Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 231 Li Jin
The pickup truck traveled along the dilapidated highway leading to the suburbs.

The headlights shone on the uneven ground ahead, occasionally kicking up gravel.

In the passenger seat, the man kept his head down, nervously awaiting the final "judgment."

Half a minute later, Zhou Yi spoke, his tone calm:
"I want to know everything about your father."

Upon hearing this, the man glanced at him, hesitated, and finally confessed the truth:
"My father's name is Li Chengyi. He was born in 1944 in Jinan."

"He graduated from the Department of Foreign Languages ​​at Shandong University and was assigned to the Xinhua News Agency."

Upon hearing this, Zhou Yi felt a slight stirring in his heart, but he did not show it.

Meanwhile, the man continued speaking with complete concentration.

"He was sent to the countryside when he was young, and after seven or eight years he was transferred back to Beijing and joined the Communist Party, where his rank was promoted."

"I was sent to London in 1982 as a correspondent, and then I went to the United States."

"The United States?" Zhou Yi raised an eyebrow slightly.

"From 1984 to 1988, I rotated through Washington, San Francisco, and Boston."

“At that time, I had just started elementary school and my mother was taking care of me. To be honest, my memories of him are not very deep.”

“When I got older, he was about to retire early. He usually stayed at home writing and reading newspapers, and occasionally went out for a walk.”

"I was diagnosed with cancer in 2007. I underwent chemotherapy and took a lot of traditional Chinese medicine, but I passed away in 2010."

At this point, the man paused, then cautiously asked, "Excuse me, how did you find out my father's name?"

Zhou Yi did not answer, but slowly pulled the car over to the side of the road.

Then, he took out his phone from his pocket, opened the photo in his album, and handed it over.

“This is the answer.”

Tell me, who else can you recognize?

When the man saw the portrait clearly, he paused for a few seconds, then pointed to the man in the trench coat on the far right:

"This person was my father's colleague back then. His surname is Zhao, Zhao Wanpeng."

"They were very good friends. I think they stayed on the West Coast around 1996."

"The last time I saw him was three years ago at my father's memorial service."

The man looked at Zhou Yi blankly again, "What does all this have to do with my dad?"

Zhou Yi did not answer, but took the phone back from his hand and swiped to the left.

The yellowed photograph paper bears a few Chinese characters: Remember me—Li Chengyi.

"Is this your father's handwriting?" he asked.

Seeing this, the man frowned, thought carefully for two seconds, and quickly said with certainty, "Yes. It must be."

After a moment's hesitation, despite his nervousness, he couldn't help but ask, "Where did you get these things? I...I really don't remember my dad ever filming anything like this."

This time, it was Zhou Yi who fell into a long silence.

Outside the car window were several small workshops with corrugated iron roofs.

Some doors were half-open, and the inside was pitch black, with no one in sight.

Many more have been abandoned altogether, with cracked walls and faded plastic signs.

The words "No Parking" and "No Entry" were painted on the concrete, and the paint was peeling.

Several power lines dangled down, swaying in the wind.

After an unknown amount of time, long enough that the man thought Zhou Yi hadn't heard him clearly, he reached out and flipped the picture back to the group photo.

“Found her at her house,” he said, pointing to the woman on the far left.

The man paused, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the woman and Zhou Yi's faces. "Who is she to you?"

“A person who has been dead for a long time,” Zhou Yi said.

The air was quiet for a few seconds.

"I'm sorry," the man said softly.

"It's alright." Zhou Yi took out a cigarette case from his pocket, pulled one out, and handed it to the man. "I'm sorry, I don't smoke," the man apologized again, "My father died of lung cancer."

Zhou Yi didn't say anything, but simply flicked the lighter, lit himself, and rolled down the car window.

Hot air rushed in instantly.

The cigarette butt flickered in the night, like a tiny spark suspended in the wind.

The man stared at the red light, swallowed hard, and said, almost as if possessed:
"If you're willing to send me the photos, I can try contacting Zhao Wanpeng—my dad's friend—to see if I can find out anything about this woman?"

Zhou Yi shook his head and exhaled a puff of smoke:
"Her name was Li Jin, and she was also from Jinan. She died in Maryland in 1992 by shooting herself."

As soon as he finished speaking, the man's pupils suddenly contracted in shock.

He opened his mouth blankly, unsure of what to say.

I thought you were looking for...

"did not expect"

There was another moment of dead silence.

“I never imagined that in 1992, in America… this would be the ending,” the man seemed to be enveloped by immense fear, even his breathing became disordered.

He took a deep breath with difficulty. "My dad has never mentioned this."

"There's not a single word about it in his memoirs."

Zhou Yi wasn't too disappointed.

Over the past few decades, the truth has become increasingly elusive in the investigations.

Today's achievement is already a rare breakthrough.

He thought for a few seconds and asked, "Do you have Zhao Wanpeng's contact information?"

The man pursed his lips. "My dad should still have his email address on his computer, but he hasn't used it since."

"Do you know where he lives?" Zhou Yi asked in a different phrasing.

“I used to live in the Bay Area, but I don’t know if he moved after my dad passed away.”

Zhou Yi nodded, then suddenly asked, "And what about yourself?"

Upon hearing the question, the man was momentarily stunned, completely unprepared for such a sudden shift in topic.

“Tell me about yourself,” Zhou Yi repeated.

"Me?" The man was silent for a moment, then said with a wry smile, "I'm just trying to make a living."

“My grades weren’t very good starting in middle school, and my writing was nowhere near as good as my dad’s.”

"I randomly chose international trade as my major in college, but I haven't made a name for myself at Peking University."

"So I decided to step forward and see if I could do some business based on our past relationships."

"Since my divorce from my wife, I have been to Angola and Ghana to contact building material factories in China and help them find contractors."

"The business card says 'Business Representative,' but it's actually just acting as an intermediary and taking a commission."

The man licked his chapped lips and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"This is just about getting by."

"In Uganda, the people who make money are not Chinese, but local customs officers and police."

"I'm here to negotiate some distribution channels for my clients and collect a small fee for my help."

The man gave another bitter smile. "In the end, I almost lost my life on this trip."

Zhou Yi had just finished his cigarette.

He extinguished the spark, spoke calmly, his words devoid of emotion: "Didn't your dad lend a hand before?"

"What can he do to help?" the man sighed. "He just couldn't go to school back then, so he could find any job in the company."

"I was ambitious back then, and I refused to do it no matter what. I insisted on making my own way."

“Now,” he laughed awkwardly, “it’s all too late.”

(End of this chapter)