AOI 20

Xu Minghai and Qiushi walked eastward under the warm spring noonday sun, and sure enough, after just over ten minutes of strolling, they arrived at the Temple of Heaven Park.

For the first time in his life, Qiushi witnessed imperial grandeur with his own eyes. The towering, city-gate-like structure before him looked especially majestic and solemn against the backdrop of blue sky and white clouds. He couldn’t resist running over and touching the rows of golden-looking studs on the vermilion gates.

Xu Minghai went to buy tickets and called Qiushi over to have his height measured. A measuring stick marked in centimetres stood beside the ticket booth. The two stepped up and measured themselves—both had exceeded the height limit for free admission. Xu Minghai, in particular, was pushing 1.5 metres, nearly requiring a full-price ticket. In the end, they spent fifty cents and got two children’s tickets.

After passing through the ticket checkpoint, Qiushi carefully tucked the two pale blue slips of paper into his pocket. Then he looked out at the suddenly vast, open space before him and felt a strange sensation of having become a tiny ant. He begged Xu Minghai to tell him stories about the Temple of Heaven.

Xu Minghai had no real knowledge to share, so he could only dress up whatever wild tales he’d picked up from who-knows-where with plenty of embellishment.

“So one day, the emperor finished his dinner and came here for an after-meal stroll… You ask what the emperor had for dinner? Definitely the roasted mutton from Baikui Lao Hao restaurant, plus some fried bread slices that were crispy-crunchy, dipped thickly in sesame paste with sugar sprinkled on top, and finally a bowl of tomato egg-drop soup to wash it all down. Hey, don’t interrupt.”

“As he was strolling, he spotted a weed at his feet! The emperor got mad—just picture Teacher Cao’s angry face. He said, ‘Hey, what’s this about? How can there be weeds on my turf? You think this is the Temple of Heaven or a dump? You taking me for an emperor or a class enemy?'”

Because Xu Minghai’s impression was so vivid, Qiushi burst out laughing.

“Then one of the ministers, afraid of getting chewed out, started talking nonsense—just picture me as that minister. I quickly said, ‘Your Majesty, doesn’t this grass look like a dragon’s whiskers? This is dragon-whisker grass. Why does it grow nowhere else but right here? It’s because the Jade Emperor and the Queen Mother are so pleased with your work that they’re finding creative ways to praise you!’ When the emperor heard this, he was overjoyed, his dragon heart delighted, and he stopped being angry right away. He even gave me loads of gold and silver treasures, which I then used to buy us tons of delicious food.”

Qiushi knew full well Xu Minghai was making it all up, but he was thoroughly delighted and urged him to continue. Just as Xu Minghai was running out of material to spin, a tour group of silver-haired seniors wearing little yellow hats came along.

A tour guide holding a little flag called out: “Stay close, everyone—don’t fall behind, uncles and aunties!”

“Come on,” Xu Minghai said, as if spotting a saviour. “Let’s follow them and eavesdrop on the guide.”

The young tour guide was very professional. In just a few words, she clearly explained the Temple of Heaven’s origins, including its age, area, functions, and more.

Qiushi learned that the Temple of Heaven was bigger than the Forbidden City—though he’d never been to the Forbidden City—and smaller than the Summer Palace—though he’d never been there either. He also learned that the gate he and Xu Minghai had entered through was the Temple of Heaven’s main gate, the only one the emperors used when coming to offer sacrifices, and that all the other gates were built later.

Qiushi was utterly captivated, sticking close behind the tour guide the whole time. Seeing that the two kids weren’t taking up space or causing trouble, the guide didn’t shoo them away. Some of the elderly tourists even offered them snacks from their bags—apples, cucumbers, and such. Xu Minghai, being hungry, accepted everything without hesitation.

After visiting the circular, blue-tiled, gold-topped Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, the group made their way toward the Danbi Bridge.

This was a raised pathway, a full four metres above ground—according to the guide, Beijing’s earliest overpass. The bridge was thirty metres wide, with a central stone-paved path known as the “Sacred Way,” reserved exclusively for the Heavenly Emperor; the east side, paved with grey bricks, was the “Imperial Way,” for the emperor alone; the west side was the “Royal Way,” reserved for supporting cast members—the princes and ministers. No crossing between them was permitted; hierarchy was strictly observed.

Xu Minghai, upon hearing this, quickly dragged Qiushi onto the central stone path, pretending they were the Heavenly Emperor descending to earth.

“Why didn’t the teachers bring us here for the spring outing?” Qiushi asked Xu Minghai. “This is so interesting.”

Xu Minghai thought to himself, no kidding. There’s no Big Snow Mountain here. If there were no Big Snow Mountain, he wouldn’t have wanted to slide down. If he hadn’t wanted to slide down, he wouldn’t have defied the teachers. If he hadn’t defied the teachers, he wouldn’t have been forced to resort to this. From that perspective, the blame all fell on whichever teacher had chosen Taoranting for the spring outing.

Further ahead was the Imperial Vault of Heaven. Even more famous than the structure itself was the surrounding circular wall, built from finely fitted Shandong Linqing bricks with a blue-glazed cylindrical-tile top.

Finally, it was Xu Minghai’s moment to shine. He pulled Qiushi away from the tour guide, saying he was going to perform a magic trick. He sent Qiushi to press his ear against the wall behind the East Side Hall. Then he trotted off to the wall behind the West Side Hall.

Qiushi pressed himself against the smooth, mirror-like wall, cool as jade, half-believing and half-doubting that Xu Minghai’s magic trick would work. Just as he began to suspect he was being tricked, a voice drifted faintly and lingeringly to his ear.

“Guozi… Guozi?”

Startled, Qiushi looked left and right but saw no sign of Xu Minghai. He quickly pressed his ear back to the wall. The drawn-out voice was still softly calling him: “Guozi, can you hear me?”

“I can,” Qiushi answered hurriedly. “I can hear you.”

“Hehe, fun, isn’t it?”

Qiushi didn’t know how to answer. He felt it was more than just “fun,” but he couldn’t quite articulate how much more. All he knew was that whether Xu Minghai was a golden throne or an outhouse, whether he stood atop a snow mountain or on a chain bridge, Qiushi wanted to be right next to him. He was Xu Minghai’s real brother, his closest mate—not those fifth-grade cowards.

After a long moment, Qiushi softly called out to the wall: “It’s fun… brother.”

The ancient Ming-dynasty wall, having weathered over four hundred years, lived up to its reputation—it carried that clear, quiet “brother” all the way into another person’s ears.

Xu Minghai, caught off guard by Qiushi’s response, felt a sudden surge of emotion, and even experienced a kind of bittersweet stirring.

He still remembered that freezing cold Laba Festival four months ago, when he’d used his greater age to demand to be called “brother.” All he’d gotten in return was a faint scar on the web of his right hand. Plenty of kids in class and the alley called him “brother.” More called him “Master Hai.” But when it came from Qiushi’s mouth, it was different. He couldn’t say how, either.

The two of them stayed pressed against the Echo Wall, saying all sorts of things that they’d later be unable to recall.

After a long while, Xu Minghai ran over to Qiushi’s side, grabbed his hand, and raced north to the Circular Mound Altar. Together, they stood on the very top, on the raised circular stone at the centre of the bluish-grey stone platform.

“This is the ‘Heart of Heaven Stone,'” Xu Minghai announced.

Qiushi looked down. “What’s it for?”

“Legend says it’s a treasure from the Sea of Stars atop the Kunlun Mountains—some say it’s a meteorite that fell from the sky. Stand on it, and without a loudspeaker or microphone, your voice gets huge and clear.”

Just then, the senior tour group arrived at this three-tiered circular stone terrace, surrounded by white marble balustrades. The tour guide, having overheard Xu Minghai’s explanation, encouraged him: “The little friend’s right—why don’t you sing us a song so we can hear the effect?”

The grandparents in the group were immediately supportive, clapping in unison.

Xu Minghai wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the attention. In fact, he was glad to finally have an outlet for his abundant artistic talent. He lifted his chin and asked: “Sister, what song would you like to hear?”

“Anything,” the guide smiled. “Whatever you sing, we’ll listen.”

“You women are all crazy about Chow Yun-fat,” Xu Minghai asserted confidently. “Just like my mum.”

Then he cleared his throat, adopted the swagger of a Hong Kong or Taiwanese superstar from the telly, and bellowed at the top of his lungs:

“Lang ben~ lang liu~ wan li tao tao jiang shui yong bu xiu…”

The theme song from the TV drama The Bund was practically a Cantonese initiation for this generation of northern kids. Though not a single syllable was pronounced correctly, singing it always felt heroic and stirring.

“Ai ni hen ni~ wen jun zhi fou~ si da jiang yi fa bu shou…”

Though at his age he couldn’t truly understand love, hate, or the passions they described, Xu Minghai still got his full fill of pop-star fantasy at this sacred site of celestial and earthly harmony.

The effect must have been remarkable, because Qiushi saw a blonde, blue-eyed foreigner walk over, raise a large camera, and snap a picture of him and Xu Minghai with a cheerful click, then flash them a thumbs-up.

After “a hundred thousand waves” had surged enough in Xu Minghai’s heart, he took a theatrical bow and was rewarded with a round of applause. He knew when to quit while ahead, waved goodbye to the elderly tourists and the guide, and took off with Qiushi toward the Seventy-Two Corridors.

As they strolled through the corridors, Xu Minghai made sure to ask: “Was your big brother cool just now?”

“Cool!” Qiushi said honestly. “I just didn’t understand what you were singing.”

Xu Minghai laughed. “To be honest, I don’t really know what it means either—I just think it sounds good.”

The two continued running around the park, exploring nearly every corner. By the time the light began to fade, Xu Minghai asked an adult for the time and learned it was already past five.

No matter how much they didn’t want to face reality, it was time to go home.

“Let’s head back,” Xu Minghai sighed. “We’ll take the bus.”

Qiushi followed him reluctantly, walking north and glancing back at the Imperial Hall of Heaven.

“Can we come again?”

“No problem—as long as we get through tonight first.”

Xu Minghai led Qiushi out the park’s north gate, crossed the intersection, and headed west toward the bus stop for the number 7 bus. As they walked, a tantalizing aroma suddenly wafted through the air.

At the same time, Qiushi’s stomach let out a long, mournful growl. From morning until now, aside from breakfast, he’d only had a bottle of soda, an apple, and a red bean popsicle in the park—he was long overdue to be hungry.

Xu Minghai quickly followed the scent to the right side of the road. There, gleaming under the fading light, hung the grand sign of “Bianyifang.” The three characters looked greasy and glossy, as if they’d just come out of the oven with the roast duck.

It was rush hour, and a few customers were buying ducks at the takeout window. One of them finished her purchase, walked past the two boys with her plastic bag, and took Xu Minghai’s eyeballs with her.

Qiushi spotted the number 7 bus slowly approaching the intersection and reminded Xu Minghai that it was coming.

“Guozi,” Xu Minghai turned and asked, “have you ever had roast duck?”

Qiushi shook his head.

“Want to try some?”

Qiushi swallowed hard, thinking of the taste of roasted pheasant back in the village, and nodded.

“Come on,” Xu Minghai said. “Let’s go take a look.”

With that, he pulled Qiushi over to the takeout window. A sign hung beside it, clearly stating: Takeout Roast Duck, 9 yuan each.

Even with Xu Minghai’s questionable math skills, he knew he didn’t have enough money in his pocket. Just as he was scratching his head, he noticed a few plastic bags set out at the window—smaller than the other duck packages. He stepped forward and asked: “Auntie, what are these?”

“Duck frames,” the saleswoman in the white cap said without looking up.

“How much each?”

“3 yuan.”

Xu Minghai quickly dug into his pockets. He pulled out all his crumpled bills and counted them in his palm, but no matter how many times he counted, it wasn’t enough. Between them, they had exactly 4 yuan. The sodas had cost 30 cents, the tickets 50 cents, the red bean popsicles 40 cents—now they had precisely 2.80 yuan.

But Xu Minghai decided to try anyway. He plastered on his most sincere smile and changed his tune: “Sister, I’m just short 2 cents. Could you…”

“Shoo, shoo—this is a state-run establishment,” the saleswoman’s brows shot up. “If you’re not buying, get lost. Don’t block the way, alright?”

Qiushi’s face turned bright red. He tugged hard at Xu Minghai’s arm and whispered: “I don’t want it anymore.”

Xu Minghai refused to give up. He kept pleading: “Sister, just sell it to us. What if we owe you those 2 cents and bring them back tomorrow?”

“This isn’t my own store. Even if it’s 2 cents, not a single cent less—not even a fraction!” the saleswoman snapped.

Just as Xu Minghai and the saleswoman were locked in a staring contest, a woman from behind stepped forward: “Oh for goodness’ sake—don’t be so hard on two kids. It’s only 2 cents—I’ll cover it!”

Overjoyed, Xu Minghai thanked her profusely, shoved all his crumpled money into the metal tray at the window, took the duck frame, and bowed to the kind woman.

The two scurried off to the side. Xu Minghai opened the bag, tore off a warm duck leg with his hands, and held it straight up to Qiushi’s mouth.

Proper Peking duck is sliced thin—after the chef’s 108 cuts, there’s still plenty of meat left on the frame, which people usually salt-and-pepper or make into soup. Nothing goes to waste.

Qiushi, overwhelmed by the rich meaty aroma, instead grabbed Xu Minghai’s hand and pushed it back to his mouth.

“You eat.”

“I’m not hungry!” Xu Minghai pushed it back. “I had two apples and a cucumber in the park—I’m stuffed, really!”

Qiushi, by now truly ravenous, finally opened his mouth and took a huge bite. The tender duck meat tore apart under his teeth, its juices bursting forth—delicious beyond words, with a fragrant hint of fruitiness. In just a few bites, one duck leg was gone.

Xu Minghai immediately handed him the other leg, watching him devour it.

In the years that followed, Qiushi would eat Peking duck many times. Northern style and southern style, hung-oven and closed-oven, dipped in sugar, with sweet bean sauce and scallions, rolled in lotus-leaf pancakes, tucked into hollow sesame flatbreads—countless variations. But no matter how he ate it, none could compare to that duck leg when he was eight years old, standing on a street corner bathed in the golden light of dusk, wolfing it down from Xu Minghai’s hand.

Only when most of the meat was gone from the frame did Xu Minghai begin carefully picking at the remnants—the legs, wings, breast—anything that had escaped notice. As he gnawed, he earnestly explained: “I’m not hungry, but we can’t waste it. Wasting is the greatest crime.”

Qiushi didn’t know what to say. He just stared at Xu Minghai, watching him gnaw the duck frame to a sorry, dishevelled state, until even his greasy fingers were thoroughly sucked clean.

Just then, a little stray dog appeared from nowhere, wagging its tail at them. Xu Minghai immediately crouched down and offered it some bones.

“Sit! Shake! Good boy!”

Qiushi’s stomach was full, and reason slowly began to return. Watching Xu Minghai, absorbed in playing with the dog, he hesitated for a long time before finally voicing his concern: “We spent all our money… how are we going to get back?”