LingZi

Chapter Two · Yuan'en Hall

Yuanzhou. Qiaotou Town, North Street. Seven am.

Auntie Zhao had just set out the steamer. White vapor leaked from the bamboo slats, and the smell of buns drifted halfway down the street. She bent to feed the stove another handful of kindling. When she straightened up, she saw someone.

A tall, skinny boy was squatting across from her stall, back against the wall, a grass stalk dangling from his mouth. He wore a dusty gray shirt. One of his cloth shoes had a hole in it, his big toe poking through.

Auntie Zhao's eyelid twitched.

"Chu Wenyuan."

The boy did not move.

"Chu Wenyuan!"

"Hm?" He looked up.

"What are you squatting there for?"

"Waiting for the buns to be done."

"Do you have money?"

"No."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Can't I just smell them?"

The corner of Auntie Zhao's mouth spasmed. She knew this little bastard—everyone in Qiaotou Town did. Orphanage kid. Been running wild on these streets since he could walk.

"Go away." Auntie Zhao waved him off. "You're bad for business."

"I'm not in the way."

"Customers see you squatting there and think there's something wrong with my buns—that even a beggar won't eat them."

"I'm not a beggar." Chu Wenyuan spat out his grass stalk. "I'm from the orphanage."

"Same thing."

"Beggars don't have a place to sleep. I do."

Auntie Zhao couldn't be bothered to argue. She grabbed a vegetable bun and tossed it over. Chu Wenyuan caught it.

"Thanks, Auntie Zhao."

"Don't. Just go."

Chu Wenyuan stood up and bit into the bun. The hot filling made him hiss—mouth open, breathing out steam—but he didn't spit it out. Two chews and he swallowed.

"Good."

"Scram!"

Chu Wenyuan walked south along North Street with the bun clamped in his teeth. The sun was already up. June in Yuanzhou: the morning light was warm gold, falling on the flagstones, gilding every block.

North Street was wide, running straight to Yuanzhou's south gate. Down the center ran an offset set of tracks. Ding-ding—a streetcar came rattling up from the south, its wood-and-tin carriage swaying along the rails.

As the car passed, Chu Wenyuan slapped the side panel—bang. Someone inside cursed. He pulled his hand back, snickered twice, and kept walking.

Morning woke from the north end first. Shopfronts opened one after another on both sides of the street. Old Zhou the noodle man slapped a lump of dough onto his board—thwack—flour dusting his face. Next door, Ma Wuye the fish seller had already set out his stock: several large wooden tubs of live fish turning and splashing inside. Ma Wuye crouched by a tub, his right palm pressed against the water's surface, glowing the faintest blue. The water temperature was dropping by degrees. The fish in the chilled water slowed, barely thrashing now.

"Old Ma." Chu Wenyuan called out as he passed.

Ma Wuye didn't look up. "Go away."

"Nice fish today."

"Shoo, shoo."

"That was a compliment."

"If you steal my fish one more time—" Ma Wuye looked up and glared. "I swear I'll have the magistrate lock you up."

"That was Pei Qian."

"He stole, you stood lookout. Same thing."

Chu Wenyuan cracked a grin and did not deny it. He stuffed the last bite of bun into his mouth, chewed twice, wiped his hands on his pants, and kept walking south. He passed the mouth of an alley. Two boys a few years older than him were squatting there, dressed a little better. One had a cigarette in his mouth. The other was scratching characters into the wall.

The one with the cigarette spotted Chu Wenyuan and narrowed his eyes.

"Chu the Third!"

Chu Wenyuan's stride slowed by half a beat. He turned to look.

"Brother Qian."

The smoker stood up. Half a head taller than Chu Wenyuan, broad-shouldered, thick-handed. Name: Qian Hu. Top dog among the local punks—also an orphanage kid, though he'd stopped living there three years ago.

"Remember what happened last month?" Qian Hu took the cigarette from his mouth.

"Which thing."

"You stole from me."

"I didn't steal anything."

"Thirty copper. Lifted from my pocket. Don't play dumb."

Chu Wenyuan's mouth twisted. "Found it on the ground."

"You—"

Qian Hu stepped forward. The one scratching the wall stood up behind him.

Chu Wenyuan did not run. His right foot shifted back half a step, center of gravity dropping slightly. His right hand hung at his side, fingers spread open.

Qian Hu noticed the hand.

"What, you want to go?" Qian Hu smiled. "I went easy on you last time."

"Bullshit—I'll kick you in the crotch again."

Qian Hu's face darkened.

"Pay up today and we're even." His voice dropped low. "Don't pay, and you'd better watch your back."

Chu Wenyuan tilted his head. He looked at Qian Hu, then at the one behind him. Then he fished something from his pocket—three copper coins. He turned them in his fingers twice, then tossed them on the ground. Clang, clang, clang.

The coins bounced on the flagstones and rolled to Qian Hu's feet.

"There." Chu Wenyuan said. "That's all there is."

"Thirty copper and you give me three?"

"I only took three."

Qian Hu's fist clenched.

Chu Wenyuan took a few more steps back, retreating to where the alley met the main street. Behind him: crowds, foot traffic, the open road.

Too many people. Qian Hu stared at Chu Wenyuan for three or four beats, then slowly unclenched his fist.

"Fine." He put the cigarette back in his mouth. "You'd better watch yourself, Chu."

"Take care, Brother Qian." Chu Wenyuan smiled and raised a hand.

Qian Hu turned and walked away. Two steps later he looked back and glared. Chu Wenyuan was still smiling.

He swore, then disappeared into the alley.

Chu Wenyuan stood at the alley mouth. The smile was gone. He looked down at his right hand—the fingers were trembling.

He clenched his fist. Released. Clenched. Released.

The trembling stopped.

He kept walking south. Faster now.

Past the intersection, the road sloped downhill—no more tracks here. At the bottom of the slope ran the Yuan River, a tributary branching off from Yuan Lake. Not wide. Three stone bridges spanned it. The one on the main road was called South Bridge: flagstone surface, stone lions crouching on the railings, their noses rubbed to a shine.

Chu Wenyuan stopped at the middle of South Bridge. He leaned on the railing and looked down. The water was blue-green and shallow—he could see the stones on the bottom and the swaying waterweeds. A finger-length fish darted out from the shadow of a bridge piling, flicked its tail, and vanished into the weeds on the other side.

He stood on the bridge for a while.

Wind rose off the river, carrying the smell of water and the distant scent of cooking smoke.

He watched the river a little longer. The sun had climbed higher; light came in from due east and shattered the surface into countless flashing shards. He squinted for a couple of beats, then turned around, hands in his pockets, and walked toward the south end of the bridge.

Past the bridge was South Street.

South Street was different from North Street. North Street was shops and bustle—noisy, chaotic, people everywhere. South Street was quieter. The farther south, the quieter it got.

He came off South Bridge, turned left into a narrow lane called Yuanming Alley. The walls on either side were old brick. The ground was no longer flagstone—crushed gravel mixed with tamped earth, crunching under each step.

At the end of the alley, on the left, stood a wooden door. A plank was nailed to it:

Yuan'en Hall.

The orphanage. Chu Wenyuan pushed the door open and went in.

The courtyard was small. An old scholar tree took up a third of it. Beneath the tree was a well. A clothesline was strung beside the well, hung with seven or eight garments of varying sizes, swaying limp in the wind. The largest room in the yard served as both the dining hall and the classroom. On the left were the boys' dormitories. On the right, the girls' dormitories and the director's quarters.

When he came into the yard, Pei Qian was squatting by the well, washing his face. He looked up at the sound of the door, water still dripping from his face, a pair of spectacles with thin copper-wire frames resting on the well's edge.

"The director's looking for you," Pei Qian said, quickly putting his glasses back on. "Been going on since this morning—'Where did Chu Wenyuan run off to.'"

"Let him talk."

"He seemed pretty anxious. He asked me where you went. I said I didn't know."

"Right. From now on, always say you don't know."

"But—"

"Did he ask about the soap."

Pei Qian's hand paused. "...He did."

"What did you say?"

"I—I said I didn't know." Pei Qian shrank into his shoulders. "I said I didn't see anything."

"Did the director believe you?"

"..."

Chu Wenyuan looked at him.

"He told me to bring you in," Pei Qian said quietly.

Chu Wenyuan didn't respond. He walked to the well, cranked the windlass twice, and hauled up a bucket of water. It was cold. He scooped two handfuls and slapped them on his face—the muscles in his neck flinched.

"Where's Jiang Li?" he asked.

"No idea." Pei Qian jerked his chin toward the dining hall. "She was there a minute ago. Gone again."

Chu Wenyuan glanced toward the dining hall. Window open. A few of the younger kids inside, reading.

Chu Wenyuan finished washing his face. Water dripped from his chin. He shook his hands dry, wiped them on his pants, and started toward the dormitory.

The director's door swung open. A wave of tobacco smoke drifted out.

"Chu Wenyuan!"

Chu Wenyuan stopped at the doorway.

The director's surname was Tao. Tao An. Early forties. Former soldier, Third Legion.

"Come in."

Chu Wenyuan went in and sat on a stool.

"You went out again today!"

"Getting breakfast."

"There's breakfast here."

"It's terrible."

Tao An's eyebrow twitched, but he didn't take the bait. He rummaged through a desk drawer, pulled out a slip of paper, and slapped it down in front of Chu Wenyuan.

"The sundry shop next door. Three bars of soap went missing yesterday."

Chu Wenyuan glanced at the paper.

"Nothing to do with me."

"Shopkeeper Zhang says a tall skinny kid bought a length of hemp rope, then lifted three bars off the counter while his back was turned." Tao An tapped the slip. "There are a lot of tall skinny kids in this town. But only one who steals something and then turns around to tell the man, 'Nice soap.'"

Chu Wenyuan's mouth twitched.

"What, I can't give the man a compliment?"

"Did you steal them or not."

"...Took one."

"The paper says three."

"The other two went to Pei Qian."

Tao An closed his eyes. A vein was pulsing at his temple.

"You're eleven," Tao An said.

"Yep."

"Eleven years old and still stealing!"

"He doesn't have proof."

Tao An's palm slammed the table. The teacup jumped. "You will go return the soap and apologize—right now!"

"Already used it."

"Used it?! In one day?!"

"Washed clothes. The little ones were covered in mud. I did their laundry."

Tao An's mouth was open—the words he'd been about to yell jammed halfway up his throat, unable to go up or come back down. He looked at Chu Wenyuan's face. The thin face was utterly blank. No guilt. No smugness. Nothing.

Tao An picked up the scalding teacup and took a gulp.

"I'll pay for it," he said. "It's coming out of your allowance next month."

"Wasn't much to begin with."

Chu Wenyuan stood up. "If that's all, I'm going."

"Stay."

Chu Wenyuan's feet stopped.

"You washed the little ones' clothes?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Last night."

Tao An looked at him. Looked for two beats. Said nothing.

"Go." He waved a hand. "Sweep the yard before noon. This afternoon, take the kids to the river for a bath."

"Got it—"

Chu Wenyuan walked out.

Pei Qian was still squatting by the well. Not washing his face this time—he was teasing a stray cat that had jumped down from the wall. The cat was gray, ribs showing one by one. He'd torn up half a steamed bun from breakfast and scattered the pieces on the ground. The cat crouched a step away, watching, too wary to come closer.

"Why are you staring at it?" Chu Wenyuan walked over.

"Waiting for it to come."

"Come for what?"

"To catch it."

Chu Wenyuan looked at him.

"Think you're fast enough?"

"Let me try."

The cat hesitated for a few beats, then crept forward and snatched a crumb. Pei Qian's hand reached out slowly—the cat looked up at him, crumb in its teeth, leaped onto the wall, and was gone.

Chu Wenyuan clicked his tongue. Pei Qian crouched there, head tilted back, staring at the top of the wall. The cat was long gone, but he was still looking.

Chu Wenyuan went to the base of the wall and grabbed a broom.

The yard was small, but the ground was littered—fallen scholar-tree leaves, bits of gravel, a few sugarcane rinds someone had gnawed and tossed. He started from the east wall, sweeping stroke by stroke, the broom scraping the tamped earth with a sandy hiss.

Pei Qian grabbed one too. The two of them swept toward each other, one east-to-west, one west-to-east, meeting in the middle.

"What did the director say?" Pei Qian asked.

"I have to pay for the soap."

"How much?"

"All three bars."

Pei Qian's broom stopped. "...He put all three on you?"

"Yeah."

"What about my two?"

"I covered for you."

Pei Qian swept two more strokes, then muttered under his breath: "Don't bring me along next time."

Chu Wenyuan kicked him in the rear.

"Ow!"

"I just covered for you."

"..."

"Quit your mumbling."

"I'm not mumbling." Pei Qian swept furiously. "Just—next time let's take a different route, Wenyuan."

Chu Wenyuan's broom stopped.

"Which route."

"That sundry shop—there's a hole under the counter. Goes straight out to the alley."

Chu Wenyuan stared at him for two beats.

"How do you know that?"

"Saw it when I bought bandages."

"Why didn't you say so last time?"

"You didn't ask."

Chu Wenyuan wanted to kick him again, but he considered it—he really hadn't asked.

"From now on, don't wait for me to ask about things like this."

"Okay."

The two of them went back to sweeping.

......