The Deputyship

> *This page is dry, the ink faint, as if the page had lain long in a closed chest. It records the matter of the acting City God. According to the separate register of the Selection Hall, when Henan fell vacant, the court discussed a deputy to hold the seal until Song Gong's leave ended; the record of the discussion is brief, and this page agrees with it in the main. A small line at the end of the roll, in a different hand: "The deputy, when he left, asked one question." (A note by the descendants: the deputy's name was not kept; only the surname Zhang, of Changshan, is recorded here.)* They were speaking inside the hall. I stood under the eaves, the door between us, and could not hear clearly. At first it was the voices of the officials, one after another, low and even, as men speak when weighing a thing. I could not make out the words; only the tone carried. It carried a long while, then fell. I stood, not moving. Under the eaves the vat stood, its water full. My mother used to say, water full will overflow; the water in the vat was full to the rim, and the surface did not stir. I looked at it, and the surface mirrored the grey sky, nothing else. A wind passed under the eaves and did not move it. The voices in the hall sank, little by little. I thought of the time Zhang Sheng read my paper. He sat at the last seat; the paper was "forgotten," no one read it. Later he was called up, and he looked at my paper. He read it slowly, word by word, and when he had read it, he did not raise his head. The officials waited for him to say something; he said nothing, only set the paper back on the table and returned to his seat. At that time someone in the hall muttered something; I did not catch it, only saw his back, kept straight all the while. And now the hall was debating making him City God in my place. He, for his part, had not one word to say.

Then someone rose. I could not see who; I heard only the scrape of a chair—very light, wood over brick, once, then again. The hall quieted.

Then I heard a voice. Not loud, very steady, as if the words had been pressed down a long time before they were let out: "Zhang Sheng can act as deputy." The hall was still for a moment. Someone asked: "Nine years?" The voice said again: "Nine years. At the end of the term, hand over." I stood under the eaves and ran those two sentences through my mind. Zhang Sheng—the scholar who had sat beside me in the examination. He had answered the same paper as I. The judges had passed over his; they had passed over mine. He had looked at my paper, read it slowly, and said nothing. And now he was to sit nine years in the seat I had declined. I had never seen his face. **[Archival Check]** Register of the Selection Hall, vol. 3: the City God's seat vacant; a deputy discussed. Before the debate was settled, Lord Guan said, "Zhang Sheng can act as deputy." None objected. Recorded for reference.—vol. 3 · Deliberation on the Deputy The door opened. An official came out and stood on the step, looking at me: "Come in." I stepped into the hall. The hall was as before. The officials sat at the head, eyes lowered. The one of imperial bearing sat in the middle, not looking at me. And against the pillar stood Zhang Sheng. He stood by the pillar, three paces from me.

Now I saw his face. Very young, younger than I had thought. Plain features, the kind one would not pick out of a crowd. But the way he stood—his back was very straight, too straight, like a door-bar standing in a corner. He did not look at me; he looked at the head of the hall, at the one of imperial bearing, looking with great care.

His clothes were old. A blue cotton gown, washed white, the cuffs worn, threads showing. His shoes were old too, cloth soles, the heels rubbed thin. He stood in this hall, among those officials, in old clothes, with his back very straight—as if those old clothes were only clothes, and the man inside them owed them nothing. He carried no paper. His hands hung at his sides, empty. The officials of the hall sat one by one, eyes lowered. Only he stood straight, like a tree planted in the corner of a wall. It came to me then—when he read my paper, he had worn these same clothes. Lord Guan spoke. He had sat among the officials and said little; now his voice was not high, and it reached every corner of the hall: "Song Tao asks leave for filial duty; grant him leave to care for his mother. Henan lacks a City God; it cannot stand a day without one. Let Zhang Sheng act as deputy. At the end of the term, hand over."

No one in the hall spoke.

Lord Guan said again: "You two, each take your charge. Song Tao—when your leave ends, you will be summoned. Zhang Sheng—" He paused. "Nine years. It will be hard on you." Zhang Sheng stood with his hands at his sides, saying nothing. After a moment he bent, and made a bow. The bow was proper, neither early nor late, as if it had been practiced many times. The hall fell quiet again. I stood there, thinking of Lord Guan's words—nine years. My mother had nine years yet. Nine years from now, I would come back and take this post. That was the case, settled. I should give thanks, kowtow, say the words of duty. But my mouth opened, and nothing came. I raised my head, looking for Lord Guan's eyes. He was not looking at me. I drew my gaze back—and met Zhang Sheng's gaze. He was looking at me. That was the first time our eyes met. His eyes were very bright, too bright for a man of this hall. But in those eyes there was no light, no warmth, nothing that "met for the first time" should have. He looked at me as at a thing—as at a thing that had been expected here, and here it was. He looked at me a while, then spoke. It was the first time I heard him speak. His voice was young, low, as if afraid of waking someone: "Nine years. Is that long enough?" **[Archival Check]** At the end of the Selection Hall register, vol. 3, another small line, in a hand different from the body text: "The acting deputy Zhang, when he left, asked Song Tao, 'Nine years. Is that long enough?' Song Tao did not answer. Zhang did not wait for the answer, and went straight out of the hall." This small line has no signature; who wrote it is unknown. Recorded for reference.

I stood there, and did not answer. I did not know how to answer. Nine years—was it long enough? My mother could wait nine years for me; in nine years I would return to my post as City God. Those nine years were, for me, a grace, a leave, the rest of my mother's days. But for Zhang Sheng? He would sit nine years in my seat, keep that office, hear those cases, for a man he did not know.

I thought of the look he had given me just now. It held none of the warmth of a first meeting between colleagues, and none of the fear of a man just named. He looked at me as at a thing set long on a table—it belonged there, and there it was. I opened my mouth. I wanted to say "nine years, I am sorry for the burden," to say "I will remember your kindness." But the words turned on my tongue and were swallowed. What use were they? He would sit nine years for me; if I said "I am sorry," would he be less burdened? I did not answer. And he did not wait for my answer. He turned, and walked toward the door. At the door he paused, did not look back, said only:

"I have remembered your name, Song Tao." Then he stepped out. His step was steady, like his bow, like his back—steady through and through, not one line of it disordered. He walked into the light of the courtyard, his old blue gown, in the grey daylight, like a cloth washed too many times. I stood in the doorway of the hall, watching him go. He reached the vat under the eaves, and paused. He bent his head, looked at the water in the vat, then walked around it, toward the gate of the courtyard. He did not look back. His figure paused at the gate, and then was gone.

The hall was wholly quiet.

I stood where I was, looking at the door. The door stood open; outside, the sky was grey, no sun. Zhang Sheng was far off now; his steps could no longer be heard.

It came to me suddenly—when Lord Guan said "let Zhang Sheng act as deputy," Zhang Sheng's eyes had brightened. Very bright, very brief, as if someone had lit a lamp in his heart and covered it at once with a lid.

That lamp, I saw it for an instant. A man sits nine years of City God for another man, and his eyes brighten. What manner of man was he? A man with no paper, no name, no one to remember what he had written. Such a man, sitting nine years in another's office—should his eyes have brightened? **[Archival Check]** Note appended: the acting deputy Zhang held the post of City God of Henan for nine years; the prefecture was at peace, and on the day he left office, neither the clerks nor the people knew. Only the registrar of the City God temple noted: "The former went, the latter came; the seal was not handed over, and the seal on the hall rang once of itself."—What the ringing meant, no one has solved. I stood in the hall, and stood a long while. The vat under the eaves, its water still full. When I walked out of the courtyard I passed it, and glanced at it—the surface level, mirroring the grey sky. No wind; not a line on the water. I walked past it; my soles on the brick, the sound faint. I thought of Zhang Sheng's words. Nine years. Is that long enough? I did not answer. But in my heart there was a voice, pressed down, not spoken—

I did not know whether those nine years were, for him, a grace, or something else.