It is a pity that the mindset I held in my youth, of the perceived lack of worth in art, still persists to this day. To experience the singing of strings, and know that you are the puppet master, is an exquisite experience. All of that, on a stage, with the humming of flutes and the thrum of the bass around you, living and breathing as one, I suppose I could consider it a religious experience.
I could not find myself to ponder the irony of that statement when the conductor turned around and bowed to lukewarm applause. The newly erected concert hall, currently emptying itself, had been only half-full, which is to be expected thanks to the marketing, or lack thereof, of this performance. No matter. I have experienced enough to know that word of mouth is incredibly powerful in the matters of reputation.
The orchestra is still small and still nameless, which I have volunteered to fix by next week. As such, they are incredibly efficient when it comes to packing up, apart from the heavier items. That is a job for tomorrow. Gods help the musicians.
I am fortunate enough to have picked up a smaller instrument, but I still find myself lingering behind, motioning for Ganyu to move on when she looks behind her curiously. I tell her I’ve lost my rosin, and I’m pretty sure I had it in my pocket during the performance. She nods blankly and leaves.
The leftmost stage light flickers briefly. The chairs onstage are left in its initial formation, curved around the conductor’s podium. I can still see the occupants in my mind’s eye: strings to the left, woodwinds to the right. A yunluo sits at the very back, partially obscured by the chairs. The yangqins in the front have already been moved; they must have had help from the staff here. But that is not why I am here.
I find a seat directly underneath the leftmost stage light, which flickers again. I set my instrument on my knee and lift it into an upright position, the bow held perpendicular to its body. A precursor to a performance.
The auditorium is poorly illuminated, but I catch a glimpse of him when he leans forward to take a better look at me. The mask strapped to the side of his head catches the light when he shifts in his seat. It reminds me of the brightly coloured frogs in the rainforests of Sumeru. Aposematism, was it called? Either way, it was a warning.
His skin is awfully pale, like it has been some time since he has last seen the sun. His hair is a brilliant ginger, complementing his mask. I watch gloved hands slide over the seat in front of him, grasping tightly.
I cannot see his eyes, but even from this distance I know that they devour light.
He meets my gaze. I nod at him, a friendly enough gesture. He freezes at once, as if caught by a ray of too-bright light.
‘I do not recall you ever requesting an encore,’ I say, my voice echoing in the cavernous hall. ‘But if you wish, I could play half of a song for you.’
He jumps backwards as if startled.
I continue watching him reorient himself in his seat, pat down his unruly hair. He clears his throat, adjusting a button on his shirt.
‘Half… It’s alright. I just got caught up in my thoughts, is all.’ He stands up. ‘Nice meeting you.’
He vaults over the seats in his haste to reach the exit. I look around for a while, trying to find the source of his hasty exit, before realising that I am the only person in this room.
Did he find me intimidating? If so, that would not be a first. I pack up my instrument and head backstage. Most of the orchestra is already halfway down the stairs, close to the cool night air and the comfort of their homes. I find Ganyu on a bench, legs crossed, scrolling on her phone with a slight crease between her eyebrows.
‘Is something the matter?’ I ask her.
‘Keqing isn’t picking up…’ She notices me and starts, almost dropping her phone. ‘Oh. Mr. Zhongli. Did you find your rosin?’
‘I believe I left it in my case. My memory is failing me more and more at this age.’
Ganyu’s phone pings, making her jump again. She snatches it and types a hasty response. I wait for her to finish.
‘I have been meaning to ask… does the new Northland Bank employee have red hair?’
‘Red? Uh, I think it’s closer to ginger… what’s the matter?’
I shrug. ‘It’s nothing important. Do you need a ride home?’
Ganyu finishes checking the last buckle on her case and lifts it onto her shoulder. ‘Thank you for offering, but I already have that taken care of. What about you?’
‘I’ll be able to catch the last train home. Don’t worry about me.’
She nods and heads towards the stairs. As the door creaks shut behind her, I wish once more for a restful night for her.
Shouldering my own case, I head downstairs. The air outside is cooler than before, a sign of the approaching winter. I lick my lips when a breeze dances its way across my skin. And terribly dry as well.
I remind myself to take a trip to the store the next day.
~~~
Monday found me back at work, putting my office back in order. I could never understand why this day of the week in particular was so reprehensible. Perhaps it’s the recency bias: the hatred one feels for an unwanted job tends to be stronger when they get jerked out of their state of rest. That is my guess. Whenever I tried to ask my fellow employees about this strange phenomenon, all I got were blank stares and sometimes even a hint of irritability.
The office is in a relatively spotless state, apart from the small rubber ducks hidden in various filing cabinets, no doubt Director Hu’s work. I suppose that was why she kept telling me to check every one of my cabinets. I was wondering why the ferrylady kept chuckling to herself, refusing to look me in the eye.
No matter. I had been there for paperwork, and paperwork I did. Business had been slow, and apart from an elderly widow’s visit in the morning, I had the entire afternoon to re-familiarise myself with the files, wondering what kind of mistreatment they had been through to be scattered in various unmarked folders.
Today was not completely client-free, however. Director Hu opened the door to my office an hour from the end of my shift, neglecting to knock yet again. She told me that someone very special had shown up, and they had specifically requested my presence. Typically, this would mean pickiness: an older individual with specific tastes in the matters of funerary rites. Specific flowers, advice on what kinds of kites to commission, consultation on the types of incense to be used. The last thing I expected was the young man from the night of the performance, sitting in a chair with his ankle atop his knee. He was sipping on a straw, stuck in the top of a mineral water bottle.
‘Forgive us for our lack of hospitality,’ I say to him, gesturing to the water. ‘If I had been forewarned, you would have had the opportunity to enjoy freshly brewed tea.’
There is a brief look on his face, like that of a scared animal. But it fades and in its place is a disarming smile, a diplomat’s smile. His eyes remain wide open. Wary.
‘So, you’re the consultant I’ve heard so much about? Nice meeting you. You can call me Childe.’
He reaches out a hand for me to shake, and I take it. He wears gloves, and I cannot fault him for that. At least his pair doesn’t look like they need replacing.
He starts speaking then, about how he’s heard of me, my knowledge, and how fruitful a partnership could be for both of us. It’s comforting to think that this city still remembers me after a full year of absence, but the rest I’ve heard before. There’s only so much flattery I can enjoy.
And then he gets to the point. ‘I think you’ve noticed by now,’ he says, choosing his words carefully, ‘the amount of clients with no families that show up at your door.’
‘Yes, I have noticed. Your work, I presume?’
He smiles back, all teeth. ‘Not a part that I enjoy. The fallout, I mean. When their last daughter or son or whatever shows up at the bank and asks for any remnant of their “missing” family member, it’s hard for us to give an answer, you know. I think it’d be better for both of us if we told you just enough for them to collect their family member’s ashes, leave and never talk about it again.’
‘Just enough?’
‘Just enough.’ He’s still smiling.
‘You will find, dear Childe, that Wangsheng does not operate on terms vague enough for them to be pulled in any side’s favour,’ I say.
‘Ah, so we’ll just write them down. Black and white. And then the director will sign it, or would you prefer to do it?’
‘I have full administrative control over that department.’
‘Perfect.’ He stands up from his seat, still clutching onto his mineral water bottle. ‘Give me some time to draw up a contract, and then we’ll meet over lunch to discuss it, does that sound good? Know any good places?’
I think for a moment. He’s shuffled towards the door while I wasn’t paying attention, his hand already on the doorknob like he can’t wait to leave. ‘Have you heard of Liuli Pavillion? It has a good atmosphere for what we are planning to do.’
The briefest shadow of refusal flashes over his face, and I remember that, oh, that place is expensive. Infamously so. But he picks up his smile again and turns the doorknob, throwing a wink my way. ‘Sure. I’ll see you around one.’
He opens the door, but I hold up a hand to stop him. He listens, eyes darting to the open doorway.
‘You don’t seem the type to enjoy orchestras.’
That freezes him in his tracks. To his credit, he pretends to flick some lint from the (rolled-up) sleeve of his suit and says in a casual enough tone, ‘I simply wish to become acquainted with the local culture. I liked your performance on Saturday. Hits all the right spots, y’know?’
Lying is not a habit of his, then. ‘If you have the opportunity, do come again.’
He smiles at me one last time and dashes through the doorway. I hear him half-jog to the reception desk, bid the director a hasty goodbye, and make his way out of the front door.
When I arrive at the reception desk, the director is perched atop it, kicking her legs with a look of complete and utter disappointment on her face.
‘Couldn’t have stayed to shake the hand of little ol’ me?’ She waves her hands, coated in still-wet red paint, in the air. ‘Well. I suppose I can let him off the hook this time.’
I make a mental note to warn him about buckets above doorways the next time I see him.
~~~
I do not remember to warn him until he has to leave. Ah, well. He’ll learn the hard way eventually.
He did draw up a contract, and it is clear that he has spent most of his very brief lifetime dealing with people who played in the shadows between words. The terms are simple: I give the families of the deceased closure, and keep enough of the bank’s secrets for them to stop poking around and putting themselves in danger. The deal is signed before our dishes arrive, and he looks to be in a cheerful mood. At least until he realises what utensils he has to use.
He doesn’t say it directly, but he struggles. Effort beads on his forehead as he attempts to pick up a piece of bitter gourd, his hands trembling.
I put down my own pair of chopsticks and say, ‘You need to relax your thumb.’
He looks at me in surprise, then confusion. I reach over and grab his hand, adjust the placement of his fingers. ‘There. Try again.’
His face is almost entirely red. Is it due to the heat? He is from a place with a much colder climate, after all. It must be why he leaves the top buttons of his suit unbuttoned.
He spends the rest of the meal in silence, mostly due to my rambling. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, and with the arrival of each dish, I cannot restrain myself from analysing how the chef might have cooked it, which ingredients are the reason for this establishment’s infamous pricing, which parts could have been executed better. Maybe they have a new chef, I say out loud. I don’t remember having my tofu this overcooked.
All in all, it still tastes of home. Childe, who has been listening the entire time, places down his chopsticks, his hands trembling from the strain. ‘You know a lot about this, huh?’
I say yes. It’s a part of my home, I explain, and my home is something I wish to remember forever.
‘Quite the patriot. Hey, I understand. Maybe I’ll introduce you to my country’s cuisine.’
That smile is back on his face again, and I can’t help but smile back.
I try to stay realistic in my interpretations of people. Everyone is layers upon layers of experience and knowledge, perhaps with only a seed-sized core that is truly theirs. I am not sure exactly how many layers Childe puts up around people, but in that moment, his smile feels like his.
When he leaves for work, he tells me, ‘You’re a fascinating guy, aren’t you?’
I don’t tell him, but I feel the same.
it took me three months to realise this chapter was titled wrong LMAO