Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo returned from the old pontoon bridge and went straight to Xiuying's place instead of going back to the Municipal Bureau. It was past noon, and the sunlight streamed in through the window, warm and golden, casting a golden glow on the wooden floor. Xiuying was making dumplings; the cutting board was piled high with them, row upon row, neat and orderly, like soldiers, like names on a whiteboard. She was bent over, carefully wrapping each dumpling, one by one. Her fingers were thin but nimble; with a few pinches, the dumplings took shape. She wrapped them slowly, but each one was the same size, the same roundness, the same beauty, the pleats evenly pinched, as if machine-made. Her apron and hair were covered in flour, white as snow.

"Mom, I'm bringing dumplings for my husband tomorrow. He loves yours. He says your dumplings are better than the ones you buy outside—thin wrappers, generous fillings, and they taste just like home cooking."

Xiuying paused for a moment. She looked up at Jiang Bo, her eyes filled with worry. "How is he? You said yesterday that he was walking slower and his eyesight was getting worse. How is he today? Is he any better?"

"He's alright. Just getting old. He walks slower, his eyesight is failing, and his hand shakes when he writes. When I went there today, he was sitting by the door, looking at the ruins. His knees are bad; he has to hold onto the doorframe and straighten up little by little when he stands up. But he's still writing. He writes every day. Today he wrote another name. Dong Zhiqiang. He's gone too. He committed suicide. He left a letter and a video in his car, saying he couldn't answer. He said he couldn't protect those women. He said he was standing at the door watching. He took sleeping pills and passed away peacefully. His face was expressionless, like he was asleep."

Xiuying's tears streamed down her face. She didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely, dripping onto the cutting board and the dumplings. "He was a good man too. There was nothing he could do. He was just one of those people standing at the door watching. Just like your father. They all stood at the door watching, watching those people die, watching those people leave. They couldn't do anything. They could only remember, only write, only apologize."

Jiang Bo walked over and stood beside her. Her shoulders were narrow, her back slightly hunched, and she was even thinner than when she first arrived. "Mom, the master said he will continue writing. He will write until he can no longer write. He will write until he dies. He said those names, those 'I'm sorry,' must be remembered. If no one remembers, they are 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."

Xiuying wiped away her tears and smeared flour on her apron with her fingers. "He's remembered for so many years, it's time for someone else to remember him. You remember him for us. What's his name? Zhou Yuanshan. He was your father's teacher, and he's also your teacher. He taught your father how to solve cases, and he taught you how to solve cases too. He's remembered for over thirty years, you should remember for thirty years as well."

Jiang Bo grasped her hand. It was cold, thin, skin and bones, with cracked fingers covered in bandages. "Mom, I remember. I remember everyone. Those names, those apologies, those people standing at the door watching. I remember them all."

The next morning, Jiang Bo went to the old pontoon bridge again. It was just dawn, a hazy, heavy fog, though thinner than the previous days, allowing him to see the river in the distance. The insulated container contained dumplings Xiuying had made—pork and cabbage filling—still steaming, wrapped in several layers of cloth. Tangyuan, perched in the passenger seat, stared at the container, drooling, drops forming small damp patches on the seat. But it didn't try to take them. It knew they were for its master. It simply looked, its eyes sparkling, its tongue lolling out.

The man sat in the doorway, wearing his dark overcoat, his hair completely white, fluttering in the morning breeze. A notebook rested on his lap, a pen held between his fingers, but he didn't write. He gazed at the ruins, at the road, at the approaching car. His hand rested on the notebook, his fingers slightly curled, as if caressing the names. He saw Jiang Bo's car, stood up, and, supporting himself on the doorframe, made way for him. His movements were slow, his knees creaking, but a smile played on his lips.

"You're here?"

"Here it is. I brought dumplings. My mom made them, pork and cabbage filling. She said to eat them while they're hot, because they're bad for your stomach if they're cold. She also told you not to sit for too long, to get up and walk around, and move your knees."

The man took the insulated container and opened it. The dumplings were still steaming, white and plump, arranged neatly one by one. He picked one up, put it in his mouth, and chewed for a long time, as if savoring something, as if remembering something. His eyes were closed, and his brows were slightly furrowed, as if recalling something from a long time ago. "Delicious. Your mother's dumplings are delicious. Yizhou used to bring me dumplings too. Every time he came to see me, he brought dumplings. He said his wife made them. He smiled happily. He was young then, with bright eyes that curved like crescent moons when he smiled."

Jiang Bo sat down beside him. The chair was old and made of wood, a little wobbly, but he was used to it. Sunlight shone through the clouds, warming them. A breeze carried the fishy smell of the river, along with the scent of grass and earth. The ruins didn't seem so desolate in the sunlight. The yellow, soft grass looked like a carpet. The bulldozers were still there, rusty, but in the sunlight, the rust looked like a golden coating, not so unsightly.

"Sir, there are still some words in Dong Zhiqiang's notebook. He didn't finish. He said he couldn't answer. He said he couldn't protect them. He said he stood at the door watching. But he didn't say why he organized the night running group. Why he filmed those videos. Why he wrote down those names. He did so much, what exactly did he want to do?"

The man looked at him, for a long time. His eyes shone brightly in the morning light, like the cold, deep waters of a river in winter. "Because he wanted to remember them. He was afraid of forgetting. He was afraid of forgetting their faces, their smiles, their voices. He filmed those videos, he memorized those names. He thought that would be enough. He thought that would protect them. But he couldn't. He could only remember. He organized night running groups to get closer to them. He filmed those videos to keep them in his memories. He memorized those names because he was afraid of forgetting. He couldn't do anything else, he could only remember. Just like us."

Jiang Bo was silent for a while. He looked at the ruins, at the wall, at the New Year's picture. The chubby baby was holding a fish, smiling eerily, but in the sunlight, the smile wasn't so eerie anymore; it looked like a child smiling, like a chubby baby smiling, like an ordinary New Year's picture smiling. "Sir, you are too. You've remembered for so many years, written for so many years. You couldn't protect it. You could only remember. You've remembered for over thirty years, written for over thirty years, said sorry for over thirty years. What did you gain? Those people can't hear you, those families don't know who you are, those who have died will not forgive you. What did you gain?"

The man smiled. It was a faint, gentle smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but Jiang Bo saw the tears welling in his eyes. "I don't want anything. I owe them. I owe them a debt, and I must repay it. If I can't repay it, I'll remember it. Remembering it is enough. I've remembered them for over thirty years, written 'I'm sorry' for over thirty years. They can't hear me, but I know they are listening. They are in the river, in the wind, in the fog. They are watching me. They know I remember them. That's enough."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, will they forgive you?"

The man stared at him for a long time. His eyes 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. "I don't know. But I don't ask for forgiveness. I only ask to remember. Remember that they came, lived, laughed, and cried. Some waited for them, some hated them, some wronged them. That's enough. Whether they forgive or not is their business. Whether I remember or not is my business."

The sun rose higher. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining on the ruins, on the small house, and 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, gazing at the ruins, at the river, at the city.

Jiang Bo stood up. "Sir, I'm leaving now. I'll come again tomorrow. I'll bring dumplings with me. My mom said she'll make extra so you can eat them slowly. She said you're too thin and need to eat more. She also told you not to sit all the time, to get up and walk around, to go to the riverbank. She said you live alone, so you need to take good care of yourself."

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 more hunched, and he looked like an old tree about to fall, but his eyes were bright. "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 yet. Those names haven't been written yet. 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, or perhaps to make sure he had caught up. 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 against 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. He definitely would.