The objects you and your team took out of the main burial chamber are almost all packed and numbered.
This warehouse is just two small shacks hastily assembled with woven tarps and wooden stakes; enough to provide shelter from wind and rain, but ultimately rudimentary. Under the eaves, a few large inscriptions on red paper are pasted: "Protect from moisture at all costs," "No open flames," their edges trembling slightly in the wind.
You walk along the tomb passage back to the surface; the sun is so blinding you can barely open your eyes. Standing at the edge of the temporary camp, you look around, dazed, as if expecting something abnormal to suddenly emerge from the woods. But there's nothing.
It's funny; you, who call yourself a materialist, are secretly beginning to think that the existence of ghosts and spirits isn't so impossible. You can't say exactly when this faint but persistent doubt began to sprout in the depths of your heart – perhaps when you lifted the coffin lid, perhaps when you took the first silk scroll in your hands.
All around is extremely calm; only a few clumps of flowers whose names you don't know are blooming quietly between the yellow earth and crushed stones, their colors so bright, so full of life, that they seem almost out of place at this moment.
When you return to the institute, most people are busy with the recently excavated objects: bronzes, lacquers, glassware, carefully classified, registered, and summarily cleaned according to the usual procedure before being sent to the municipal heritage conservation center. It's always these presentable and striking objects that have the hope of being exhibited one day.
Old Zhao is running everywhere, eager to take on this task. His smile always has a smoky, cunning look; his face is constantly sallow, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes full of a roguish good nature, but also hiding a solid, old-fashioned honesty. He likes this kind of work that allows one to "show off," because he knows very well that it's these exquisitely appearing objects that will feature in reports to the superiors and whose names will be mentioned in the records.
He pokes his head in, his grease-stained aluminum mess tin in hand, and says with a chuckle: "Why are you still here? The group of journalists from upstairs has already arrived at the institute. Team leader Sima, it's your turn to make an appearance, say a few words, that's not difficult, is it?"
Without looking up, you delicately place the scroll fragment with its already oxidized and reddened edges onto a tray, dim the light, and say: "Let them take their photos; I still have experiments to continue here."
Old Zhao clicks his tongue: "You, honestly, all you know is how to bury yourself in your books. Working yourself to the bone all day on these old characters, are they going to give you a promotion? Look at those from heritage conservation, all worked up as if they've taken stimulants. You're the team leader; how can you not show your face?"
You reply in a neutral tone: "Being photographed isn't part of my job."
"You, really... Tsk." Old Zhao clicks his tongue again, then finally shakes his head and leaves. The wind lifts a corner of the curtain; his silhouette disappears for a moment into the gap of the white fabric, then is swallowed by the light.
You sit back down and adjust the microscope lens to the most appropriate position.
The total weight of these silk books exceeds a hundred jin. The textual part is preserved separately, arranged by number on a whole series of shelves near the window. A second of inattention is enough for these papers to disintegrate into fine particles before your eyes.
You know perfectly well that you are sitting in the middle of a thousand-year-old library.
A deeper secret is buried between these lines – perhaps, precisely, the mystery of the disappearance of the one they called the "princess." Where did she go? Was her destiny already sealed in some densely written page of a document? You consult, compare, again and again, searching for the slightest clue that could lead to a glimmer of truth.
Jingwei helped you make a vacuum box. This way, oxidation can be slowed down as much as possible.
It took you an entire day to summarily sort the folios. The covers of two or three codices were brocade, dark red background embroidered with diagonal gold threads; there was also a manuscript with white characters on a black background, the writing dense and tiny, as if traced with an extremely fine wolf-hair brush; another, with gold characters on a black background, had letters as small as grains of rice, the gold powder flaking off at the slightest touch. The strangest was a short scroll on white silk, with characters as fine as hairs, the ink so pale they could only be distinguished in raking light. There were also a few accordion-fold books (butterfly binding), whose stitching broke upon contact with the air.
The contents of one box were particularly strange – a language you had never seen, neither Paichelan nor belonging to any known ancient system, like a mixture of the ancient Gönok language and personal signs used by peoples of the frontier regions.
As usual, you check the constant temperature cabinet, but you discover that the silk scroll with white characters on a black background has yellowed edges, a layer has lifted, and its texture has become softer. You lift another accordion-fold folio; the once clear line of characters, "decade of the Sleeping Frost," now only has half of the character "Frost" barely legible.
You immediately turn to look for Jingwei.
She is in the backyard, squatting, making protective cases for the artifacts.
You haven't even finished your sentence "The documents are fading" when she immediately looks up and asks: "Did you check the temperature last time?"
You hand her the temperature and humidity log. She looks down, frowning slightly: "The environment is correct; is it the light?"
"It's possible..."
She stands up and puts away her tools: "Come on, I'll go with you to take a look."
That evening, you re-examine the batch of high-risk silk books. Jingwei squats to measure the cracks on the edges of the paper, muttering under her breath: "It's cracking too quickly; this isn't normal." She stands up and says: "Let's take photos, as many as we can."
You give a bitter smile: "Take photos of what? The few rolls of film we had left, we used them in the burial chamber."
She remains silent for a moment, then suddenly asks: "Have you ever seen movies?"
You are taken aback; you don't react immediately.
She continues as if to herself: "Movie film is twenty-four frames per second, the medium is the same, and besides, a roll is much longer than a roll of camera film. If we find one, that should be enough, right? And anyway, there are always scraps left after every shoot."
You look at her, dumbfounded, then you suddenly understand.
She washes her hands: "Come with me. Han was my classmate. Let's go talk to him."
You go around the corridor cluttered with various objects behind the institute and find the head of the burial chamber filming crew.
He is squatting on the low steps in front of the boiler room, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a small folding knife in his hand, cutting tobacco. It's rolling tobacco, with a dry, grassy smell mixed with old newspaper and tea stains. He looks nonchalant. Seeing you approach, he doesn't even look up, merely letting out in a hoarse voice: "Water's just boiled, get in line, eh."
Jingwei gets straight to the point: "Han, do you have any spare film?"
He continues to focus on his work: "Film? Your project section has been transferred to the technical line; it's none of my business."
You take a step forward: "Our silk books, even the vacuum cabinet isn't enough to preserve them anymore. If we don't photograph them quickly, they're likely to turn to dust within a few days."
His movement pauses for a moment, he frowns, but still shakes his head: "None of my business. Besides, if you want to photograph documents, you have to go through the cultural archives depot to get authorization for the specific medium. My few rolls are for newsreels; they're absolutely not compliant."
You say in a low voice: "We won't get authorization. The 'Photography of silk books' line item was cut from the budget, under the pretext that textual documents are not a priority, unrecoverable."
He makes a motion with his lips, as if he wants to reply "I can't do anything about it either," but doesn't say it. His gaze rests on your faces for a moment; the cigarette between his fingers burns more quickly.
Jingwei stands with her arms crossed, her tone firm: "Your few newsreel films, do you have any scraps left?"
He spits a bit of tobacco on the ground: "Do you know how hard it is to get film now? These few rolls, we had to make two requests to get them."
She gives him no respite: "You were at Factory Number Seven before, weren't you? Has the warehouse moved? The keys to the film depot, who kept them?"
His tobacco-cutting movement stops, the knife blade suspended at his fingertips. He finally looks up at her, his gaze seeming to pull her from the depths of his memory: "...You wouldn't happen to remember where the ventilation shaft of that building is, would you?"
"Yes," she replies in a calm tone. "Under the brick slab, north side of the wall, in the shade, covering the grate."
His face changes slightly, his lips twitch, as if surprised and disarmed at the same time: "Unbelievable... Don't go back there, what if you get caught?"
"Back then, you helped cover for me; you didn't ask for a reward, did you?"
"Now, you're not playing fair talking like that, eh!" He glares at her.
"So, say it frankly," her tone is composed. "Do you have any unexposed film? I want some, you don't want to give it to me; if I go, you're afraid I'll get caught."
"Tsk." He taps the ash from his cigarette and mutters under his breath: "Your tongue, it was already viperous when you were a student; now it's worse."
He stares at her for a moment, then glances at you, as if weighing the pros and cons. Finally, he sighs, picks up the kettle, pours himself half a glass of water, takes a sip, taps his knee three times with his fingers, as if he has made a decision.
"If you really go, take advantage of the power cut this weekend, Saturday night, before one in the morning. Basement, west shelf, don't touch the red-sealed boxes, that's borrowed equipment; choose the ones with a white leader, the scraps, the ones whose number starts with 'G,' those are test reels, nobody will check."
Jingwei nods: "Understood."
He lowers his head and continues to cut his tobacco, then, a moment later, looks up again and beckons her closer with his finger.
She approaches.
You stand beside them, watching them exchange words, one saying numbers, the other letters, sparring with jargon you absolutely don't understand: film types, developers, carbon layer treatment... like spies exchanging secret codes.
"Do you know how to develop? C41 developer isn't suitable."
"ECN2?"
"Yes."
"Alright."
"Do you know how to scratch off the carbon layer?"
"No. Will you teach me?"
"No."
"Then why are you wasting your time talking?"
He is nonplussed for a moment, then smiles, as if both annoyed by her and unable to refuse her anything: "Alright, alright, you're tough."
That night, you set off on bicycles, avoiding patrols, crossing half the city, taking advantage of the major power outage at the power plant, to sneak into the old cinema film depot in the east.
You had never been to this place. The building had three floors, all windows were boarded up, the films stored in cold rooms in the basement.
"How do you know these places?"
"When I was still a student, I often used to hang out in the post-production workshop of the film company. I did a three-month internship there in editing." Her tone is so light it sounds as if she's not talking about stealing film, but borrowing a pen.
Jingwei, her back bent, leads you to a ventilation shaft in a corner of the surrounding wall. She climbs onto the brick platform, lifts the unsealed metal grate, then takes out a pair of pliers as long as her arm and puts them in your hands.
"Aren't you an archaeologist?" she says, panting. "Isn't your specialty making openings, digging tunnels?"
Your heart is pounding; you want to protest, but you do as she says anyway.
After forcing open an old fireproof window, you slip inside the building. Your soles echo dully on the cement floor, as if you were walking on dust-covered bones.
The air is thick with years of accumulated dust and chemical odors. You turn on your flashlights; the light sweeps across shelves laden with labeled film cans.
She walks ahead, her movements as assured as those of a factory worker.
You want to ask her how she knows all this, but at that moment, you both hold your breath.
You don't dare turn on the lights, guiding yourselves only with two faint flashlights, advancing step by step up the stairwell. With each step, the floorboards emit a dull echo.
The door to the film depot is ajar, the lock sealed with red paper, a yellowed requisition slip pasted outside: "Entry forbidden without mission order."
Jingwei puts on gloves, delicately tears the seal, and says in a low voice: "We can only tear a little; it'll have to be re-stuck later."
At first glance upon entering, you nearly lose your balance.
The entire room is filled with film cans stacked waist-high, arranged layer by layer on iron shelves. Just those labeled "scraps" amount to twenty or thirty crates. You divide the work: Jingwei looks at the labels, you check the batch numbers.
You follow her, watching her choose a film can, her eye to the film, pulling out a few centimeters, cutting with scissors, rewinding it, wrapping it in paper. She wears cloth gloves; her hands barely tremble as she handles the film.
"I'll take the leftovers; go get a whole can," she says in a low voice while working.
"This one, is it okay?" you ask, taking a roll to try.
"Look at the number, the ones marked 500T or 200T."
After searching for a long time without finding what you need, you can't help but ask: "50D, 250D, will those do?"
"In a pinch," she replies, continuing her work.
You find an iron can whose seal is best preserved, carefully pack a few pieces of film, and put them in an old woven cloth bag that you carry on your shoulder.
Just as you are leaving the corridor, you suddenly hear a short whistle blast from outside.
You immediately crouch down, pressed against the corner of the wall, not daring to move. You clutch the bag to your chest; the film cans clink lightly, like the sound of water drops falling in the silence.
Footsteps are heard outside; it's the night watchman. The man kicks an old cart angrily, then slowly walks away.
You hold your breath, hearing only your hearts beating rapidly but restrainedly, and your panting breaths. After an indeterminate time, Jingwei lightly taps your arm and says: "Let's go."
On the way back, the night is deep; the streets are plunged into darkness. You cycle through the mud. The tires crush through puddles, splashing water. In the carrier, the film cans in the bag clink dully, a light but strangely pleasant sound.
She is sitting on the front bar of your bicycle; the night wind ruffles her hair, strands brushing your cheek, giving off a light fragrance, like a warm mixture of tea, paper, and old fabrics.
Back at the institute, you begin to study this "loot." These films are all wide 35mm format; some bear old film numbers, others have no labels at all. Jingwei says: "We can cut them into three or five segments with a paper cutter, add paper spools. By modifying the camera a bit, it should work."
You watch her fingers skillfully unroll the film, wind the leader, divide it, and your heart is moved. When she lowers her head, a rebellious lock of hair falls onto her forehead, stuck to her cheekbone by sweat, her expression entirely focused.
Finally, you manage to prepare several hundred meters of film.
During the day, you do the image archiving; at night, you compare frame by frame, make rubbings, number, splice, transcribe. In the neighboring lab, she has set up a mercury lamp and a temporary enlarger; her fingernails are full of developer, her clothes permeated with the smell of hydrogen sulfide from the darkroom.
From the moment these fragile silks are exposed to the air, they begin to oxidize, discolor, curl up at a speed visible to the naked eye, eventually turning to dust. You can only watch them disintegrate between your fingers, the camera becoming the sole executioner – the moment you press the shutter is both a recording and a murder.
You tried to slow down the shooting speed; you even hid a page in secret, thinking of bringing it back to the lab wrapped in cotton. But Jingwei found out. She said nothing, simply silently removed the piece of silk, flattened it again on the photography table, then pressed the shutter.
"Don't hesitate." Her voice is very soft, but it cuts through your hopes like a blade. "Hesitating will only make their death uglier."
The following month, you repeat the same ritual every day: you number, you make drafts, she changes films, develops, records the prints.
You look down at the line of text in the lens, hearing Jingwei change a film behind you.
The film can opens with a "click," then closes with another "click."
After several days of hard work, the photography of this batch of silk books is finally complete. You remember that evening, at dusk, the wind was heavy, a circle of dry gray clouds hung in the sky, as if it had just rained, but in reality, not a drop had fallen.
The wind blew from the west, rustling the plastic sheeting on the window of the shack. Your hands, clutching the plans, were a little sweaty.
The last fixing bath in the darkroom had yellowed; there were some undissolved impurities at the bottom of the developing tank. Jingwei was bent over, scraping the bottom of the tank bit by bit with a filter cloth. You stood beside her, leaving the last box of the numbering notebook blank, waiting for her to write down the time.
She washes her hands, shakes the water onto the entrance tiles, straightens up, looking at the row of negatives hung up to dry, looking a bit dazed. You say nothing either.
"There's one last picture on the roll," you say.
"Then that one, let's take a photo of the two of us together," she says, turning to you, an expression in her eyes you had never seen before.
You set up the camera, run to stand beside her in the frame. She holds the cable release, and just as she presses it, the wind lifts the hem of your clothes.
She suddenly asks you in a low voice: "It's been a long time since you've seen a movie, right?"
You are surprised for a moment. "What?"
She rolls up her sleeves a little and says: "The auditorium is showing an old film tonight; do you want to go see it? We only get this chance once every two months."
She says this very casually, as if asking if you wanted to go queue up to buy soy sauce, but you know that normally, she would never suggest such a thing.
You look at her for a moment and simply say: "My treat."
She doesn't smile, just replies, "Okay."
The film that was playing that night, you didn't note it in your journal.
You wanted to watch it attentively, but less than ten minutes later, you fell asleep, leaning against the seat.
It was the light from the screen that woke you. Opening your eyes, you saw the image of a baby being thrown from the top of a building; you shivered.
You turn to her.
She is sitting bolt upright, her bright eyes fixed on the screen. Her lips are pressed together; she doesn't move.
The alley gets narrower and narrower; a fine layer of mist covers the ground. The rain has just stopped; the smell of the earth mixed with the scent of leaves floats on the surface of the ground.
Your shadows are cast on the wall, one tall, one small, one in front, one behind.
"You were snoring just now," she says suddenly.
You go "mmh," feeling a little like laughing, a little embarrassed too.
"Sorry, I didn't disturb you, I hope?"
"No." Her voice is a little lower.
After saying that, she falls silent, as if waiting for you to continue.
You hesitate for a moment, then ask: "Did you watch them often before?"
"Yes, when I was little, whenever there was a film, I'd take my little stool and sit in the front row." Her eyes suddenly light up. "After watching it, I had to imitate the heroine spinning around."
Saying this, she suddenly gets on her tiptoes and does a twirl in the damp alley, water droplets flying from her hair.
You are surprised for a moment, then you can't help but laugh.
She stops, as if realizing herself that she had overdone it a bit.
She says nothing, just looks at you, very attentively for a moment.
You suddenly feel your breathing become a little unsteady, your palms sweaty; you even have trouble holding the handlebars.
You stop and say in a low voice: "Jingwei."
She turns, raising an eyebrow slightly: "Mmh?"
Your throat tightens, as if something is stuck.
"I... I've always wanted to tell you, thank you."
She stares at you for two seconds, then her lips slowly stretch into a smile; she hums lightly.
"Are you going to give me a medal?"
You get a little flustered, straighten up, scratch your hair: "No, I mean..."
"Mean what?" She looks at you, her eyes slightly narrowed, with a small, teasing smile.
You swallow hard: "I mean..."
You are speechless for a moment, not knowing what to say. She has already burst out laughing.
You lower your head, as if you've done something foolish: "It's just that... I'm not very good at saying this kind of thing."
She remains silent for a few seconds, then slowly moves a little closer to you.
Her eyes are very bright, as bright as they were just now under the screen.
"You like me," she says.
You nod.
She takes another half step forward; her fringe almost touches you.
You smile: "Next time we watch a film, I promise not to fall asleep."
You are at the entrance of the alley; a pale yellow streetlight casts an oblique light.
The night wind blows on your figures, and on the whole sleeping city.
You suddenly feel that this night you didn't want to end has finally found a place to stop.