At this moment, Zhong Jiming in Beijing had no idea that his nephew was hitting on his ex-wife.
He had been back in Beijing for several days.
The city was just beginning to warm up in March. The Chinese scholar trees lining both sides of West Chang’an Avenue were sprouting a layer of fuzzy green buds, while the willows had already begun putting out new shoots.
People riding bicycles on the streets had just traded their thick padded coats for lightweight jackets and polyester shirts. Every now and then, a black Volga sedan passed through the traffic.
That afternoon, Zhong Jiming stood at the entrance to Xihua Gate Street and lit a cigarette.
It had been a long time since he had been back here.
He had grown up walking these streets. He knew every loose brick and every tree root that had pushed up a bump in the pavement, even with his eyes closed.
Yet standing here now, he somehow felt like a stranger.
The grocery store on the roadside had changed its sign. The old man who used to repair bicycles at the entrance to the alley was gone. On the gray brick walls, red-painted slogans reading “Reform and Opening Up, Revitalize China” stood out vividly.
He was leaving for Shenzhen on business tomorrow. After thinking it over, Zhong Jiming decided to make a trip back to the old family home.
He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed open the gate.
The pomegranate tree in the courtyard was still there. Its branches, bare throughout the winter, had just begun sprouting fresh leaves.
He remembered how, when he was a child and his mother was still alive, she would have Huilan pick the pomegranates every autumn. She would peel them one by one and place the seeds in a blue-and-white porcelain bowl. The sweet-and-sour juice would stain her fingertips red.
That had been so long ago.
The winter jasmine in the corner, however, was blooming exuberantly. Clusters of bright yellow flowers stood against the blue-gray brick wall, like someone had splashed a few strokes of vivid color across an old painting.
He passed through the spirit wall and headed toward the main house.
Before he even entered, he heard the sound of Peking opera coming from the radio.
It was The Empty City Stratagem, the famous line “I stand upon the city tower, gazing at the mountain scenery.”
His father’s favorite opera.
Zhong Mian was sitting in a high-backed wooden armchair, reading a copy of the People’s Daily with his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
Hearing footsteps, he lifted his eyelids and glanced over before lowering his gaze again with a cold snort.
“Well, well. Director Zhong has finally come home.”
Zhong Mian turned a page of the newspaper. His voice wasn’t loud, but the sarcasm in it was unmistakable.
“You still remember how to find your way home? Where’s Huilan? So lacking in awareness—can’t you see that Director Zhong has come back? Go pour him some tea.”
Zhong Jiming didn’t respond.
He sat down opposite his father and looked around the room.
The calligraphy hanging on the wall was still there. It had been written by Mr. Nanting in his younger years: four vigorous characters reading “Tranquility Leads to Far-Reaching Vision.”
Everything was exactly as he remembered.
And yet, somehow, it wasn’t.
Huilan came hurrying in from the back courtyard after hearing the commotion. She was nearly sixty now, but she was still strong and healthy.
She was one of the Zhong family’s old servants. She had worked in this courtyard since Zhong Jiming’s mother was alive—more than thirty years by now.
The moment she saw Zhong Jiming, her eyes reddened.
She rubbed her hands against her apron, looking both happy and nervous.
She was happy that the third young master had finally come home, but nervous because she was afraid the father and son would start arguing again.
The last time, during the New Year, the two of them had nearly smashed all the tea ware in the main room. The old master had been so furious that his blood pressure had shot up to 180, nearly landing him in the hospital.
“Jiming is back! Come sit, sit. I’ll make you some tea. You still drink Longjing, right?”
Zhong Jiming stood up.
“Auntie Hui, how have you been feeling?”
Huilan lowered her voice.
“I’m doing just fine. It’s your father I’m worried about… The doctor says his blood pressure still isn’t well controlled. They told him to avoid getting angry and not to worry too much, but you know what he’s like. When has he ever listened? Just last month, he was slamming his hand on the table at someone…”
“What are you telling him all that for?”
Zhong Mian slapped the newspaper down on the coffee table and interrupted her impatiently.
Huilan immediately fell silent and retreated awkwardly to the side.
Zhong Jiming looked at his father.
The last time he had seen him had been two years ago, during the New Year.
That meeting had also ended badly. He could barely remember what they had argued about anymore. Probably the same old subjects.
His father seemed thinner now.
Zhong Jiming couldn’t quite put into words what he felt.
He thought back to ten years ago.
No—not ten.
Eleven years ago, in 1976.
That year had turned his entire world upside down.
That spring, he had been ordered to go to Yanshan on an assignment. Before leaving, he had told Wangshu that once he returned, he would take her boating on Beihai Lake.
Wangshu had stood at the doorway to see him off, her hair loosely twisted into a bun at the back of her head.
She had smiled and said yes.
He had been gone for less than a month.
When he came back, his entire world had changed.
His family told him that Wangshu was gone.
She had gone to Hong Kong.
And his father had arranged their divorce without even asking for his consent.
He had stood in his father’s study, staring at the thin sheet of paper bearing a red official seal.
In black and white, it clearly stated:
Both parties had voluntarily agreed to divorce.
Voluntarily.
He had clenched that piece of paper in his hand, feeling as though it were some absurd joke.
He went to confront his father.
He had fought with him like a madman.
It was the first time in his more than twenty years of life that he had completely lost control. He had smashed the celadon brush washer in the study and said countless things to his father that he never should have said.
It had been an absolute disaster.
Almost enough to sever the bond between father and son.
Immediately afterward, he had volunteered to transfer to the southwest.
It was a harsh, remote place that nobody wanted to go.
He went anyway.
Some people said he was punishing himself. Others said he was using the transfer as an excuse to escape the conflict at home.
Only Zhong Jiming knew the truth.
He simply felt that he could no longer stay in this family.
After that, things unfolded like a train that had jumped the tracks.
He spent six years in the southwest, burying himself in his work. He worked day and night as though he wouldn’t be satisfied until he exhausted himself to death.
The highland winds, blowing sand, and bone-chilling cold somehow made him feel more grounded.
Physical pain was easier to endure than pain in his heart.
Later, he was transferred again, this time to the far northwest.
He stayed there for several more years.
Until this year, when the transfer order came through.
Back to Beijing.
He hadn’t wanted to come back.
If he had been given a choice, he would rather have gone south—to Guangzhou, to Shenzhen, to any of those places where construction was booming and everything was being built from the ground up.
But the transfer order was unmistakable.
Beijing.
Zhong Jiming set down his teacup and glanced at his father.
He knew this had been his father’s doing.
Or rather, his father and his second brother had arranged it together.
They were still sitting in silence when the courtyard gate sounded again, and another person walked in.
“Well, well! Look what we have here. A rare sight!”
The newcomer was wearing a gray Mao suit. He was in his early forties and looked five or six parts similar to Zhong Jiming, though his features carried a smoother, more diplomatic quality. There was always a faint, unreadable smile around his eyes.
It was Zhong Jiming’s second elder brother, Zhong Jihui.
Zhong Jihui worked at the Organization Department of the Central Committee. He was considerate and tactful, handling matters with ease and diplomacy—a stark contrast to Zhong Jiming’s cold, uncompromising temperament.
“Second Brother.”
Zhong Jiming greeted him.
“Third Brother.”
Zhong Jihui came over and sat beside him, smiling as he gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“You’re really something. If I hadn’t run into you here at home, I would’ve thought you were still out in the northwest eating sand.”
Zhong Jiming replied unhurriedly, “Second Brother, do you really believe that yourself? My transfer back to Beijing might have been kept from other people, but you? How could you not know?”
The implication was obvious.
His transfer had gone through the Organization Department.
How could Zhong Jihui possibly not have known?
In fact, Zhong Jiming suspected that his second brother might have had a hand in arranging it himself.
Zhong Jihui had been called out by his younger brother, but he didn’t seem bothered.
He picked up the tea Huilan had brought over, took a sip, and smoothly changed the subject.
Zhong Jiming turned toward Zhong Mian.
“I’m going to Guangdong tomorrow on business. I came by to let you know.”
Zhong Jihui set down his teacup.
“You’re going to Guangdong?”
“Yes. Shenzhen.”
Zhong Jiming paused, then added,
“Once I finish my business there, I’m going to Hong Kong.”