Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Xiuying didn't sleep all night. Jiang Bo knew she hadn't slept. He slept on the sofa in the living room, hearing her toss and turn in the room, the bed creaking as if something was pressing down on it, or as if something was trying to crawl out from underneath. Sometimes she would get up, her footsteps very light, walk to the window, stand for a while, and then go back. Sometimes she would cough, softly, as if afraid of waking him. The cough was short and muffled, as if something was pressing down on it. He didn't call her, nor did he knock on the door. He knew she was thinking of his father, of her husband, of those years, of those who would never come back. She was thinking of the man who died at twenty-three, of the man she had waited for for thirty-three years, of the father who had never seen his son grow up. She was also thinking of herself, of the roads she had walked, of the bridges she had slept under, of the food she had begged for, of the nights she had been chased away. Those roads, those bridges, those meals, those nights, were all in her heart, never far away.

As dawn approached, Jiang Bo heard her open the door and walk into the kitchen. The tap ran for a while, and the pots and pans clattered softly. She didn't turn on the light, groping around in the dark doing something. Tangyuan woke up, stood up from the sofa, walked to the kitchen doorway, and lay down there, quietly keeping her company. It knew that the old woman needed company.

As dawn broke, Xiuying came out. She had changed her clothes: a dark gray cotton-padded jacket and black trousers. Her hair was neatly combed and tied back with a hair tie. Jiang Bo had bought it for her, but she had been reluctant to wear it, keeping it hanging in the closet. Every time she opened the closet, she would glance at it, touch it, and then close it again. Today she wore it; the jacket was a bit too big, hanging loosely like it was on a clothes hanger. She stood in the doorway, looking at Jiang Bo.

"Let's go."

Jiang Bo stood up. He looked at Xiuying. Her eyes were a little swollen, with dark circles, but her gaze was bright. That kind of brightness was something only someone who had waited many years could have, something only someone who had traveled a long way could have, something only someone who had finally reached the end could have. Her hands were at her sides, her fingers slightly curled, as if she were holding something unseen. The cotton-padded jacket she wore made her look even thinner, as thin as a clothesline pole, as thin as a bundle of dry firewood, as thin as a withered leaf that could be blown away by a gust of wind. But she stood there, very steady, like an old tree with deep roots.

The car drove to the old pontoon bridge. Xiuying got out and stood before the ruins, gazing at them for a long time. She was thirty when she left. She wore two braids, a floral blouse, bright eyes, and a gentle smile. She washed clothes by the river, dried quilts in the alley, and waited for her father to return. She waited for him—one day, two days, three days, one month, two months, three months, one year, two years, three years—twenty-two years. Now she is fifty-two. Her hair is white, her eyesight is failing, and her back is hunched. In those twenty-two years, she traveled to many places and saw many rivers. From Jiangcheng to Jiujiang, from Jiujiang to Yueyang, from Yueyang to Wuhu, from Wuhu to Huanggang, from Huanggang to Nanchang, and from Nanchang back to Jiangcheng. She walked those roads step by step, measuring them with her own feet. She wore out pair after pair of shoes, the calluses on her feet so thick they couldn't be cut with a knife. Now she has returned. The ruins are still there, the house is still there, the New Year picture is still there. The chubby baby in the picture is holding a fish, smiling eerily. The colors have faded almost completely, leaving only clumps of red and green, like a face that has been punched. She stands there, like a tree, its roots firmly planted in the soil, in the broken bricks and rubble, in the weeds and mud.

Jiang Bo stood beside her. "Mom, let's go."

Xiuying nodded. She walked slowly, step by step, on broken bricks, on rubble, on weeds. The broken bricks crunched under her feet, the rubble slid around, and the weeds bent down and bounced back. She walked steadily, as if she had been doing this for many years. She had walked on all those broken bricks, those rubbles, those weeds. Her path was filled with these kinds of things. She was used to it.

The small house was behind the ruins, its door open. Zhou Yuanshan stood in the doorway, his back hunched, his hair completely white. He had changed into dark, faded clothes, the collar frayed. He had shaved, and there was a small cut on his chin, with a small piece of white paper stuck to it. He stood in the doorway like an old tree, its bark wrinkled, its branches withered, but its roots still firmly planted in the earth. He saw Xiuying and froze. His eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape, as if he couldn't believe it, as if he had waited so long to finally see her, and now he couldn't believe it. His hand rested on the doorframe, his fingers trembling slightly.

Xiuying walked over and stood before him. She looked at him, for a long time. He had grown old, and so had she. He had waited thirty years, she had waited twenty-two. He had remembered more than thirty names, she had traveled thousands of miles. He had written more than thirty apologies, she had made dumplings for more than thirty years. He stood at the door, she stood outside. The wind blew, making her hair flutter, and his hair flutter too. White and gray, mixed together, indistinguishable from each other.

Then she spoke. Her voice was very soft, as if it drifted from a great distance, like the whisper of a river, like the wind blowing through reeds.

"You are Teacher Zhou."

Tears streamed down Zhou Yuanshan's face. They welled from his sunken eyes, flowing down his wrinkles like a dried-up riverbed, drop by drop, onto his coat, onto his hands. He didn't wipe them away; he just let them flow. "Yes."

"Yizhou often talks about you. He says you're good to him and taught him a lot. He says you're like a father to him. He says you're the best person he's ever met. Every time he talks about you, his eyes light up. He says, 'My teacher taught me how to be a policeman, how to solve cases, and how to be a person.'"

Zhou Yuanshan shook his head. The shaking was slow and heavy, as if a thousand pounds were pressing down on his neck. "I'm not. I'm not a good person. I did nothing. I watched him investigate, watched him find Dong Jianmin, watched him be followed, watched him die. I didn't stop him. I was his teacher, I didn't protect him. I don't deserve him calling me teacher. I don't deserve him saying I'm like his father."

Xiuying looked at him. Her eyes were bright, like the cold, deep waters of a river in winter. "He found out. He didn't die in vain. He knew he was going to die, but he didn't stop. He said, 'Those people are still dying, I can't stop.' The morning he left, he made me breakfast. He never went into the kitchen, but that day he did. He fried two eggs and cooked a pot of porridge. The eggs were burnt, and the porridge was too thick, but he brought it to me and said, 'Eat.' I ate, very slowly. He looked at me and said, 'Xiuying, I'm leaving.' I said, 'Come back soon.' He said, 'Okay.' He didn't come back. But he did what he had to do. He didn't die in vain."

Zhou Yuanshan's tears flowed uncontrollably. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came out. His lips trembled, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, as if he couldn't swallow something. His hand slid down from the door frame, hanging at his side, his fingers curled up, as if he couldn't hold onto anything.

Xiuying stood there, looking at him. The wind blew, making her clothes flutter. She looked at him and cried for a long time, watched his shoulders tremble for a long time, watched his hands hang limply for a long time. Then she smiled. It was a very soft, faint smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of her mouth, but Jiang Bo felt a warmth in his heart. It was the gentlest smile he had ever seen her give.

"Teacher, thank you. Thank you for remembering him. Thank you for remembering those people. Thank you for coming back."

Zhou Yuanshan cried. He cried silently, tears streaming down his face, his shoulders trembling. He squatted down, squatting at the door of that small house, squatting in front of those ruins, squatting under that New Year's picture, crying like a child. His hands were on the ground, his fingers digging into the soil, his fingernails filled with mud. His back was hunched over, like a bridge, a collapsed bridge.

Xiuying went over, squatted down, and helped him up. Her hands were thin and cold, but very strong. She grasped his arm and pulled him up. His arm was also thin and cold, skin and bones. She pulled once, but couldn't move him; she pulled again, and he slowly stood up. She supported him as if supporting a tree about to fall.

"Teacher, don't cry. Yizhou won't blame you. He won't blame you."

Zhou Yuanshan stood up and took her hand. Her hand was cold, thin, and bony, but he held it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. "Xiuying, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to Yizhou, I'm sorry to you, I'm sorry to those people. I've remembered them for thirty years, written 'I'm sorry' for thirty years, is that enough? No, it's not enough. It will never be enough."

Xiuying shook her head. The shake was gentle, but firm. "It's not your fault. You've remembered them for thirty years, that's enough. You've written 'I'm sorry' for thirty years, that's enough. You've waited for him for thirty years, that's enough. You should let it go."

The sun rose. Sunlight peeked through the clouds, shining on the ruins, on the small house, and on the three people. The dew on the ruins glistened in the sunlight, like countless tears. The chubby baby from the New Year's picture was also in the sunlight, smiling eerily, smiling sadly, smiling as nothing at all. The wind blew, carrying the fishy smell of the river, but it wasn't so cold anymore. The November wind, after blowing for so long, had finally warmed up a little.

Jiang Bo stood to the side, watching them. He thought of his father, of those notebooks, of those names, of those apologies. He thought of the families, of those who had waited their whole lives. Chen Fang's mother, eighty-six, was still waiting, setting an extra set of chopsticks and a bowl for her birthday every year. Li Mei's sister, bedridden and unable to get up, upon hearing that her sister would never return, only said, "Put away the chopsticks and a bowl." Liu Xiaoqin's brother had searched for many years, posted countless missing person notices, and spent a fortune; his mother murmured her daughter's name when she died, and his father did too. Zhou Zheng came every year to sweep his son's grave, to sweep the grave of the man who had refused to help, waiting for over thirty years, only to receive the words, "He refused to help." He laughed, saying, "They're all dead, what's the point of saying sorry?" He thought of his husband, the man who had written apologies for thirty years, the man who had remembered over thirty names, the man who had waited for him for so many years. He thought of his mother, the woman who had been gone for twenty-two years, the woman who had made dumplings for over thirty years, the woman who had waited for thirty-three years. They had all returned, all on this ruin. His father came back too, in the wind, in the sunshine, in the river. He's always been here.

Xiuying held Zhou Yuanshan's hand for a long time. She didn't speak, just held it. Zhou Yuanshan didn't speak either, just let her hold it. The wind blew, making their hair flutter. White and gray hairs mixed together, indistinguishable from each other's.

Then Xiuying let go. "Teacher, I'm leaving now. I'll come see you again later. I'll bring you dumplings. Pork and cabbage filling, Yizhou's favorite."

Zhou Yuanshan nodded. The nod was slow and gentle. "Okay. I'll wait for you. I'm not going anywhere."

Xiuying turned and walked back. She walked slowly but steadily. Her footsteps trod on broken bricks, rubble, and weeds, one step at a time. Her shadow was cast on the ground, long and thin, like a needle.

Jiang Bo followed behind. He walked to the car and glanced back. The light in the small house was still on, faint in the sunlight, but still shining. The man stood in the doorway, hunched over, leaning against the doorframe, watching him. He raised his hand and waved. Jiang Bo waved back. That hand looked thin in the sunlight, like a withered twig, but it was still waving.

The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. Xiuying sat in the back seat, looking out the window. She looked for a long time, at the ruins, the weeds, the bricks and rubble. The ruins grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until they finally disappeared into the gray sky.

Then she said, "He's old."

Jiang Bo looked at her in the rearview mirror. Her face flickered in and out of the light and shadow from the car window, her wrinkles like deep furrows, each a mark of time. "Mom, you too."

Xiuying smiled. It was a light, faint smile, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. "We're getting old. We're all getting old. Your dad is old too. If he were alive, he'd be old too. His hair would be white, and his back would be hunched. But he'd still be just as stubborn, never looking back once he's made up his mind. Just like you."

The car drove onto the Yangtze River Bridge. Xiuying gazed at the river for a long time. The river water shimmered in the sunlight, breaking into pieces of gold, dazzlingly bright. Those pieces of gold danced on the surface, like countless eyes, or countless mouths, saying something, shouting something, singing something.

"Your father passed away in this very river," Xiuying said, her voice soft, as if drifting from afar. "When he left, I waited for him here. I waited for a long time, until night fell, until dawn broke, until night fell again and dawn broke once more. He didn't come back. Later, I stopped waiting. I left. I left for many years. Now I've come back. Is he still here?"

Jiang Bo looked at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were bright, like the river water in winter. "He's here. He's always been here. In the wind, in the sunlight, in the river. He's watching us."

Sooyoung smiled. "That's good. It's good that he's here."

The car drove off the bridge and onto the road back to the city. The sunlight shone on the car, warm and cozy. Tangyuan lay at Xiuying's feet, its head resting on her feet, fast asleep. Its belly rose and fell gently as it breathed evenly.

Jiang Bo gripped the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead. Those names were still on the whiteboard, those families were still waiting, those apologies were still in the notebook. His husband was back, his mother was back, and he was back too. They were all back. But those who died would never return. They sank to the bottom of the river, floated on the surface, drifted in the water. They wouldn't come back, they didn't need to come back. Some remembered them, some waited for them, some said sorry to them.

The car drove into the city and stopped downstairs. Xiuying got out of the car, stood at the door, and looked at the old building. The fifth floor, that window—the place where she had lived for several months. Sunlight shone on it, bright and clear.

She looked at him for a long time, then turned to Jiang Bo. "What do you want to eat tonight? Mom will make it for you."

Jiang Bo smiled. "Dumplings. Pork and cabbage filling."

Xiuying smiled. "Okay. Pork and cabbage filling. Your dad's favorite. You like it too."

She went upstairs. She walked slowly, one step at a time, but very steadily. She held onto the railing, taking each step carefully. Tangyuan followed behind, running a few steps, then stopping to wait for her, glancing back at her, before running upstairs again.

Jiang Bo stood downstairs, looking at the window. Sunlight shone on it, making it bright. He heard the door open and close, and footsteps inside. Then silence. Very silence, only the sound of the wind, the sound of the river, the sound of the city.

He squatted down and stroked Tangyuan's head. "Tangyuan, it's over."

Tangyuan called out. That call echoed through the alley, carrying far and wide, reaching the river, the bridge, the ruins, and the small house.

Jiang Bo stood up and walked towards the Municipal Bureau. The names on the whiteboard still needed to be erased. The notebooks still needed to be organized. The families still needed to be notified. The apologies still needed to be said. But those names wouldn't disappear. They would remain in the notebooks, on the whiteboard, in his heart. They would remain in the river, with those who sank to the bottom, with those who floated on the surface, with those who flowed in the river. The river still flows, just as it did a hundred years ago, just as it did a thousand years ago. Those names, too, remain. Forever.