Kong Yiji

In the town of Lu, the taverns have a distinctive layout, unlike any other: an L-shaped counter stands at the forefront, always stocked with hot water to warm wine on the spot. It was a common sight for laborers, post-work, to spend four copper coins—a price that has since tripled—to enjoy a steaming bowl of wine, resting by the counter. For an additional coin, they could afford a plate of salted bamboo shoots or fennel seeds; a more substantial sum might secure a meat dish. However, most patrons, dressed in humble short coats, were not so lavish. The affluent, draped in long robes, would retreat to the adjacent room to dine and drink at a leisurely pace.

Since my twelfth year, I’ve been a part of the Xianheng Tavern at the town’s edge. The owner, finding my demeanor too simple for the elite clientele, assigned me to duties outside. The working-class patrons, though generally amiable, were not without their share of chatterboxes. They demanded to witness the wine being scooped from the vat, scrutinized the pot for any sign of water, and ensured it was properly heated before they were content. Such vigilant customers made adulterating the wine a challenging feat. It wasn’t long before the owner deemed me unsuitable for this task and, by the grace of my recommender, reassigned me to the monotonous role of warming wine.

I’ve since spent my days behind the counter, dedicated to my task. Though I performed my duties without fault, the monotony was palpable. The owner’s stern visage and the patrons’ curt tones offered little respite; only the arrival of Kong Yiji would break the tedium, his presence etched in my memory.

Kong Yiji was a peculiarity—a man of considerable height, donning a long robe yet choosing to stand while he drank. His face, pale and scarred, bore the marks of a life lived hard. His unkempt, grizzled beard and tattered, long robe, which seemed untouched by soap or needle for over a decade, were a testament to his fallen state. His speech, laced with archaic phrases, was a puzzle to many. It was his surname, Kong, that earned him the nickname “Kong Yiji,” a title derived from a cryptic phrase on a practice calligraphy sheet.

Upon his arrival, the tavern would come alive with laughter as patrons jested, “Kong Yiji, new scars grace your face!” Unfazed, he would order, “Two bowls of warmed wine and a plate of fennel seeds,” producing nine large coins. The teasing would escalate, “You’ve been thieving again!” To which he would retort with indignation, “How dare you accuse me without cause…” “Cause? I saw you stealing from the He family and getting a beating for it.” His face would flush as he defended, “Academic borrowing isn’t theft… it’s… it’s a scholarly pursuit, not thievery!” His defensive arguments, filled with “A gentleman remains unshaken by poverty” and “Indeed, verily, and such” would send the tavern into peals of laughter, the air thick with mirth.

Whispers suggested that Kong Yiji was once a scholar, but his academic journey was cut short, and he found himself ill-equipped for trade. His descent into poverty was swift, leading to a life of near-begging. His calligraphy, however, remained a saving grace, earning him meals by copying texts. Yet, his fondness for drink and indolence led to his disappearance along with the materials he was entrusted with. After several such incidents, his services were no longer in demand. With no other recourse, Kong Yiji occasionally succumbed to petty theft. Despite his flaws, he was a man of his word at our tavern, always settling his debts promptly, even if it meant recording them on the chalkboard and clearing them within a month.

After indulging in half a bowl of wine, Kong Yiji’s flushed face would return to its natural pallor, inviting questions from the patrons, “Kong Yiji, do you truly recognize characters?” He would respond with a haughty air. They would prod further, “How is it that you’ve never achieved the status of xiucai?” His countenance would fall, and he would mumble incoherently, his words lost in the antiquated language that only he understood. The tavern would erupt in laughter once more, the atmosphere as buoyant as ever.

I was permitted to join in the mirth, immune to the owner’s reproach. The owner himself would often engage with Kong Yiji, provoking laughter from the patrons. Feeling out of place among the adults, Kong Yiji would seek out children for conversation. Once, he posed a question to me, “Have you studied?” I nodded slightly. He then challenged, “Since you have, allow me to test you. How does one write the character ‘hui’ in fennel seeds?” I thought it beneath me to be tested by a man in his state, so I turned away, uninterested. After a long wait, he said earnestly, “You don’t know, do you? Let me teach you. These characters are important to remember. They will be useful when you take over the tavern and must keep the accounts.” I found it amusing and replied with a mix of laughter and annoyance, “I don’t need your teaching. Isn’t it just ‘hui’ with the grass radical underneath and ‘hui’ on top?” Kong Yiji’s face brightened, and he tapped his fingernails on the counter, “Indeed, indeed! … The character ‘hui’ has four different ways to write it, are you aware?” I grew impatient and walked away, leaving him to sigh and show a look of deep regret.

On several occasions, when children from the neighborhood heard the laughter, they would gather around Kong Yiji, who would share fennel seeds with them, one seed per child. After eating, the children would eye the plate, prompting Kong Yiji to cover it protectively and say, “Not much left, I don’t have many left.” He would then look at the seeds and shake his head, “Not much, not much! Is it a lot? No, it’s not.” The children would disperse, their laughter echoing.

Kong Yiji’s presence brought joy, yet life carried on in his absence.

One day, a few days before the Mid-Autumn Festival, the owner, while settling accounts, noted Kong Yiji’s prolonged absence and his outstanding debt of nineteen coins. A patron mentioned that Kong Yiji wouldn’t be coming because he had broken his leg. The owner inquired about the circumstances, learning that Kong Yiji had been caught stealing at the home of a prominent figure, an act that led to his severe punishment and the breaking of his leg. When asked about his subsequent fate, the response was nonchalant: “Who knows? Perhaps he’s dead.”

As autumn turned to winter, I spent my days by the fire, wearing a cotton coat. One afternoon, with no customers in sight, I heard a faint, familiar voice request, “Warm a bowl of wine.” Looking around, I saw no one. I stood up and looked outside to find Kong Yiji sitting by the threshold. His face was gaunt and dark, his body frail; he wore a torn jacket and sat with his legs crossed on a rush mat, supported by a straw rope over his shoulder. He repeated his request for a bowl of warmed wine. The owner, recognizing him, reminded him of his debt. Kong Yiji, in a defeated tone, promised to settle his debt next time, insisting that he had cash on hand and wanted good wine. The owner, as always, teased him about stealing, to which Kong Yiji weakly responded, “Don’t mock me.” When pressed about the cause of his broken leg, he whispered, “I fell, I fell…” His pleading eyes asked for no further jesting on the matter. As a small crowd gathered, laughter filled the air once more. I warmed the wine and placed it on the threshold for him. He fumbled in his tattered pocket for four large coins, his hands caked in mud from his journey there. After finishing his wine, he slowly made his way off, again using his hands to move.

Following that encounter, Kong Yiji disappeared from sight for a long time. At the end of the year, the owner noted his outstanding debt on the chalkboard, and by the next Mid-Autumn Festival, there was still no sign of him. It seems that Kong Yiji has indeed passed away, his presence now nothing but a memory.

(March 1919.)