Autumn in 前门 （Qian Men）

By Chloe Huang， aged 14

Starting off was the hardest. It appeared, that time was a ration ticket – you could spend it however you liked, yet anyone else who so much as touched it would be regarded with disdain. Words balanced on our tongues precariously, we weaved through our words with perpetual caution, careful not to create the impression that we were fishing for information. Even then, we were haunted by discreet side-eyes of disapproval and occasionally a wide berth as we weaved ourselves a path between the vast flood of people.

Pre-planned by the geography teachers, our questions were simple and quipped. For the tourists, it was: “Why did you come to 前门? What do you like about 前门?”; for the locals, we asked about the changes in 前门 in the passing years and whether it was to their liking. My note sheet was wrinkled and creased – this was inevitable as it was being seesawed around in my travel bag.

Some, as we passed, averted their glances as we passed by, as if they believed that merely locking eyes with one of us would lead to a detrimental effect. A few in the distance, noticing what was going on, took out their phones, burying their noses in their screens as we passed them. These actions were all too familiar to me: people did this all the time in Beijing – to the fatigued workers handing out fliers in the stifling heat of Summer, the knife-edge cutting cold of Winter and the gushing rain of early Spring; to the young entrepreneurs promoting their start-ups and trying to grab potential customers amidst the Beijing subway; to the Didi driver, cheerily asking you for a five-star review. You ignored them, refrained from eye contact, cut them off from their conversation starters with a slight but defiant shake of your head.

I couldn’t blame the people who ignored me, because I knew fully well that if our roles had been reversed, I would have been one to take out my phone and scrutinize it intensely. By the tenth rejection, I etched a mental note in my brain to show these ordinary people a flickering of warmth and kindness in their daily struggle of everyday life.

Out of ten people we asked, only one or two would reply (often grudgingly). Soon enough, I was able to use my instincts to pin down those who seemed promising (big hint: they did not stare at their phone screens with intense ferocity). We met a jubilant Australian couple, who told us that they had travelled to many places in China and fell in love everything they set their eyes on there, as well as a group of Chinese kids on school trip, who spoke standard mandarin with a funny little undertone of 东北dialect.

From the Chinese adults, the responses we attained were hushed words which slipped out the tongue in vague, clumsy tangles; or embarrassed, fluky remarks on how magnificent Beijing was. The brittle Autumn wind swept harsh strokes on my cheeks.

***

It was in front of an intersection separating 鲜芋仙and吴裕泰 where I saw him, a serene figure of waiting, cut from marble and gilded.

He had prominent double eyelids that curved like waning crescents, as well as silky black hair - which piled atop his head in luscious curls and glistened in the sun like onyx. A slightly pale complexion suggested limited exposure of sunlight. His face was smooth, with no signs of pimples or other ghastly imprint of puberty, the lack of a moustache feeding on to the softness of his features.

What drew him out from the crowd of passing others, though, were his eyes – an extravagant shade of amber. They glistened in watery sheen - golden dew drops after a sprinkle of rainfall – and were seemingly absorbed in the capacity of the faux-Qing-style pedestrian mall set before him. I felt the decades unfold, the flamboyantly-coloured commercial brands nailed upon open storefronts morphing - fitting into a separate mold of dully-coloured wooden shop signs, worn from a lifetime of rain seasons. The air was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of Xinjiang mutton and the distinctive fragrance of wood chips from fruit trees, which were used in the process of grilling the meat. With an open-eyed gaze, this boy brought with him resurrection of a history bygone.

Hearing my footsteps, he turned his head in my general direction. As he did, the curve of his fluttering eyelashes caught the mild sunlight. As I spoke, I was surprised by the sudden sensation of what felt like a hammer lightly pummeling my chest.

“Hi, do you speak English?”

“Yes.”- reflecting the midday sun, his eyes shone with a yellow-copper tint.

“Can I ask you some questions?”

“What questions?”, his voice was unhurried and soothing, like viscous honey. You could hear the imprint of a European accent. I dove straight in to the subject, my urgency fed by fear of declination:

“Why have you come to 前门?”

His eyes averted somewhere to the right of his vision, silently gesturing towards the vague direction of the library. His long eyelashes fluttered again as he spoke - I couldn’t help but notice: “Actually, I’m going to the library.”

I paused and considered this answer. Indeed, he had a cautious, academic mien about him, and his clothing choice resembled a preppy college student, giving him a studious look (that I didn’t mind: brown trousers and checkered shirts matched with jumpers are allowable when the package is lean and effortlessly hip, with serious eyes and a movie-star smile). He had slightly arched eyebrows, two gentle brush marks above his eyes, which reminded me of a lethargic lynx.

“The library…”- the repeated phrase sounded extremely foolish - how come it had slipped off his tongue with such casual ease? A nervous burst of laughter escaped me, followed with a vile aftertaste of awkwardness and horrific realisation.

“What do you like about it –”, I made a circular gesture with my arm to indicate the space around us, in what I hoped was an elegant manner. In response, he furrowed his delicate eyebrows. This led me to believe that the gesture I had made previously was unfortunately, not as self-evident as I had anticipated; “前门, I mean.”, I hastily added.

He hid his amusement well, a weak curve of his full lips disappeared almost as instantaneously as it surfaced: “Well…there are much less people here now. The streets were quite crowded in the Summer.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m French.”- Ooh la la, that explains the foreign accent.

 “So, you’re on a gap year?”

“No, actually – I go to school in Beijing. My school is very close from here.” – his gaze was eager, earnest, the uncomplicated joy of weekend mornings and a brisk, cloudless Autumn sky.

It was then that our conversation was cut short, broken off by the other students in my year who were also collecting data from passers-by as they shivered in the reticent bleakness of early Autumn, equally curious about eyes of liquid gold and a voice of saccharine. Untangling myself from the sudden flurry of lithe limbs and oversized hoodies, I shouted a frenzied “thank you!” over the sudden flood of new voices, allowing myself to imagine for a moment, just a moment – that those pair of illustrious eyes were following me as I ducked my head and turned away from the crowd. I blinked, and suddenly my trainers were taking tentative steps down a rutted cobblestone street webbed with slender, spidery cracks; carefully avoiding uneven chunks of moss-covered rock. I blinked again - the renovated streets with slabs of smooth granite stared back at me.

***

I lost him to a crowd of boisterous laughter, the sound of ecstatic exclamations intensifying even as I walked further away. It was only when they were out of sight that I realised I’d forgotten to record his answers down on my task sheet. Great. I tried to catch a storekeeper’s attention with a gawky little wave:

“您好，请问一下……”

Shaking her head ever so slightly, she turned her back to me, so that I bathed in her doleful shadow.