After that day, Aston often found himself gripped by a peculiar restlessness.
He kept remembering the piece Qin Siyu had left unfinished, his emotions left hanging with nowhere to settle.
Just as the music reached its most magnificent moment, it had stopped dead.
He had looked it up. The piece told a story from several thousand years ago.
Several thousand years.
A beauty’s farewell, a hero’s fall, dynasties rising and falling, the turning of the sun and moon.
He had never paid much attention to the East before, but lately he had been reading about it.
Several times, Qin Siyu had even come suddenly to mind during… certain moments.
When Aston closed his eyes, what used to be indistinct impressions of intertwined bodies was now unexpectedly interrupted by the image of Qin Siyu on his stool with the pipa, glancing down at the string that had struck his cheek, wiping away a trace of blood with a fingertip, then abruptly lifting his eyes toward Aston.
The memory brought on a surge of feeling that he could barely resist.
He had to force himself to push Qin Siyu out of his mind before continuing.
Yet those eyes would still appear for an instant, mingling like a ghost with the figure before him. Eventually, in his mind, the person beneath his hands seemed to possess those same eyes.
A pair of unmistakably Eastern eyes.
His agitation only grew.
In American society, especially among people of his class, restraint was widely emphasized. Indulgence, it was said, damaged the brain and impaired concentration.
Aston had his doubts about that, but he had no wish to test it.
He had always exercised extreme self-control. Lately, however, he kept feeling the urge to abandon it, even thinking about someone of the same sex at a moment like that—
* * *
Several days later, February 9 was Aston’s birthday.
His mother, Victoria Aston, had once again arranged a grand party. Both his parents had flown in from the family’s old estate in New York.
The trip from New York to San Francisco took a full two days of flying and more than a dozen transfers. It certainly showed how much importance they attached to the occasion.
Yet Aston didn’t feel that way.
Alexander and Victoria had invited all their business associates on the West Coast and barely spared their son a glance.
The party took place at the family’s Hillsborough estate. The banquet hall was extravagantly luxurious and elaborately decorated. Its predominant style carried on the ostentation of the Gilded Age, with abundant gold and carved ornament, mixed with touches of Art Nouveau. Natural curves and flowing lines gave the details a sense of movement.
Dinner consisted of more than a dozen courses.
The guests’ dietary restrictions had long since been passed to the kitchen. The head chef and sous-chef had prepared for ages, and appetizers and main courses were brought to each guest in turn on exquisite silver serving pieces. Each setting was removed after its guest finished before the next course arrived. There might be women among the cooks, but the food had to be served by male household servants.
At one point Alexander Aston thanked those attending, and everyone raised a glass. The rest of the evening proceeded much like every banquet: guests chatted with their neighbors.
After dinner, the men and women separated to converse.
As usual, the men smoked and discussed politics and business, cracking supposedly ‘sophisticated’ dirty jokes, while the women talked about clothing and family.
His mother Victoria joined them for a while. The other guests marveled at how much the couple cared for their son: the flight from New York to California must have been exhausting. Victoria smiled gracefully. ‘It was tiring, but a little easier than I’d imagined. Airline service has improved somewhat lately.’
Everyone agreed. ‘Yes. The last time I took a plane—’
Aston was profoundly bored.
An airplane generally carried only a dozen or so passengers, all wealthy travelers or business elites, and the service had always been good. Of course it had ‘improved’ again recently. The worse the economy, the better the service: everyone was afraid, everyone was willing to put up with more. What was there to celebrate about that?
He paused at the thought, realizing that someone else seemed to have influenced the way he thought.
His parents and their friends had started discussing Roosevelt’s inauguration early the following month.
Most of the people in the hall planned to attend, including his parents.
‘Will Kingsley be going too?’ several guests asked.
‘No. I have classes,’ Aston answered politely.
‘I’ve heard,’ a wealthy guest said, ‘that Roosevelt wants the executive powers of a wartime president to rescue the economy.’
‘That won’t work. Surely it can’t. We aren’t at war.’
‘Who knows whether the economy will recover?’ Their businesses were suffering too.
‘Who knows? It’s probably all finished.’
‘Kingsley,’ several people remarked admiringly, ‘I hear he’s already making a name for himself in finance? Those bonds. In a year like this he’s managed to buck the trend and raise funds using a new method!’
Everyone seemed to have heard of it. ‘Yes, yes.’ ‘He’s pioneered a new way of pooling capital.’
The Depression had dealt a crushing blow to the real economy. Corporate bonds were being downgraded to B ratings, and investment banks couldn’t sell them. The whole industry was in difficulty.
At the same time, because their credit ratings were lower and their default risks higher, B-rated bonds paid more interest than A-rated bonds.
At the financial firm where he was interning, Aston had devised a solution.
Using a new concept, hedging, he analyzed industries and companies and bundled several B-rated bonds together, reducing risk until the combined product was effectively A-rated.
He expected the automobile industry to recover under the new president. He therefore included bonds from automobile and petroleum companies while using several railroad companies to hedge against them. Whether automobiles rebounded and public transportation declined or automobiles continued to struggle while public transportation revived, the risk could remain manageable. Adding power, gas, and food-processing companies, which were less affected by the downturn and should continue to grow, he used complicated mathematical models to calculate the optimal proportions. Aston had managed to pursue B-bond returns at A-bond levels of risk. The packages had already sold out on Wall Street.
He had loved mathematics at school and had a talent for it, but chose economics as his major nonetheless. His father intended him to enter business first and then politics. The Aston family had no need for a mathematician.
The wealthy guests regarded Alex and his wife with envious eyes. ‘You’ve raised your son so well.’
They broke into exaggerated applause.
Alex Aston raised his glass as though putting on a show. Everyone else followed suit, and they all drained their drinks.
Prohibition had its loopholes.
For example, alcohol stockpiled before Prohibition was legal. Families like theirs maintained wine cellars, allowing them not only to drink openly but to enjoy older, finer vintages of European wine, champagne, whiskey and brandy, served on elegant silver trays in crystal glasses.
Of course, in truth, whatever they drank, the police would never interfere.
Aston also raised his glass and took a sip.
Even when people praised him as ‘brilliant’ or ‘outstanding,’ they still attributed it to how well his parents had raised and educated him, as though he himself had nothing to do with it.
‘That reminds me of something else…’ Seeing that Aston had become the subject of conversation, a British financier decided to make his presence felt. ‘The Duke of Harker in London has recently been considering a marriage alliance… Would Mr. Aston be interested?’
One side possessed centuries of family history and royal blood; the other was a commercial giant with vast holdings. They were both good-looking too. It was an excellent match.
London was still a financial center, but money there was growing scarce, and financiers were frequently coming to America in search of funds.
In those days, it was fashionable for American millionaires to marry their daughters into the old British aristocracy to acquire ‘class’ and status. The reverse arrangement was less common, but it did happen. Britain’s nobility was declining rapidly, unable to maintain its estates or host its lavish parties. It needed infusions of wealthy American money.
Alex had only one son. To his mind, marrying a daughter into Britain was a poor bargain. One shipped a great deal of money overseas, lost the family surname, and surrendered all subsequent descendants to someone else’s house. What a loss! And those aristocrats still put on airs while asking for money. Ridiculous.
But bringing a daughter of that world into his own family was another matter. Although she could not pass on a ducal title, a British duke’s daughter could marry into America, take the Aston name and defer to her husband. His son could escort her through society with suitable prestige. The highest form of refinement wasn’t acquiring their titles but putting those titles beneath oneself. In the past, daughters of dukes had married into other ducal families; now one could marry his son. This would also give them entry into European high society. A duke’s daughter would be exceptionally well brought up, too, and suitable for raising children. His own wife was admittedly somewhat shallow.
Noticing Alex’s apparent interest, the financier redoubled his efforts. ‘They aren’t merely dukes, either. Their bloodline is remarkably pure. The entire family has those beautiful, pure emerald-green eyes. Such a captivating color.’
In the Western world, emerald-green eyes were seen as rare, beautiful, elegant and noble, a precious hereditary trait.
Aston, however, was entirely uninterested.
At the mention of ‘the most captivating eye color,’ the first thing that came to his mind was…
Black eyes.
An answer that would have astonished every person in the room.
Deep black, limpid, like a bottomless pool. They could make a person want to dive straight in, in some primitive instinct tinged with fear, as though that were where one belonged.
They also resembled a starlit night. When those black eyes looked at him, his reflection in them was so deep and distinct, as though they were looking at him alone. He had never seen his reflection like that in anyone else’s eyes. Those dark pupils seemed to tempt one downward, drawing one into an abyss.
‘Thank you.’ Aston cut the financier off. ‘We can discuss it another time. I have no interest just now. It’s too early.’
‘Er… very well, then…’
After the guests had left, Alex slammed the front door, turned around and snapped, ‘Those bonds! You’ve gone much too far!’
His son raised his eyes.
Alex said, ‘Your name is Aston. You shouldn’t be doing this! B-rated bonds are far too risky. If you advance step by step, I’ll support you. But if you fail, you’ll damage the Aston family! You’re walking a tightrope, and you have no reason to perform circus tricks!’
Aston looked at him quietly, slipped a ring from his finger, and tossed it onto the table. ‘It’s my birthday today. Could we talk about this another time?’
‘You—’
Over the years, as his son slipped ever further beyond his control, Alex had gradually come to suspect something: for all his excellence, there was something fundamentally mad about him.
Alex Aston had no intention of obeying his son, especially now that the young man was coming of age and beginning to contest power. But at that moment a car returned unexpectedly, apparently because its occupant had further business, and Alex had to go greet them.
Aston returned to the banquet hall and stared numbly at the gift boxes that the butler and the other servants had already opened.
He picked up one. A wristwatch.
Lowering his gaze, he turned it over. As expected, the family crest was engraved on the back.
He picked up a set of expensive tableware next and lifted it idly. The engraved wineglasses, too, bore the family crest.
The third item he picked up was a cigar case and lighter. Again, the family crest.
The fourth was a saddle. Once more, an all-too-familiar design had been stamped into the leather.
Tie clips, brooches, cufflinks, candlesticks… all the same.
He searched through the pile until he finally found Cliff’s gift.
It was a hunting-rifle case, something Aston himself actually liked. But a closer look revealed the familiar emblem branded near the gun’s grip.
Last year, Cliff had given him a model sailing ship. That had borne the family crest too.
If Aston ever broke with his father, Cliff might not necessarily side with him.
Every gift was like this, because Alex Aston liked it that way.
Year after year, every gift at his birthday celebration was the same. The guests were flattering his parents, not him. It was as though this day were his father’s birthday rather than his.
Many years earlier he had gently told Cliff that he didn’t like it. Cliff had fallen silent for a moment, but the following year’s gift still carried the crest. After that, Aston never raised the matter with anyone again.
He didn’t like a single one of them.
These weren’t birthday presents for him.
Leaving every present where it lay, Aston turned and walked away.
He did not spare that mountain of gifts another glance.
* * *
That day was also the Lantern Festival.
Qin Siyu had gone home again. Chinatown was bustling; lanterns hung outside restaurants and shops, giving the streets a warm, festive air.
Sweet tangyuan were piled on stalls outside grocery stores. The City God Temple had organized activities, including lantern riddles.
Lin Suyu asked, ‘If you bite the tail off the character for ox… is the answer the character gao, meaning to tell?’
‘I think so,’ Qin Siyu said. He helped Suyu pull off the colored paper slip, which she held as she joined the queue to exchange it for a prize.
There were more stalls at the temple. One was teaching people to make rabbit lanterns.
Qin Siyu sat down to learn how.
He was deft with his hands. He did want to become a doctor, after all, and making a rabbit lantern suited him.
He felt quite sorry about the string breaking during his performance.
Aston had helped him several times already, at the masquerade and at the police station. In return, all Qin Siyu had done was play a little pipa for Robert, and even then the string had snapped.
That passage had been an addition made on the spot, but it still couldn’t have been very good, especially with the interruption arriving just before the final suicide.
He couldn’t afford an expensive gift, but giving someone a rabbit lantern during the Lantern Festival was a wish for good luck and auspicious fortune throughout the year.
It would at least express some feeling, so Qin Siyu decided to make one for Aston.
Strictly speaking, it wasn’t merely an apology, nor did he think he had to repay Aston in proportion to the help he’d received. Rather, Aston was a good person. Qin Siyu sincerely wished him peace and happiness, and sometimes a blessing made with one’s whole heart really could have an effect.
After watching the ‘teacher’ opposite him for a while, Qin Siyu bent a length of wire into a circle, then made a second circle. He fixed them at a sixty-degree angle and wound fine wire around their junction. These formed the rabbit’s two cheeks, with the bound point becoming its mouth.
He fashioned two ears and attached one to each circle.
For the body he used two long lengths of wire, bending them into identical ovals. One oval sat inside the other; he crossed and secured the two, their planes perpendicular, to form a frame.
When he set the body down, the lower edges of the two ovals ‘stood’ symmetrically on the table. Otherwise the rabbit wouldn’t roll properly. Their upper ends connected to the cheeks, and he added a round tail at the back.
Next came the wheels. He fastened the ‘body’ to two bamboo-and-wood rods, one at the front and one at the rear, threading their ends through wooden wheels that had been smoothed in advance.
The last step was pasting on the paper.
Qin Siyu cut two round pieces of white paper for the rabbit’s face, then two small red pieces for the eyes, adding black paper for the pupils.
The body was white too, covered in paper piece by piece. He cut fringes from white paper to drape over its back for a fluffy look and pasted a character meaning ‘good fortune’ on each side.
He left a small opening along the rabbit’s back and fixed a bamboo support inside. Once securely tied, it held a nail onto which a candle could be placed.
San Francisco was genuinely cold at that time of year. Although his hands had gone stiff, Qin Siyu kept working carefully.
Once he finished, he secretly called Aston’s house. Because they had collaborated on their paper, he had Aston’s dormitory and home telephone numbers.
But… he hadn’t expected Aston to be out of San Francisco altogether!
Qin Siyu left the City God Temple’s number with the household switchboard operator and asked her to tell the young master, in case he could call back.
He waited at the temple holding the rabbit lantern, and after a few minutes Aston really did return the call.
His voice sounded subdued. ‘Sean?’
‘Kingsley?’ Qin Siyu said. ‘Today is our Chinese Lantern Festival, the first full moon of the year, symbolizing reunion. New Year isn’t truly over until today. Well, I wanted to give you a present. They say it can bring you good luck for an entire year.’
Silence stretched on the other end for so long that Qin Siyu nearly thought the connection had failed. At last Aston replied gently, ‘Thank you, but I’m in Hillsborough right now. It’s very far away. Give it to someone else. My luck has always been rather good. I appreciate the thought. I’ll see you in a few days.’
‘Hillsborough?’ Qin Siyu wasn’t prepared to give up. He didn’t believe anyone could have no need of good wishes, and his mind was already calculating a route. ‘That isn’t too bad, is it? I don’t think it’s so far. I’ll come over now. About an hour and a half.’
‘Sean.’ Aston paused. ‘Are you serious?’
Qin Siyu held the rabbit lantern by its string. ‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll send the driver—’
‘No need, no need.’ Riding alone in a Cadillac would be much too strange. ‘I’ll take the train, then cycle the rest of the way. Give me the exact address, and I’ll call you from the station once I get off.’
Aston didn’t particularly value gifts. He had already received more than enough today, and didn’t want to put anyone to trouble. Yet for some reason he found himself saying, ‘All right.’
‘Mm.’ Qin Siyu was as quick to act as he was to decide. ‘I’m setting off, then~’
He told Lin Suyu, ran home for his bicycle, grabbed a map, slipped the rabbit lantern into his schoolbag, slung it on his back and set off.
Suyu looked utterly bewildered when he said goodbye. She opened her mouth. ‘Huh?’
Her cousin merely waved.
For Suyu, this was an entirely new experience. Her older cousin had never abandoned her and rushed off elsewhere before.
Qin Siyu cycled all the way to the station, working up a sweat across his back despite the winter chill.
San Francisco was famously hilly, with very steep gradients. Where he couldn’t pedal, he had to dismount and push.
After finally reaching the station, he discovered that the train didn’t stop in Hillsborough at all. He would have to get off somewhere else.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘There’s no Hillsborough station?’
The ticket clerk gave him a sardonic smile. ‘Rich people don’t like noise. The tracks don’t go there.’
‘…’
Qin Siyu lived near a station in Berkeley because the rent was cheap. It took him seven or eight minutes to cycle to school, but every passing train made the whole building shake, and a horn could be heard for two thousand meters in every direction.
‘Then should I buy a ticket to Burlingame?’ he asked.
‘That’ll do.’ A ticket was tossed toward him, and Qin Siyu caught it.
On the train he studied the address. ‘First I’ll ride this way… and then that way…’
He frequently rode for an hour or two anyway. That didn’t worry him.
With little money, he cycled whenever possible. To his mind, anywhere reachable within an hour by bicycle wasn’t far. He usually planned his routes; if he could make the round trip in one day, he’d cycle.
The only problem was that large vehicles had become more common on the streets in the past couple of years, while the roads were poor. Once he’d ridden into a pothole and been thrown from his bicycle. After he fell, a truck thundered past just two or three inches from his head. He had nearly died.
The train roared across industrial districts, salt marshes, tidal flats and reed beds. As it approached Burlingame, the landscape changed to rows of eucalyptus trees, spacious estate houses and carefully trimmed lawns.
At eight o’clock the train finally reached Burlingame station. Qin Siyu telephoned Aston to let him know, straightened his bicycle and rode on.
Early February was the Bay Area’s rainy season.
Halfway through his ride, raindrops began falling.
The sky had been overcast all afternoon, and now it really was raining.
He had come this far. There was no turning back. Qin Siyu dismounted, moved his schoolbag to his front, put his coat back on and buttoned it to protect the bag. Then he pulled a hat over his head and continued riding.
It was terribly dark. The final stretch was difficult.
The wealthy neighborhood lay on the hills. Winding roads had been built for the scenery, but much of the area was still unfinished, with fine loose gravel underfoot.
These mountain roads were suitable for cars, but obviously not bicycles. The wealthy district had never considered people who might arrive by bike.
The route was rough. Qin Siyu stayed close to the hillside and never dared ride near the outer edge, afraid he really might fall. Whenever he spotted headlights in the distance, he dismounted and waited against the slope until the car had gone by. He got off at the bends, too, cautiously edging around them with his bicycle, keeping to the hillside and craning his neck to see the road.
It took a long time. Fortunately there were few cars in this weather, and he encountered only two or three.
At one point he actually fell.
Afraid of landing on his schoolbag, Qin Siyu caught himself with one hand. His palm pressed against the gravel and burned where the skin scraped away. Luckily he wasn’t afraid of pain. He never had been.
It was so dark that he had to stop at every intersection and examine the street signs.
Toward the end he also needed to check estate numbers constantly, feeling his way along. Twice the road layout was confusing, the house numbers going up and down unpredictably, and he had to work it out with some difficulty.
When he finally found Aston’s house, he breathed a sigh of relief.
What an enormous estate! He’d ridden for so long between the previous house number and this one that he kept thinking he must have passed it. But it really was that large.
Someone stood at the estate gate holding an umbrella. He was tall, with long legs. His leather shoes rested in puddles, and rain had soaked his trouser legs around his calves, making the fabric cling to the muscles beneath.
‘Hello, excuse me—’ Qin Siyu began.
The other person tilted the umbrella slightly, revealing his eyes. Their gazes met through the fine curtain of rain.
‘Kingsley?!’ Qin Siyu broke into a smile. ‘Were you waiting for me?’
Aston dipped his head. ‘Mm.’
After their call, he had noticed the rain. He sent his driver along the road to look for Qin Siyu, but knew they might miss each other, so he came out to the estate gate himself.
He had been waiting a long time without feeling a second’s impatience, as though he would have been willing to wait until the rain stopped, or longer.
And sure enough, Qin Siyu eventually appeared alone in the rain.
Rain had soaked his black hair. Tiny droplets clung to it, gathering some strands into locks.
His face was wet as well, his eyelashes beaded with water. A droplet ran down the high bridge of his nose and hung at its tip. Qin Siyu didn’t notice; he lowered his head to look for the rabbit lantern. The droplet fell with a tiny plop in front of Aston’s leather shoe.
His neck gleamed with rainwater too.
‘Kingsley.’ Beneath the umbrella, Qin Siyu took out the rabbit lantern. ‘I made this myself. Where I come from, rabbits are auspicious creatures too, able to ward off evil. There’s a piece of candle inside. Light it tonight, take it for a little walk, and it’ll bring you peace and good luck all year.’
Aston lifted his eyes to him.
‘Here,’ Qin Siyu said. ‘Hold it by this part.’
He also helped Aston steady the umbrella. When they exchanged it, their hands touched lightly and separated almost at once. Qin Siyu’s hand was ice-cold.
Aston picked up the rabbit lantern and examined it.
Qin Siyu himself was soaked, but the rabbit lantern was perfectly dry.
He truly had made it himself.
Wire, white paper, bamboo rods—
The materials were simple and coarse, but the workmanship was delicate and precise. Both sides of the rabbit were perfectly balanced. Such clever hands.
Turning the lantern over, Aston noticed a blessing written on its body.
It began—
【To Kingsley,】
Encountering his own name so unexpectedly, without his surname attached, Aston was momentarily stunned.
No family crest. No surname.
Just his name.
The writing below was equally neat and beautiful:
【Wishing you a year filled with love and happiness.】
A year filled with love and happiness?
Aston thought: there had been neither tonight, despite it being his nineteenth birthday. But now he seemed, all at once, to have received a little of both.
He didn’t know how to describe it. He simply felt, suddenly, that he was alive.