Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Daylight broke, but Jiang Bo remained awake. He sat on the sofa in his office, eyes closed, his mind filled with those images. Dong Zhiqiang sat in his study, tears streaming down his face, saying, "I can't answer." His father sat in his small room, hunched over, writing "I'm sorry" stroke by stroke. Dong Jian'an stood by the window, looking at the river, saying, "I hate it." His father stood by the river, in his police uniform, smiling, saying, "I found it." Those people, those names, those apologies, flowed through his mind all night like the river, wave after wave, receding and surging again, carrying silt, carrying the stench, carrying those things that could never return.

Tangyuan lay at his feet, fast asleep. It was tired, having kept him company all night. Its belly rose and fell gently, its breathing even, occasionally twitching its ears and emitting low whimpers, as if dreaming. What was it dreaming of? The reeds by the river? The ruins? Or perhaps its master stroking its head? Jiang Bo didn't know. He stroked its head; it didn't wake, but simply nestled its head into his hand, letting out a soft, contented hum. Its tongue peeked out slightly, pink and soft, glistening with saliva.

Liu Tong pushed open the door and came in, carrying two cups of soy milk and a few steamed buns. He placed the soy milk on the table and looked at Jiang Bo. His eyes were red, his lips were chapped, and there were red marks from the keyboard on his face, running from his forehead to his cheeks. His hair was messy, like a clump of withered grass. His fingers were stained with coffee, and there was black grime under his fingernails. He had clearly not slept all night and hadn't washed his face.

"Sir, have something to eat. You're going to see the master today. You promised him. He said he'd wait for you, so you can't not go. With his health, he won't even eat if you don't go. He just sits at the door waiting from dawn till dusk."

Jiang Bo sat up, took the soy milk, and took a sip. It was warm and sweet, thick, with a noticeable grainy texture from the soy pulp. He took a bite of a steamed bun; it was filled with pork and cabbage, just like the ones Xiuying made. He remembered what his husband had said: "Your mother's dumplings are delicious. Pork and cabbage dumplings are Yizhou's favorite. He always brings some when he comes, saying, 'Teacher, try these; my wife made them.'" He remembered what Dong Zhiqiang had said: "The old man in that little house, please look after him for me. He's a good man too. There's nothing he can do. He's been saying sorry for many years. Tell him I'm leaving. I'm going to find them. Go tell them I can't answer."

He stood up and walked to the window. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into dazzling golden fragments. In the distance, the Yangtze River Bridge was teeming with cars, one after another, forming a flowing river. A new day had begun. Those names, those apologies, remained in his heart. Those who stood at the door watching also remained in his heart. They were gone, but he remained. He was going to see his teacher. To tell him Dong Zhiqiang was gone. To tell him all the apologies were over. To tell him all the debts had been repaid.

In the morning light, the old pontoon bridge resembled a forgotten ruin. The bulldozers still stood there, rusted and worn, raindrops dripping from their steel bodies like tears or sweat. Their tracks were stuck in the mud, motionless, like a dead beast. Wild grass swayed in the wind, yellow and dry, rustling like countless hands whispering or countless mouths sighing. The small house was still there, standing crookedly, the roof tiles patched up, new and old mixed together, different colors, but neatly arranged. The windows were new too, the glass polished to a shine, reflecting images. The door was open, and the gentleman sat in the doorway, wearing his dark overcoat, his hair completely white, fluttering in the morning breeze like reeds on the river. His notebook rested on his lap, pen between his fingers, but he didn't write. He looked at the ruins, at the road, at the passing car. His hand rested on the notebook, his fingers slightly curled, as if caressing the names, as if caressing those who had died.

Jiang Bo got out of the car and walked over. Tangyuan followed behind, running ahead, stopping every few steps to look back at him, as if waiting for him, or perhaps to make sure he had caught up. The man saw him and smiled. The smile was light and faint, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. In that smile, there was waiting, anticipation, and reassurance.

"You're here?"

"They're here."

Jiang Bo sat down beside him. The chair was made of wood, old and wobbly, one leg slightly crooked, with a crack in the seat. But he wouldn't replace it. This was the chair the gentleman had sat in for decades; the surface was worn smooth, like a mirror, reflecting one's image. Before each sitting, the gentleman would touch the seat, as if greeting it. The sunlight shone on them, warm and comforting; the winter sun wasn't harsh, and the warmth felt like a mother's hand. A breeze carried the fishy smell of the river, along with the scent of grass and earth. Under the sunlight, the ruins didn't seem so desolate anymore. The yellow, soft grass looked like a carpet. On the roof of the small house, several sparrows hopped around, chirping as if in a meeting, or perhaps arguing.

"Sir, Dong Zhiqiang has left." Jiang Bo's voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.

The man paused for a moment. His hand hovered in the air, the pen tip pointing at the notebook, not falling. His fingers trembled slightly, the tremor traveling from fingertip to the pen shaft, which poked a small black dot on the paper.

"Gone?"

"He's gone. He committed suicide. He left a letter and a video. He said he couldn't answer. He said he couldn't protect those women. He said he stood at the door watching. He said he couldn't do anything. He said he left, went to find them. To tell them he couldn't answer. He left a bottle of sleeping pills, took them, in his car, next to that small house. When we found him, he wasn't breathing. His face was expressionless, very peaceful, like he was sleeping."

The man remained silent for a long time. He gazed at the ruins, at the river. His eyes were bright, like the river water in winter, cold yet deep. His lips moved, but no sound came out; his Adam's apple bobbed several times. His hands trembled, yet he still held the pen firmly.

"He was a good man too. There was nothing he could do. He was just one of those people standing at the door watching, like us. What was his name? Dong Zhiqiang?"

Jiang Bo nodded. "Dong Zhiqiang. He was a policeman, in the same cohort as my master. He investigated those cases, just like my father. He found out about those people, those events. He knew everything. But he couldn't do anything. He couldn't protect them. He stood at the door watching, watching them die. He organized a night running group, wanting to protect them. He took them running, teaching them how to avoid danger, how to protect themselves. He told them not to run alone, not to run too far, not to run too late. He thought that would be enough. He thought he could do it. He said, they live, laughing, running. They won't die. I will protect them. Then they died. One by one. Fang Min died, Li Hongmei died, Xu Yanran died. He couldn't protect any of them. He couldn't do anything. He stood at the door watching, just like back then."

The man lowered his head, opened his notebook, and picked up a pen. His hand trembled, but he still wrote the name: Dong Zhiqiang. Each stroke was slow and forceful, as if he were carving characters. Next to it was the date: Today. Below was a line of text, the handwriting faint and light, as if the writer had run out of strength, or as if afraid of being seen: "He was also a good man. He couldn't do anything either. He was also someone who stood at the door watching. He also said sorry for many years. He left. He went to find them. He went to tell them that he couldn't answer. He was like me. We were both."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, how much longer will you write? How many more names will you write? How many more apologies will you write? There are endless names to write, countless apologies to say. You've been writing for over thirty years, how much longer will you continue?"

The man stared at him for a long time. His gaze traveled from Jiang Bo's forehead to his eyebrows, from his eyebrows to his eyes, from his eyes to his nose, and from his nose to his mouth. His eyes were bright, like river water, like moonlight, like the eyes of those who could never return.

"Write until I can't write anymore. Write until I die. Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone. They came, they lived, they laughed, they cried. Some waited for them, some hated them, some wronged them. They shouldn't be forgotten. I've remembered for over thirty years, and I can remember for another thirty. When I die, you remember for me. When you die, your children remember for you. Keep remembering, don't stop."

Jiang Bo grasped his hand. The hand was thin and cold, skin and bones, veins bulging, knuckles thick, nails short. But he held it tightly, like a drowning man grasping at his last piece of driftwood. "Sir, I remember. I remember for you. Those names, those apologies, I remember them all. I remember them in my heart, in my mind, in my bones. They won't disappear. They won't be gone. I remember them, and my children will remember them too. I'll keep remembering, I can't stop."

The man looked at him, for a long time. Tears welled in his eyes, but didn't fall. He smiled. "Good. You remember. You remember for us. You remember for those who died. You remember for those who stood at the door watching. You remember for those who said sorry. You are the eyes of all of us. What we cannot see, you see for us. What we cannot do, you do for us. What we cannot answer, you answer for us."

The sun rose higher. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining on the ruins, on the small house, on the two people. The house was revealed, the wall was revealed, and the New Year's picture was revealed. The chubby baby, holding a fish, smiled eerily. In the sunlight, the smile wasn't so eerie; it was like a child's smile, like a chubby baby's smile, like an ordinary New Year's picture's smile. The colors of the New Year's picture had faded; the red was no longer red, the green was no longer green, but the chubby baby's eyes remained, dark and bright, looking at the ruins, at the river, at the city. How many years had it been watching? Ten years? Twenty years? Thirty years? How many more years would it watch? It couldn't speak, but it knew everything. It watched people come and go, watched houses be demolished and rebuilt, watched names be remembered and forgotten.

Jiang Bo stood up. "Sir, I'm leaving now. I'll come again tomorrow. I'll bring dumplings tomorrow. My mom made them, pork and cabbage filling. She said she'd make a lot so you can eat your fill. She said you're too thin and need to eat more. She also told you to take care of yourself, not to sit all the time, to get up and walk around. She said your knees need to be moved around, otherwise they'll get stiff."

The man nodded. He leaned against the doorframe, stood up slowly, his knees creaking like a rusty iron door or an old staircase. His back was even more hunched, and he looked like an old tree about to fall. "Okay. I'll wait for you. I'll cook noodles for you. I'll write those names for you to see. I'll say those 'I'm sorry's for you. Those debts haven't been repaid. Those 'I'm sorry's' haven't been said. Those names haven't been written. I'll write them as long as I live. I'll write them until I can't write anymore."

Jiang Bo turned and walked back. Tangyuan followed behind, running a few steps and then stopping to look back at him, as if waiting for him. He walked to the car and glanced back. The door of the small house was open, and the man stood in the doorway, hunched over, leaning on the doorframe, waving. His hand was thin, like a withered branch, but it was still waving. The lamp was still on, its light faint in the sunlight, but still shining. Like a star, like an eye, like someone who had waited a long time. He stood there, like a withered old tree, but its roots still firmly planted in the earth. He wasn't going anywhere. He was here, by this river, in this small house, on these ruins. He was waiting for people to come, waiting for people to leave, waiting for people to remember those names, waiting for people to say those apologies.

The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the small house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still there. The light was still on. The ruins grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but they were still there. The river was still there, flowing, just as it was a hundred years ago, just as it was a thousand years ago. Those names, those apologies, are all in this river. Flowing away, but still remaining.

Jiang Bo drove onto the Yangtze River Bridge, gazing at the river. The water shimmered in the sunlight, fragments of gold, dazzlingly bright. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood at the entrance, watching, were also in his heart. They were gone, but he remained. He wouldn't stand at the entrance watching. He would go in. He would go through that door for them, see what was inside, and finish what they hadn't finished. He would.