Courtyard House: Home Alone

Holding the silver coin, Yu Wenxiu suddenly remembered something: "Young master, have you ever given yourself a courtesy name?"

Lin Yifan was taken aback. In his past life, he was called Lin Yifan, and in this life, he was still called Lin Yifan. He had never thought about the matter of a courtesy name. But after her question, he suddenly felt that people in this era should have both a given name and a courtesy name to be considered complete.

"Let me think about it," he said. "I'll tell you all first when I've made up my mind."

The chirping of sparrows came from outside the window; it was already broad daylight. The sun, shining brightly on the snow after the snowfall, reflected a dazzling white light.

Lin Yifan opened the window, took a deep breath of the cold air, and suddenly felt that this winter of 1941 wasn't so hard to endure.

Just after lunch, there was a knock on the door of the east courtyard. Xia Yan ran out and returned a moment later with Shi Tou. Upon seeing Lin Yifan, Shi Tou clasped his hands in greeting: "Young Master, the old master asked me to invite you over, saying there is something important to discuss."

"Okay, Wenxiu, get me a cotton-padded coat." He replied with a smile, thinking to himself that he had probably run into Xu Zheng, and wondered what they had talked about.

He took the cotton-padded coat from Wenxiu and put it on: "Let's go, Brother Shitou."

The two walked quickly towards the outside of the courtyard.

After the snow, the air in Beiping was crisp and clear. Icicles dripped from the eaves, leaving dark stains on the bluestone slabs.

Lin Yifan wrapped his cotton-padded coat tighter and followed Shi Tou through the winding alleys, his boots crunching as they stepped through the remaining snow.

"Brother Stone,"

He quickened his pace to stand beside Shi Tou, "How does the old man look?"

Shi Tou glanced at him, and the usually honest man showed a rare hint of seriousness: "Young master, someone came this morning and talked with the old man in the main room for a long time. As soon as that person left, the old man asked me to invite you. He doesn't look too well."

Lin Yifan had a good idea of ​​what was going on. He estimated that his meeting with Xu Zheng that morning would not be easy.

The main courtyard of the Tang family mansion was located deep in the alley. It was a three-section house with gray tiles and blue bricks. The plaque above the door that read "Family of Accumulated Virtues" was already somewhat mottled. Shi Tou led Lin Yifan in through the side door, and through a hanging flower gate, they arrived at the old man's study.

A charcoal brazier burned warmly in the study, but it couldn't dispel the heavy atmosphere. Old Master Tang sat in a grand chair, holding a purple clay teapot in his hand; the spout was cold, clearly indicating it hadn't been refilled in a long time. Seeing Lin Yifan enter, he raised an eyelid and gestured for Shi Tou to leave.

"sit."

Lin Yifan sat down in the chair to the left, not in a hurry to speak. He knew that the old man's behavior meant he was waiting for him to ask.

"Xiao Fan," Old Master Tang finally put down his teapot, his voice hoarse, "Xu Zheng came to the Tang residence early this morning."

Seeing that Lin Yifan did not respond, Grandpa Tang paused and continued, "After he arrived, he first inquired about 'Ghost' and said that he wanted to meet 'Ghost'."

Then he asked about the jurisdiction of Beiping, saying that the Red Party were bandits, and only the bald head (referring to Mao Zedong) were the true inheritors of Chinese civilization. He told me, this old man, to advise you not to get too close to them.

Lin Yifan lowered his eyes and tapped his fingers lightly twice on the armrest of the chair. The old man's words were loaded with meaning; they both knew who he meant by "over there."

He recalled the historical materials he had read in his previous life; 1941 was one of the years with the most intense friction between the Kuomintang and the Communist Party. Xu Zheng, as a member of the Military Intelligence Bureau, came here as both a test and a warning.

"Old Master," he looked up, his voice softening, "what else did Xu Zheng say?"

Old Master Tang sighed, took a business card from the drawer, and pushed it across the table. The business card was printed with the words "Intelligence Department of the North China Suppression Headquarters," and the edges were already curled, obviously having been repeatedly handled.

He said,

The old man paused, as if carefully choosing his words, "The city of Beiping needs to be rectified, especially those businesses that affect people's livelihoods. They need a reliable background. If the Tang family is willing to cooperate, the Military Intelligence Bureau can grant them 'special protection'; if they are not willing..."

"What if you don't want to?"

"He didn't say anything, but he was very unhappy when he left." Old Master Tang gave a bitter smile.

"I'm very unhappy. It seems they've forgotten their lesson. Old man, did he say where he's staying?"

Old Master Tang shook his head, his withered fingers tracing the surface of the purple clay teapot: "He didn't mention where he was staying, only that he would come again. Xiao Fan, this Xu Zheng... is no pushover. I've lived for over sixty years, seen Beiyang soldiers, seen Japanese ronin, and the ruthlessness in this man's eyes is more deeply hidden than any of them."

Lin Yifan took the business card and looked at it in the window light. The paper was of high quality and imported, with a gold-stamped emblem, but a crescent moon had been pinched into the corner by someone's fingernail—Xu Zheng's mind was not at peace during the conversation.

"Sir," he placed the business card back on the table, "what was your reply?"

"I said I didn't know anything about 'Ghost.' As for the cooperation with the Skinheads, I said I'd consider it."

Old Master Tang looked up at him, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his cloudy eyes. "Delaying tactics, an old trick. That's why I was in a hurry to bring you here. I estimate he'll be here by tomorrow at the latest."

"Here's what we'll do, sir. If he comes again, don't talk to him about anything. Just have someone tie him up. If he asks anything, just tell him it's the 'ghost's' idea."

Damn it, do they really think they're something special? Even if Boss Dai is around, we can still kidnap their people. A cornbread bun and a bowl of water a day—as long as we don't die, that's enough.

Also, tell Stone and his men to be careful and find a few of the Military Intelligence Bureau's hideouts. Have 'Ghost' raid some of them then, and see if that teaches them a lesson.

At this moment, Lin Yifan was no longer the child of eight years old. His brows and eyes were filled with a coldness that did not match his age. He looked more like a seasoned veteran who had made decisive moves at the negotiating table in his previous life.

Old Master Tang paused for a moment, then chuckled softly, slapping his withered hand twice on the armrest of his chair: "Good, good idea of ​​a 'ghost.' Xiao Fan, your ruthlessness reminds me of my days as a trader in the border regions."

He paused, his smile fading. "But what about the aftermath of kidnapping someone from the Military Intelligence Bureau?"

"The end? Make the Military Intelligence Bureau pay a ransom. Who gave him the guts to threaten 'Ghost's' people? He's lucky he wasn't killed."

Shanghai, Nanjing, Wuhan—there are many cities occupied by the Japanese. If you're so capable, go and take one from them and see what happens. Thinking you can bully your own people and take what's readily available is wishful thinking.

He paused for a moment, then continued, "Besides, we tied him up, we didn't kill him. We give him a cornbread and a bowl of water every day, which is the standard for prisoners of war."

After a month or so, find an excuse to dump him outside the city, saying that 'Ghost' found him too talkative and couldn't be bothered to ask any more questions. Would Xu Zheng dare to report the truth when he returned? He wouldn't.

According to the rules of the Military Intelligence Bureau, failure in a mission would result in punishment, so he would only make up a story about how he cleverly escaped danger.

Grandpa Tang squinted, scrutinizing the eight-year-old child before him. Morning light filtered through the window paper, casting dappled patterns on his face, but his eyes were as deep as an ancient well, unfathomable.