Zhong Jiming’s transfer back to the State Planning Commission had not yet been officially announced.
The reason Lin Zhiqian knew about it was because his wife, Chen Shuyi, also worked at the commission and had mentioned it in passing a couple of days earlier.
Zhong Jiming indeed glanced at him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “You’re… quite well-informed.”
Lin Zhiqian cleared his throat awkwardly.
“I almost forgot,” Zhong Jiming continued, his tone tinged with amusement. “From now on, your wife and I will be colleagues.”
“Just remember that,” Lin Zhiqian retorted, shooting him an annoyed look. “Make sure you treat her with respect at work.”
“Naturally,” Zhong Jiming replied with a faint smile.
He quickly sobered, his voice lowering. “My trip to Guangdong is for official business. However, I plan to make a detour to Hong Kong. I’ve already submitted the application.”
At the mention of “Hong Kong,” Lin Zhiqian’s heart skipped a beat.
That place was a wound on Zhong Jiming’s heart that had never fully healed.
In the spring of 1977, Gu Wangshu passed away in Hong Kong.
She was only twenty-three at the time, in the prime of her youth.
When the news reached Beijing, Lin Zhiqian was in the middle of a meeting at his workplace.
He still remembered that day—Beijing had the same kind of weather, caught between lingering cold and emerging warmth. He rushed out of the conference room and stood in the corridor, trembling as he gazed at the gray sky outside the window.
He couldn’t bear to imagine how Zhong Jiming had reacted when the news reached him.
“So you’re…” Lin Zhiqian chose his words carefully, speaking tentatively. “Letting go?”
Zhong Jiming didn’t answer.
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the hawthorn tree in the courtyard.
Outside, the sky remained overcast, with only occasional slivers of sunlight breaking through the clouds, fleeting and transient.
The hawthorn tree stood quietly, its tender buds just beginning to unfurl. In the lingering chill of spring, they appeared both fragile and resilient.
“I’ve been running away for so many years, wallowing in self-pity for so long.”
He turned to face Lin Zhiqian.
The light from outside streamed in from behind him, casting shifting shadows across his face.
“But I still can’t let go.”
“I thought, since I can’t let go, I might as well face it head-on.”
Zhong Jiming continued, “I was part of the first twenty-two years of her life. It doesn’t make sense for me to know nothing about her final year.”
Her final year.
From 1976 to 1977.
That was the year Gu Wangshu left Beijing for Hong Kong, and the last year of her life.
What happened during that year? What did she experience? How did she spend those days? What was on her mind in her final moments?
Lin Zhiqian felt a lump form in his throat.
He lowered his head, pretending to sip his tea to hide the moisture welling in his eyes.
A phrase suddenly came to his mind: “Deep affection is often short-lived.”
The ancients said that those who love too deeply seldom live long, and those who are too wise often suffer.
“You came to me because you wanted…” he began to ask.
Zhong Jiming walked back to the table and sat down, his expression now calm and composed.
“Although I haven’t been in Beijing these past years, I’ve heard a few things about your family,” he said. “Your cousin married the daughter of the Bai family in Hong Kong, didn’t he?”
Lin Zhiqian nodded. “That’s right.”
“I’d like to ask her for a favor,” Zhong Jiming said. “To help me look into some old matters in Hong Kong.”
Lin Zhiqian already knew the answer but asked anyway, “About Wangshu?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” Lin Zhiqian took a deep breath and nodded solemnly, “I accept.”
Zhong Jiming cupped his hands toward him in gratitude: “Thank you.”
Lin Zhiqian waved his hand dismissively: “Between brothers, no need for such formalities.”
The two chatted for a while longer, catching up on recent events and reminiscing about old friends.
Lin Zhiqian spoke of his work over the years, his wife and children, and the changes in Beijing.
Zhong Jiming listened, occasionally nodding or asking a question or two. He spoke little, but his attitude was sincere.
Time passed quickly.
Unconsciously, the clouds outside the window began to part, and a few rays of sunlight filtered through the glass.
Lin Zhiqian stood up to take his leave.
Zhong Jiming saw him to the door.
As Lin Zhiqian reached the middle of the courtyard, he suddenly stopped.
He turned around and looked at Zhong Jiming standing on the steps. After hesitating for a moment, he finally asked, “Does your former brother-in-law know you’re back in Beijing?”
“Former brother-in-law” referred to Gu Wangshu’s brother, Gu Xiuyuan.
Standing on the steps with his hands in his pockets, Zhong Jiming replied calmly, “Drop the ‘former.'”
Lin Zhiqian was taken aback for a moment before understanding his meaning.
In Zhong Jiming’s heart, Gu Wangshu would always be his wife. Therefore, Gu Xiuyuan would naturally always be his brother-in-law.
There was no such thing as “former.”
“He went to Dunhuang and will be back next month,” Zhong Jiming continued. “I saw him when I was in the northwest.”
Lin Zhiqian nodded and didn’t ask further.
He glanced once more at the hawthorn tree in the eastern part of the courtyard.
“I remember,” Lin Zhiqian frowned, “there didn’t seem to be that tree before?”
Zhong Jiming followed his gaze.
His eyes grew distant, as if looking through the tree to a place far, far away.
“Yes, it was planted later,” he said.
Lin Zhiqian pressed on, “When was it planted?”
Zhong Jiming paused.
The wind blew through the courtyard, causing the tender branches of the hawthorn tree to tremble gently.
The newly sprouted buds appeared fragile in the lingering chill of spring, yet they stubbornly faced the wind and the still-cold sunlight, striving to grow.
“The year she left.”
Zhong Jiming spoke softly, as light as a sigh.
Ten years had passed.
Ten springs, ten summers, ten autumns, ten winters.
Over three thousand six hundred days and nights, countless sleepless nights, countless evenings spent reminiscing over familiar objects.
The tree had grown from a sapling into what it was today.
And the one who planted it had changed from a twenty-three-year-old youth to a thirty-three-year-old man.
His features had gained a touch of weariness, and his heart held too many unspoken longings.
Lin Zhiqian’s eyes suddenly grew warm.
He recalled an ancient text, “The Record of Xiangji Pavilion” by Gui Youguang of the Ming Dynasty. There was a line he had memorized in middle school, and it remained fresh in his memory:
“In the courtyard stands a loquat tree, planted by my wife in the year she passed away, now tall and flourishing with a canopy like an umbrella.”
In just twenty-one characters, it conveyed the deepest longing and sorrow in the world.
Gui Youguang planted a loquat tree; Zhong Jiming planted a hawthorn tree.
The trees were different, but the sentiment was the same.