Courtyard House: Home Alone

Tang Baolin walked out of the teahouse alone, the March wind carrying a chilly edge brushing against his face. He looked up at the half-open window on the second floor; the curtains remained perfectly still, as if no one had ever been spying on him there.

But he knew that the "ghost" was watching from somewhere.

It's as if he's always been watching this city, watching these people, watching the invaders come and go, and the seven-hundred-year-old city still stands here, like the withered stem in that painting of withered lotus, leaving no trace in the wind, yet never breaking.

Just as he had expected, Lin Yifan was sitting next to that window. He had overheard every word of the conversation between Qingshui and Grandpa Tang, and was now closing his eyes, contemplating the future of Beiping.

Indeed, expelling the Japanese pirates wasn't a task for him alone. Even with powerful external assistance, it wasn't something one person could accomplish alone. If the Japanese had fought back tenaciously, he might not have been able to stop them. In the end, it was the ordinary people who suffered.

Besides, although I'm almost eight years old, I'm still a child at heart, and I still have the nature of a child. I want to take some time to visit my younger sister in Chongqing.

Although the Japanese should surrender in four years, how many more days will the people of Beiping have to endure during those four years?

Another issue is Mr. Tang; it's somewhat inappropriate to place the responsibility of managing Beiping on the shoulders of an elderly man over seventy. The best candidate to take over the administration of Beiping is still a member of the Communist Party.

As for the skinheads, their greed is no less than that of the Japanese, so it is impossible for them to lay a finger on Beiping.

Thinking of this, he stood up, and with a thought, he teleported back to the alley next to the Tang residence, and then walked towards the Tang residence.

The old butler led him to the main room and brewed him some tea: "Young master, please have a seat. The old master should be back soon. I have some things to attend to, so I'll head out now."

"Uncle Zhang, thank you. You can go ahead and do what you need to do. I'll be there in a bit."

Lin Yifan picked up the teacup and took a small sip. The tea was this year's pre-Qingming Longjing, with a clear and bright color. It was slightly bitter at first, but the aftertaste was sweet and lingering.

He put down his cup and his gaze fell on a calligraphy scroll hanging in the center of the main room—the two characters "守拙" (shǒu zhuō, meaning "to guard one's simplicity"), handwritten by Tang Baolin thirty years ago. The brushstrokes were already mature and skillful, yet they revealed a stubbornness that refused to compromise.

The sound of a cane tapping the ground came from outside the door, growing louder as it approached, its rhythm steady.

"You're back?" Lin Yifan didn't get up, his voice carrying a composure beyond his years.

Tang Baolin stepped across the threshold and saw Lin Yifan sitting upright in the main room, but he did not show any surprise. He waved for the old butler to leave, and then slowly sat down in the armchair, his cane leaning against the armrest.

"You heard everything?"

"I heard you."

"What do you think?"

Lin Yifan's fingers gently traced the rim of the teacup; the porcelain was delicate, from an official kiln of a previous dynasty. "Qingshui Dong San," he began, his voice clear yet calm, "is more intelligent than I imagined."

"Oh?"

"His final move, requesting a private meeting, was a desperate gamble, but also a test of the waters."

Lin Yifan raised his eyes, his gaze deep and unfathomable. "If the 'ghost' is truly just a person, a 'person' capable of being moved by emotions, this tactic might not be ineffective."

Tang Baolin was silent for a moment, then took out a jade gourd from his robes and gently twirled it in his palm. "Do you think he's sincere?"

"I'm genuinely afraid of death, and I genuinely want to live."

Lin Yifan smiled, a smile devoid of childlike innocence. "But that doesn't stop him from continuing to serve the empire after he turns away. The 'sincerity' of the island nation has always been fragmented; it may be genuine one moment and fake the next."

"Xiao Fan, what kind of conditions do you think 'Ghost' will propose?"

"Grandpa, I've thought a lot while you were talking, but we still need to communicate with the 'Ghost' to see what they mean."

Sir, there's something I'd like to discuss with you first, which concerns the administration of Beiping.

We overlooked something earlier: a city as large as Beiping cannot be managed by just a few or a few dozen people.

Besides, we also have a pharmaceutical factory, and with our current manpower, we simply can't handle it all. So I was thinking, could we ask the Communist Party to send someone to take over?

They are very experienced in construction and managing people's livelihoods in the base areas, and the people trust them. As for the pharmaceutical factory, it can be separated and overseen by our own people, with neither side interfering with the other.

Tang Baolin's finger paused on the jade gourd, a flicker of surprise crossing his cloudy eyes, which quickly turned into deep thought. "You want to hand over Beiping... to them?"

"It's not about exchanging ideas, it's about cooperation."

Lin Yifan put down his teacup, the porcelain bottom touching the wooden table with a soft sound. "The Japanese devils will be gone sooner or later, that's a foregone conclusion. But what happens after they're gone?"

The skinheads came from the south, carrying the airs of high-ranking officials taking over, but with the intention of profiting from the national crisis—you've seen them, haven't you? Those 'imperial envoys' from Chongqing, weren't they all gleaming with greed? The foundation of Beiping, built over seven hundred years, can't withstand their mismanagement.

He leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice: "The Red Party is different. In northern Shaanxi and the Jin-Cha-Ji region, they implemented rent and interest reduction policies, established literacy classes, and set up cooperatives. The people aren't fools; they know perfectly well who truly cares for them."

Tang Baolin remained silent for a long time, then gently tapped his cane on the blue brick floor. "I've also heard that the Red Party is dedicated to bringing happiness to the people."

In addition, I've had quite a bit of contact with Manager Zhou recently, and I can sense that they are indeed different from the skinheads.

However, you'll still need to discuss this with 'Ghost' and the others, right?

"Grandpa, I'll talk to them about this. I think the Red Party's goals are the same as ours, and 'Ghost' should agree to cooperate with them. Otherwise, we wouldn't have donated so many weapons and supplies to them earlier."

Lin Yifan stood up and walked to the two characters "Shou Zhuo" (守拙, meaning "to guard one's simplicity"), looking up at the vigorous strokes of the brush. His eight-year-old figure appeared particularly thin in the spacious hall, but his shadow was stretched long by the candlelight, almost touching the opposite wall.

"Grandpa, there's one more thing." He turned around, hands behind his back, like a pedantic old scholar, "What's your plan to tell Shimizu Dong San?"

Tang Baolin frowned slightly, turning the jade gourd between his fingers. "So, do you intend to see me, or not?"

"The 'Ghost' definitely won't see him; you'll have to reply to him then."

Lin Yifan walked back to the chair but didn't sit down. "As for the conditions, I'll find out when I meet them, and I'll tell you as soon as possible."

Tang Baolin gazed at the eight-year-old child before him. The candlelight cast interplay of light and shadow on the child's face, making it difficult to discern whether he was a child or an old man who had experienced the vicissitudes of life.