Sycamore Starlight Waltz

The late autumn breeze in the old alleys of Bao'an carried the toasty aroma of freshly roasted chestnuts, drifting over the bluestone paths and creeping up the half-covered ivy vines on the side wall of the art gallery. The dark green leaves of the ivy had already been edged with a faint, warm brown, swaying with the wind to make a soft, rustling sound that blended perfectly with the distant clink of wine bottles from the decades-old tavern at the alley entrance.2

Anmishiu had just finished all the closing work for the last contemporary youth art exhibition at the gallery. His fingertips were still smudged with a streak of cobalt blue acrylic paint, left behind when he helped the young exhibiting artist adjust the hanging position of their canvas that afternoon. The faint blue mark rested on the cuff of his faded off-white denim jacket, looking exactly like a sliver of the just-darkening Bao'an night sky that had accidentally stuck to the fabric. He pulled down and locked the rolling shutter of the exhibition hall, the brass keychain in his pocket clinking with a crisp, light sound. When he stepped under the old sycamore tree at the alley entrance that had stood there for nearly thirty years, he spotted Leishi leaning against his vintage bicycle with a bright new yellow paint job. Leishi was twirling a half-full bottle of warm rice wine he had just fetched from the old tavern, the collar of his black canvas jacket fluttering in the wind, and the stray strands of hair on his forehead swaying with a lazy, unruly edge.

Leishi saw him walking over, tucked the rice wine bottle back into the burlap mat lining the bike basket, and waved his hand at him, the faint rust stain from that afternoon's guitar practice still visible on his knuckles. He reached out to wrap his hand around Anmishiu's wrist, his thumb brushing over the tiny light brown mole on the bone of Anmishiu's wrist, his tone laced with unhidden pride. "I spent almost a whole week in the studio these days, putting together a brand new melody," he said. "I didn't record it on any device, didn't even jot a draft in my phone notes. The whole thing's locked up in my head. The wind's just cool enough tonight. Let's wander a little, I'll hum the beat for you. No speakers, no pre-made tracks. This is the only version of this rhythm in the whole world."

Anmishiu froze for a second. He remembered, at the curation celebration half a month ago, he had leaned on Leishi's shoulder, half-drunk on sparkling apple cider, and mumbled a random thought. He had said he had never once wandered along to a rhythm that no device had ever recorded—no standard dance steps, no rigid beats to follow, just drifting wherever he wanted to go, with background music that no one else in the world could find online, a melody that belonged only to the two of them, untouched by any electronic device. He had forgotten the careless, tipsy comment the next day, buried under all the work of coordinating the exhibiting artists' tear-down schedules. He never expected Leishi to hold onto that line for so long, and even put together a whole brand new melody just for him.

There was no hum of speaker static, no external playback devices at all. Only Leishi's low hum drifted out on the wind. The opening of the melody was slow and unrushed, exactly like the afternoon they first met. Back then, Leishi had carried his chipped old acoustic guitar to open a tiny folk bar with only five tables in the old Bao'an alley. After his set, he had wandered over to the art gallery, and found Anmishiu squatting on the steps, staring at a pile of newly unboxed exhibition posters in frustration. The wind had blown the posters all over the ground, and Leishi had squatted down to help him pick them up. Their fingertips brushed against each other, and Anmishiu's ear tips had flushed bright red, while Leishi had raised an eyebrow and grinned, saying the colors on the posters looked interesting, and the new melody he was writing lately matched the tone of the paintings perfectly. That day, they had squatted on the gallery steps talking until after midnight, rambling from the avant-garde installations in contemporary art exhibitions to the impromptu sets at indie music shows, from the wonton noodle stall that had been open for twenty years at the alley entrance to the tangerine sunrise that peeked over Shenzhen Bay at four in the morning. They hadn't even noticed the wind turning cool enough to raise goosebumps on their arms.

Leishi led him to step slowly forward. Anmishiu's movements were still a little clumsy, and his first step landed right on the toe of Leishi's limited-edition white canvas sneakers that Leishi had just repainted that morning, leaving a faint gray smudge. He was about to stop and apologize, but Leishi laughed out loud, and the hummed melody shook along with his amusement. "Don't even worry about it," he said. "Last time you stepped on my brand new guitar strings, you snapped three of them right off. I didn't say a single word to you. A little smudge on a shoe can just be repainted later. It's nowhere near as important as you getting the rhythm right." Anmishiu laughed too, and let himself lean back following Leishi's pull. The soles of his shoes scraped against the pile of fallen sycamore leaves at his feet, the dry, crumpled leaves making a soft rustling sound that landed perfectly in the gaps of the beat, like the decades-old autumn wind hidden in the alley had snuck over to act as their exclusive background track.

The owner of the roasted chestnut stall, standing next to his steaming iron wok, watched them drifting along under the streetlamp light, and smiled as he scooped a full paper bag of just-roasted hot chestnuts and held it out to them. The shells were glistening with oil, and the golden chestnut meat inside was burning hot enough to make their fingertips tingle when they peeled it open. One bite released a soft, sweet, starchy warmth that spread all the way down to their stomachs. Anmishiu took a bite of the chestnut, and the warmth seeped into every limb, thawing his cold, stiff fingertips. They drifted slowly in the open bluestone space of the alley, no need to follow any standard ballroom dance steps, no need to force themselves to stick to a rigid 4/4 beat. They wandered wherever they wanted, nudging each other's arms when they missed a beat, pulling silly faces at each other when they accidentally stepped on each other's toes. The wind slowed down along with the melody, carrying the sweet scent of ginger milk curd drifting over from the alley dessert shop, brushing softly against the strands of hair on the top of their heads.

A few girls who had just finished visiting the art gallery held up their polaroid cameras, snapped two photos of them from far away without disturbing them, waved and ran off. Two minutes later, they came running back, and handed the newly developed polaroid to Anmishiu. In the photo, their shadows were stretched long by the streetlamp, a few sycamore leaves scattered around their feet, and the warm yellow light fell on their interlocked wrists, blurring the edges like it was wrapped in a thin layer of honey. Anmishiu leaned shyly against Leishi's side, the tips of his ears burning bright red. Leishi only tightened his grip on Anmishiu's hand, and lifted the hummed melody a little higher, with an unhidden, proud edge, like he was announcing to every gust of wind in the old alley that this rhythm belonged only to him.

Anmishiu looked up at him, and the warm streetlamp light fell into Leishi's amethyst-colored eyes, bright enough to hold all the starlight that had been sunning in the old alley for decades. This guy usually acted like nothing in the world mattered, the type to stick orange candy wrappers on Anmishiu's glasses when he was sorting exhibition albums, or deliberately play the wrong guitar chord to tease him when he was pulling an all-nighter for curation. But Anmishiu knew he remembered every random line Anmishiu ever mumbled offhand. He would show up at the gallery at two in the morning with a bowl of extra wontons, the soup floating with a thick layer of chopped scallions, at the perfect temperature to drink right away. The day before the temperature dropped, he left a brand new unopened deep sea blue cashmere scarf on Anmishiu's gallery desk, the fabric still carrying the faint cedar scent of Leishi's perfume, and the color was exactly the deep sea blue Anmishiu loved most.

They carried the remaining half bag of hot chestnuts back to their rental apartment. The corridor's voice-activated lights turned on one by one as their footsteps echoed, the warm yellow light wrapping around the aroma of cured meat rice drifting out through the half-open security door from the rice cooker inside. Leishi hung his canvas bag on the hook by the entryway, and before Anmishiu could even change into his cotton slippers, he started humming that unrecorded melody again. This version was softer than the one outside, carrying the lazy warmth that seeped up from the floor heating. The underfloor heating in the apartment was warm and toasty, Anmishiu stepped out of his shoes onto the fluffy old carpet, the faint scent of acrylic paint still lingering on his fingertips. A few un-sorted albums from the exhibiting artists scattered around his feet, the wind seeping through the gap in the balcony door blowing the pages of the albums gently, landing perfectly in the gaps of the beat, like the paintings inside the albums were swaying along to the melody.

Leishi tugged his wrist to lead him to the middle of the carpet. No one was watching anymore, so they could drift any way they wanted. When Anmishiu missed a step, he leaned against Leishi's shoulder, and they laughed so hard they bumped into each other. The plush cushion on the sofa fell off, rolling to their feet to act as a temporary "metronome"—a light nudge with their toe made a dull, muffled thud that blended with the hummed melody to make their one-of-a-kind background track. Anmishiu's hands rested on Leishi's shoulders, his fingertips brushing the stray strands of hair on the back of Leishi's neck. Leishi's other hand rested gently on Anmishiu's waist, leading him to spin slowly in circles. The soft carpet fibers brushed against their ankles, warm enough to make their whole body feel lazy, even the cold wind tapping lightly against the windowpane from outside seemed to be tapping along to their beat.

Halfway through their drifting, Anmishiu's hair tie slipped off, lost somewhere in the fluffy carpet fibers. Leishi stopped to tuck the stray strands of hair behind Anmishiu's ear, his fingertips brushing the still-cold tip of Anmishiu's ear, the cool touch making Anmishiu flinch and giggle. They looked at each other and laughed until their shoulders shook, the hummed melody breaking off for two seconds before picking up again, even lighter than before, as if all the unspoken laughter had been kneaded right into the notes. The rice cooker's reminder dinged, and Leishi led him steadily over to the kitchen. When he lifted the lid, the aroma of cured meat rice flooded the whole room. The glossy Cantonese cured sausages laid over the rice, their surface glistening with melted fat, mixed with the salty, rich scent of cured duck. Digging a spoon in pulled long, soft strands of steam, and the crispy rice crust at the bottom of the pot was golden brown and crunchy, cracking with a satisfying crunch when you bit into it.

They sat on the carpet, leaning against the edge of the sofa, sharing the pot of cured meat rice, the remaining hot chestnuts in their hands. The sweet chestnut scent mixed with the salty cured meat flavor spread across their tongues, and the melody they had been humming still looped softly in their ears. Anmishiu leaned his head on Leishi's shoulder, listening to him hum the final section of the melody. The sky outside had turned completely dark, and the streetlights across the whole Bao'an district lit up one by one, wrapping the old alley's late autumn night in soft warmth. Leishi pulled two orange candies out of his coat pocket—the exact same brand they had shared the day they first met, the candy wrappers bright tangerine yellow. He peeled the wrappers off and popped one into Anmishiu's mouth, the sweet, tangy orange flavor spreading across his tongue, exactly the same taste as that first afternoon, unchanged at all.

After finishing the rice, they leaned on the balcony railing to enjoy the breeze. The surface of Shenzhen Bay in the distance glinted with the broken light of the shore lamps, the wind carrying the faint salty scent of the sea blowing over them. The hem of Anmishiu's coat fluttered in the wind, and Leishi wrapped him up in his own coat from behind, his chin resting on the top of Anmishiu's hair, still humming that melody slowly. Anmishiu leaned against his chest, clearly able to hear the thud of Leishi's heartbeat vibrating along with the melody, overlapping perfectly with the hummed beat, steadier than the drum track of any professional band. He suddenly remembered the night they had watched stars on the gallery rooftop, when Leishi had told him that every year on the first cold day of the year, he would write a brand new unrecorded melody to drift along to with him. No fancy ballrooms needed—they could do it wherever they wanted, on the old alley's bluestone paths, on the old carpet at home, on the viewing platform on top of the nearby hill. Back then, Anmishiu thought that was just a random silly comment Leishi had tossed out, but now he knew every single word that guy said would eventually turn into real life.

They woke up very early the next morning, wandering up the mountain road towards the small hill near Bao'an. The wind carried the scent of mountain plants into their collars, Leishi still humming that exclusive unrecorded melody. Anmishiu's fingertips still held the lingering warmth of last night's warm rice wine, and when he looked up, he saw the stars hanging so low in the sky they looked like they were about to drift down along with the mountain wind. The grass blades at their feet were dotted with night dew, cool against their ankles. They drifted slowly on the hilltop viewing platform, stepping along the spilled starlight to hit the beat, the hems of their coats fluttering in the wind, the distant lights of Bao'an city blurring into a soft background. There was no trace of empty, disappointed feeling at all, only the melody humming steadily in his ears, like a pair of hands holding every tiny, drifting emotion in the wind firmly in place.

When the first edge of the sunrise peeked over the mountain ridge, the golden orange sunlight slanted down right onto their interlocked wrists, dying the faint shadow of sycamore leaves stuck to the back of their hands warm gold. The dew on the grass blades they had stepped on glistened bright under the sun, rolling down the leaf tips to land softly on their shoes. Even the hummed melody was wrapped in the warm temperature of the sunlight. There were no deliberate dance moves, they just drifted slowly along with the wind. The stars had just fallen into the dark night behind them, and the sunrise light spread across the mountain ground at their feet. The wind was still blowing, their hands clasped tight, and every tiny, lingering feeling of emptiness was warmed soft by the autumn sun, becoming the most vivid little footnote to this impromptu moment.

When they walked back down the mountain along the old alley, the evening wind blew again, exactly the same scent as the night before, carrying the toasty aroma of roasted chestnuts. Leishi held Anmishiu's hand, and they drifted slowly along the gaps in the bluestone paths again. Passersby smiled as they walked past, no one knowing that the two of them, with no playback devices in sight, were drifting along to the most exclusive rhythm in the whole world. Anmishiu looked up at Leishi next to him, the warm streetlamp light falling on his side profile, the hem of Leishi's coat fluttering in the wind. The faint chestnut shell scent still lingered on his fingertips, the orange candy in his pocket still held its warmth, and the hand holding his was steady and firm. Even the autumn wind blowing past carried the exclusive, scorching sweetness that belonged only to the two of them, never recorded by any device.

This late autumn impromptu moment, with no expensive sound systems, no standard choreographed steps, and background music that was nothing more than a melody hummed casually between two people, became the warmest, most vivid memory of Anmishiu's entire twenties. Later, he taped the polaroid that the little girls had given him onto the wall of his gallery office. The photo was wrapped in soft warm light, and every time he looked up from a late night curation shift, he could instantly remember the temperature of the wind that night, the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts, and the feeling of Leishi's low hum drifting into his ears on the breeze. Leishi never recorded that melody on any device later. He said the most precious things should only exist in two people's memories, no need to be saved by any electronic equipment. As long as the two of them thought of that late autumn night in Bao'an, they could follow the rhythm of the wind, step on the rustling sycamore leaves, and drift along once more to their one-of-a-kind beat.

Every late autumn after that, they would find a device-free night, wander to any old alley or hilltop clearing, and hum a brand new unrecorded melody to drift along to. The piles of sycamore leaves under their feet built up layer after layer, the aroma of roasted chestnuts drifted year after year, and their interlocked hands never once loosened. All those unrecorded impromptu moments added up to their exclusive memory, more precious than any released music work. Hidden in the autumn wind of Bao'an's old alleys, hidden in the salty sea breeze of Shenzhen Bay, hidden in every warm late autumn night dream, it would stay vivid and scorching hot forever.