Mi with a packet of papers. This done, he removed his hat, shook the water from it, and was returning to the entrance when Li Du hailed him. “If you can spare the time to wait, I have a message to send.”