Chapter Seventeen: Aura

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Ever since Nie Yunzhu and Walnut left the Golden Wind Pavilion two years ago, although they lived together more like sisters and both tried their best to take on whatever tasks they could, in truth, mistress and servant remained mistress and servant. Most of the household chores still fell to Walnut, while Nie Yunzhu only handled the simpler matters. Each day, she would embroider beautiful silks, occasionally stitch soles for shoes or handkerchiefs, and every few days she would visit the Golden Wind Pavilion to teach a music lesson. In this way, she managed to keep their modest home afloat. Of course, since her embroidery was more for her own amusement, exquisitely crafted but costly and time-consuming, it never brought in much money.

Since Walnut fell gravely ill last month, Nie Yunzhu inevitably had to shoulder the household chores herself. She could still manage simple meals and laundry—though she was clumsy, and the clothes never came out as spotless as Walnut’s. Just before the Mid-Autumn Festival, she bought an old hen, intending to stew it to help Walnut recover, but in the end, it was a complete disaster.

She caught the hen but dared not kill it; in the end, the hen escaped, and she chased it all the way into the river, losing her kitchen knife in the process and even dragging a kind passerby into her misadventure. After he pulled her from the water and she regained consciousness, her first reaction was to slap him. The next day, as she fished for her kitchen knife, he happened to see her again and even helped her slaughter the chicken…

She was usually a composed and dignified woman—years in the brothel had taught her much about people and appearances, which she valued highly—yet this time, everything that person had witnessed was nothing but shameful. The thought of it left her both embarrassed and amused. Some days prior, she, too, had fallen ill alongside Walnut; fortunately, it was only a mild chill and she recovered just after the Mid-Autumn Festival. She realized she had never even asked her benefactor’s name. Hu Yan Lei Feng… She wasn’t sure if she’d remembered it correctly, but today, by chance, she encountered him again.

Nie Yunzhu had met many people in her life. This young man appeared to be just over twenty, with a scholarly air, but reflecting on their encounters, she realized he was quite different from most. The way he spoke and acted was always calm and unhurried, wholly at ease. From rescuing her, to his reaction after she slapped him, to helping her kill the chicken and then leaving without ceremony—he was always the same. As she hurried after him now, she saw that he truly intended to buy charcoal, but after inspecting the sacks of charcoal and conversing with the shopkeeper, the situation took an unexpected turn.

It was late autumn, with winter approaching; most households were buying charcoal, and some shops sold it loose. This shop, however, sold it by the sack. After speaking with the proprietor, the young man dumped a large sack out onto the ground, took a cloth bag, and crouched down, picking out individual sticks of charcoal one by one. He was quite selective, often scraping them on the ground before tossing only a few into his bag. The shopkeeper wasn’t angry—just curious—and, after a few questions, went back to his work.

After watching a moment, Nie Yunzhu stepped forward and stopped behind him, bending down. “Benefactor?”

“Hmm?” The young man glanced at her, clearly recognizing her. “Oh, it’s you. What a coincidence.” He continued selecting charcoal, his attention undivided.

His response and manner were rather unusual. In these times, steeped in Confucian etiquette, interactions were formal and elaborate; a man, confronted by a woman, would at least stand straight and greet her respectfully. Such refinement had become second nature to society. Yet this offhand “Oh, it’s you. What a coincidence,” was something Nie Yunzhu had never encountered before—but it felt entirely natural. She hesitated, blinking, then gathered her skirts and crouched beside him.

“Benefactor…”

“Heh, it was only a chicken. No need to call me benefactor,” the young man said with a wave and a smile.

“Has my benefactor forgotten that it was not the chicken, but rescuing me from the river, that I owe you for?”

“Ah…”

He paused, finally recalling the incident. Nie Yunzhu couldn’t suppress a soft laugh. Now, the two were crouched side by side before the pile of charcoal. She tilted her head to look at him. “My name is Nie Yunzhu.” Waiting to make sure he remembered it, she continued, “Is your name Hu Yan Lei Feng?”

“Hu, Hu Yan Lei Feng…” For a moment, his expression twitched with awkwardness, then he laughed. “No, it’s Ning Yi,” he replied, “Ning Yi—styled Liheng.”

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Hearing this name, Nie Yunzhu was momentarily stunned.

“‘Water Tune Song Head’…”

“That man’s called Ning Yi, styled Liheng…”

“The Su family’s son-in-law…”

“Perhaps he’s just a fame-seeker who bought the poem…”

The amazement she’d felt upon first reading that poem at the Golden Wind Pavilion still lingered in her mind, and the girls’ chatter about it flashed through her thoughts. Ning Yi—Liheng. She had simply admired the verses without thinking further about the author; gossip had not interested her, so the name hadn’t mattered. Now, though, it struck her.

She was dazed for a long moment before coming to herself. “Mr. Ning… may I ask what you need this charcoal for?”

“To write,” Ning Yi replied. He tapped a white-painted wooden board on the ground, then picked up a slender charcoal stick and wrote the character “Nie.” It seemed he meant to write the name he had just heard, but as he reached the final stroke, he paused—perhaps thinking it impolite to write her full name so casually. He shifted and wrote “Ning Yi” instead.

His calligraphy, in a robust regular script, was powerful and assured. As he finished the last stroke, the charcoal broke between his fingers. Nie Yunzhu herself was accomplished in calligraphy and quickly made a comparison in her mind; handling charcoal was quite different from holding a brush, and if she were to write with a piece of charcoal, the result would be far inferior. For him to write so well with charcoal meant his understanding of calligraphy must be profound.

In these times, poetry and calligraphy were inseparable; those with mastery in one were often great scholars in the other. Anyone who could write like this would surely be capable of composing a “Water Tune Song Head.” Nie Yunzhu mused that rumors were seldom reliable. Little did she know that Ning Yi’s brushwork was only passable; it was with chalk and fountain pen that he’d truly trained his hand, creating all sorts of artistic scripts. Later, as his status grew and his frame of mind matured, his writing gained an added grandeur. Looking at those two characters now, he felt it had declined somewhat, but still good enough to impress.

Calligraphy is not mastered overnight—one cannot let students, who practice their brushwork day after day, think their teacher’s script is ugly…

“I use this board to write in class, so the words can be wiped away. With sand trays, the lines aren’t as clear and need constant smoothing out, and since sand trays are flat, students tire their eyes. With this, the board can be hung upright.”

“In class… a school? Are you a teacher, Mr. Ning?”

“Yes, of a small school, teaching a few hopelessly dull students to read and write…”

She smiled. “Mr. Ning, will this stick of charcoal do?”

In the brothel, social artistry was everything; with preparation, Nie Yunzhu was confident she could converse gracefully with anyone. She spoke naturally now, yet she sensed the ease came not from herself, but from his attitude. Together, they finished filling the small cloth bag with charcoal, their hands blackened in the process. Ning Yi paid more than ten extra coins for the small bag.

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“The shopkeeper is really unreasonable, charging extra for such a small bag of charcoal,” Nie Yunzhu remarked as they left.

He laughed. “Well, I did trouble him. I suppose he let me pick and choose because he heard I was taking it to the school—being a teacher does have its uses.”

“If you need more next time, you might as well buy several bags and sort them at home. That would save you some money.”

“Haha, next time I’ll have the students bring their own.”

Soon, they washed their hands by the Qinhuai River—one carrying the wooden board and charcoal, the other with a cloth bag and medicine pouch—walking one behind the other. Nie Yunzhu brought up the incident of falling into the river and being rescued. Ning Yi simply waved it off, saying it was nothing, and changed the subject with casual ease.

Their conversation was occasional and the atmosphere oddly natural. After a while, as they walked with Nie Yunzhu a step behind, she found herself recalling the mood of “Water Tune Song Head.” Suddenly, she felt that perhaps only someone so unfettered and at ease could have composed such a poem.

They walked on for some distance until they reached a bend in the river. There, Ning Yi paused to bid her farewell. Not far away, the riverbank shimmered in the gentle light; the willows were fresh and green, and a teahouse with a few small shops nestled by the water. Beside the teahouse was a small chess stand, where two elderly men played in leisure, one draped in fine silks, exuding an air of nobility.

Nie Yunzhu gave her farewells with a curtsey and a few words, paused a moment, then continued on her way. He, too, walked toward the teahouse and chess stand. The two elders seemed to know him and greeted him with a smile. She heard his voice faintly on the wind:

“…You two have really made things difficult for me these last few days… This morning, Yu Zixing actually came looking for me…”

She passed by, and at last, glancing back, saw the young man seated, watching the chess match, a cup of tea raised lightly to his lips. There was little connection between them; with the debt of gratitude repaid, in a city as large as Jiangning, perhaps they would never meet again. He seemed not to possess the slightest ulterior motive or ambition, unlike the many poets and gentlemen she had known. From start to finish, he was calm and unaffected—free-spirited, unconstrained by etiquette, yet never disrespectful, maintaining an unmistakable distance. He was, in character, like the scholars of ancient Tang.

Now, all men aspired to be gentlemen, but perhaps a true gentleman was just such a man.

Perhaps they would never cross paths again, and he would not give their brief encounter another thought. Yet this solitary figure, she had already engraved in her memory.

Ning Yi—Ning Liheng…

With these thoughts, Nie Yunzhu turned and walked home.