At this moment in Beijing, Zhong Jiming had no idea that his nephew was hitting on his ex-wife.
In the afternoon, he stood at the intersection of Xihua Gate Street and lit a cigarette.
It had been a long time since he last returned to this area.
He had walked this street since childhood, knowing with his eyes closed which bricks were loose and which locust tree roots had pushed up a bump in the ground.
Yet standing here now, he felt an unfamiliarity.
The grocery store on the street had changed its signboard, the old man who used to repair bicycles at the alley entrance was gone, and the wall was painted with the red slogan “Reform and Opening Up, Revitalize China,” standing out starkly against the gray brick wall.
Tomorrow, he was leaving on a business trip to Shenzhen. After some thought, Zhong Jiming decided to return to the old house.
He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed the door open.
The pomegranate tree in the courtyard was still there, its branches, bare all winter, had just sprouted new leaves.
He remembered when he was a child and his mother was still alive. Every autumn, she would ask Auntie Hui to pick the pomegranates, peel them one by one, and serve them in a blue-and-white porcelain bowl. The sweet and sour juice would stain their fingertips red.
That was a long time ago.
The winter jasmine in the corner of the wall, however, was blooming vibrantly, clusters of golden yellow against the bluish-gray brick wall, like bright strokes added to an old painting.
He walked past the screen wall and headed toward the main house.
Before even entering, he could hear Peking opera playing from the radio—”The Empty City Stratagem.” “I am on the city tower admiring the mountain scenery”—his father’s favorite opera.
Zhong Mian sat in an armchair, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, holding a copy of the People’s Daily.
Hearing footsteps, he lifted his eyelids for a glance, then lowered his head again and snorted coldly.
“Well, if it isn’t Director Zhong.”
Zhong Mian turned a page of the newspaper, his voice not loud but laced with enough sarcasm to be clearly heard.
“Still remember the way home, do you? Where’s Huilan? So lacking in awareness—why isn’t she hurrying to pour tea for Director Zhong?”
Zhong Jiming didn’t respond.
He sat down opposite his father, surveying the furnishings in the room.
The calligraphy scroll still hung on the wall—the four characters “Tranquility Leads to Far-reaching Vision,” written by Mr. Nanting.
Everything was the same as in his memory, yet different.
Hearing the commotion, Huilan hurried over from the backyard. She was nearly sixty this year but still spry.
She was an old-timer in the Zhong household, having worked in this courtyard since Zhong Jiming’s mother was alive—almost thirty years now.
Seeing Zhong Jiming, Huilan’s eyes reddened instantly. She rubbed her hands on her apron, both happy and nervous—happy that the third son had finally returned, nervous that father and son might start arguing again.
Last time during the New Year, the two had nearly smashed the tea set in the main hall. The old man’s blood pressure had shot up to 180 in anger, almost landing him in the hospital.
“Jiming is back, sit, sit! I’ll make tea for you. Still drinking Longjing?”
Zhong Jiming stood up. “Auntie Hui, how have you been?”
Huilan lowered her voice. “I’m doing just fine, but your father… The doctor said his blood pressure hasn’t been well controlled. He should avoid getting angry and worrying, but you know his temper—he never listens. Last month, he even slammed the table at someone…”
“Why are you telling him all this?” Zhong Mian slapped the newspaper onto the tea table, cutting her off impatiently.
Huilan didn’t dare say more and awkwardly stepped aside.
Zhong Jiming looked at his father. The last time he had seen him was two years ago, during the New Year.
That time also ended on a sour note. He couldn’t quite recall the exact reason for the argument anymore—probably the same old topics.
His father seemed even thinner than before. Zhong Jiming couldn’t quite put his finger on what he was feeling.
He thought back to ten years ago—no, eleven years ago, 1976.
That year, the world turned upside down.
In the spring of that year, he was ordered to go to Yanshan on official business. Before leaving, he told Wangshu he would take her boating in Beihai when he returned.
Wangshu stood at the door to see him off, smiling as she agreed.
Less than a month after he left, when he returned, the whole world had changed.
His family told him that Wangshu had left—gone to Hong Kong.
And without his consent, his father had gone ahead and finalized their divorce.
He stood in the study, staring at that thin piece of paper stamped with a red seal. The black characters on white paper were clear as day: both parties voluntarily agreed to divorce.
Voluntarily.
Clutching the paper, he felt it was an absurd joke.
He went to confront his father.
He argued with his father like a madman—a level of disgrace he had never experienced in over twenty years of life. He smashed the celadon brush washer in the study and said many things he shouldn’t have.
It was almost like the sky had fallen.
It nearly severed their father-son bond.
Immediately after, he volunteered to go to the southwest.
Back then, it was a harsh, desolate place no one wanted to go to, but he went.
Some said he was exiling himself; others said he was avoiding the family conflict. Only he knew he simply couldn’t stay in that house any longer.
What followed was like a train derailing.
He stayed in the southwest for six years, burying himself in work day and night, as if determined to work himself to death.
The harsh winds and biting cold of the plateau, oddly enough, gave him a sense of stability. Physical suffering was far easier to bear than the pain in his heart.
Later, he was transferred to the northwest, where he stayed for several more years.
Until this year, when the transfer order came, sending him back to Beijing.
He didn’t want to return.
If given the choice, he would have preferred to go south—to Guangzhou, to Shenzhen, to those bustling places where construction was in full swing.
But the transfer order was clear: Beijing.
Zhong Jiming set down his teacup and glanced at his father.
He knew this was his father’s doing.
Just as silence settled in, the courtyard gate creaked open, and another person walked in.
“Well, well! What a rare guest!”
The newcomer wore a gray Zhongshan suit, was in his early forties, and bore a five or six out of ten resemblance to Zhong Jiming, though with a more polished demeanor. His eyes and brows carried a subtle, ever-present smile.
It was Zhong Jiming’s second brother, Zhong Jihui.
Zhong Jihui worked in the Central Organization Department. He was thorough and diplomatic, a stark contrast to Zhong Jiming’s cold, rigid temperament.
“Second Brother,” Zhong Jiming greeted.
“Third Brother,” Zhong Jihui walked over, sat down beside him, and patted his shoulder with a smile. “You’re quite the mystery. If I hadn’t run into you at home, I’d have thought you were still eating sand in the northwest.”
Zhong Jiming replied calmly, “Second Brother, do you even believe that yourself? My transfer back to Beijing—I might hide it from others, but not from you.”
His implication was clear: his transfer had gone through the Central Organization Department’s procedures. How could Zhong Jihui not know? He even suspected his second brother had a hand in it.
Zhong Jihui, having been exposed by his third brother, wasn’t annoyed. He took a sip of the tea Huilan handed him and changed the subject.
Zhong Jiming turned to Zhong Mian: “I’m going to Guangdong tomorrow, so I came to let you know.”
Zhong Jihui set down his teacup: “You’re going to Guangdong?”
“Yes, to Shenzhen,” Zhong Jiming said, pausing before adding, “After finishing my business, I’ll go to Hong Kong.”