The twenty-second year of the Yongle era, ninth month, Beijing.
I had been following him for three alleys already. Secretly. I didn't dare let him know. The moment he stepped out of the Eastern Palace, I followed. He walked on the main road, I walked on the main road. He turned a corner, I turned a corner. He stopped, I stopped. When he turned back, I darted into a nearby doorway, held my breath, waited for his footsteps to fade, then peeked out. I knew I shouldn't follow. He said this wasn't something I should be involved in. He said to wait. But I couldn't wait. I sat in the side room, brushed Huang Tuan's fur, changed water for the Great General, watered the kumquat. After doing these, I didn't know what to do. The kumquat sprout on the windowsill had grown a little taller, tender green, swaying in the wind. I stared at it for a while, suddenly thinking: When he left today, his hand was still wrapped in gauze. White, by me. What would he do with that hand? Catch people? Interrogate? Or block knives? I stood up, walked out. Ruo Lan called from behind "Miss, where are you going?", I didn't answer.
He wasn't wearing that black robe today, changed into a dark grey one, cuffs gathered tightly, leather belt around his waist, same outfit as that day in the alley. But he brought a sword. Not the kind hung at the waist as decoration, but the kind—you could tell at a glance, he had used it. The scabbard was black, polished to a shine, tied at his waist, swaying slightly with his walking rhythm. His hand was still wrapped in gauze, white, faintly visible under the dark grey sleeve. That was what I wrapped yesterday, not too loose, not too tight. He didn't use his left hand. His right hand hung by his side, wrapped in gauze, like afraid of touching something.
I followed behind him, about a dozen steps away. Didn't dare step on his shadow anymore, afraid he would hear. His pace was very fast, faster than usual. Not that kind of rushing fast, but that kind of—he knew where to go, knew what would be on the way, knew where each step should land, that kind of fast. I jogged two steps to catch up, then quickly slowed down, afraid my footsteps would be too heavy. Cloth shoes stepping on stone slabs, pattering, sounding loud in the alley. I walked on tiptoes, like a thief. Palms sweating, sticky, sticking to my sleeve. Heart beating fast, fast enough to hear my own pulse. What was I afraid of? Afraid he'd find out? Afraid he'd make me go back? Afraid he'd be angry, never let me follow again? All of them. None of them.
He reached the alley entrance, suddenly stopped. I quickly hid behind a wall, back pressed against it, ice cold. Dirt in the brick cracks rubbed against my clothes, rustling. I held my breath, waited. The alley was very quiet. Wind stopped. Distant dog barking, barked twice, stopped. After a long time—maybe not long, I didn't know—his footsteps sounded again. I peeked out, saw his back disappear around the alley corner. He walked very steadily, same as every day. Didn't turn back.
The alley grew narrower, walls higher, sunlight less. Almost like yesterday's alley, but not the same. This one was older, several grey bricks on the wall had fallen off, revealing the adobe inside. There were puddles on the ground, stepping on them pattered, splashing water onto my shoe, cold. I looked down, the tip of my shoe was wet. His boots stepped in the puddles, no sound. I walked on tiptoes, trying not to make sound. Toes curled in my shoes, after walking for a long time, sore.
The alley ended at a door. Wooden, very old, paint all gone, revealing the grey-white wood inside. The door knocker was copper, rusted, green, like growing moss. He stood before the door, didn't knock. Just stood, looking at that door. I hid at the alley corner, peeked out half my head. He pushed the door open and went in. The door closed behind him, creaking, very light, but in the quiet alley, like something cracking.
I stood in place, waited for a while. No one came out. I tiptoed to the door, ear pressed against the door crack. Inside very quiet, couldn't hear anything. I pushed the door, didn't move. Pushed again, still didn't move. I squatted down, looked through the bottom crack—pitch black, couldn't see anything. I stood up, patted the dust off my knees, thought for a moment, squatted back down. This time I saw. Not people, but light. Very dim, coming from inside, drawing a thin line on the ground. Someone was inside. He was inside too. I didn't know what he was doing inside. Like interrogating Official Zhao, sitting, drinking tea, waiting? Or like in the alley, standing, acting, blocking? His hand was injured, gauze wrapped. What would he do with that hand?
I waited for a long time. Legs numb, switched legs. Numb again, stood up, squatted. Stood up again, squatted again. Alley very quiet, only wind, only my breathing. I squatted at the door, hugging my knees, waiting. A little regret in my heart. Shouldn't have followed. He would be angry if he knew. He told me to wait, I didn't wait. He told me not to follow, I followed. He pushed me away, I wouldn't leave. I always didn't listen to him. From the first day. He told me not to hit him, I hit. He told me not to raise a dog, I raised. He told me not to go forward, I went. He told me not to follow, I followed. He always said "no", I always said "I will anyway". He always couldn't do anything about me. Would this time be the same? Or was this time different? This time wasn't cutting apples, raising dogs, going forward. This time was knives, blood, people hiding in the dark. He didn't want me to see these. So he pushed me away. I knew. But I still came.
The door suddenly opened.
I was startled, almost sat on the ground. He stood at the door, looking down at me. Moonlight came from behind him, his face in the dark, expression unclear. I squatted on the ground, looking up at him, opened my mouth, couldn't speak. His hand wrapped in gauze, white. His fingers hung by his side, didn't move. He stood there, looked at me for a long time. So long I thought he would be angry.
"How long have you been squatting?" he asked. His voice very even, same as asking "How is the Great General?"
"...Not long."
"Aren't your legs numb?"
"Numb."
He didn't speak. Reached out, palm facing up. His hand had gauze, white, by me. I was stunned, handed my hand over. He held it, pulled me up. Legs were indeed numb, the moment I stood up, like thousands of needles pricking my legs, I swayed, almost squatted back down. He didn't let go. Waited for me to stand steady, then let go. His fingers were cool. Same as in the north, cool.
"How did you know I was outside?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Turned around, walked back. Pace neither fast nor slow, same as every day. I followed behind him, this time stepping on his shadow. Legs still numb, walking with a limp. He slowed down a bit. Just a bit. Just enough for me to catch up.
"When did you find out?" I asked.
"When I left."
I was stunned. "Then why didn't you call me out?"
"If I did, would you go back?"
I thought about it. "No."
"Then I didn't."
I looked at him. He walked in front of me, back very steady, same as every day. His hand wrapped in gauze, white, very conspicuous under the moonlight. I suddenly felt, he didn't not find out. He found out when he left. He heard my footsteps, knew I hid in the doorway, knew I walked on tiptoes. He knew where I was every step. But he didn't call me out. Because he knew, if he did, I would still follow. He understood me. Like I knew he would come back to drink tea, he knew I would follow.
"Who's inside?" I asked.
"The one who ran in the alley."
I was stunned. That person with the scar on his hand. "You caught him?"
"Mm."
"Did he confess?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "He will."
I looked at him. His tone was very even, same as saying "It will sprout". But I knew, different. When he said "It will sprout", he was talking about the kumquat. When he said "He will", he was talking about that person. I suddenly felt, what he did inside just now, wasn't something I didn't know. It was something I didn't want to see. He didn't want me to see, so he made me wait. Wait outside, wait here, wait outside that door. Wait for him to finish those things, walk out, say "Let's go". Then go home, drink tea, let me bandage. Same as every day.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Can you—don't make me wait outside next time?"
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "Then don't follow."
"I will anyway."
He stopped, turned back to look at me. Moonlight shone on his face, his expression very calm. But I saw his mouth corner—slightly twitched. Not a smile, but that kind of twitch when poked by something, couldn't hold back. Like saying: I knew it.
"Are your legs still numb?" he asked.
"Numb."
"Next time you squat for a long time, switch legs."
I was stunned. Then smiled. "Okay."
He turned back, continued walking forward. I followed him, stepping on his shadow. Alley still that narrow, walls still that high, stone slabs still that slippery. But I wasn't afraid anymore. Not because he caught those people, but because he found out when he left, but he didn't call me out. He let me follow. He knew I would follow, so he slowed down, stepped in water without sound, waited for me to hide in the doorway when he turned back. He knew everything. But he didn't call me out. Because if he did, I would still follow.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Next time you go out, can you call me?"
"Call you for what?"
"Together."
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "Okay."
I smiled. Stepping on his shadow, step by step. Legs not numb anymore. Alley almost at the end, ahead was the street, with light, voices,烟火气. A wonton seller walked by carrying his pole, hawking cry coming from the alley entrance, trailing off. When he walked in, steps still that steady. Moonlight shone on him, dark grey clothes, cuffs gathered tightly, hand wrapped in gauze, white. I walked beside him, not behind, but beside. He looked at me, didn't speak. I looked at him, didn't speak either. We walked side by side, shadows cast on the ground, very close.
"Don't squat that long next time," he suddenly said.
"Why?"
"Legs will be numb."
I was stunned. Then smiled. "Okay."
He turned back, continued walking. I walked beside him, stepping on my own shadow. Wind blew over, cool, carrying osmanthus sweet scent. I looked down at my shoes, tips still wet, stained with alley puddles. Then looked at his hand, gauze wrapped, white. His hand hung by his side, swaying slightly with walking rhythm. I suddenly wanted to hold it. Just once. But I didn't dare. I just walked beside him, very close. Close enough that sleeves occasionally touched. He didn't dodge. I didn't pull back either. We walked like this, out of the alley, into the lights.
(End of Chapter 32)