Chapter Sixty-Six: Winter in Kaifeng

Chapter Sixty-Six: Winter in Kaifeng

From that day forward, every morning before leaving home, Tie Xinyuan would place the basket containing the fox and the puppies at the base of the city wall. During the day, someone would always come by to feed the puppies until they were full, and would feed the fox as well. In the evening, all he needed to do was bring the basket back inside; as for the puppies, the fox would have already carried them home one by one.

Sometimes, Tie Xinyuan would even spot a few adults on the city wall. According to the little princess, many people in the palace liked to take care of the fox, but, curiously, very few were interested in the puppies.

Tie Xinyuan understood perfectly well why this was so. The fox was regarded by the emperor as an auspicious beast, worthy even of sharing a table with him—a privilege, besides the empress, no other consort enjoyed. Since the emperor was the only man in the palace, his interests naturally became those of all the women there...

Of course, these things could not be said to the little princess. Her mother would explain such matters to her in due time.

Heaven only knew why the winter in the Eastern Capital was so bitterly cold that year! Under the clear blue sky, icy shards drifted down. Tie Xinyuan, bundled in cotton trousers and coat, with a clumsily made ear-flapped cap from his mother atop his head, hands stuffed into his sleeves, shivered as he made his way to the school.

He felt that if he didn’t eat something rich in calories soon, he might well freeze to death.

A cart clattered past him, carrying five or six stiff, frozen bodies—adults, children, women. The strangest thing was that all of them wore eerie smiles.

Scenes like this were common in the capital during winter. The coroners who came to eat at the shop once said: If someone found collapsed on the roadside still had a look of pain, they could sometimes be revived if swaddled in a blanket and placed somewhere warm. But if a smile already fixed their features, nothing could be done; they had long since frozen to death.

This made Tie Xinyuan think of “The Little Match Girl,” a story he’d read in his previous life. Perhaps she, too, had died with such a smile, and it was this that inspired such tales.

Children from poor families know no hardship they cannot endure.

Little Hua wore a hat identical to Tie Xinyuan’s, her face red from the cold, her hands swollen and clumsy as carrots as she fumbled to drop dumplings into hot soup.

On such frigid days, everyone wanted a steaming bowl of meat and vegetable dumplings before heading out, so her family’s dumpling stall did brisk business.

Tie Xinyuan slipped off his fingerless gloves and put them on Little Hua’s swollen hands, then took the skimmer to help cook the dumplings himself.

“Here you are again, helping your little lady, eh? Little Hua is truly blessed. If she marries you, she won’t have to suffer like this in the future.”

Such gossip was the delight of the women in the marketplace. Tie Xinyuan didn’t mind, always responding with a cheerful grin. Little Hua, though still young, knew enough to blush and cover her face at such times.

“If you really like her, you should have your mother send the three-color betrothal gifts to her house. That way, you can bring Little Hua home next year.”

“Nonsense! If Little Hua goes to the Iron Lady’s house, she’ll live in comfort. But as things are, her family relies on these dumplings to get by. If she leaves, what’s that tubercular old Huang and his lot to do, starve in the cold wind?”

Tie Xinyuan dumped the cooked dumplings onto the table and said, “Eat up, and mind your own business. Just coming here every day to buy a bowl helps Little Hua plenty.”

“You’re such a little adult. I won’t argue with you. My own Spring Seedling keeps asking when you’ll come play with her…”

So Tie Xinyuan worked and chatted with the neighbors. Soon the sun rose. Wiping his hands, he said to Little Hua, who sat warming herself by the fire, “I’m off. It’s too cold—sell your dumplings, then hurry home.”

Little Hua was used to his care, nodding quickly. She knew if Tie Xinyuan didn’t leave soon, he’d be late for school.

The sesame cakes and lamb offal at Niu Sanpa’s place were as delicious as ever. Remembering what he’d told his teacher’s wife the other day, he grabbed another cake. It was only right not to pay for his own, but it would be wrong not to pay for the extra. The people of Song valued propriety and trust above all; the reputation he’d worked so hard to build could not be squandered for a mere ten coppers.

Curiously, people in the Song dynasty placed greater faith in promises than in written contracts. Anyone who went to the authorities with a contract to assert their rights would be ridiculed by all, even if successful. They would be scorned for it, regardless of the justice of their claim.

Two paupers might wish to start a business together, but neither alone had enough capital. So, a curious custom arose: they would combine their resources to enrich one of them first. After the first became prosperous, he was then obliged to help his poorer brother until both stood on equal footing, thus fulfilling his promise.

At first, Tie Xinyuan thought this would lead to all manner of fraud, betrayal, and broken promises. But he found that in the Eastern Capital, he had never once heard of such treachery. No matter the character of the partners, not one abandoned his brother in poverty.

When his mother first wanted to buy pork, she simply mentioned it to the butcher, who then delivered fresh meat daily, rain or shine, never missing a day.

Everyone in the capital knew the butchers were not good people, except when it came to business. The pork his mother received was never weighed twice; the price was always as agreed, never on credit, and the meat was never short in weight or inferior in quality.

Living in a world where honesty prevailed was, in a way, dreadfully dull—it left clever people with little scope to display their talents.

Watching the grand restaurants trust his family’s precious silverware to renters without a word or receipt, Tie Xinyuan often found himself tempted to make off with all the capital’s silverware and melt it into ingots.

To his shame, he once asked his teacher why the restaurant owners were so trusting.

The teacher replied, puzzled, “Isn’t that simply the way things ought to be?”

Those words pressed down on the little rascal beneath Tie Xinyuan’s sheepskin robe, squeezing him into submission… Since then, he resolved to be an honest man, even if only in appearance.

Helping Little Hua was one such effort—at first just a moment’s compassion, but he soon learned that starting something without seeing it through was scorned, at least by men of character like Mr. Guo.

He arrived late at school. His teacher’s wife would not let him freeze in the frigid classroom and instead dragged him into the small study, where, by the warmth of the brazier, they ate mutton, cakes, and drank an herbal tea sent from her hometown.

Mr. Guo’s children were now grown and stationed in Chenliu, not far from Kaifeng, watching over the family estate. The elderly couple remained in the capital, earning a living.

Listening to his teacher’s wife recount tales of Chenliu, Tie Xinyuan shared her joy. He found himself increasingly drawn to these simple routines of daily life.

Mr. Guo, his head still bandaged, rarely lectured, mostly urging the students to read. On days so cold that water froze at a touch, studying and practicing calligraphy was real torment. But as the teacher said, braving the bitter cold at one’s desk and wearing out an iron inkstone forged a scholar’s endurance—a discipline, a way to perfect the spirit.

Perhaps out of favoritism, but Fatty Zhang, with his nose running and stammering through his lessons in the freezing classroom, cut a rather sorry figure.

Tie Xinyuan, book in hand, sat by the fire, reading a bit, then chatting with the teacher’s wife, which in the teacher’s eyes seemed perfectly refined.

At last, when school let out, Tie Xinyuan and his classmates slowly made their way outside. Fatty Zhang stamped his numb feet and wiped his nose with a filthy handkerchief. Even sons of wealthy families, like Fatty Zhang, were not immune to frostbitten hands and feet in the Song dynasty.

His mother refused to go into the stove business, or to make gloves and hats for sale. She believed the noodle shop was enough to live on, and saw no need to sink deeper into commerce.

She always insisted that her son should become a man of stature, destined for high office. There would be plenty of opportunity for wealth in the future; to accumulate gold and silver now through trade would leave a bad taste in the mouth when it came time to use it.

The tall building across the street continued to rise, construction undeterred by the cold. Tie Xinyuan, standing before his family’s shop, worried about the craftsmen carving up high, fearing they might fall.

Mr. Luoshui now resided in the storeroom on the west side of the noodle shop, which he had cleaned and fitted with a large copper stove, making it so warm there was no need for thick clothes. Tie Xinyuan would slip in to read and warm himself whenever he could.

“Still reading those useless books?” Luoshui, in the midst of drafting, glanced at the copy of The Analects in Tie Xinyuan’s hand, set down his compass, and sighed.

“There’s a saying: ‘The wealthy need not buy good land, for books contain a thousand measures of grain; the secure need not build lofty halls, for books contain golden mansions; don’t lament for lack of followers, for books offer carriages and horses in abundance; don’t fret for lack of a matchmaker, for books contain beauties as fair as jade; if a young man would fulfill his ambitions, let him diligently study the Six Classics at his window.’ These are imperial instructions; you shouldn’t speak so lightly of books.” Tie Xinyuan set his book aside, grabbed a handful of chestnuts, and placed them on the stove to roast.