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Paths. Chapter Four
The visit to the school yielded nothing.
The school had barely changed over the years: the same walls, the same smell of chalk and damp rags, only the faces in the corridors were different, and the voices seemed to sound a little louder than before. Everything here resembled the past, but was not it.
The secretary in the reception office searched for the necessary papers for a long time, but found only an old class register where Chen Wang’s name was listed among the teachers, and opposite it stood a neat date — the year of his retirement.
The principal, a woman with a short haircut and an attentive gaze, listened to them silently, and then unexpectedly said:
“I was at Chen Wang’s funeral. Comrade Yang Zixuan, deputy editor of Xin Wenhua, was there. He’d studied under Chen at the old school; they’d known each other well. I think he can help you.”
Arranging a meeting turned out to be simple: Xia Desheng, a journalism student, had attended Yang Zixuan’s lectures more than once and had even asked him a question about freedom of speech once.
The Xin Wenhua editorial office was located in a glass tower where the air was conditioned and smelled of expensive coffee. They were led into an office flooded with cold light, featuring a panoramic window in which the city below seemed a neat, silent diagram. Yang Zixuan, who was well over sixty, looked as if he had just left a gym and a plastic surgery clinic simultaneously. He was fit, his face unnaturally smooth, radiating an almost aggressive energywork was. He wasted no time on pleasantries.
“So,” he said, gesturing them to chairs while remaining standing himself, “students of my old teacher. Why do you need this?”
His question was not curiosity, but rather an interrogation.
“We are sorting through his papers,” Desheng began. “And we found a name… Mei Lin.”
Yang Zixuan froze for a moment, his gaze becoming as impenetrable as polished glass.
“Teacher Chen had a difficult life,” he said, bypassing the topic of the name. “He made mistakes, but the Party gave him the opportunity to redeem them and become a useful member of society. He sometimes mentioned that in his youth he had a Russian language teacher. But he never mentioned her name.”
He walked over to his desk, typed something on the keyboard. A printer in the corner silently came to life.
“As for the old school…” he continued, “we had a big story about it when it was being demolished. A beautiful story about how the past, giving way to the future, reveals another past.”
He handed Desheng several freshly printed sheets. The headline read: “Bidding Farewell to an Era, or A New Page of History.”
At that moment, Desheng felt the paper trembling slightly in his hands — either from the air conditioner or because he himself didn’t know what to expect from these pages.
“There might be old photographs in the magazine’s archives,” he added, seeing their confusion. “Group photos of classes, teachers. I’ll try to find them when I have time.”
He spoke quickly, efficiently, as if dispensing a portion of information, measured and approved.
“Does he have any relatives left?” Xiangliu asked, and her voice sounded especially quiet in this sterile silence.
“I only know that his mother was from Nanjing. After all the… events, in the early seventies, she returned there. A fellow student of mine, a Nanjing journalist, I believe, even did an interview with her many years ago. For an article about survivors. I can try to find his contact details.”
He sat down at his desk again, making it clear that the audience was over. When they were already at the door, he threw after them, and in his voice sounded new, almost fatherly notes that were more frightening than his bluntness.
“Listen to my advice. Don’t dig too deep into the past. It might turn out not to be as interesting as it seems. Sometimes ruins are better left underground. Not all shadows should be awakened. Believe me, this is important — both for the country and for you.”
Bidding Farewell to an Era, or A New Page of History
Correspondent: Xia Jiang, Xin Wenhua
Where only yesterday the gray walls of the old Xicheng district school stood, today excavators rumble and the foundation of the future is being laid. On this site, hallowed by the memory of several generations of Beijingers, the modern residential complex “High Hong Lin” will soon rise, another symbol of the rapid development of our capital, confidently striding into the 21st century. The past gives way to the future — such is the immutable law of dialectics and progress.
However, sometimes, shedding its tattered garments, history presents us with amazing surprises. The past, giving way to the future, reveals another, even more ancient past. Just such a surprise awaited the builders of the “Great Dragon»” company last week. While digging the foundation pit for one of the buildings, an excavator bucket hit an unexpected obstacle. Work halted at once, and archaeologists from the Beijing Municipal Institute of Cultural Heritage were called in.
They were met with a truly sensational find. Under the foundation of the old school, at a depth of several meters, a solitary burial — highly unusual for the Ming era — was discovered. As the head of the expedition, Professor Wang Delong, explained, the rich decoration of the grave and the nature of the funerary artifacts indicate that a person of the highest status at the imperial court was buried here — presumably, a chief eunuch (Da Zongguan) of the Forbidden City.
“This is a unique case,” comments Professor Wang. “The burial is located far outside the known imperial mausoleums. Perhaps this person, for some reason, was honored to be buried here, in seclusion. We continue our research, but his identity remains a mystery for now.”
But the most striking find awaited the scientists inside the tomb. Among ritual vessels and silk scrolls, a small jade box of the finest workmanship was discovered. On its lid, two characters in ancient Korean Hanja script were skillfully carved: Yeon-ju. Inside the box, on a lining of decayed silk, lay a blackened, broken twig, which botanists believe was once a flowering plum. And beneath it — a fragile paper scroll. The text on it, written in elegant calligraphy, read:
“…her movements were like the dance of a willow in the wind, and her step was soundless, like a petal falling onto water. When she poured tea, her hands, slender as young bamboo, seemed not to touch the porcelain, but merely guided its flight. In her silence was the depth of a lake, but when she began to speak, her voice sounded like a beautiful melody. Perhaps because she came from the distant land of Goryeo. She resembled a fragile porcelain doll, created not for life, but for eternal contemplation…”
School employees, upon learning of the find, were quite surprised. “Old plums always grew in our yard,” recalls the former school caretaker, Mr. Zhang. “In spring, their fragrance filled the classrooms, and after lessons, we often went out under these trees to rest a bit. No one thought that such history lay beneath our feet.”
Who was this mysterious Yeon-ju? Why did a box with her name end up in the grave of a high-ranking courtier? What happened to her? Archaeology is silent for now. apart from this inscription, her name is not mentioned in any known chronicles. The unique find has been transferred to the capital’s historical museum, where it will take its rightful place, testifying to the depth and multifaceted nature of our great history, new pages of which we are opening even today, building our new, great China.
The new district continues to grow, and perhaps the scent of old plums will long remind the residents of “High Hong Lin” that every place has its own melody — sometimes very ancient and very fragile.