Jiang Wanju ate her breakfast at the fastest speed she ever had since arriving in France.
Even though Chen Zhouren told her there was no need to rush, she simply couldn’t calm down—maybe because she wanted so badly to go home for the New Year.
Being alone in a foreign country, followed by strangers with unclear intentions, facing racial discrimination, being criticized by French people in a contemptuous tone… those feelings were hard to describe in words.
Jiang Wanju never told anyone about any of this.
Lunch was also arranged by Chen Zhouren: a salad of chicken breast, broccoli, and nuts; honey-glazed lamb chops with a sweet aroma; sesame-crusted raw tuna; caramel duck with roasted banana…
Zhouren smiled as he persuaded her, “Eat a bit more. Go home full and happy, or your family will think you’re a poor little stray cat wandering outside and not getting enough to eat.”
Jiang Wanju said, “Nagging.”
Her heart was still pounding wildly. Her palms were sweating. Even iced water couldn’t cool her down. All her thoughts were focused on one thing—going home.
When they finally boarded the plane, it was nothing like the economy seat she took when she first arrived. Here, she had a bed where she could sleep comfortably, books to read, a screen for watching movies, plenty of fresh fruit for the whole journey, and delicious meals with a variety of choices.
Jiang Wanju didn’t say anything.
She lay down, wrapped herself in the warm blanket, and slowly drifted off to sleep.
She woke up once during the flight. Leaning against Chen Zhouren’s chest, she watched a very old movie, The Lover. A French girl with a ponytail, a sun hat, and a gray dress meets a frail, anxious Chinese young master dressed in a white suit. It was an artistic love story, slow and humid in tone. For a moment, Jiang Wanju felt as if she herself were in Saigon. This story is hosted at novelping.com.
They watched only that one film before Jiang Wanju grew sleepy again. Zhouren casually pulled out a book, flipped to a random page, and read to lull her back to sleep. It was Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence.
With a low, unhurried voice, Chen Zhouren read: “…I loved her even more than I loved myself. In my view, if you still consider your pride when it comes to love, then it only means the person you love the most is actually yourself.”
Half-asleep, Jiang Wanju asked him, “What about you? Do you love yourself the most too?”
Zhouren closed the book halfway. “I can’t imagine a love that requires losing one’s pride.”
Jiang Wanju smiled a little.
She said, “Me neither.”
When the plane landed, it was ten o’clock Beijing time.
Jiang Wanju hadn’t told her parents she was coming home. The contact person that Chen Zhouren arranged had already come to pick them up. She didn’t feel much yet upon landing, but the moment she saw the Yellow Crane Tower through the glass window, the sense of “I’m finally home” settled clearly in her heart.
She leaned her head against the car window, and through the reflection on the glass, she could see Chen Zhouren clearly.
She didn’t turn around or look back; she simply watched his reflected silhouette quietly. After a long moment, she blinked hard.
She would be home soon.
Zhouren said, “The plane returns on the fourth day of the lunar new year. I’ll come pick you up.”
Jiang Wanju said, “Alright.”
“Still have my phone number?” he asked. “You know how to reach me?”
Once he got her definite answer, Zhouren smiled. “Happy New Year, Little Orange. Spend some good time with your family.”
“You too.”
They arrived at her home shortly after. Jiang Wanju stepped out of the car as the driver opened the trunk to fetch her luggage. This year, there was no snow in Wuhan for the New Year. Standing in the wind, she listened as Chen Zhouren said goodbye. “Get some rest. Call me when it’s time.”
Jiang Wanju didn’t move.
She asked, “Where are you spending the New Year?”
“In Wuhan, I suppose,” Zhouren laughed. “I’ve never had hot dry noodles in a Wuhan morning.”
Jiang Wanju fell silent.
After two seconds, she held out her hand to him.
“My homemade hot dry noodles taste pretty good too,” Jiang Wanju said. “Do you want to try them?”
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Author’s Note
“I loved her even more than I loved myself. In my view, if you still consider your pride when it comes to love, then it only means the person you love the most is actually yourself.”
— Maugham, The Moon and Sixpence