Yuanyou first year, seventh month. Hot as a steamer.
When I rose in the morning, clothes already stuck to my body. Pushed open the window, not a breath of wind, only cicadas screaming desperately in the trees, screaming until one's heart was vexed and confused. That sound was like countless small hammers knocking on the forehead, dong-dong-dong-dong, knocking until the entire palace was in a daze. Palace path stone slabs were sun-bleached white, burning to step on. The air was thick with dry restlessness, even breathing was hot.
The Inner Kitchen was hotter than outside. Once stove fires burned, one felt roasted over flames. Eunuch Li rolled his sleeves to his elbows, sweat streaming down his forehead, not wiping it, letting it drip onto the stove, sizzling and instantly drying when it landed.
"What today?" I asked.
"Mung bean soup. The Empress Dowager named it specifically."
"His Majesty's side?"
"His Majesty's side—" he paused, ladle in hand stopping, "today probably cannot eat anything."
"What happened?"
"The Grand Tutor added lessons. Said autumn will test him, these days adding lessons daily. Yesterday read from morning to night, returned with red eyes." He poured mung beans into the pot, not looking up, "Go see. Take a bowl of mung bean soup. Not too sweet."
I packed mung bean soup into the food box, walked toward Funing Hall. Reaching the entrance, the gatekeeping eunuch stopped me.
"His Majesty is studying. The Grand Tutor said, no one is permitted to disturb."
"I only bring a bowl of soup. Leave after delivering."
He hesitated. "The Grand Tutor is inside."
I pushed open a crack in the door, looked in. Zhao Xu sat before his desk, a book spread before him, pen in hand writing something. The Grand Tutor sat beside, also holding a book, reading intently. The hall was very dark, curtains drawn, only a thin line of light penetrating. Zhao Xu's back was perfectly straight, but shoulders slightly slumped. His sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing thin wrists, a red mark on the wrist—probably from pressing against the book. Fine sweat on his forehead, not wiping it, letting it stream down his cheeks. That sweat drop fell on the paper, blooming into a small patch, he didn't mind.
I carried the mung bean soup in. The Grand Tutor looked up at me, frowned slightly, but said nothing. I placed the bowl beside Zhao Xu's hand; he raised his head, saw me, his eyes brightened. That brightness was like ice dropping into hot water, sizzling, suddenly a trace of coolness in the sweltering hall. When he raised his head, I needed to look slightly up to see his eyes. He was taller than me. Not a little, but a lot. Last winter still at my eyebrows, spring at my nose bridge, now he was half a head taller than me.
"Drink some soup. Too hot."
He set down his pen, raised the bowl, drank a mouthful. Drank another. At the third mouthful, stopped.
"Delicious."
"Then finish it."
He glanced at the Grand Tutor. The Grand Tutor's head was lowered reading, not looking at him. He raised the bowl, drank it all in one breath. Several mung beans at the bottom of the bowl, he picked them up with his fingers, stuffed them into his mouth.
"More?"
"No. Must still recite texts." He lowered his head, continued writing. Pen tip falling on paper, sha-sha-sha-sha. His characters were much prettier than last year, stroke by stroke, steady and sure. But when writing the last line, the pen paused. I saw that line he wrote—"To learn and at due times to repeat what one has learned, is that not after all a pleasure?" He finished, looked at that line, looked for a long time. Then raised his head, looked at me. His eyes were just above my forehead; I needed to look slightly up to meet his gaze.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"When you studied before, was it hot?"
I paused. "Hot. Hotter than here."
"Then what did you do?"
"I—" I thought, "I ate ice."
"Ice?" His eyes brightened, like a lamp suddenly lit at night, "Where is ice?"
"The palace has some. Stored in the cellar from winter ice."
The Grand Tutor coughed. That cough wasn't heavy, but very deep, like a stone thrown into a well. Zhao Xu lowered his head, continued writing. But his writing posture changed—shoulders no longer slumped, back straighter, mouth corners slightly raised. His head swayed before my eyes, that sway of being half a head taller than me, carrying the greenness of youth just shooting up. He wrote while secretly moving that note from the desk corner to his hand side. Movement very fast, the Grand Tutor didn't see. But I saw.
I withdrew. At the doorway, looked back. He had finished that line, was writing the next. But beside his hand, there was something more—that open book below, pressing a note. Was what I slipped him. Written on it: "Tonight making frozen cheese for you."
That afternoon, I went to ask Eunuch Li for ice.
"Ice?" He frowned, "What do you want ice for?"
"Making frozen cheese. For His Majesty to eat."
"Frozen cheese? What is that?"
"A kind of—" I thought, "a kind of cold, sweet, soft thing. Where I used to live, everyone eats this in summer."
Eunuch Li looked at me. Said nothing. After a while, brought out a block of ice from the cellar, placed it on the stove. Not large, but enough. Ice surface still carried cellar coolness, once taken out, heat from beside the stove rushed up, ice surface immediately misted white.
"Put back when finished. Don't waste."
"Good."
I broke the ice. Ice shards flew up, splashing on the stove, sparkling. The sound of breaking ice was especially crisp in the sweltering Inner Kitchen, ding-ding-dang-dang, like wind chimes. Also went to the Imperial Kitchen for a bowl of milk, added a little honey, added a little osmanthus. No blender, no syrup, no those colorful decorations. Only ice, milk, honey, osmanthus. I stirred milk and honey evenly, poured over crushed ice, sprinkled a handful of osmanthus. Ice was cold, milk was white, osmanthus was gold, when poured, honey flowed down ice crevices, sparkling, like thin rivers one by one.
Eunuch Li watched from the side, said nothing.
"This is frozen cheese?"
"Mm."
"Good?"
"Good."
He glanced at me, asked no more. But I saw his Adam's apple move.
I packed frozen cheese into a small bowl, wrapped in cloth, walked toward Funing Hall. Reaching the entrance, sky had already darkened. Lights were lit in the hall, the Grand Tutor gone, Zhao Xu alone sitting before his desk, that book still spread before him, not closed. Hearing footsteps, he didn't raise his head, pen still writing.
"The Grand Tutor is gone," I said.
He raised his head, saw the bowl in my hand, eyes brightened. He threw down his pen, jumped up from his chair, chair legs scraping on the ground, creaking. When he walked over, steps were large, coat hem swinging. He walked to me; I had to raise my head to see his face. He was half a head taller than me. This fact appearing before me each time made me dazed. Last year at this time, he was still that child crouching on the ground watching ants. Now he stood before me, I needed to look up at him.
"Frozen cheese?"
"Frozen cheese."
He closed the book, set down his pen, pushed the inkstone to one side. Movements fast as if in battle, book pages lifted by wind, hua-la-la sounding. I placed the bowl before him. He lowered his head to look—crushed ice with white milk poured over, golden osmanthus floating on top, like small patches of moon.
"Pretty."
"Tasty is what matters."
He picked up his spoon, scooped a mouthful, stuffed it into his mouth. Chewed twice, stopped. Brow furrowed together, mouth puffed, like a squirrel caught stealing food.
"What is it?"
"Cold." He covered his face, voice leaking through fingers, "So cold."
"Eat slowly. No one competing with you."
He scooped another mouthful. This time, he ate very slowly. Ice melted in his mouth, milk's sweetness and osmanthus's fragrance surged up together. He closed his eyes, chewed for a long time. Brow slowly relaxing, shoulders slowly slumping, entire person like melted by something.
"Delicious," he said, "Better than mung bean soup."
"Mung bean soup relieves summer heat. Frozen cheese is—is to make you happy."
He opened his eyes, looked at me. His eyes were just above my forehead; I needed to look up to meet them. When he lowered his head to look at me, lash shadows fell on my forehead. He suddenly reached out, wiped my forehead once.
"What is it?"
"Sweat. Your face is all sweat."
His palm was cool, carrying water droplets condensed from the bowl's edge. That touch was brief, but very light.
"You eat too." He handed me the spoon.
"I won't eat. Made for you."
"Eat one mouthful." He raised the spoon to my mouth, chin slightly lifted. That expression, not childish coquetry, but that—I know you want to eat too, because you are also hot.
I opened my mouth, ate that mouthful of frozen cheese. Coolness spread from the tongue, flowing down the throat like a thin cool river.
"Good?"
"Good."
He smiled. Smiled with complete satisfaction, as if he had already grasped the entire summer in his palm.
"The Grand Tutor said much today," he suddenly said, voice very light. He leaned against the chair back, spoon in hand, frozen cheese in the bowl half melted, milk and honey mixed together, white and bright. "Said to learn and at due times to repeat, said is that not a pleasure. Said the gentleman is calm and open, the petty man is full of worries. Said the whole day."
He paused. Frozen cheese in the bowl melted more, milk overflowing crushed ice, like a small lake.
"I memorized it all. But I don't know, what use is memorizing."
His shadow fell upon me, much longer than mine. The hall's lamp swayed once, shadow swaying with it.
"Were you happy eating frozen cheese?"
"Happy."
"Then that's right. Memorizing, not necessarily useful. But happy, certainly useful."
He paused. Then smiled. "What kind of reasoning is this?"
"My reasoning."
"Then does your reasoning, does the Grand Tutor recognize it?"
"Doesn't recognize."
"Then who recognizes?"
"You recognize, that's enough."
He looked at me a while. Then lowered his head, scooped the last mouthful of frozen cheese, stuffed it into his mouth. Chewed for a long time. Swallowed.
"I recognize."
He handed me the bowl. One osmanthus petal stuck to the bottom, golden yellow.
"Make again tomorrow."
"Good."
"Make every day."
"Good. Make until autumn. When autumn cools, won't make."
He frowned slightly. "Make in autumn too. Autumn is hot."
"Autumn isn't hot."
"Hot. I say hot, it's hot."
He lowered his head looking at me, chin slightly lifted. His eyes were bright, mouth corners raised. That expression, not childish coquetry, but that—I know you will promise me, because you want to eat too. His shadow covered me, blocking the lamplight.
"Good. Make in autumn too."
He smiled. Smiled with complete satisfaction, as if he had already reserved the entire autumn.
When I gathered the bowls, I saw that note on his desk. Was what I slipped him that afternoon. He hadn't thrown it away. Pressed beneath the inkstone, one corner showing. Written on it—"Tonight making frozen cheese for you."
He pulled out the note, looked at it, folded it, tucked it into his sleeve.
"Why keep this?"
"Keeping. To remind you tomorrow."
"I won't forget."
"I know you won't forget. But I want to keep it."
He patted his sleeve, stood up. He stood before me; I raised my head, saw his chin. His chin was no longer as pointed as last year, lines harder, Adam's apple slightly protruding. He was half a head taller than me. This fact, I might need a long time to get used to.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Come early tomorrow. Come when the Grand Tutor leaves."
"Good."
"Bring frozen cheese."
"Good."
He turned and ran. Coat hem trampling stone pavement, pa-pa-pa, like horse hooves. Ran to the doorway, turned back and shouted: "More osmanthus!"
I stood in the hall, watching him run far. Frozen cheese in the bowl had melted into water, white and bright, like a small pool of moon.
That night, I wrote the frozen cheese recipe on a note: one bowl crushed ice, half bowl milk, one spoon honey, one handful osmanthus. Stir evenly. For him, more osmanthus. For the Empress Dowager, less honey. For Eunuch Li, no honey, add a little salt.
When Eunuch Li saw that note, said nothing. After a while, he folded the note, tucked it into his sleeve.
"What for?"
"Keeping. To look at when making tomorrow."
"Didn't you memorize it?"
"Memorized. But want to keep it."
He left with his teacup. I stood at the stove, watching that remaining block of ice. Ice slowly melted in the bowl, drop by drop, like sweat, like tears, like summer's last coolness.
Moon outside the window. Round, bright. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, make another bowl of frozen cheese. More osmanthus. Less honey. For him to eat. He's happy, that's good. He's happy, can memorize a few more pages. Memorize a few more pages, can grow up. Grown up, can do what he wants to do. When that time comes, eat whatever he wants. Frozen cheese, osmanthus cakes, egg-fried rice, Fengzhen pork noodles. Want to eat what, make what. Want to eat when, eat when. No need to wait for Grand Tutor to leave, no need to wait for darkness to fall, no need to secretly slip notes.
He will sit before his desk, scoop a spoonful of frozen cheese himself, stuff it into his mouth. Then say—delicious. Then continue reading. Read to a happy place, smile. Read to an unhappy place, frown. Then eat a mouthful of frozen cheese, continue reading.
Days pass like this. When hot, eat cold. When bitter, eat sweet. Books that can't be memorized, memorize slowly. Melted ice, make again tomorrow.
He is half a head taller than me. Next year, will be taller. The year after, will be tall enough that I need to look up more. But it doesn't matter. When he is tall, he lowers his head to look at me. When I am short, I raise my head to look at him. We will both see each other's eyes. Both have moon inside.
[End of Chapter 19]