The red lacquer lamp posts of Changmingfang stand tall, and the young lamp maker, Fluorite, stares at the copper plate where the 'mermaid's candle tears' are constantly eroding — that is the 'light portion' (service charge) withdrawn by the lamp shop for each lamp. He selects the wick and pours wax, his sleeves filled with amber-colored grease scabs (transactions), but the bamboo lamp tube at his waist that holds his wages (principal) remains light as an unlit paper lantern.
The lamp mistress, Old Wu, suddenly swings two luminous pearl drops in front of the young man's eyes. 'Foolish child,' she says, her withered fingers slapping a half-burned purple copper lamp rod into Fluorite's palm, 'if you only focus on the copper plate's candle tears diminishing, burning a thousand vats of wax won't shine even half a bead of the lamp mistress's pearls. The old lamp spirit's touch must feel the 'temperature of the cracked lamp skin.'
She leads Fluorite to the back alley of the lamp tower. In the corner of the blue brick wall lies a 'test wind old lampshade' with a gap. The glass shell is covered with spider-web-like ice cracks. Old Wu takes the young man's copper rod, covered in candle soot, and instead of wiping it, she turns the tip upside down and gently presses it into a deep crack at the neck of the lampshade. In an instant, a honey-colored ointment slowly seeps from the depths of the crack, spiraling up along the copper rod's groove, like a silkworm spinning silk, silently gathering at the tip of the rod's dragon head, coalescing into a soft, glutinous pool of amber gel, heavy and warm like freshly sliced honeycomb.
'Open flames burn with the light that thousands admire,' Old Wu says, hooking her nail to lift a bit of honey gel from the rod's tip, her eyes reflecting the flowing gold within the glass cracks, 'this 'essence' (service charge exemption) that this lampshade 'exudes' is the lamp oil for the night watchman themselves.'
Fluorite holds his breath, the warmth and heaviness of the honey gel transmit through his fingertips, as if grasping a solidified sunset. Outside the alley, the sea of lights is noisy, and suddenly the copper rod in his hand feels heavier — this time, not only is the new candle wick brightened, but also the silently growing ointment in the depths of the glass. The bottom of the bamboo lamp tube at his waist silently emanates a heavy warmth.
The lamp mistress, Old Wu, suddenly swings two luminous pearl drops in front of the young man's eyes. 'Foolish child,' she says, her withered fingers slapping a half-burned purple copper lamp rod into Fluorite's palm, 'if you only focus on the copper plate's candle tears diminishing, burning a thousand vats of wax won't shine even half a bead of the lamp mistress's pearls. The old lamp spirit's touch must feel the 'temperature of the cracked lamp skin.'
She leads Fluorite to the back alley of the lamp tower. In the corner of the blue brick wall lies a 'test wind old lampshade' with a gap. The glass shell is covered with spider-web-like ice cracks. Old Wu takes the young man's copper rod, covered in candle soot, and instead of wiping it, she turns the tip upside down and gently presses it into a deep crack at the neck of the lampshade. In an instant, a honey-colored ointment slowly seeps from the depths of the crack, spiraling up along the copper rod's groove, like a silkworm spinning silk, silently gathering at the tip of the rod's dragon head, coalescing into a soft, glutinous pool of amber gel, heavy and warm like freshly sliced honeycomb.
'Open flames burn with the light that thousands admire,' Old Wu says, hooking her nail to lift a bit of honey gel from the rod's tip, her eyes reflecting the flowing gold within the glass cracks, 'this 'essence' (service charge exemption) that this lampshade 'exudes' is the lamp oil for the night watchman themselves.'
Fluorite holds his breath, the warmth and heaviness of the honey gel transmit through his fingertips, as if grasping a solidified sunset. Outside the alley, the sea of lights is noisy, and suddenly the copper rod in his hand feels heavier — this time, not only is the new candle wick brightened, but also the silently growing ointment in the depths of the glass. The bottom of the bamboo lamp tube at his waist silently emanates a heavy warmth.
