Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

In February 1960, just after the first month of the lunar year of Gengzi, the festive atmosphere of the Lunar New Year in Hong Kong had not yet dissipated. Occasionally, a few strings of faded red firecrackers could still be seen on the streets and alleys, while children chased and played, reciting auspicious words given to them by their elders during the New Year. The villa area on Victoria Peak was even more tranquil. In the courtyard of He Damin's villa, the branches of the old pomegranate tree couldn't wait any longer, secretly sprouting tiny buds the size of needle tips, so tender they seemed ready to drip water at the slightest touch, swaying gently in the cool spring breeze with a touch of timid hesitation.

In the living room, the fireplace burned brightly, filling the air with a faint aroma of sandalwood and coffee. He Damin was nestled in a large leather sofa, flipping through a document that had just been delivered from downstairs. He read at a leisurely pace, occasionally taking a sip of coffee from the coffee table beside him, his brow slightly furrowed, as if deep in thought. Sunlight streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft golden glow on him and making the fine lines around his eyes more pronounced.

On the opposite armchair sat a man in his mid-thirties. He wore a well-tailored dark blue suit, the fabric clearly of high quality, and ironed without a single wrinkle. His hair was meticulously combed and styled with hair oil; even a fly would slip on it. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, the lenses gleaming. His posture was impeccably upright, his back ramrod straight, his hands resting respectfully on his knees, like a primary school student just starting school—exuding a sense of seriousness and restraint. He was clearly well-educated and extremely attentive to his appearance.

"John Smith." He Damin put down the file, leaned forward slightly, and looked at the young man opposite him. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable penetrating power. "A PhD in Economics from Harvard Management School, previously worked as an analyst at HSBC for three years, and then as an investment manager at Jardine Matheson for two years. An impressive resume, very impressive." He paused, tapping his fingers lightly on the file. "So, why did you leave Jardine Matheson? That was a long-established trading company in Hong Kong; countless people would kill to get in."

John smiled subtly, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, and replied in fluent Cantonese, "Mr. Ho, to be honest, although Jardine Matheson has deep roots, it seems to me that they prefer to maintain their existing business and have little interest in developing new ventures, especially in forward-looking fields. I feel that my skills and ambitions would be difficult to realize there." His Cantonese had a slight, almost imperceptible accent, but his pronunciation was clear and his vocabulary precise, clearly showing that he had worked hard to learn it.

He Damin's lips curled up slightly, revealing a hint of barely perceptible approval. "Oh? So you think my place, Global Bank, is 'interesting' to you?"

“Yes, Mr. He.” John’s eyes lit up, and his tone became excited. “Mr. Lawrence—that is, Mr. Lawrence Brown, your assistant—had previously given me a detailed introduction to the development plan of the Global Bank. Electronicization, globalization, diversification—these are concepts that probably no one else in Hong Kong, no, in the entire Southeast Asia, would dare to mention, let alone put into practice. Mr. He, your boldness and vision are truly admirable. I want to work with you. I believe I can learn a lot and do a lot here.”

He Damin didn't answer immediately. He stood up, walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, turned his back to John, and gazed at Victoria Harbour in the distance. On the sea, several 10,000-ton cargo ships were slowly entering the harbor, belching wisps of black smoke. Their propellers churned the water, leaving long, white trails that shimmered in the sunlight. In the distance, Tsim Sha Tsui was a bustling scene of towering buildings and heavy traffic.

He remained silent for about a minute before slowly turning around and looking calmly at John: "You're hired."

John's eyes widened instantly, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

"From today onwards, you are my personal secretary," He Damin added, his tone still calm.

John stood up abruptly, straightened the hem of his suit jacket, and then bowed deeply, his waist bent low: "Thank you, Mr. He! I will certainly not let you down!"

"However," He Damin walked back to the sofa and sat down, picked up his coffee and took another sip, then changed the subject, "your first task is not related to the bank."

John paused slightly, his excitement not yet fully fading, before regaining his professional composure and focus. He sat up straight, placed his hands on his knees, and said respectfully, "Mr. He, please give your instructions."

"I want to buy land." He Damin pulled a large Hong Kong map from under the coffee table and spread it out on the table in front of the two men. The map was the latest version, densely marked with streets and areas. "One plot is for the TV station building, and the other is for the film studio."

John immediately leaned closer to the map, his nose almost touching the paper, carefully examining the areas that He Damin had circled in red. He Damin pointed to Kowloon Tong: "The TV station building is tentatively located in Kowloon Tong. The size doesn't need to be the largest, just enough is fine, but the design must be grand and iconic, so that people can immediately tell that this is Hong Kong's best and most modern TV station. Don't worry too much about the budget."

His finger moved to the northeast corner of the map, drawing a large circle around a large, undeveloped area in the New Territories marked in green. "The film studio will be built here. It needs to be large, at least 500 acres, the bigger the better. It needs plenty of indoor studios, with state-of-the-art lighting and recording equipment. Of course, there also needs to be plenty of outdoor shooting locations. Most importantly—"

He raised his head, looking sharply at John, and emphasized, "We need to be able to replicate architectural styles from different eras and regions. For example, the water towns and streets of Jiangnan during the Ming and Qing dynasties, the courtyard houses of the north, the small Western-style buildings and Shikumen houses of the Republic of China era, and the arcade buildings characteristic of Lingnan... We need to have all of these, and make them as realistic as possible."

John took out a small notebook and a pen from his briefcase and quickly jotted down He Damin's requirements in neat handwriting. Occasionally, when he encountered something he was unsure about, he would look up and politely ask one or two key questions, such as the approximate budget range for the site, or whether there were any special requirements for the designer's qualifications. By the time He Damin finished stating all the requirements, he had filled three full pages, clearly organized into points.

"Mr. He," he closed his notebook, looked at He Damin, and carefully chose his words before asking, "Isn't the scale of this film studio... a bit too large? I know that Hong Kong's film industry is developing very rapidly now, and companies like Shaw Brothers and Cathay Organisation are very large, but as far as I know, they don't seem to have built a film studio of this scale. Isn't the investment too high, and isn't the payback period too long?" He asked directly, but his tone was tactful, with a hint of seeking advice.

"It's not just about making movies," He Damin interrupted him, his tone certain. "You need to understand, we're not just building a film company; we're also building a television station, Asia TV. In the future, television stations will need a lot of venues and sets to film dramas and variety shows. Rather than renting from others and being at their mercy later, it's better to build our own base from the beginning. Think long-term; this isn't just a simple expense, it's an investment."

John nodded thoughtfully, a flash of understanding appearing in his eyes behind his glasses. "I understand, Mr. He. You want to build a complete media industry chain."

"You could say that," He Damin said noncommittally. "As for the budget, you don't need to worry; money is not an issue. We need the best land, the best design, and the best building materials. Find the best design team and come up with the best plan. I want Asia TV to be a name that everyone remembers and an influence from the moment it launches."

John took a deep breath, feeling the heavy responsibility on his shoulders, but even more so, the excitement of being entrusted with such an important task. He nodded solemnly: "I understand, Mr. He. I'll get on it right away and get back to you as soon as possible."

After John left, the living room fell silent. He Damin didn't get up immediately; instead, he sat there, coffee in hand, gazing out the window, lost in thought. After a while, he finally rose and slowly walked into his study.

The study was more serene than the living room, with a huge mahogany desk, bookshelves overflowing with books, and several calligraphy and paintings hanging on the walls. The largest of these was a massive map of China, almost filling the entire wall. On the map, cities and railway lines were marked with different colored pens.

He walked to the map, his gaze lingering on the north, on the land he had left five years ago. He marked the location of Beijing with a small red star.

1960. This year, like a needle, pricked his nerves from time to time. He knew, of course, what this year meant. The three years of hardship had quietly begun.

Newspapers, whether from the mainland or Hong Kong's pro-communist publications, maintained a pervasive atmosphere of "peace and harmony." Headlines like "Bumper Harvest," "Long Live the Great Leap Forward," and "Surpassing Britain and Catching Up with the US is Just Around the Corner" dominated the pages. But He Damin, through some special channels, learned something different. The information was fragmented and vague, yet it carried a chilling heaviness. He knew that on that vast land, countless people were struggling on the brink of starvation. His old Beijing, the courtyard house he once lived in, his neighbors and ordinary people, whether he knew them or not, were likely starving.

He Damin closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, and images involuntarily surfaced in his mind. Yan Bugui, that "tightwad," always calculating every penny, would slip him a bag of still-warm steamed buns before he left; Liu Haizhong, that "second uncle," though vain and boastful, with a booming voice when reprimanding people in the workshop, seemed to harbor a subtle kindness deep inside; and the young technicians he had worked with at the steel rolling mill, their faces full of vigor and hope for the future… Of course, there was also He Yushui, his adopted sister, who when he first brought her to Hong Kong, was skin and bones, her face sallow, her big eyes filled with timidity and unease.

"I should do something." He opened his eyes, his gaze unusually determined. He walked to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

"Lawrence, it's me." He Damin said immediately after the call connected, "Check for me if there are any large cargo ships available for purchase in South America, or even Europe. Yes, not lease, but buy. I need bulk carriers that can transport grain, the larger the tonnage, the better, and the more the better. Get back to me as soon as possible."

After hanging up Lawrence's call, he almost immediately dialed another number, this time to John, who had just left.

"John, it's me."

"Mr. He, what can I do for you?" John's voice sounded efficient on the other end of the phone, as if he had already started working.

"Let's put aside the land purchase thing I just mentioned," He Damin said. "There's something more urgent I need you to do right now—immediately contact food suppliers in the Americas. The United States, Canada, Argentina, Brazil… contact any food-producing country that exports food. I need to buy food, lots of food, the more the better. Wheat, corn, rice—anything edible that's easy to store and transport, I need it."

John paused for a couple of seconds on the other end of the phone, clearly surprised and confused by the sudden instruction. But he didn't ask further, simply replying decisively, "Understood, Mr. He. I'll immediately drop everything and focus all my efforts on the grain procurement."

"Okay." He Damin nodded in satisfaction. "Report to me immediately if there is any progress."

After hanging up the phone, He Damin stood up again and walked to the window. The sunlight outside was perfect, warmly bathing him and illuminating the distant Victoria Harbour, making it shimmer like it was sprinkled with gold. The sea breeze, carrying a moist scent, blew into the room, ruffling a few strands of hair on his forehead.

He remembered that morning five years ago when he left Beijing. The sky was overcast, carrying the chill of early spring. Yan Bugui and a large group of neighbors came to see him off, standing at the alley entrance, reluctant to part. Yan Bugui, carrying a cloth bag, stuffed it into his hand, saying it was for food on the road; inside were several still-warm white steamed buns. He Yushui was still a child then, wearing faded old clothes, peering through the window of the dilapidated jeep he was riding in, her big eyes wide, timidly asking, "Brother, in Hong Kong... is there good food? Can we eat our fill every day?"

At that time, he thought that by leaving, he would be saying goodbye to that land and everything from the past. He only wanted to work hard in this free port, relying on his foresight, to earn enough money to provide a good life for himself and those around him. But now he knows—some things are etched into his bones, flowing in his blood, and can never be severed no matter how far he goes. That land, those people, are ultimately the deepest attachment in his heart.

Three days later, John walked into He Damin's study again, carrying a thick stack of documents. He looked somewhat tired, with faint dark circles under his eyes, but his spirits were high.

"Mr. Ho, here are the documents you requested." John placed the documents on Ho Damin's desk, neatly organized by category. "Regarding the land for the TV station building, I have initially shortlisted three candidate sites, all located in the heart of Kowloon Tong, with convenient transportation, excellent surrounding environment, and unobstructed views. Here are the detailed details, including the site area, owner's offer, surrounding planning, and so on." He pointed to the top stack of documents.

"I've also looked at two sites for the film studio, both in the northeast of the New Territories. They meet your requirements; both are undeveloped areas with ample space. One is over 600 acres, and the other is over 800 acres. Here are aerial photos and a preliminary geological survey report." He then pointed to another stack of documents.

He Damin nodded, signaling him to continue.