Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

Yang Huisheng sat in the elegant room until very late.

After Han Fei left, he neither returned to his room nor went downstairs. He sat in his original spot, the bamboo scroll lying open before him, but didn't turn the pages. Outside the window, the city of Xinzheng changed from grayish-blue to dark blue, then to ink-black. Torches on the city walls lit up one after another, like a string being strung together. He heard the sound of a door closing and a bolt being bolted downstairs; Zilan Pavilion was closing. Footsteps came upstairs and stopped at the door. The door was pushed open a crack, without knocking. Zi Nu entered, carrying a pot of fresh tea.

She glanced at the scroll of bamboo slips on the table but didn't ask what it was. She placed the teapot on the corner of the table, sat down in the spot where Han Fei had sat, and poured herself a cup of tea. She held the cup without drinking, letting the warmth of the cup seep into her fingers. The candlelight cast a thin halo around her profile. Looking at the wick, she said, "When Han Fei left, he stood at the door for a while. He didn't move."

Yang Huisheng said, "I know."

"You saw it from the window?"

"I heard you."

Zi Nu didn't press further, asking, "How did you hear that?" She picked up her teacup, took a sip, and twirled the cup in her hand. The candlelight reflected on the tea surface, creating a small, dim patch of light. She said, "He never wrote the words 'to be answered.'"

Yang Huisheng raised his eyes. "How did you know?"

“I’ve seen his handwriting,” Zi Nu said. “When he couldn’t write, he left it blank. I’ve seen those blank pages—an entire page left blank, without a single word written on it, as if the page had never existed. He never wrote ‘Unanswered,’ because he felt that writing it down was tantamount to admitting he couldn’t answer, so it was better to leave it blank.”

Yang Huisheng paused for a moment. "Then he wrote it this time."

"He wrote it this time," Zi Nu said. "He wrote 'Unanswered,' which means he thinks someone can answer it. He himself can't answer it, but he believes someone else can."

Who do you think that person is?

Zi Nu did not answer. She picked up her teacup, took another sip, looked at the candlelight, and said, "You were opposite him when he wrote it."

Yang Huisheng didn't speak. Zi Nu didn't ask any more questions. She simply sat there drinking her tea, as if keeping him company for a while. When the tea had cooled to the third cup, she stood up, took the empty cup away, paused at the door, and said with her back to Yang Huisheng, "He never let anyone else see what he had written. You're the first."

She left without waiting for Yang Huisheng's reply. She closed the door, leaving it ajar. Yang Huisheng remained seated; the city of Xinzheng outside the window had completely darkened. He glanced down at the slightly protruding outline of the bamboo scroll in his arms through his clothing, then stood up, blew out the candle, and returned to his room.

He lay in bed, listening to the night wind rustling through the roof tiles, thinking about Zi Nu's words: "He never leaves any writings for others." The image of Han Fei pausing for a moment as he wrote "The Method of Balance" flashed through his mind again. That pause before putting pen to paper, that moment of contemplation, "Should I write this or not?" He finally wrote it. He placed that question mark on the paper, like throwing a pebble into a pool of water he previously thought should never be disturbed.

Yang Huisheng lay there for a long time before finally closing his eyes. The sliver of daylight filtering through the crack in the window had already shone with a faint glow. He silently made a mental note: Han Fei had written down the four characters "the method of checks and balances," so there would surely be a response someday.

He turned to the side, pressed down the two bamboo scrolls in his arms, and closed his eyes.