City of Ink

by Elsa Hart

  Hamza lifted the lid from the tea caddy and sniffed the dry leaves inside. “Fine quality,” he murmured. Then he picked up the slim wooden box. It was rectangular, rounded at the edges, and covered in black lacquer inlaid with fragments of iridescent shell arranged in a geometric pattern. He lifted the latch and opened the box. It had obviously been made to accommodate the chess pieces, which, arranged in two layers, fit tightly into the space. The pieces themselves were made of polished wood, each disk incised and painted on the top with the character assigned to it: pawn, rook, knight, elephant, cannon, adviser, general.

  Li Du studied the modest collection that was spread out across the table. For so few items, he thought, they present a clear portrait. The ink stone, brush, bowls, and tea were the tasteful, anonymous tools of a dedicated bureaucrat. Clean and impersonal, there was nothing about them to suggest that they had belonged to a man of unique passions. This was the face Pan had presented to the ministry, but the chess pieces spoke of the face he had kept hidden, the one that saw the city as a game to be mastered. What self-assurance it must have required to behave as Pan had. Li Du felt a twinge of envy. While he had spent the past two years inhibited by the maddening limitations of the city’s rules, Pan had been confidently flaunting them.

  He was pulled from his reflections by Hamza, who was examining the chess pieces. “I prefer the design favored by the western kingdoms of the world, who have their own version of this game. These neat disks do not evoke war. I would rather see a tiny queen in a gown of ivory, her pale eyes fixed on her quarry, a row of soldiers advancing, ready to be sacrificed, their shields etched with runes, and horses with sculpted manes that ripple when they are touched by firelight.”

  He was turning one of the pieces over in the palm of his hand when suddenly he gave a low exclamation and lifted the piece toward his face to examine it more closely. “Blood,” he said, and handed the piece to Li Du. “There’s blood.”

  Too surprised to remember his spectacles, Li Du took the piece from Hamza and held it where he could see it clearly, searching until he found what Hamza had seen. On the curving edge of the piece was a trace of a red, sticky substance. Li Du frowned. “This isn’t blood,” he said. “It’s red ink.”

  “Ink,” Hamza echoed. “I thought for a moment that the piece, like a true warrior, was bleeding from a wound, and would have retracted all my criticisms of your craftsmen. But ink is not so shocking. There must be enough red ink in the cabinets of these halls to drown a person.”

  “Certainly,” said Li Du. “And yet I don’t know how it came to be on a chess piece.” He examined it again. The ink indeed appeared to have come from within the disk, seeping from a thin, straight cut. But that didn’t make sense. He ran his thumb lightly around the edge and felt a seam as fine as a strand of hair. As Hamza watched, he gripped the top and bottom of the piece as tightly as he could with both hands, and twisted. At first, nothing happened. His fingers slipped on the smooth wood. He covered them with cloth from his sleeves and tried again. The wood squeaked as the two halves slid against each other. After three full turns, they separated.

  Hamza drew in a breath and leaned forward across the table to see. One half of the piece was slightly hollowed to accommodate the relief on the other half, which was coated in a thick, oily residue of red paste. “It looks like a—”

  “A seal,” Li Du finished. He put down both halves and picked up another piece from the open box. Hamza did the same. Among the pieces, they found four that opened. Li Du reached into his bag and drew from it his notebook, as well as a small box of black seal paste. He opened the notebook to a blank page. One by one, he touched the hidden seals to the paste and pressed them to the paper. Then he put on his spectacles to view the result, a set of four circular impressions, black with a blur of red at the edges.

  Hamza stared at them. “Each one is different,” he remarked. “To whom do they belong?”

  “They aren’t personal seals,” Li Du said. “They belong to offices.”

  Hamza lifted his eyes to look at Li Du’s expression. “You recognize that one,” he said, tapping his finger to the page.

  Li Du nodded slowly. “I do. It is a key that allows its bearer to leave the city.” He fell silent, lost in thought.

  “I don’t understand,” said Hamza, his eloquent brows drawing together.

  Li Du spoke slowly. “A key,” he repeated. “But not a key for people. It’s a key for paper. And I know where we must go next.”

  Chapter 36

  Father Calmette was sitting on the steps of the South Church, an open book resting on his knees. He appeared deep in concentration. His shoulders were rounded forward. His left hand was pressed against his chest, pinning his long white beard to keep it from obscuring the text in front of him. In his right hand, he held a stylus worn down almost to the nub, and was tapping it thoughtfully on the corner of a page. It was not until Li Du and Hamza had crossed the courtyard, and were standing before him at the base, that he looked up.

  “How wonderful to see you again, and so soon!” he exclaimed to Li Du. He struggled to his feet and accepted Li Du’s assistance in navigating the stone steps down to the courtyard. Hamza quietly retrieved the cane he had left behind.

  Holding Li Du’s arm for balance, Father Calmette gestured with the hand that still held the book. “The other day,” he said happily, “I was honored with an opportunity to peruse the paintings in one of the palace workshops. There was one I particularly enjoyed. It depicts two pines and a cypress in close proximity to the viewer, and a ridgeline of boulders beyond. I marveled at the artist’s ability to show so little, and yet to imply a vast forest and towering mountain beyond the painting’s edge. The effect was at once intimate and overwhelming. You know, Li Du, when I first came to this city, I thought our painters had a great deal to teach yours. What arrogance, when now I see it is the other way around. And what variety of texture this artist produced with his brush! Truly an example of the hand moving at the heart’s desire.” Father Calmette paused, a trace of worry on his brow. “Or do I misapply the quotation?”

  “Not at all,” said Li Du. “Sun Guoting’s essay on calligraphy is perfectly relevant.”

  Father Calmette looked pleased. “Good, good. And indeed, it is with writing that I need your help. I would not presume to attempt a copy of the painting itself, but I did take down the poem written on it.” He held up his book. “I am endeavoring to produce a translation, but there is a line that is giving me trouble. The artist writes that the evening wind on Lake Dongting stirs a—and there I am not sure if the character refers to a boat that looks like a leaf, or a leaf that looks like a boat.” He looked at Li Du inquiringly.

  “I would take great pleasure in working with you on a translation of ‘The Fisherman’s Ode,’” said Li Du. “But I am afraid there is not time today—”

  “Time,” said Father Calmette with a sigh. “I myself have much I should be doing, and here I am idling with my poetry.” He released Li Du’s arm, and looked around in search of his cane. When Hamza presented it to him with a bow, Father Calmette smiled, his disappointment at once forgotten. “But who is your friend who so kindly carries my cane for me?”

  Li Du hesitated. “Hamza and I traveled together in the southwest. He is visiting from—”

  “Shaanxi,” said Hamza easily, with another bow.

  “Ah,” said Father Calmette. “But I know the road to Shaanxi! I traveled it once, when I was a much younger man. I recall the marble bridges carved with lions at—” He paused, then pronounced carefully, “Loo koh kiao.”

  “I know those lions well,” said Hamza. “It was my own grandfather who carved them. He told me that he received a letter from an imperial consort, accompanied by a purse filled with golden coins. She wanted lions for her bridge. Each lion was to be unique, sculpted according to her specifications, which were the most precise my grandfather had ever seen. He completed the work, and wrote to the palace saying the sculptures were ready to be i
nspected and approved. Only then was it discovered that the consort who had written to my grandfather, and to the bridge-builder, did not exist. The bridge and the lions became a great attraction, but the identity of their exacting patron has never been ascertained.”

  Father Calmette listened, captivated. “But that is a strange tale, indeed,” he said. “I will certainly include it in my next letter to Rome.”

  Li Du’s attention moved to the open door into the offices. He thought he saw a figure start to step into the courtyard, then retreat into the shadows. “I hoped to speak to Father Aveneau,” he said. “Is he here today?”

  Father Calmette was enthusiastic. “Of course you may speak to Father Aveneau. I would have made the suggestion myself, if you had not. He has been afflicted with a morose humor ever since he returned from the Black Tile Factory. Conversation is just what he needs. We will go to him at once.”

  They found Father Aveneau seated at a desk in one of the common rooms, staring unseeingly at an open book before him. Despite the warm glow of rosewood in the room, he appeared cold. Hearing them come in, he looked up from beneath swollen eyelids. His face was haggard. Recognition flared as his gaze settled on Li Du. He rose slowly to his feet.

  Father Calmette, who seemed to be the only person unaware of the tension in the room, made the suggestion that they adjourn to his study, where they could speak without interruption. He led them to a small room furnished with a desk, a couch, a cushioned armchair, and a mismatched assortment of small tables and stools. The space was cheerfully untidy. Drops of candlewax studded the tabletops beside piles of books and pencil shavings. Geometrical instruments had been used as paperweights at the corners of open scrolls. Father Calmette lowered himself into the embrace of a cushioned armchair, leaned his cane against the wall, and waited expectantly for his guests to sit down. Father Aveneau took the desk chair, while Hamza and Li Du drew up two stools.

  “Is there—” Father Aveneau’s voice caught. “Has something happened?”

  “Hamza and I have just come from visiting the Ministry of Rites,” said Li Du. He indicated Hamza. “My friend was surprised to learn that the ministry administers the examinations. As I was explaining to him that the ministry has many responsibilities other than the maintenance of public temples, I remembered another one of its duties. The Ministry of Rites is responsible for welcoming foreign tributaries, a group that includes the Jesuits. When priests of your order come to this city, it is the Ministry of Rites that arranges their first audiences with the Emperor.”

  Father Calmette spoke from the corner. “I will never forget the day I arrived. Twenty years, it has been. More than twenty years. It was the day of Father Verbiest’s funeral. Within an hour of entering your city for the first time, I was walking in a funeral procession. I remember the white silk covering the coffin, and the red tapestry bearing Father Verbiest’s name in brilliant gold. I was terrified lest I commit some unintended offense. I found myself standing before the tombs of Father Ricci and Father Adam Schall, and was so overcome with emotion, I feared I would faint in the presence of the Emperor. How I shook as I knelt before him!”

  As Father Calmette lapsed into silent recollections, Li Du turned to Father Aveneau. “You have not been here very long,” he said. “When was your first audience with the Emperor?”

  “I met him last year,” said Father Aveneau stiffly.

  “And you were prepared for that meeting by officials from the Ministry of Rites?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am wondering,” said Li Du, “whether Pan Yongfa was one of them?”

  There was a silence. “Yes,” said Father Aveneau finally. “He was.”

  Father Calmette turned to the other priest with a look of surprise. “Pan Yongfa?” he asked. “The man who was killed? But I thought you didn’t know him.”

  “That is what he claimed,” said Li Du. He glanced at his old acquaintance. Father Calmette’s expression of bewildered curiosity, framed by wispy white hair, reminded him of a young bird, its downy feathers disarranged by a gust of wind. “I am sorry to bring distress to your house,” he continued. “But I must ask you and Father Aveneau some questions.”

  “Of course you must ask them, if they pertain to your investigation,” said Father Calmette.

  After a glance at Aveneau, whose expression was stony, Li Du continued to address Calmette. “The letters you write to Rome are not permitted to leave the city until they have been reviewed and approved by the Censor’s Office. Is that correct?”

  “But of course,” said Father Calmette. “It is the Emperor’s rule.”

  “And the Censor’s Office often requires you to make many changes to your letters.”

  “It does,” replied Calmette.

  “How does the Censor’s Office indicate that a draft has been approved, and requires no further emendations?”

  Calmette looked mystified. “It applies the seal of the office,” he said.

  “And only once the letter has received this seal can it pass out of the city and begin its journey west,” said Li Du. He glanced at Hamza. “The seal is, in effect, a kind of key?”

  “Yes,” said Father Calmette. “But I don’t understand. What do our letters have to do with Father Aveneau’s audience with the Emperor, or with the man who died?”

  Li Du turned his attention to Father Aveneau. “We have just discovered that Pan Yongfa had a counterfeit seal of the Censor’s Office hidden among his possessions, the same Pan Yongfa who met with you on behalf of the Ministry of Rites a year ago, the same Pan Yongfa who was lying dead in the Black Tile Factory on the very morning you chose to visit it.”

  Father Aveneau raked thin fingers through his hair. “If you are accusing me of having something to do with his death, I didn’t.”

  “But you were paying him, weren’t you, to apply the seal of the Censor’s Office to letters that never passed across a censor’s desk?”

  “You cannot know—”

  Li Du cut him off, quietly but firmly. “It is easy to verify that he was the official the Ministry of Rites sent to prepare you for your meeting with the Emperor. I expect it would be easy to verify that you have met with him several times since then. Given this, the fact that you denied recognizing him when you saw his body would be enough to convince any magistrate to conduct a strenuous interrogation. I advise you that whatever secrets you are hiding are better shared with me, here, than under such circumstances.”

  After considering these words for a while in silence, Father Aveneau appeared to come to a decision. “I never had any ill intent,” he said. “I would never have imagined it, had not Pan Yongfa himself made the suggestion.”

  “Ah,” said Hamza. “This is not the first time in recent days that we have heard of Pan Yongfa leading others toward trouble. This is when my friend will suggest that you tell us everything.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned to Father Aveneau. Despite the resigned expression on his face, there was a hint of defensive pride in his tone. “You were correct,” he said to Li Du. “I met Pan Yongfa when he came to instruct me on how to behave at my audience with the Emperor. I saw him again several weeks later, when he came to return one of my letters from the Censor’s Office. Perhaps it was because we had met before, and because his demeanor invited confidence, that I did not conceal my frustration when I saw that more than half my words had been struck through by the censor’s brush. Pan perceived the reason for my ire. He told me, then, that if I ever wished to compose a letter without deference to the Censor’s Office, he—he could arrange it.” He lifted his eyes to meet Li Du’s. “I will not lie to you now. I did take him up on his offer.”

  “By doing so,” said Li Du, “you were giving a great deal of power to a man who might at any moment have decided to betray you. Why did you trust him?”

  Father Aveneau flinched. “I realize now that it was unwise. More than anything else, it was something in his manner. He expressed himself with such easy confidence. He told me that every
city has its official systems, and its unofficial ones. He made it all seem so normal, so expected. I reasoned—”

  “How could you?” The question burst from Father Calmette. Distress had turned his cheeks a bright, uneven pink. “How could you risk so much? My soul glorifies the Lord, and we are His servants, but we are subjects of the Chinese Emperor. We are in this place only because he permits us to be. We are alive because he permits us to remain so! Did you not consider what would happen to our community, should you be caught in such a transgression?”

  Father Aveneau’s pale green eyes sparked. “I intend no disrespect, but you have been away from Rome for many years. You do not know how perilous our situation is within the church. Do you know what they think of us? They think we have set aside our mission in favor of learning the customs of this country. They think we wear silk because we have been seduced by luxury. They think we have made no progress. And how can they think otherwise, when the Censor’s Office prohibits us from writing anything other than pleasantries and obsequies? If we do not make some effort to show our supporters in Rome that we are succeeding, then we may face as grave a fate at home as we do here.”

  Father Calmette dropped his face into his hands. Muffled words emerged through his fingers. “What was the content of these letters you sent?”

  Father Aveneau spoke quickly. “I assure you, they contained no threat, no conspiracy against our hosts. In my first letter, I wrote only of the continued imprisonment of Father Appiani, about whom I know there has been much concern in Rome. In my second, I offered some small insight into the complex nature of the rites controversy. I am confident our detractors in Rome will be more sympathetic to us now that they are apprised of circumstances that had not been clear to them before.”