The Plea

> *A corner of this page is missing; the cut is clean, as if trimmed by a blade. The rest of the page is intact, the script clear. It records the matter of Song Gong's plea for leave to care for his mother, the checking of the register, and his waiting for the decree. According to the separate register of the Selection Hall, a new City God on taking office was by custom granted a "filial leave," reckoned by the remainder of his mother's allotted years; this page is the beginning of that precedent. As for the missing corner, later men suspected it bore the two characters "寿数" (allotted years), cut away by a later historian; this can no longer be verified. (A note by the descendants: after this page, the separate register of the Selection Hall records another section, "Zhang Sheng Acts as Deputy," which joins what this page records.)*

I stood at the foot of the steps about the time of one stick of incense. The door of the hall opened; the grey-clad man came out, stood on the steps, looked at me, and said:

"The lord summons you in."

I followed him and entered the hall again. The hall was as before—the officials sat at the head with lowered eyes, as if they had not moved. The one of imperial bearing sat in the middle; seeing me come in, he did not raise his head.

I walked to the middle of the hall, knelt, and kowtowed once.

"Song Tao pays his respects."

He did not answer. The hall was still. I knelt prostrate, hearing not a sound, only the dripping in the corner of the hall, one drop, then another.

I lay prostrate, and went over the words I meant to say once more. While I had waited at the foot of the steps, I had turned the sentence over and over—"my mother is seventy, with no one to care for her." How to say it, in what tone, I had thought it all out. But kneeling in the hall now, those prepared words had gone far away. Only one thought remained: my mother is at home, waiting for me to come back.

After a long time he spoke: "Song Tao, you stood outside the hall a long while."

"Yes," I said. "Song Tao was thinking of one thing."

"What thing?"

I lay prostrate, not raising my head. This sentence had rolled on my tongue the whole way, from the moment the appointment was proclaimed, through the city gate, through the examination, through the frozen ink and the blank paper—all the way to this hall. Now it had to be said.

"My mother is seventy, and there is no one to care for her. Song Tao presumes to beg the lord to allow me to return home, to see my mother to her end, and then to report for duty."

The hall was still for a moment.

I lay prostrate and heard my own heartbeat, one stroke, then another. I knew this did not accord with the rules—an appointment cannot be refused, a post cannot be declined; such is the rule of the hall. But it had to be said. Some words, if not said now, would have no chance later.

The head did not answer. I lay prostrate and waited. After a good while, the one of imperial bearing spoke slowly, in a voice from which nothing could be read:

"Check the register—his mother's allotted years."

An official answered and went toward the back.

The hall fell quiet again. I lay prostrate, listening to my own breathing. The cold of the blue brick pressed against my forehead, very cold. I did not know how long passed—perhaps a long time, perhaps not. No one in the hall spoke, no one looked at me, and no one looked at me kneeling.

I lay prostrate, and suddenly thought: what is my mother doing now? She is at home, sitting by the window, doing needlework. When her back bends, her shoulder blades rise a little, like a bird at rest. She does not know she has nine years left. She does not know her son is kneeling at this moment in a hall without sun, begging for her allotted years.

Footsteps came from the back, near and nearer. A long-bearded clerk came in holding a ledger, his steps even, the ledger pressed under his arm. He walked to the middle of the hall, stood, and opened it.

I knelt and watched him. His thumb pressed on the page; the pad of it was damp, and with each page he turned, he wet his thumb and turned again. I watched his thumb, and the edge of the page, and the rows of names running across it like furrows in a field.

I lay prostrate and heard him say:

"To answer the lord: under the name of Song's mother, the allotted years remaining number nine."

Nine years.

I heard those two words, lying prostrate, and something I could not name rose in my chest. Nine years. My mother has nine years. She is seventy; she can still keep me company for nine years. After nine years, I will come back here and take the post.

I thought of one thing. My mother is seventy this year; country people counting a life often say "from seventy up, rare indeed." When she said it, she was smiling, saying she had lived her share, and everything after was gain. When she said it, her eyes looked past the window at the osmanthus tree, as if looking at something else. I had not thought much of it then. Now, kneeling in this hall, hearing "the allotted years remaining number nine," I understood at once—her "my share" had not been a casual saying. She had counted her days to the end long ago.

I kowtowed once.

"Thank you, my lord."

The one at the head, of imperial bearing, did not answer. He sat with lowered eyes, as if thinking of something. No one in the hall spoke. I heard my own breathing, very faint, very steady.

After a good while he spoke. The voice was not loud; he spoke of another matter:

"In the register, beside her name, there is a streak of ink."

I lay prostrate and did not understand. The clerk stood at one side, looked down at the ledger, and reported: "Yes. An old ink mark. The years on it are old."

The hall was still for a moment.

I lay prostrate and waited. But the one of imperial bearing did not speak again. He sat with lowered eyes, as if that sentence was already finished, or as if there were more, pressed beneath his tongue and not yet out. No one in the hall spoke; the officials looked at one another and none opened his mouth.

After a long while he said only one sentence:

"I take note of it. Song Tao, withdraw and wait for the decree."

"Yes."

I kowtowed once, straightened, stepped back two paces, and turned to walk out of the hall.

On that page there were names. Dense rows of names, line after line, like furrows in a field. The clerk's thumb pressed at the edge of the page, about to close it, and I, kneeling on the ground, my line of sight falling exactly on that page—

My name was on that page too.

Song Tao, two characters, neat and square, written a few rows below my mother's name. When the clerk's finger moved away, I saw that row. Beneath the name were the columns of allotted years, box after box.

Mine was empty.

No character, no ink mark, not even a line. Beneath the other names numbers stood—some three, some five, some seven. Beneath mine, nothing at all. Like a field left untended, no one had planted anything in it.

I knelt, looking at that empty box, and understood something in my chest without being able to say what it was. The clerk had already closed the ledger and turned to go. His steps were steady, the ledger pressed under his arm, and he did not look back.

As he went, he passed a yard from where I knelt. I knelt and watched the hem of his robe brush the bricks. When he passed before me, I looked at the ledger—the cover dark, the corners worn white, as if it had been turned over many years. Between the closed pages a corner of a leaf showed, covered with script, dense, and I could not make it out.

He went out. I knelt on the ground, and after a while rose, stepped back two paces, and turned to walk out of the hall.

When I reached the door of the hall, I paused and looked back once. The hall was as before—the officials sat at the head with lowered eyes, as if they had not moved. The one of imperial bearing sat in the middle, his head bowed, not looking at me.

I stepped over the threshold and stood under the eaves.

The wind in the courtyard was cooler than before. Under the eaves the vat stood, the water still full, the surface level, mirroring the grey sky. I stood by the vat and looked at the water a while. The water mirrored a stretch of grey, and the shadow of the eaves, nothing else.

I thought of that page just now.

The column of allotted years was empty. Beneath my name, no number. I had died once; I knew I had died once—but that column was empty, as if nothing had been written, or as if it had been written and wiped away.

When the clerk went, I caught in the corner of my eye his thumb pausing at the edge of the page.

When he turned the pages, I had seen his thumb—damp, a callus on the pad, turning pages quickly and cleanly. But when he closed the ledger, he paused. That pause was very short, like a man closing a book, suddenly remembering something, then forgetting it. I could not tell whether the pause came because I had seen that column, or whether he would have paused all the same.

I drew my gaze back and walked toward the courtyard gate.

Beyond the gate the grey-clad man stood at the foot of the steps, waiting. Seeing me come out, he asked nothing, only looked at me once, turned, and walked west. I followed him a way; he did not speak, and I did not ask.

At a stretch of corridor he stopped and turned to look at me.

"The lord did not say yes," he said. "Nor did he say no."

He finished, and walked on. I followed behind him, thinking of his words. Not yes, not no. Then it hangs—nine years, hanging in the air.

I looked down at my shoes. The shoes were still that pair with layered soles, not worn through. I walked on this road without sun, carrying in my chest that ledger, that empty column, those words "the allotted years remaining number nine."