明日何其多 — yan & ulysses

Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Sept 24, 2023 1:32:04 GMT -5

► ► ►

"Marcus Spencer. Lieutenant," Daming stressed, wringing his hands.

"Marcus Spencer. Officer Aspirant," Juliet says, playing with a jade bangle on her wrist.

In early May, the landscape is washed with colour as the flowers bloom in shades of pink and cream between the topiary. By the pond, the trees drip with magnolias, and a rain of wisteria hangs from the trellis arcs in vines. You and her are brushed in dappled light like a painting, the morning quiet with languor, apathetic in its beauty.

"Twenty years old. Enlisted personnel, private second class."

There is no response from you. Placid as ever, you only listen to her speak, staring out at the flowers from the pavilion.

One had been worthwhile, and now in the tenuous lull, you draw breath finally. The painful brutality of your bones softened like snowmelt. The garden is quiet. Her voice carries over you, and you turn to her, the sun falling over your face.

"Had to tell Captain Allard that Mr. Spencer saved me from some terrible thugs on my way home from the conservatory."

When she speaks, the irritation is plain on her face, and you suppose that's how it usually is with Juliet, so simply, concisely laconic in her moods that it feels like a concealment too. You watch her lean against the bow-back of the chair, nonchalant and leisurely, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she laughs with dry amusement. "And you know what he told me on the phone the next day? Oh, Spencer said it was no trouble at all – ha! Those military dogs – they won't question why they're being praised as long as they are. Stupid honestly."

You look towards the garden again. In the distance, the city protrudes over the trees. The chamomile smells sweet in the cool air. You drink.

Apprehensive, wilting Daming would have been afraid of even the lowest cadet. He agonized over those who could crush him with a heel. A week ago, you'd visited him before the show. The actors had been busy in preparation, the audience just filing into the opera as you slipped through the crowd.

He lurched when he saw you, standing from his seat like he could split open from the weight of the words.

It came as a stutter in the end. Marcus and Yan.

Marcus, Lieutenant, Yan.

You turn over the thought idly, smoothing it down until it is singular in its distillation.

Down the stone path, your attention catches on a bird, its black feathers almost blue in the light. It lands near the pavilion and picks at the ground at some invisible prey.

"Now father insists that the driver pick me up everywhere after eight p.m.," Juliet sighs.

You do not need to turn to her to understand the change in expression, the upwards quirk of her mouth, gaze lowering, the glint of her intensity beneath the playfulness. It's on purpose, as if an act of goodwill to show you a glimpse of her hand.

Juliet could. She chooses not to.

She rests her chin in a hand, picking at the platter of pastries with her fork, and puts on an exaggerated expression of dejection. "All that grief, and you won't even tell me why."

The light shifts. The lace tablecloth flutters in the wind, candle flickering faintly below the glass teapot. The breeze brushes through your hair softly.

You are silver-toned when you answer, a disingenuous smile on your face, almost affectionate.

"Perhaps he really did save me, and I wanted to send him flowers."

The bird pulls upwards, red-throated, worm caught from the dirt between its needle beak.

𓅞

"Such bitterness!"

Xue Xiangling soliloquies. The notes are long and weeping before she pauses, as if gathering breath, overwhelmed with her grief. Alone in the aftermath of a flood, she laments the waters that have washed her bare.

You watch, amused by the performance.

It is a prudent decision, you suppose.

In Baishe, unease rests like a fog in the air, a cool dampness that rots the wood of the theater. Below the balcony, the bleached uniforms ebb at the audience like a pale, pervasive mold. Nearly two months into the industry change, the military occupies the eastern collar of land fully now. The district becomes aggrieved. You can taste the ripened bitterness of it.

Unicorn Purse is finer in its details, minimal in its action. It's rich with metaphor but written with colloquial sensibilities. The opera splits the world into simple dichotomies. The rich are charitable, and the poor are grateful, and the victory isn't easy, but virtue is always rewarded in the end. It's righteous in an era where there are no longer heroes. She loses everything, and yet how tenderhearted she remains, how sympathetic, how good.

Pleasing for the fans, harmless for the Peacekeepers.

Xue Xiangling steps back onto the stage to the beat of percussion, presenting herself to the Lu family. The young master is delighted with his new plaything.

Behind you, you hear quiet footsteps. A shadow dips into place, and Daming takes a seat. He perches there stiffly, but your attention is still on the stage.

Remove my arrogance, refine my virtue, reshape my disposition – Xue Xiangling sings, demure, humbled. The corners of your mouth curve at the slick taste of irony. You're on the verge of laughing when Tianlin demands to play horses, his tone quick as a whip.

There is no spitefulness in the way Xue Xiangling concedes.

Perhaps the six long arias placated Yan enough to permit this.

" – To turn away from the sea of misery, to accept that an orchid's bloom is passing."

The water sleeves lift towards her eyes delicately.

"He came again," Daming whispers to you. There is a shrill undertone to his words in the shadows, fervent with panic. Lu's boy throws the ball far off stage. The audience watches Xue Xiangling startle at the revelation, her long white sleeves twisting in the air as she turns towards the chamber in trepidation.

"Hmm."

You lean on the armrest, indolent in your answer.

Daming is fraught over a lie. You watch him balance on the edge of a knife, stretched thin to allow it, a shift from his usual dullness. He's sharper like this, maybe more useful as his wariness keeps you apprised of everything, no matter how tedious and negligible the information is. As long as he doesn't lose his nerve, his worry does not interest you.

Xue Xiangling enters the chamber. She whirls around the stage in quick, light steps. The bars of the music hastens, and the dance continues with mesmerizing anxiety, silk rippling in the air in circles.

"The Lieutenant," he stresses, watching you expectantly. You hear the seat creak as he leans. You give nothing but a wry smile.

Marcus and Yan, parts of a tangram.

He's dressed in the monotone blue costume, embroidered with small intricacies too minute to see from a distance. But you can still remember the details of his face. You think of the weight of his chin on your shoulder, you think of the sleeves brushing against your chest, the flame-drawn ruthlessness in the lines of his mouth, and a dialogue in each gesture of his hands. Yu Ji with her devotion, Xue Xiangling with her compassion. Who did Marcus meet?

The question sits in pieces, and you deliberate it.

When Yan returns to the stage, he is clad in vermillion again, stitched with gold and pink threads. Fawning, Xue Xiangling greets her beloved child. She's bashful when she sees her husband. You remember him, hand on your arm, simpering, like sweet wine.

He could get a person drunk on their ego, you're aware.

You sent him three stems of a showy Cattleya from One yesterday. The petals were ruffled, deep pink in the center, blushing outwards to pearl. The errand boy had placed them on the vanity, freshly watered, just beginning to bloom.

Xue Xiangling looks to the audience. You look at him. Somewhere, without seeing each other, your eyes meet in the theatre.

𓅞

"I purchased through Baishe." Daming paces around in his office, his face gone pale, twisted in thought.

"H-how much?"

"Fifty thousand."

Outside, your hear the strings of an erhu, the sound of cymbals crashing as they're carried through the halls.

"I thought I'd let you know before you see the billing," you say blandly.

You bought it from the gallery to pay the dealer who paid the vetter. Your personal funds, a small enough amount that the opera could easily afford.

Daming inhales sharply, an audible gasp, and then he stares at the package in your hands. "What do we do with it?"

The question is so funny, you actually do laugh.

"You could try hanging it up, Daming."

𓅞

Cao leads you backstage. Returning for a third time, the anonymity is gone. A blanket of eyes trail after you like a strange heralding. You wear the face of softness, cool and courteous, nearly at ease. You are here to see Yan, you let it be known. He knocks nervously, and you note the tremble as he raises his fist. The actors mill around the door, staring.

This time, you have another gift. The present is wrapped tightly in a plain package. Inside there is a ornately framed painting, smaller than a hand. Lily Pond, Spring painted a few decades ago. Beneath the hazy, frosted blue is a wash of black, dark and reflectionless, strokes of a swan gliding on the surface. It's pretty but nondescript, muted in its colours.

Yan had asked who you were.

You thought he might prefer a tangible gift after all.