location & setting: château de fontainbleau.
open to: all.
The sweet-scent of persimmons dangling precariously from withered branches retraced the annals of the Emperor’s life, returning his senses to the bloom of infancy. In one graceful movement, Xizong lifted his arm to grasp one of the blood-orange blossoms in his hand, unable to resist as it nested pensile above: both firm and springy between his fingers, dimpling beneath the pad of his thumb. It reminded him, such as the rush of the Lancang reminded the Emperor of heaven’s replenishing righteousness, of his childhood––when his father had been Emperor, and his imperial court installed in the Ming Palace, where persimmons drooped low enough for Xizong and his brothers to snatch up in their mitts. That had been long before Xizong, in the style of his grandfather, established his government in Beijing. He shined the ripe fruit against the silk toile of his habit, softly grinning in the sheen of his own reflection. If his own vivid recollections would not remind him that much time had passed, the creases stamped around his eyelids proved eager to.
❛ Many among us will denounce persimmons as being sharp and bitter to the taste, unworthy of consumption. ❜ Privy to the rustle of footfalls behind him, however faint they may be, Xizong cleaved the serenity of silence that ensconced his bountiful garden with wistful commentary. It had been one of his numerous prerequisites to the French King: propagate a garden in my name, and the Emperor’s warm presence will distinguish your beloved Paris. Overwhelmingly, the scent of fruit abounded, fresh citrus, mild jade, joining together to foster an atmosphere of saccharine tranquility, gently undulated by the February breeze. It was such a fragrance as to be detected by any who beckoned the Emperor at the foothills of the Château de Fontainbleau, a palatial residence heretofore scented with intemperance and vanity alone. Now, perfumed with life in its purest bounty.
❛ Yet, that is not entirely true––they symbolize transformation and enlightenment. An unripe persimmon’s foul taste represents ignorance, but as the fruit matures, it will become sweet; such as the wisdom that follows transformation. If one is willing to wait to savor them, the boons of its sweetness may become irresistible. ❜ As if becoming aware of the set of eyes warming on his collar, the Emperor turned to greet his guest with an affable smile; awaiting the reason behind their presence, his address was as forbearing as it was inquisitive. ❛ Forgive me, have you been waiting long? ❜