The Amur tiger, panthera tigris altaica, Laohu, as he called himself, paced his three meter body from head to tip of tail back and forth in the incongruously cozy Biedermeier-style room. It was the largest one in Villa Undine. In point of fact, two adjoining rooms had been connected, along with a sitting area, to create the largest possible suite for Laohu, and his master Li Bai, who was now sitting cross-legged on a settee. The settee was deeply set, with a high back and broad bench, reminiscent of the Thai-style backed-benches Li Bai fondly remembered from his travels south.
“Doubtless from the boy’s Uncle Otto, of Hamburg, who could have traded for it,” observed Laohu, with a glance at the settee, as he whished past his master, for the thirtieth time this morning.
“His Uncle Otto is married to his aunt Clupea, and they, along with their children, are the Hamburg branch of the Hering family,” continued Laohu, the Amur tiger.
What he was about to divulge next about the Herings remained unsaid, for just then there was a knock on the door. It was a curious knock. Crisp, clear, distinctive but not loud. The wood sounded as if in joy, in response to the hand on it. There was music to it.
Li Bai leapt to the door in one motion, as soundlessly as the tiger did.
At the door was a young woman. Dark haired, slight of frame, exuding an almost visible aura of strength and determination.
“My name is Clara Schumann.”
Li Bai’s gallantry has never failed him, and it did not now. He swept her into the sitting room with a bow, that somehow was performed so elegantly that it made him seem even taller.
“We arrived late last night, my husband Robert and I,” she said in a low, melodious voice. The word husband came out as if in a prayer. A soft, private tenderness still lingered on it, which she savored with a small smile that came unbidden to the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were steely and deep, and they were now trained on Laohu. She had evidently been briefed on his existence, for though she was looking at him with unhideable curiosity, there was also a note of expectation in her expression.
“An Amur tiger,” she said in recognition, mostly to herself.
"Yes,” the Amur tiger himself growled in reply, “the largest of the six tiger clans under heaven. The northernmost tiger of Cathay.”
“Excuse me, I only…” she tried again, this time clearly, “I saw an Amur tiger in St. Petersburg, where I had given a klavier recital, of Herr Beethoven’s and my husband’s works.” Her cheeks pinked with pleasure on the word husband, then reddened with pride on the word works.
“That tiger could not speak of course,” she added quickly.
When there was no audible response from this tiger, standing silent and stately very close to her, she went on, perhaps a little intimidated but still self-possessed.
“Yes, I remember now. That tiger was brought by a man from Wladiwostok. He said he had found him as an injured cub by the river Amur.”
“The Mongols and Russians call the river Tamur or Amur. We Cathayans call it Heijiang or Heilongjiang, the Black River or the Black Dragon River.”
The tiger was silent again. Perhaps he was contemplating that roiling, powerful river, the tenth longest under heaven, splitting Imperial Russia from Imperial Cathay. He had traveled along it once, looking for Amur tigers who could speak. But it was a fruitless journey, as all his searching expeditions had been, for only the tigers from Mount Taibai, where Li Bai found him, could speak, for Mount Taibai belonged to the Qinling mountain range, which formed part of the watershed between Cathay’s two great rivers, the Yellow River, and the Yangtze.
“I bring word from the Saxon King,” interrupted Clara Schumann the tiger’s reverie, “to the Amur tiger Laohu and his master Li Bai.”
She handed a folded letter, sealed with red wax, on which was the insignia of the Saxon King, including the words IN LAPIDE REGIS, on the king’s stone.