The Hall of Examinations

> *The following pages were recovered from the papers of Song Tao, licentiate of the county. The ink of this page differs from the pages before and after it—a blue-black, as if recorded later in another ink; the paper is smooth, without a single blot or correction, the hand somewhat slower than usual, the brush-strokes drawn in tight. The ink of this supplement has never fully dried. (A note by the descendants: the name of the Selection Hall appears only this once in this volume. Of the officials under the eaves, Song Tao wrote of himself, "some dozen, none known to me, save the Lord Guan.")*

I stood at the foot of the stair, holding the horse, for a long time.

The stair was spotless. The door stood open; what came through it was not light, but another grey, deeper than the grey of the street. I tied the reins to the stone post at the side of the stair. A horse was already tied there—a chestnut, standing quietly, silent as well.

I took my hand from my horse's neck and went up the stair.

Under the eaves stood two tables and two stools. On one table lay brush and inkstone; the other was empty, its inkstone dry. Of the two stools, one was empty and one held a man.

It held a man.

A young scholar, gown washed white and clean, back very straight, sitting in the last seat. He heard my footsteps and lifted his eyes to me—one look. It was neither warm nor cold; it held no question and no avoidance. Having looked, he let his eyes fall.

I walked over and sat down beside him. Neither of us spoke.

On my table lay a new brush. The handle was vermilion-lacquered, bright enough to sting the eyes. I stared at it a moment, and then I remembered the brush in my sleeve—the one I had picked up on the road, also vermilion, also this bright. My fingers paused at my sleeve-cuff. I did not reach in.

On the young scholar's table lay an old brush. Its handle was worn glossy, with a hollow worn at the grip, the shape of years of use. Its tip was wet too. I glanced at it once and did not think further. He sat with his back straight, eyes half lowered, waiting for something, waiting for nothing.

The hall held some dozen officials.

I had not looked closely when I entered; only after I sat did I dare lift my eyes. At the head sat one, grave of face, the manner of a presiding man. His hands lay on the arms of his seat, five fingers together, and had not moved. The hall had no lamps, no candlesticks, and yet everyone could see everyone. The rest of the officials sat in two rows: some with eyes lowered, some upright, some holding things in their hands that were too far away to make out. Red gowns, blue gowns, grey gowns filled the hall. One official at the right had a scroll before him, bound with a hempen cord, the knot tied neatly. I knew not one of them. After I was seated I looked up at the roof. It was high; cobwebs hung from the beams, loaded with dust, a deep layer, one web hanging from another.

Except for the Lord Guan.

Red face, long beard, red robe. He sat third from the right, half of his sabre showing at his waist, its ring wrapped with old cloth, wrapped thick and close, so it would not ring. The point of the sabre rested on the floor, where the brick showed a small round hollow, worn a fraction deep. He lifted his eyes to me.

That look was not for a candidate, not for a stranger. It was the look of a man who had owed a debt a long time and finally saw the creditor come home. He looked at me a while, neither nodding nor smiling, and let his eyes fall. After they fell, he sat on, and did not move again.

When I entered, my step had paused on the threshold; by the time I lifted my foot again I was seated. In that moment, the grey of the hall was heavier than the grey of the street. The threshold was high, higher than an ordinary doorway by a span; one had to lift the leg to cross it. As I crossed, I heard my own gown rustle—in this hall, even the sound of cloth was an intrusion. The grey lay even on the floor; it took no footprints. A man walked over it, and the dust did not stir.

In the corner hung a bell, coated with frost. Its rope hung down, and on the rope hung a single drop of water that did not fall. Under the eaves stood an incense burner, empty of incense; its ash was cold. There was no wind in the hall, yet my gown-hem moved, and something passed beside me. I looked up; there was nothing.

I counted the officials in the hall. When I reached the seventh, that official lifted his head.

He sat across from the Lord Guan: grey-white beard, blue gown, something in his hands that was a ledger by its shape. He looked at me a long time, long enough that I thought he would speak. I met his gaze and did not look away. He looked away first, and lowered his head, turning pages of the ledger. The leaves were yellowed, the corners curled; he turned them slowly, pausing after every page. When he finished one page he looked up at me again, more briefly this time. When he finished the last page, he closed the ledger and set it on his knee. Even closed, its corners stayed curled.

I looked down at my own table. The inkstone was stone, the ink newly ground. I reached out and touched the ink.

My fingertip met a film of ice.

The ink had frozen. A thin layer of ice covered it, the surface level, without a crack. My fingertip rested on it; the cold climbed up from the fingertip, over the wrist, into the arm. I drew my hand back. Nothing clung to the fingertip.

The hall had no sun, the officials no speech, no wind, no sound. Only this one frozen inkstone, cold and clear under my fingertip.

I looked up at the young scholar's table. The ink in his inkstone was alive, moist, holding a film of water-light. Two tables in one hall: one ink frozen, one ink living. He sat there, not looking at me, not looking at his inkstone either, simply sitting.

Then I remembered something. On the road I had picked up a brush. Its tip had been wet. I had carried it in my sleeve all the way. Now a new brush lay before me, vermilion handle, exactly like the one on the road. And the ink in the inkstone had frozen.

These two things, to this day, I have not understood.

And I remembered another thing. There is a temple to the Lord Guan at the village gate; I have burned incense there every twelfth month, always the first to give. This winter I had been too ill to go. The red-faced, long-bearded one in the hall, sitting third from the right—the look he gave me was the look one gives an old acquaintance.

An old acquaintance. I am past forty, and I have owed no man a debt, and no man has owed me one. Apart from my mother, I have wronged no one in my life. Yet the way he looked at me, he plainly knew me.

The hall was very still. Still enough that I could hear my own breathing. The official at the head moved, as if to speak. He put the thing in his hands down, and picked it up again, and in the end did not hand it over. I raised my head and waited.

I waited a long time. No one in the hall looked at me. The Lord Guan did not look at me, the grey-bearded official did not look at me, the official at the head did not look at me. But a moment ago, all of them had. The dust in the hall was deep. I sat without moving, and my sleeve had already gathered a layer of it.

From outside the door came a single horse's neigh. One sound, then nothing. No one in the hall lifted his head.