Chapter 17

On the way to report to the Ministry of Rites the next day, Fan Xiliang, gesturing all the while, recounted to Zhuo Siheng the proud triumph of his talk with his father the night before, declaring it the first time he'd come through a scathing scolding without being punished — a downright miracle.

Zhuo Siheng ached for his cousin, but didn't say so aloud, remarking only that his uncle was merely quick-tempered, and that in his heart he still held hopes for his son.

Because the scholars coming to the capital for the departmental exam arrived in batches, those coming to the Ministry of Rites had already been spread out; when Zhuo Siheng and Fan Xiliang arrived there were only two or three ahead of them, and they soon had their papers checked and received their documents.

But Zhuo Siheng was called back by a clerk of the Ministry of Rites: "Top graduate Zhuo of Ningxing — don't forget the banquet before the New Year."

Thanking him, Zhuo Siheng thought that doing well in the exams even got you extra banquets to eat — truly, in books there are a thousand measures of grain.

The Ministry of Rites had set the seventh of the second month as the date of the departmental exam; when the day came, the examination compound would open and the graduates of the whole realm would go to the hall together — what a sight that must be. Zhuo Siheng was itching to try himself, but Fan Xiliang, once he'd looked at the date, grew a little tense; so Zhuo Siheng changed the subject to his lodging at the mountain temple, and his cousin's face eased, the two of them chatting more happily the more they talked. They decided to go together, and so returned to the inn, settled the bill, took up Zhuo Siheng's baggage, hired a cart, and set off for the outskirts of the capital, talking and laughing all the way.

To the southwest of the capital a low ridge divided the Nan Creek from the Tai River, named Cuitai Ridge; it lay no more than ten li from the capital's southwest gate. Below the ridge were all farmhouses, and there were two official roads linking Fengzhou and Taizhou besides, so that the long road before the ridge was unbroken with people, no less lively than the city outskirts.

Xishi Temple was built halfway up Cuitai Ridge. Layered ranks of solemn, sparse woods ringed it round, and the winding path climbed gently with no steep stretches, so that Zhuo Siheng could come and go easily even with his baggage on his back; for that reason most of the old folk living on the capital's outskirts came here to worship the Buddha and offer incense, and idlers were very few. There were only three to five novices, and of full monks only the abbot Quechen and his junior brother Quehuo.

The meditation courtyard where Zhuo Siheng lodged was rather far from the Buddha hall, but nearer the temple's own fields; round about, crows roosted in the cold trees and frost settled on the old tiles, so quiet it hardly seemed a corner of the mortal world. Hearing that it was an examination candidate asking to stay, the abbot Quechen had a well-lit, north-south-facing meditation room cleared out, and Fan Yong, on his young master's instructions, had arranged it carefully after the model of their own study, partitioning the room in two with an old rattan-and-wood screen: within was the bed and a place to rest, and without were set a table, chairs and a bookcase to serve as a study.

Everything the room ought to have by way of furnishings was complete, down to the bed-curtains, thick bedding and writing things, all made ready.

"It's a bit plain, I'll grant, and staying here you'll get only vegetarian fare, but I couldn't find anything better for the moment — Cousin, you'll have to make do for now." Being punished before, Fan Xiliang hadn't been able to come out, so this was the first time he'd seen the room himself; he still felt that, partitioned, it was rather cramped, and feared he was putting his cousin to discomfort.

This room was already far larger than the one Zhuo Siheng had shared with Xiheng back home; he hurried to tell Fan Xiliang on no account to think it plain, and told him too about his own household. Only then did Fan Xiliang feel much easier that he hadn't slighted his cousin — but hearing the circumstances of Zhuo Siheng's home, his brows knit with worry again, and he said only that in future, once they'd passed and taken office, they'd put their two salaries together, save up, buy a small courtyard house on the capital's outskirts, and bring Siheng's sisters and brother all here to live.

When had Zhuo Siheng not thought the same? But getting a firm footing again in the capital was no easy thing; the first step was still to pass the exam.

So he brought the talk back to the departmental exam. Fan Xiliang knew Zhuo Siheng's learning was good and had long meant to ask his guidance; hearing him raise the subject, he hurriedly brought out compositions of his own, and the two of them sat in the outer part of the meditation room, a charcoal brazier lit, warming themselves and talking.

Zhuo Siheng studied Fan Xiliang's composition closely for a good while; he'd just set it down when he picked it up again to look it over once more, and Fan Xiliang's breathing quickened and slowed along with him. Seeing him at last lay the paper on the table and leave it, he asked hurriedly, "Cousin, this composition... will it do?"

Zhuo Siheng suddenly smiled. "Cousin Rongbai, you're fine in every way — you only think far too little of yourself. What do you mean, 'will it do'? I think this composition is very good indeed: the reasoning is ringing, the writing forceful, and, more important, your choice of words is polished and careful, with bright, eye-catching touches all through it."

Praised so, with such a smile and such words, Fan Xiliang grew rather bashful instead; few had ever praised him, still less so handsomely, and for a moment he was at a loss what to do with himself.

"Only..."

Then Zhuo Siheng's tone turned, his brows going from smooth to knit, and it startled Fan Xiliang bolt upright. "What is it?"

"Cousin Rongbai, tell me the truth — how long did it take you to finish this piece?" Zhuo Siheng asked, looking into Fan Xiliang's eyes.

"More than two days." The question left Fan Xiliang quite crestfallen. "My thoughts come slower than other people's; I'm always crossing out and changing things, never sure of a stroke, so I write very slowly." After a pause, his tone slowed still further and his voice dropped. "And usually, when I'm studying, there's forever something at home to interrupt me, and when I come back to it I have to gather my thoughts again — and some of the thread won't join up."

No wonder the writing had so many odd stopping-places: in many spots it was plain that, having broken off and reread it, he'd felt something was wrong and added a few connecting words — which only made it more abrupt, spoiling the coherence and wholeness instead. Zhuo Yan had once taught Zhuo Siheng that examiners loved to read a paper written in one continuous breath, whole and flowing, its thought running smooth; if halfway through they came on a passage that stuck or broke apart, they'd often set it aside and rarely read on to mark it. This, surely, was why his cousin had come off badly and failed the departmental exam before. And such a habit was likely bound up inseparably with his home circumstances all these years.

Feeling that the departmental exam was the first priority now, and heedless of what was private family business and what wasn't, Zhuo Siheng asked straight out, head-on: "When you're reading or writing, does your stepmother always have some household matter to give you orders about? Sometimes even bringing you things to do with your father and the household servants? Your younger brother and sister too? And do the servants who usually look after you in your courtyard break in and stir up trouble while you're studying, so your attention scatters?"

With every sentence he spoke, Fan Xiliang's eyes went a little rounder and his mouth opened a little wider; by the time the last words fell, he could not have been more impressed. "I never mentioned any of this — how did you know, Cousin?"

From a person's character one can roughly judge how they go about things. Zhuo Yan had once said that he himself had never paid much heed to this, and that if Zhuo Siheng ever entered officialdom, he must be sure to learn to read people. Though he'd never met Fan Xiliang's stepmother, Madam Li, from Fan Yong's words and from what Fan Xiliang had suffered, reasoning back from how she acted, he could tell she was ill-intentioned — that she likely made a habit of sowing discord and playing the two-faced game to torment his cousin. That excuse of "something at home to interrupt" Fan Xiliang had put very indirectly; that was just how he was — whenever he spoke of his home and his own hardships, his first thought was always to smooth things over for others in words, so that the more he shielded a thing, the worse it probably was.

Harassed like this, how could he possibly study well? It wasn't that one had to have dead silence, with not a soul allowed to move about; but an ordinary, somewhat busy household wouldn't necessarily throw up this many interruptions. Back when Zhuo Siheng studied with Huiheng at home, even Ciheng, mischievous as she was, knew to tiptoe out to play and make her noise; and Xiheng had been quiet and sensible from a small child. Their father never did heavy work during such times, only because their house, inside and out, was small, and the least stir was easily heard. But the Fan mansion was a great household, and Fan Xiliang had a courtyard of his own; for the disturbance to reach across all that, it could only be deliberate.

Not wanting his cousin to dwell and brood just then, Zhuo Siheng said plainly, "Here's what we'll do: from now on, when you want to study, come to me — see how quiet it is here; we'll prepare together these two months and more. Back home my father used to look over my compositions, and after he passed I'd talk them over with my sister Huiheng. Now that I'm far from home, I wonder if you'd do me the favor — the two of us can study as a pair!"

"Of course I would!" Fan Xiliang rubbed his hands with delight — then hesitated. "But... how am I to explain it to my father at home... he doesn't much let me go out."

Zhuo Siheng had long since foreseen Fan Xiliang's misgivings and had his story ready. "Just say it's the friend who gave you the inside word last time, inviting you to study together at a book-hall. If you're afraid your father won't believe it, give my name — he doesn't know I'm the Zhuo cousin of your family, and with a name to go on, and me really from Ningxing, it's not exactly lying. And you needn't come every day; usually you can take your writing things and read and write in your own room, and every two or three days we'll get together and talk over each other's compositions."

Fan Xiliang laughed. "Then that's settled!"

So in the middle of the twelfth month, every few days the two would gather in the temple's meditation room to study and exchange compositions. Fan Xiliang was not nearly so hopeless as he made himself out to be; often he'd offer an unexpected angle from some original insight of his own, and Zhuo Siheng praised him frequently, so that the shadow of unease that had been hard to smooth from his brow lessened, his voice grew a little louder than before, and he dared to commit to the brush rather than circle and agonize — and so kept landing fine lines, and gained more confidence.

He also always brought books from the family collection for them to read together. The Fan house was a family of letters too, its books as many as the hairs on an ox, many of them ones Zhuo Siheng had heard the names of from his father but never read — and which the one bookshop in Ningshuo City certainly didn't stock. With new books to read now, he plied his brush without pause by day and trimmed the lamp at his window by night; and since most of the books were ones Fan Xiliang had read or had heard explained by a teacher, whenever there was something Zhuo Siheng couldn't make out there was someone to explain and untangle it — so in this stretch he gained a great deal.

But as the New Year drew near, matters multiplied at Fan Xiliang's home, and he came less often. Zhuo Siheng, for his part, would now and then go into the city to buy daily necessities and send letters home reporting all was well; at the post station he'd agreed on with Tong Shipei he got a note left for him, and learned that Tong Shipei's father had returned to the capital a few days after him, that they were all back now with nothing pressing at home, and that the two of them could meet for a talk. Zhuo Siheng had been meaning all along to return the inkstone, so he sent a letter to the home address Tong Shipei had left and arranged to meet.

Tong Shipei was just as before, his face like polished jade, a smile forever held in it; even weighed down with winter clothes his step was still light. He shed a fur-trimmed cloak that was plainly worth no small sum, and yet, seating himself with easy grace in a corner of the little street-corner eatery Zhuo Siheng had chosen, there wasn't the least note of discord about him — on the contrary, he seemed as much at home as if he came and went there all the time.

"Lucky I lent you something — now I can wheedle a hot meal out of you before the New Year. It's really cold today!" Tong Shipei said with a broad, careless grin as he sat, and without standing on ceremony took up his chopsticks and began to eat.

Zhuo Siheng had admired this free-and-easy air of Tong Shipei's from the start, and didn't stand on much ceremony either; dropping the "Brother Zhuo" and "Brother Tong," the two were, if anything, a good deal warmer than before, eating and talking together around the stove.

From how they'd been keeping, the two came round to the Ministry of Rites' departmental exam, and just then Tong Shipei, as if remembering something, asked whether he'd gone to the Constellation Banquet.

"What Constellation Banquet?" To Zhuo Siheng the very name sounded rather grand and daunting.

"You don't know that before the departmental exam the top graduates of every prefecture and superior prefecture gather for a banquet at the Fengle Tower?" Tong Shipei was astonished that Zhuo Siheng, who knew practically everything to do with the exam itself, was utterly ignorant of every other trapping of the examination world. "It's also called the Constellation Banquet. The Fengle Tower has played host to it ever since Taizu's reign; they're glad enough of a name like 'a host of stars vying in brilliance,' and to have some brushwork left behind — no telling which of them might pass high. It's been handed down these many years, and by now it's become an unwritten custom among the scholars."

"So this is the banquet that clerk at the Ministry of Rites mentioned to me?" Zhuo Siheng said, the light dawning. "And here I thought the Ministry of Rites was treating me to dinner for placing first in the prefectural exam!"

Hearing such artless, guileless words, Tong Shipei laughed aloud. "If you want to eat at the government's Wenxi Banquet, you'll have to make it to the palace exam before you get that perk — though if it's you, it's not out of the question."