The dispute about the fireworks was the most pointless argument Wei Liang had ever been fully committed to, which was saying something given his record.
The festival fireworks happened once a year, on the last night of the river season, fired from a barge moored at the midpoint between the two docks. The question of the best viewing position was settled, in the minds of most people, by preference and proximity. Some people liked the north dock. Some people liked the town square. Some people watched from their windows.
Wei Liang had a documented position: the south dock offered the best angle relative to the barge's position and the direction the largest rockets were fired. He had observed this for three years and the data was consistent.
Lin Shu — the butcher's daughter, ten years old, who Wei Liang had observed around town but never spoken to directly — had an opposed position: the tanner's roof offered elevation that more than compensated for the angle. She presented this argument with the efficient directness of someone who did not waste words and expected not to have to defend reasonable positions at length.
They found themselves in direct opposition at approximately an hour before the fireworks, when Wei Liang arrived at the south dock to find Lin Shu standing there with the posture of someone who had also identified this as the optimal position and was not planning to move.
"The tanner's roof is better," she said. She said it first, before he said anything, which suggested she had noted his approach.
"The south dock angle is twenty degrees better for the main rockets," Wei Liang said.
"The elevation of the roof adds eight feet of vertical sightline over the crowd."
"The crowd at this time of night is not a significant obstruction on the south dock."
"You haven't been here at the fireworks hour. I have."
"I've been here every year."
"Then you've been in the wrong position every year and not noticed."
Wei Liang looked at her. Lin Shu looked back. She had dark, level eyes and the particular calm of someone who was very certain about her information.
"You are very loud," she said, "for someone who is wrong."
"I am loud because I am right and no one is listening," Wei Liang said.
She considered this. "That is a very sad way to be right," she said.
He thought about it. "It is," he admitted.
This seemed to defuse something. They stood at the south dock in a temporary ceasefire, both committed to positions that could not be simultaneously verified until the fireworks began.
The fireworks began.
They watched them from the south dock.
They were, empirically, good. The angle was what Wei Liang had described. Lin Shu watched them with the focused attention of someone conducting an evaluation.
After the first sequence, she said: "The elevation would have been better."
"The angle is better."
"We cannot both be right."
"We might both be partially right," Wei Liang said. "Which is worse, because then the only way to settle it is to watch them twice."
She thought about this. "Next year," she said, "I will watch from the dock and you will watch from the roof and we will compare notes."
"That seems reasonable."
"It's the only reasonable resolution."
They watched the rest of the fireworks in companionable silence. Between the third and fourth sequences, Lin Shu said: "I'm Lin Shu."
"I know," Wei Liang said. "Your father is the butcher. You have two younger brothers. You walk to the far market with your mother every other Thursday and you read when you're waiting for customers, which is not usually allowed but your father permits it because you also manage the inventory records."
Lin Shu stared at him. "How do you know all of that?"
"I notice things," Wei Liang said.
"That's strange."
"I've been told."
She was quiet for a moment. "I'm Lin Shu," she said again, more deliberately this time — not information, an introduction. A decision.
"Wei Liang," he said.
"I know," she said. "You stole Old Yan's persimmons twice. The stories were good."
They watched the last sequence together. The river reflected the colours and then the colours were gone and the dark was back.
"Same time next year," Lin Shu said.
"Same time next year," Wei Liang agreed.
She went home the long way, toward the tanner's, without explaining why. Wei Liang assumed she was evaluating the roof angle retroactively, which seemed like something she would do.
He was, he noted, not in any hurry to win the argument. This surprised him. He usually wanted to win arguments. He concluded that the argument had turned into something else at some point during the fireworks, something more like a beginning.
He walked home. The river was dark. It ran south anyway.