After they parted that day, Aston found Qin Siyu a good part-time job.
The financial institution where Aston was interning needed a typist for some temporary work, paid by the hour. Most importantly, Qin Siyu would be allowed to bring a typewriter home and do the work there.
“But,” Qin Siyu said over the telephone in the lobby of his apartment building, “I don’t know how to type.”
“Practice a little,” Aston said. “This job lets you work from home. You can make use of odd moments and earn more, and you won’t have to go all the way to the wharf to repair bicycles. It’s too cold by the water. I’ve already recommended you. Spend the next few days preparing.”
Qin Siyu said nothing.
Aston had already thought everything through. “Come to the fraternity this afternoon and pick up a typewriter. Borrow one of theirs to practice on.”
Qin Siyu knew Aston was president of the fraternity. If he wanted to borrow one, of course he could. Qin Siyu thought it over and agreed to come for it at five that evening.
At five, holding the typewriter in his arms, Qin Siyu said to Aston, “I know I’ve said it many times, but… thank you again.”
Aston’s gaze rested on the machine. “Do you know the proper way to type?”
“I’ll go to the library in a little while and borrow a book about it.” Qin Siyu smiled. “You can learn anything from books. I can learn anything I need to know~”
The library was such a wonderful place.
He had read a figure once: during the Great Depression, library borrowing had risen by fifty percent. Many people said that without books, they would have gone mad.
“What if the book has been checked out?” Aston’s English was always precise and elegant. His eyes fixed on Qin Siyu. “I happen to have time tonight. I’ll give you a lesson first.”
“Huh.” Qin Siyu hugged the typewriter a little more tightly and tipped his head up to look inside. “Then I’ll have to trouble you again.”
“It’s nothing. Let’s go to your place.”
Although his living quarters were poor and shabby, Qin Siyu agreed generously. “Sure.”
Qin Siyu lived in the sitting room of an apartment.
Nails had been driven into the walls on either side, with cords tied to their heads and pulled taut. Two curtains hung from the cords, enclosing the space where Qin Siyu lived.
The curtains were distinctly Chinese in style: black branches and red plum blossoms spreading over white backgrounds. Qin Siyu stood in front of them and turned to smile. Aston froze for a second.
Then Qin Siyu lifted the curtain and stepped inside.
The space was very small, but clean.
A mattress lay on the left, covered in a plain sheet with a little design in the lower-left corner, though the colors were almost completely worn away.
The sheet had been cut lengthwise in half, the original outside edges brought together and sewn into the center. That way the thinned fabric in the middle, where someone slept, could be moved to the sides.
Aston had never known that a bedsheet could be dealt with like that.
The quilt and pillow were stacked neatly at the head of the mattress. Beside the pillow lay The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck, a novel about China that had been a bestseller these past two years and had won the Pulitzer Prize. A desk stood in front of the window with a pot of Guanyin bamboo on it. The desk probably belonged to the landlord and was ancient. A crack in the window had long since been patched with newspaper.
Beside the Guanyin bamboo was a box containing various little odds and ends, seashells and other things. Aston remembered the shell at the shore. There were also stones with unusual shapes or textures.
Several books stood in one corner of the desk. On top was a notebook in which Qin Siyu recorded things and copied passages after reading.
Next to it were more books. Several were extremely battered, clearly having been read innumerable times. They were probably his favorites. Aston narrowed his eyes to look at their titles: The Complete Sherlock Holmes.
Aston: “…”
He picked up a book, opened it at random, glanced at the page, and asked, “’A little slip of paper tied to the left leg of a fat goose’… What did the paper say?”
“For Mr. Henry Beck!” Qin Siyu answered at once.
Elio’s Notes: The novel gives the name Henry Beck, but in Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, the card tied to the goose’s left leg actually reads “For Mrs. Henry Baker.” Qin Siyu’s answer is retained as printed in the Chinese. Sources: Arthur Conan Doyle Encyclopedia and University of South Florida’s full text.
Aston: “…………”
He was speechless.
Beside the desk, in the corner, was a cupboard that matched it. Behind the curtain at the entrance stood a shabby old suitcase. On the other side of the mattress sat a small chest.
Qin Siyu followed his gaze. “That’s my treasure chest.”
Aston: “???”
Qin Siyu opened it to show Aston.
Poor people didn’t like to throw things away.
The chest contained everything that might be useful someday: string, scraps of cloth… There were lots of pieces of string, of varying lengths. Qin Siyu had tied each piece into its own neat little bundle and placed them in careful rows inside. Perhaps he would need one someday.
Qin Siyu set the typewriter neatly on the desk and asked, “Shall we start?”
Aston nodded and came over.
He adjusted the machine and removed the ink so Qin Siyu could practice for a while without ink. Qin Siyu made to stand. “You can sit—”
Before he could finish, Aston put both hands on his shoulders and pressed him back into the chair. “No need.”
His hands were large, his fingers long, and the pressure of his palms was always strong, holding Qin Siyu steadily in place.
Qin Siyu: “…”
Aston patted both his arms. “This is fine.”
Aston lowered his gaze. “Put both hands on the keys, lightly curved. The little finger of your left hand rests on A, and takes care of Q, A, and Z. Your ring finger rests on S and handles W, S, and X—”
Qin Siyu repeated, “Little finger for Q, A, and Z. Those three keys, right?”
“Mm.”
“And then… W, S, X.” The typewriter had round keys that fitted neatly beneath the pads of his fingers. He tested the pressure as he pressed them: clack, clack, clack.
Qin Siyu said, “Next, the middle finger is responsible for E, D, and C.”
“Keep your hand in a more natural shape,” Aston told him. “Rest it normally on the typewriter.”
“Hmm?” Qin Siyu leaned forward to study the keyboard. His dark, fluffy head moved this way and that as he inspected the keys.
Aston glanced at him and reached out to press lightly against his lower back, making him straighten his torso.
Aston’s hand was large. The heel of his palm rested against Qin Siyu’s spine, while his fingertips naturally came to lie against the side of his waist, soft yet firm. Once he straightened up, Qin Siyu felt terribly ticklish. He twisted his waist slightly to get away, not realizing Aston’s palm was still against his spine. His fingers followed the movement and slid against Qin Siyu’s waist. Instead of getting away, Qin Siyu moved a little closer to Aston. Their eyes brushed together.
Then Aston took Qin Siyu’s wrist and adjusted his posture. He caught Qin Siyu’s index finger and moved it to the right position, bending the joint gently so it stood perpendicular to the key. He repeated the process with the middle, ring, and little fingers.
A small callus from writing had formed on Qin Siyu’s right index finger.
When Aston moved his ring finger, holding the joint until the finger stood at right angles to the keyboard, the tip of Aston’s thumb lightly passed over the small round mole near the outside of the finger’s base.
Just beneath it lay a little hollow. Aston’s thumbnail inadvertently scraped the thin, soft skin there. It prickled and tickled, and Qin Siyu’s little finger suddenly lifted.
“Like this…” Aston said softly as he adjusted the position. “When you type later, you won’t need to move your wrists. Moving your fingers will be enough.”
“All right.”
Aston finished the adjustment and released Qin Siyu’s hand, glancing at him.
At that exact moment, Qin Siyu looked up, and their gazes met.
Aston adored his eyes.
Aston himself was standing by the window, his own eyes like a blue sea rippling with golden light. His deep blue irises seemed like whirlpools that could draw a person in.
They looked at each other in silence. Aston fluttered his eyelashes lightly. Qin Siyu’s heart gave a leap, and the key beneath his middle finger unexpectedly made a loud clack in the otherwise quiet sitting room, startlingly conspicuous.
He looked away and down at the typewriter. As if to reassure him, Aston patted the back of his head gently.
“Practice without ink first,” Aston said. “Type whatever you like.”
Qin Siyu casually tapped out “Hello” and asked, “What should I type?”
“Anything,” Aston said. “What word do you feel like typing right now?”
“…” Qin Siyu’s hands paused. But they soon moved again, following the proper finger placement to type the thirteen letters of “Kingsley Aston.” Each keystroke sounded clear and crisp.
He was very slow at first. Finding the letters took time.
With the middle finger of his right hand, he gently pressed the round K key. From Aston’s position, he could see only the finger dip sharply and then rise.
Then came I.
After that, N, typed with the index finger.
Aston already knew what he was typing. He lifted his eyes to study Qin Siyu’s profile.
But Qin Siyu behaved as if he hadn’t noticed, continuing his lesson.
G with the index finger of his left hand, S with the ring finger, and then L with the ring finger of his right. The little mole flickered into view for a second before returning to its place.
E with the middle finger of the left hand, then Y with the index finger.
After a space, “Aston” followed.
In the golden afternoon light, their gazes locked. Aston said approvingly, “Correct.”
“All of it?” Qin Siyu craned his neck to look up at him. “The fingering on both hands was correct?”
“Yes.” Aston’s instruction was professional and efficient, his English low and beautiful. “But you’re still not very practiced. If I were you, I’d do it a few more times, until those letters were familiar.”
So Qin Siyu obeyed and typed it a second time.
A third.
A fourth.
The first thing he learned to type fluently, the first thing he truly practiced until he knew it, was Aston’s name.
Qin Siyu had a good memory and nimble fingers. After only a few tries, he could type “Kingsley Aston” beautifully.
And Aston watched the entire process.
At first his fingers had been clumsy, but gradually they grew more skillful, smoother and faster. Qin Siyu’s long, lovely fingers rose and fell like two flowers blooming, bringing forth Aston’s name over and over without tiring.
Once he was proficient, it was time for the next word.
Qin Siyu found the S key and typed “Sean Chin.”
Then a second time, and a third.
Once he’d practiced three times, Qin Siyu said nothing. Instead, he typed the two names together.
Kingsley Aston, followed by Sean Chin.
Then below it, Kingsley Aston Sean Chin again.
Aston’s gaze slid toward his face, but Qin Siyu remained expressionless.
Without changing his expression, he typed the two names together twice more, always side by side, over and over.
After three repetitions, he stopped typing and looked at Aston again.
Their eyes tangled together and did not part for a long time.
It was time to practice for real. Aston reinstalled the ink, set a sheet of white paper in the paper holder, fixed it beneath the platen and paper grips, and tightened the roller with the knob. He explained, “After every line, pull this carriage-return lever to move the paper up a line. To adjust the line spacing, turn this part.”
Qin Siyu committed it to memory. “Right. I’ll remember.”
He took out his Complete Sherlock Holmes and began copying passages on the typewriter.
After watching him type a few paragraphs, Aston said, “Your fingering is correct, but you need more practice.”
“I will.”
Qin Siyu asked, “Can I type a couple of pages on my own now? You can sit down for a while, and if there’s something I need to ask, I’ll come over.”
Aston went along with him. “All right.”
Qin Siyu’s room was so small that there was no spare chair. Aston went over to the mattress and sat down.
Only to sink straight into it.
The springs had almost no elasticity left.
“…” Qin Siyu turned and saw him. He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Ha!”
He’d forgotten to warn Aston: these springs were about to give up the ghost.
Aston was too heavy. The moment he sat down, the mattress collapsed beneath him like that.
Aston said nothing, his eyes fixed on Qin Siyu without blinking.
Qin Siyu went over and offered him a hand to help him up.
Aston took it gently. Qin Siyu pulled, using a little strength to raise him.
But when Aston was only halfway up, he suddenly seized Qin Siyu. Completely unprepared, Qin Siyu fell forward and dropped to his knees between Aston’s legs, catching himself with his hands on either side of Aston’s hips.
Aston braced one hand against the mattress and steadied Qin Siyu’s waist with the other.
“???” Qin Siyu looked up, and their eyes met again from an extremely close distance.
Aston held his waist and looked at him.
Qin Siyu said, “You…”
Aston met his gaze. “You laughed at me just now.”
Qin Siyu: “…”
Aston continued, “So I get to play a joke on you, too.”
There in the afternoon sunlight, on the bed, their eyes tangled and their breaths mingled. Each could see his own reflection clearly in the other’s pupils.
Both even glanced twice at the other’s lips.
Qin Siyu felt starved of oxygen. Only after a moment did he slowly climb to his feet.
He offered Aston a hand again. This time Aston stood up.
“I’ll go borrow a chair from my roommates. Wait here.” With that, Qin Siyu lifted the curtain and ran out. When he returned, he carried a wooden chair in one hand. He put it down and patted the backrest. “Put your backside here.”
Aston nodded with great dignity, walked over, sat down, interlaced his fingers, and crossed his long legs.
Qin Siyu handed him a book to pass the time and returned to the desk to practice typing.
Only the tapping of typewriter keys and their breathing filled the room. It was quiet and lovely.
Every so often, Aston raised his eyes and gazed at the figure by the window for a while, then reminded him aloud:
“Sean, you’re hunching your shoulders. Lower them… yes… keep your shoulder line level.”
“Sean, you’re rounding your back. Straighten your spine… a little straighter. I want to see the hollow of your spine.”
“Sean, you’re leaning a little to one side. Straighten up… I want to see the hollow on the other side of your waist.”
“Sean, your arms are spread too wide. Bring them in. I want to see your shoulder blades.”
“Sean, you’re clenching your buttocks too tightly. It’ll tire you out. Relax a little. I want to see—”
Aston omitted the final few words: the round, soft flesh of his bottom.
Qin Siyu learned quickly and rarely made the same mistake twice. Before long Aston couldn’t find anything else to correct. Yet at one point he suddenly said, “Sean.”
“Mm?”
“You’re so serious about this.”
“…” Qin Siyu said, “Read your book. You talk too much nonsense.”
After that, Aston really did fall silent. A quarter of an hour later, Qin Siyu wondered whether he’d actually become engrossed in the book, so he secretly lifted a small mirror to look at him.
Their gazes met instantly in the mirror. Aston gave him an utterly fake smile, clearly saying: Yes, I’m still watching. You can’t slack off.
They practiced until seven thirty. When they both thought Qin Siyu had learned enough for the day, Aston returned the book he’d been reading and prepared to leave.
He stepped through the curtain, went to the door, and slipped into his leather shoes.
Qin Siyu had sharp eyes. “Are those new shoes?” he asked.
Aston nodded. “Yes.”
Qin Siyu was delighted to have another chance to help him. “Would you like me to put protective soles on them?”
Aston asked, puzzled, “Hmm?”
“Nail on a rubber sole,” Qin Siyu explained. “To protect the bottoms. They’ll last longer.”
He didn’t know rich people had no need to protect their soles. They had more shoes than they could wear out. He was simply offering advice from the perspective of a little shoe repairman downtown.
Aston looked at him for a few seconds. “All right.”
He changed back into his slippers.
Qin Siyu brought his tools out from behind the curtain and set up a shoe last. Aston sat opposite with his long legs crossed.
Qin Siyu carefully fitted one of the shoes over the last, placed a thin sheet of paper against the front, and cut away at it little by little to trace the shape.
Aston breathed more gently and watched.
Once he’d cut it out, Qin Siyu pressed the paper in place with his fingertips. Then he ran an index fingertip along its edge. Wherever it stuck out, he trimmed it again, until the template matched perfectly.
He lifted the piece of paper and explained, “This is the outline of your shoe.”
Then he asked, perplexed, “But the sizing on this shoe feels unusual.” Could a really good shoe be sized oddly, too?
“Mm,” Aston said. “It’s custom-made.”
“Oh.”
Qin Siyu felt a little awkward.
Somehow, knowing the exact outline of another person’s foot felt rather intimate.
He selected some rubber sheeting and a ballpoint pen from his toolbox. Laying the paper template against the rubber, he bent over and carefully traced its shape with the pen before cutting it out.
Elio’s Notes: The Chinese specifies a ballpoint pen in this 1933 scene. Earlier experimental ballpoint designs existed, but the practical modern ballpoint was not patented until 1938 and became commercially available afterward. The original detail has been preserved. Sources: American Society of Mechanical Engineers and German Patent and Trade Mark Office.
He cut it just a little smaller than the outline, bringing the edge in by a millimeter or two.
He held it against the shoe. The size was perfect.
Before applying the rubber, he needed to clean the surfaces.
He dipped a cloth in alcohol and thoroughly wiped the sole and the rubber sheet, from the edges to the center, determined not to leave even a speck of dust.
Occasionally they exchanged a glance. Neither spoke.
Once the surfaces were clean, he brushed on the glue and waited briefly for it to air. Then he carefully fitted the rubber over the shoe sole, aligned it along the center, and held it steady with several fingers while his other hand gradually pressed out toward the edges. He used a scraper to secure it firmly, without leaving any air bubbles.
Beautiful craftsmanship.
He worked with such seriousness that it never even occurred to him Aston didn’t need the protective sole.
He wiped away the excess adhesive with a cloth. When everything had fully set, he trimmed the edges with a small knife and sanded the uneven places with fine sandpaper.
He ran his fingers gently along the rim, staring closely at the details and checking again and again that everything was smooth.
Aston only felt a faint tingling spreading through his calves.
It began at the parts of his shoe Qin Siyu was touching, corresponding to the arch of his foot and his toes. The tingling moved up to his calves, then his thighs, even higher.
As he ran his hand along the shoe, Qin Siyu said, “Your shoes are so big.”
Proportional to his height.
He must be able to stand very steadily. Perhaps he could even remain standing while holding someone in his arms.
Qin Siyu remembered how strong Aston’s hands were, too. Maybe he could even bounce that person up and down playfully while walking.
At last the protective soles were attached and their edges cleaned. Qin Siyu placed each shoe neatly on the floor as though serving a customer, and said, “Go on, try them. Let me see whether everything fits.”
Seeing Qin Siyu crouch on the floor to “serve” people this way, countless other people, Aston felt his heart contract sharply. He suddenly reached out, touched Qin Siyu’s face, brushed the skin beneath his eyes, and lifted his chin to look into his eyes. “I think the typing job would be better.”
Qin Siyu said, “Well, obviously. Put them on.”
He didn’t despise his work, but he wasn’t stupid.
Aston still didn’t move.
Qin Siyu suddenly had a thought. Could it be that the young master almost always sat down to put on his shoes and didn’t know how to balance on one leg?
Was standing on one leg such a difficult task for him?
Then a white crane spreading its wings would be almost impossible.
Qin Siyu stood and held out a hand. “Do you need me to steady you?”
Aston raised an eyebrow and lifted his lashes to look at him. After a long while, he very graciously placed his hand in Qin Siyu’s.
He laid one hand in Qin Siyu’s palm, curled his fingers firmly around it, and said, “That would be nice.”
Qin Siyu gripped Aston’s hand as well, bearing his weight. Their gazes grazed against each other for another second.
Aston lowered his eyes and slowly lifted one foot into the leather shoe.
He pressed his foot down firmly. The protective sole Qin Siyu had just attached adhered tightly beneath the shoe, supporting his whole body.
Then one foot, and then the other.
Their fingers never parted.
Qin Siyu was afraid Aston might fall, so he held his hand tightly.
Swish, swish, swish. A cockroach scuttled out. Seeing the two of them like that, it got a fright and promptly scrambled back where it came from.
Qin Siyu noticed it and laughed. “That’s a cockroach. You were frightened of one last time.”
When he turned his head, he discovered Aston wasn’t looking at the cockroach at all. He was looking at Qin Siyu’s face.
His heart began pounding violently again, like a drum.
Qin Siyu released his hand. “Your shoes are done. Now you can go home.”