LITMIR.BIZ

      I know it’s the symbol for biang biang noodles. Mr Zhang has explained that it is one of the hardest symbols to write in the Chinese language. The story goes that the symbol was invented by a poor scholar who didn’t have any money to pay for his bowl of biang, so he offered the cook a symbol to advertise his dish. It’s so complicated that there’s still no way to type it on computers or phones. Luckily, there’s a mnemonic for writing it by hand. Mr Zhang taught it to me:

      Roof rising up to the sky,

      Over two bends by Yellow River’s side.

      Character eight’s opening wide,

      Speech enters inside.

      You twist, I twist too,

      You grow, I grow with you,

      Inside, a horse king will rule.

      Heart down below,

      Moon by the side,

      Leave a hook for fried dough to hang low,

      On our carriage to Xianyang we’ll ride.

      I leave the room and descend a set of red-tiled stairs to the basement. Back underground, where I belong, I think to myself, with a wry smile. I seem to be spending all my life in basements and tunnels at the moment.

      Mr Zhang is waiting for me when I open the door. He is dressed in a black suit – his gi – and his grey hair is scraped back from his face and fixed in place with what look like chopsticks. Mr Zhang frequently loses personal items such as his glasses, his house keys, or the special sticks he uses to hold his hair in place. One time when I came, he was hunting for a pen, and I had to point out that he had two in his hair. For a true master of his trade, Mr Zhang can be surprisingly flaky.

      We bow to one another and I approach him, barefoot, across the wooden floor. I would love to say that Mr Zhang lunges at me and I defend myself with a skilful move, throwing him halfway across the room – but my lessons aren’t like that. Instead, he instructs me to work through the ‘forms’ he’s taught me so far – the sequences of movements which will, eventually, lead to more complex skills.

      When I finish, there is a long silence.

      ‘You have been practising these forms?’

      ‘Yes.’ I have been doing them every morning and evening throughout the holidays. I only forgot last night and this morning, with all the excitement of the new case.

      ‘Hmmm.’

      I stand and wait for his judgement.

      At last, he clears his throat and says, ‘We will take some tea.’

      He leads me to a little table, at which we each take a seat, and he pours jasmine tea from a decorative pot into small matching cups without handles, like tiny bowls. All of the china at the Black Bamboo features the same pattern: a delicate, sketch-like outline of bamboo canes and leaves on a white background. I love the way the tiny cup feels in my hand – smooth, warm and fragile, like a soon-to-hatch egg.

      We don’t talk for a while. I’m trying to learn patience, but it defeats me eventually. ‘Was I that bad?’ I ask my sifu (my ‘master teacher’).

      ‘Bad? What?’

      ‘My forms … were they so bad?’

      He nods. ‘Ah, the forms.’ He leans his head to one side in a pensive pose. Then he pats my hand gently. ‘Do you know the expression “The one who waits wins”?’ Mr Zhang has countless similar expressions, each of which he presents as if it’s a wise adage, handed down through hundreds of generations. Between you and me, I suspect he invents them himself.

      I shake my head.

      ‘Ah. You must learn the art of patience, dear Agatha. Only then will you achieve true balance and expertise.’

      I wait, but no further wisdom comes. Instead he says, ‘Chocolate biscuit?’ and holds out a plate of Penguins. ‘I like the jokes,’ he confides.

      We finish our tea and biscuits and then I do some training with a broadsword. This is my favourite part. Not all beginners get to practise with serious weapons like the broadsword – but apparently Professor D’Oliveira insisted I be fast-tracked to gain competence in the wielding and safe use of basic weapons.

      ‘Good, good,’ he says, his head on one side. ‘Now adjust your stance, just so …’

      After my class, I head back up the stairs to the antechamber where my clothes are waiting. But something is different: on top of my folded floral dress is a tiny white parcel. I pick it up.

      As I look more closely, I realise that it’s not a parcel but a flower; a perfectly folded piece of paper in the shape of a bud. But what is this unlikely bloom doing here, on my clothes? Did Bai put it here? It’s so complex that I can’t imagine how each fold was created to achieve this elaborate design. As I peer closely, I think I can make out some writing inside – but I don’t want to risk damaging the paper by attempting to open it along the wrong folds.

      I decide to ask Bai about it. Cradling the paper creation gently in my palm, I walk through the strip curtain to the restaurant. Bai is perched on a bar stool, making notes from a textbook. She looks up as I approach.

      ‘What have you got there?’ Her face brightens as she sees the origami. ‘Oh! It’s lovely!’