Sixty-nine

The image of Xu Zhizhong's disdainful expression, as if he didn't even consider him a worthy opponent, lingered in Bi Qingtang's mind. His heart felt as though it had been bound to a swing soaring high, suddenly losing balance, flying upward with nothing to steady him.

He needed to see her—immediately, at once. Even though she had just brought their daughter back to the Bi residence the day before and they had exchanged a few polite words, his heart was still unsettled. He had to see for himself, right now, whether his little sister had changed, whether overnight she might have stopped drinking jasmine tea, stopped eating lake crabs, stopped wearing green clothes, and whether her gaze upon him would no longer be that shy, fleeting one. He had to confirm all of this now, or else he didn't know how he would survive until the next sunrise. He feared the hopeless darkness might drown him before then.

With these thoughts, Bi Qingtang hurried into the hospital—a place unfamiliar yet oddly intimate, for his efforts and care were woven into its very walls. Countless times he had admonished himself never to come, to spare himself a shred of dignity in this all-consuming longing, to keep a little self-respect before the woman who had wounded him so deeply.

But today, he broke his own rule.

He bounded up the stairs three at a time, his agitation impossible to conceal, and soon appeared at the door of Tan Yang's consultation room. Lunch break had just ended. Inside, there was only a young mother seeking care for her child; Tan Yang was patiently explaining how to take the prescribed medicine. Hearing hurried footsteps at the door, Tan Yang assumed it was an emergency and looked up, only to find Bi Qingtang standing there, his face tense with worry. Surprised, she asked anxiously, "What's wrong? Is it about our daughter?" Bi Qingtang hesitated briefly, then nodded.

Inside the office, Tan Yang pressed him for details. Bi Qingtang thought for a moment before replying, "Our daughter is already seven, but all she does is play. I asked a few friends to recommend some esteemed tutors in Shanghai. When you have time, could you help me choose a good teacher for her? You know more about education than I do." After a pause, he added, "Or if you know of a good teacher at your school, just let me know and I'll handle the arrangements."

Tan Yang was taken aback by his words. She hadn't expected him to rush to the hospital just to discuss such a matter. Besides, when she had first returned from Germany, she had suggested starting their daughter's education early, but Bi Qingtang had strongly opposed it, insisting that having a few carefree years was the best education. His daughter’s happiness, he said, was paramount; there was no need to rush, no need to burden her with study. Whether she read early or late, a little or a lot, it should all depend on her own interest and joy. Back then, Tan Yang had been unable to persuade him and had dropped the subject. Now, it was he who had come to her, bringing it up so urgently.

As Tan Yang pondered this, a nurse knocked on the door to remind her that there were patients waiting. Tan Yang nodded and said to Bi Qingtang, "To be honest, our daughter should have started school already. I don’t think she should be taught at home anymore, she ought to be with other children. Gaining knowledge isn’t the most important thing—interest and talent will guide her learning. What matters is that she has friends, companions her own age, so she doesn't feel lonely and learns how to interact with others."

She was about to leave when Bi Qingtang shook his head firmly. "No, school is too chaotic, too many prying eyes. I have only one daughter, and all of Shanghai knows it. There are those who would target her for money, and those who might seek revenge through her." He glanced at Tan Yang with deep meaning. "She’s all I have left, so I can’t risk even the slightest danger."

Just then, the nurse returned to urge Tan Yang again. She said they could discuss it further when she visited on Saturday. Bi Qingtang stood up, his gaze fixed on the telephone on Tan Yang's desk for a long moment before he spoke. "Or, I could call you instead, would that be alright?" He cleared his throat, adding, "If anything urgent comes up, I can call, and won’t have to make a special trip."

Tan Yang nodded and reached into her white coat for a pen, intending to write down her number. Seeing the slender, well-used pen, Bi Qingtang's heart trembled. Amid all his bitterness, he found himself smiling. His little sister—so kind, so loyal. Someone who could use the same pen for twelve years must surely be steadfast in heart. How could he ever worry that she would change?

Tan Yang’s desk was covered in thick medical texts and bound patient files; in her rush, she couldn’t find a blank scrap of paper. Seeing her flustered, Bi Qingtang stepped forward and held out his hand, palm up. Tan Yang hesitated, then uncapped the pen, bowed her head, steadied his hand with her left and wrote a string of numbers swiftly in his palm with her right. When she finished, she instinctively looked up, meeting Bi Qingtang’s gaze—so full of mingled sorrow and affection that she quickly let go, shifted her eyes away, and gripped her pen tightly in an effort to compose herself. Bi Qingtang smiled again, cursing softly in his heart, My foolish girl, ten years and you haven’t changed a bit.

The nurse’s voice echoed down the corridor, calling for the director. Tan Yang hurried out. Watching her retreating figure, Bi Qingtang murmured, "I've already memorized this number by heart." Tan Yang, halfway out the door, turned back, puzzled. "What did you say?" Bi Qingtang just smiled and shook his head. "Nothing, go on."

On the way home, sitting in the car, Bi Qingtang leaned back, eyes half closed, his right hand clasped tightly over his left, the numbers scrawled there kept perfectly still...

Shanghai in late autumn was remarkably splendid; even the falling leaves seemed like sequined cloaks draped over the city. The world was at its most glorious, weaving the coming chill of winter into the damp, fragrant air.

The phone in Director Tan’s office was always busy. Every few days, Bi Qingtang would call, always for legitimate reasons—sometimes about their daughter, sometimes to recommend a friend to her hospital. As for Xu Zhizhong, he called nearly every noon, never for anything urgent—just like a friend, asking if she had many patients, if she had eaten lunch, sometimes bringing up obscure allusions he couldn’t recall, or reading her a particularly striking poem he’d come across the night before. Occasionally, when a crossword clue stumped him, he would also call for her help. These small, seemingly trivial exchanges, devoid of any overt sentiment, broke down her defenses and quietly drew them closer together.

At some point, Tan Yang found herself jotting down memorable phrases to share with Xu Zhizhong. Sometimes, she even called him. One evening, she phoned to say she’d seen a fine gongbi painting she liked, said to be by the Qing master Ding Guanpeng. Not knowing much about him and fearing she might buy a forgery, she sought his advice. Xu Zhizhong responded in his gentle, measured way, explaining everything from technique and style, to the artist’s background, representative works, and common mistakes made by imitators, all in clear and engaging detail.

Tan Yang listened with delight. At the end, she heard voices in the background praising him—"Comrade Xu, what talent, what knowledge!"—followed by others chiming in. Somewhat uneasy, she asked, "Do you have guests?" Xu Zhizhong chuckled and replied nonchalantly, "Just a few colleagues, having a meeting."

On average, Tan Yang and Xu Zhizhong saw each other two or three times a week—at first just for a brief chat during her lunch break, later for dinners after work, always with some program or outing he would suggest, things she liked even more than he did.

One day, near Jingye Middle School, they ran into the Zhao Ling couple in a small shop selling old magazines and newspapers. Zhao Ling, seeing Xu Zhizhong, gave a knowing smile. "When Li He came to pick me up, he saw a military officer and Yangyang entering the bookstore together from afar. I guessed it was you." Xu Zhizhong lowered his head modestly and smiled. "If Teacher Zhao says so, it’s an honor for me." Zhao Ling turned to Tan Yang, feigning complaint, "You haven’t visited us much lately. My three little rascals still call for their aunt every day." Tan Yang laughed and took Zhao Ling’s hand. "Sister Ling, let me come for dinner one night!" Zhao Ling nodded, "Tomorrow night then. Zhizhong, you come too!" She looked at Xu Zhizhong. He was taken aback by the invitation, glanced at the car outside with his uniformed driver and adjutant, cleared his throat, and after a long pause, replied, "Alright."

The next evening, Xu Zhizhong arrived at the hospital in a beige trench coat and black hat, ready to escort Tan Yang to Zhao Ling’s home. She was surprised by his attire. Xu Zhizhong laughed, "What, you’re not used to seeing me out of uniform?" He adjusted his hat with mock pride. Tan Yang glanced at his straight back and brisk stride and replied, "No, it just seems that whatever you wear looks like a uniform." Xu Zhizhong stopped in mock indignation and shot her a reproachful look.

He led her into a silver-gray car—no driver, no adjutant. He took the wheel himself and drove off. Tan Yang laughed, "I didn’t expect you to know how to drive." Xu Zhizhong, one hand on the steering wheel, replied casually, "I can drive a tank, too. Want to try?" Tan Yang grinned, "And a plane?" Xu Zhizhong turned to her, half exasperated, half amused. "Yangyang, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Today you’ve been undermining my dignity all day. There are a few planes at the Shanghai garrison—if you want, I’ll learn to fly one for you."

She hadn’t meant anything by it, but his words made her feel a little guilty. Watching him drive so attentively, she offered, "You’re quite a good driver, you know." Xu Zhizhong’s smile grew, clearly pleased even as he tried to appear modest. "It’s really not difficult. If you’re interested, I could teach you one day."

"By the way, why are you out alone today, and in civilian clothes?" she asked. Xu Zhizhong sighed, "Didn’t you notice how I had to borrow this car from all over the place? Because I’m going to a dinner party—a party hosted by the formidable Teacher Zhao Ling!" Tan Yang was more puzzled. "Are things really that tense between you? But Sister Ling always talks about wanting cooperation between the two parties, united resistance against the Japanese."

Xu Zhizhong’s expression grew serious. "Yangyang, that’s politics. Whether invaded by foreign enemies or struck by disaster, no matter the circumstances, those in power are never willing to recognize dissenters. That’s a universal truth, in all times and places." He sighed. "I admire Miss Zhao Ling very much—for her ideals, her persistence, her passion. When I was still in school, she tried again and again to recruit me, to convince me. But that wasn’t the path for me. If I want to change the world, I’d rather put my hope in the government, even if it’s mediocre and bureaucratic. We can reform it. If we overthrow everything and start over, who’s to say we won’t just repeat the same mistakes of 1912? Wouldn’t we just be busy reforming the new regime all over again?"

Listening to him speak of his ideals and his concern for the nation, Tan Yang couldn’t help but feel a deep respect and admiration. She gently tried to persuade him, "If it’s that complicated and inconvenient, maybe you shouldn’t go."

Xu Zhizhong turned to her, meeting her gaze with resolute determination. "No. I have to go." "Why?" He seemed about to say something, but then simply smiled.

What he wanted to say was—Yangyang, you know, even the usually stoic Deputy Lin is most afraid of Comrade Ning, because only she would dare call me a fool to my face in front of anyone. And that’s why, when her brother asked if I liked his sister, I said it wasn’t just liking—it’s loving the whole world for her sake, for her, I even hold her closest friends in respect, too scared to offend them.

Downstairs at Zhao Ling’s building, Xu Zhizhong sat in the car, making no move to get out, and held out his fist to Tan Yang.

"What are you doing?"

"Rock-paper-scissors. If Teacher Zhao brings up politics, we fake being drunk. Whoever loses does the acting, then we make our escape!"

Tan Yang laughed helplessly and pushed his fist away. "Let’s not. If I’m perfectly fine and you, the great General Xu, get drunk first, who’d believe it? Let me handle it instead!"

On a deep autumn night at the Bi residence, Bi Qingtang was reviewing the company’s monthly accounts in his study when Fang Ya burst in, making disjointed conversation.

"Our daughter is asleep, right?"

"Yes, she’s asleep. It’s late."

"What are you working on?"

"Company business."

"You never go out for a walk, even in such nice weather. Our dance hall is lively as ever."

Bi Qingtang, barely glancing up, turned another page in his ledger.

"Qingtang, next to our dance hall a new French restaurant just opened. They have a foreign violinist—you pay him and he’ll play right in front of you!"

"…"

"Did you know Western instruments can play Chinese tunes too? They sound quite nice!"

He finally looked up, impatience in his voice. "Sister Fang Ya, what are you really trying to say?"

Fang Ya shifted, putting more distance between them before lowering her voice. "I just saw Yangyang having dinner with a general—three stars on his epaulets—at that French restaurant. The officer even asked the foreign violinist to play ‘High Mountains, Flowing Water’ for her. She seemed very happy, didn’t even notice me." After a moment’s thought, Fang Ya added, "This isn’t the first time I’ve seen them together, you know."