The Gold

> *Ning Caichen's night ledger at Lanruo Temple.*

> *Autumn of the year Guihai, Kangxi reign; the fourteenth of the ninth month, recorded at Lanruo Temple north of the city wall, Jinhua Prefecture.*

**【Day】**

At dusk I went to the white poplar.

The woman had said "tomorrow at dusk, go look under the white poplar." I had not agreed to it, but I went. I stood under the tree and looked a while. It was as before: the mound of earth, the paper ashes, the shards of green porcelain. The mound had settled a little flatter than the day before, as if someone had been at it.

I squatted and looked at the mound. The earth had been turned; the old and the new did not match. I turned it with my hand, and under the loose layer there was still earth, packed tight, not like anything large buried there.

But I saw the ring of traces around the edge of the mound.

The traces were of feet treading. Not one person's feet—deep and shallow, circling the mound, several turns. I looked at the ring of footprints and thought: who would walk round and round a mound of earth?

I squatted again and looked closer. Of the prints some were old and some new; the old rings were shallow, their edges rounded by the wind; the new rings were deep, as if pressed out only last night. The deep prints circled to the back of the mound and stopped—there was a place there where the prints were deepest, as if someone had stood a long while.

I rose and looked at that place. It faced the temple gate directly. Standing in that place, one could see the gate, could see the west corridor where I lodged, and the window of the east wing.

I drew my gaze back, brushed the earth from my hands, and went back to my room.

Supper was the leftover cake from noon, eaten with cold water. The door of the east wing was shut; Yan Chixia did not come out the whole afternoon.

**【Night】**

I lit the lamp and read. Still the Book of Changes. When I came to the line "between the rock, not through the day," a sound came from outside the window.

Very faint. As if something had fallen on the flagstone beneath the window.

I set the book down, put on my clothes, rose, pushed open the door, and looked out.

Moonlight lay in the corridor, white and clean. On the flagstone beneath the window lay a thing, in the moonlight, gleaming yellow.

It was an ingot of gold.

I stood at the door and looked at the gold. The ingot was very new, its edges sharp, gleaming in the moonlight. The flagstone was grey, the gold yellow; the two things lying together could not be plainer.

I did not bend down.

I stood and looked at it a while.

I stood at the door and looked at the gold a good while. It lay on the flagstone, the moonlight on it, bright. Five taels of gold—enough for a farmer to live on for years. She had left an ingot of gold to thank me for "sitting steady"—I sat steady because I did not want to move. But if she truly meant to thank me, why thank me with an ingot of gold?

I thought of the other thing she had said: "I have seen many men; no one like you, who saw my face and could still sit so steady." Many men—what did those men do, after they saw her face? Were those who sat steady given gold? Or did those who could not sit steady lose something else?

I stood, thinking a while. Then I went over, bent, and picked it up. The gold entered my hand—cold, heavy. I weighed it in my hand; about five taels. Five taels of gold—enough for a farmer to live on for years.

I carried it to the window and raised my hand to throw it out.

As my hand rose, the moonlight fell on the ingot and turned it over. I saw the bottom of the ingot, where a line of small characters was incised. The strokes were very shallow—not a reign mark, not an official casting mark, but a line of script, crooked:

"In return for last night's seeing."

I held my hand raised, in the moonlight, and looked at that line a good while.

In return for last night's seeing. Last night—last night I saw her face, sat steady, and did not agree to her. Is this thanks? Or is it a test? Or something else?

I threw the gold out.

The ingot struck the flagstone—"clang," a dull sound, not the sound of gold striking stone. I stood at the door, looked at the gold, and said:

"An unrighteous thing must not defile my pouch!"

I finished, turned, went in, closed the door, and shot the bolt.

Outside the window, for a long while, no sound.

I sat by the lamp and waited. The flame leaped; I listened to the sounds outside the window. No footsteps, no wind, nothing. The gold still lay on the flagstone beneath the window, I knew. Five taels of gold, lying in the moonlight, gleaming yellow—whoever saw it would bend down.

I sat, not moving. After about the space of one cup of tea, I heard someone outside the window approaching. The footsteps were very light, almost soundless on the flagstone. The person walked to the window and stopped.

Then I heard the sound of the gold being picked up. The ingot scraped on the flagstone, and was carried away. The footsteps went toward the white poplar, very light, fading until I could not hear them.

I sat, not moving.

The flame leaped. And I suddenly remembered: when the gold was thrown out just now, that "clang" had been dull. Gold striking a flagstone should ring—five taels of gold striking a blue flagstone should ring sharp and bright. But that sound was muffled, as if it had struck a lump of wet clay.

I blew out the lamp and lay down.

I lay a long while and could not sleep. I lay with my eyes open, thinking of that ingot, of that line—"in return for last night's seeing." Thinking of what she had said: "I have seen many men; no one like you, who saw my face and could still sit so steady."

Five taels of gold—to buy my "sitting steady"? Or to buy my "moving"?

I did not move; the gold should still lie outside the window. But the gold had been picked up and carried away.

**【The next day】**

When it was light I went to look under the window.

On the flagstone, nothing. The gold had been picked up, cleanly, not even a mark left.

I squatted and looked again. There was truly nothing on the flagstone. I rose to go; out of the corner of my eye I caught a little yellow in the crack of the flagstone.

I squatted and pried it out.

It was a small piece of gold, the size of a fingernail, its edges sharp, as if broken off something. I held it up to the sun and looked. This small piece was yellower than the ingot, yellow almost to white. On its edge, too, were characters incised.

The characters were smaller than those on the ingot, almost unreadable. I squinted and looked a long while before I made them out:

"Tomorrow, here again."

I held that small piece of gold in my hand, standing under the window, and looked at it a long while.

Tomorrow, here again. What will be here again? The gold? Or the person?

I looked at the characters once more. They were shallow, incised crookedly, not like an official mark, not like a merchant's stamp. As if someone had scratched them out stroke by stroke with the point of a needle. The hand that scratched them was steady; every stroke went deep, yet was lifted lightly, as if afraid of cutting through.

I put that small piece of gold into my breast and did not throw it away.

I stood under the window, looking toward the white poplar. The sun was up; sparrows fluttered on the temple roof. The leaves of the white poplar rustled in the wind, one rustle after another.

I looked at the tree a while, then turned and walked back. At the corridor the door of the east wing opened. Yan Chixia stood in the doorway with a bowl of gruel; seeing me, he asked:

"Up this early?"

"Could not sleep," I said.

He looked at me once and asked nothing more. He carried the gruel, squatted on the threshold, drank a mouthful, and said: "Last night, did the temple stir again?"

I stood, and did not answer at once. After a while I said: "No."

He drank another mouthful of gruel and said: "Good, then." He finished, carried the bowl, and went in.

I stood under the eaves and watched his door close, then turned and went into my room. I sat by the lamp, took the small piece of gold from my breast, set it on the table, and looked at it again.

"Tomorrow, here again."

Tonight I record this.