It’s a mercy when the elders come in and tell us we are excused early from our evening work—until I realize it’s so that we may attend Bao’s funeral if we wish. I’m torn on whether to go. I respected Bao immensely, but the mystery of my new condition weighs on me. Some students choose to continue working. I leave my work, wanting to get away from this room, with its memories. My hope is to sneak back to the library and try to figure out why these sounds are assaulting me—and no one else. I checked the record again, and so far I remain the only person experiencing this phenomenon.
But when I get to the hallway with the others who have chosen to leave, I spot Zhang Jing, sweeping up the dirt in the hallway. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in her new role, and my heart nearly stops. She wears the dull uniform of a servant, and her face is deferentially lowered as the others pass by her. I tense, waiting to see if anyone will say anything or comment on her new station—but no one says a thing. Really, it’s as if no one sees her at all. In some ways, that’s worse than if someone had made a derogatory comment. She has become invisible to everyone else. Beyond that—she’s become nothing to them.
I stop in front of her when the others have gone, and she quickly signs to me, Please don’t, Fei. You’ll only make things worse.
I flinch at the insinuation, that it’s me who’s brought her to this position. You’re safe , I tell her. That’s what matters. I just wanted you to be okay.
She stares off for a moment and sighs heavily before answering. I will be okay today. Tomorrow and the next day as well. Beyond that? Who can say? But there’s no point worrying that far ahead. I’ll just focus on getting by one day at a time and hope that my vision lasts a little longer.
Another apprentice comes down the hall just then. He nods politely to me and then does a double take, recognizing Zhang Jing. He gapes for a moment, seeing her in the servant’s outfit, then looks embarrassed to be caught staring. He quickly averts his eyes and hurries past. Glancing over at Zhang Jing, I see the mortification in her face.
You should go before anyone else sees you , she says. Don’t call any more attention to either of us. Your position still brings great prestige to our family.
I’m sorry , I tell her, feeling tears spring to my eyes. I didn’t mean for this to happen.
None of us meant for any of this to happen , she says simply. We must make the best of a bad situation. And I know you did the best you could.
She takes her broom and continues working her way down the hall, leaving me feeling terrible. Did I do the best I could? Was there something else I could have done to help her? Her words bring back what Li Wei said to me before he stormed off: Just getting by one more day isn’t good enough anymore. There must be more to life, more to hope for.
A lump forms in my throat as the full impact of what he meant hits me. Zhang Jing has resigned herself to nothing more than hoping for short-term survival, hoping the blindness will stay away one day more, prolonging the time until she joins the beggars. It is a terrible, dreary existence. It’s no kind of existence at all.
As she disappears around a corner, I suddenly find myself walking toward the nearest door. My plans for the library are forgotten, and instead I join the others going down to the heart of the village for Bao’s sunset funeral. I’m not sure what it is that draws me. At first, I think that Zhang Jing’s plight has driven home the tragedy of what happened to Bao. But when I reach the edge of the crowd gathered for the ceremony, I understand what has really drawn me here.
Li Wei.
For the first time in a while, that dazzling childhood memory doesn’t immediately come to mind as I stare at him. That inescapable attraction and the emotional fallout from joining the artists still burns within me, but it too is momentarily subdued. What pulls me to him now is his sense of loss and his rage at the situation our people are locked into. It resonates with the pain I feel over Zhang Jing, and although I don’t know if he’ll want to talk to me, I know have to try.
He stands near the front of the crowd, his back straight and tall and his face proud and almost haughty. As usual, though, it’s his eyes that betray his otherwise tough exterior. I see the emotion brimming in them, and my own heart aches in answer. I know him well enough to understand that he’s using every ounce of self-control to remain calm in front of the others. I wish I could run forward and clasp his hands, let him know it’s okay to grieve and show how he feels.
He wears a white shirt, undoubtedly borrowed from a community source. In the old days, it was written, every villager would come out in white for a funeral. When trade down the mountain became restricted, however, our clothing supply diminished. Now only the immediate family is granted white, from a closely guarded communal supply. Even though the color has sad connotations, I’m moved by how striking Li Wei looks when he’s cleaned up and in something other than those muddy work clothes. It’s not something I’ve seen very much. He looks almost regal once the dirt is washed away, like someone who could lead and command attention, rather than toil away in a dark mine.
The priest bows before the memorial altar, which has already been set with the sacred lamp, two candles, and five cups. His assistants bring forward incense, which he adds to the altar and lights with great ceremony. Soon the scent of sandalwood wafts to where I stand. The priest goes through the familiar signs and dances, and although I watch respectfully, my mind wanders. With the blindness has come an increase in funerals, and we are all too familiar with this ceremony.