Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

"You're so busy. You have to go to work and prepare for exams at the same time."

"I can handle it no matter how busy I am." Her tone was flat, but every word carried weight.

Jiang Cheng looked at her, wanting to say something, but remained silent. He reached out and took her hand. Her hand was cold, and her fingertips were calloused. The two sat on a bench in the waiting area, neither speaking. The clock on the wall clicked, each tick like their heartbeats.

"Yanxi, how are your preparations for medical school going?"

"I've registered. The exam is next month. It's the adult college entrance exam, which tests Chinese, math, English, and medical knowledge. I bought the textbooks and study every night. I study until midnight, sometimes until 1 a.m."

Don't overwork yourself.

"Not tired." She paused. "You know what, when Nurse Wang heard I was going to take the medical school entrance exam, she said something. She said, 'Xiao Zheng, you're the most stubborn person I've ever met.' I said, 'Isn't being stubborn a good thing?' She said, 'Being stubborn is good, but stubborn people get tired.' I said, 'I'm not afraid of being tired.'"

Jiang Cheng looked at her. There was a radiance in her face, not from the lamplight, but from within. "She's praising you."

"I know." She looked up, a slight smile playing on her lips. "But she doesn't know that I learned it from you."

Jiang Cheng paused for a moment, then smiled. The two sat on the bench, neither speaking again. The emergency room lights were still on, and nurses occasionally walked down the corridor, their footsteps soft, like cats pattering on the floor. A cough came from a distant ward; someone was calling for a nurse, their voice hoarse, as if they had been calling for a long time.

"Yanxi, call me if you need anything after I leave."

"Um."

Don't shoulder this burden alone.

"Aren't you carrying this all alone too?"

Jiang Cheng didn't reply. She's right. He's carrying the burden alone too. They both are.

Jiang Cheng stood up. "I'm leaving. I'll call you when I get to Beijing."

"Um."

He walked to the door, stopped, and glanced back. Zheng Yanxi was still sitting on the bench, her white coat shining brightly under the light. She wasn't looking at him, her head down, as if lost in thought. He turned around, pushed open the door, and walked out.

The rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet, splashing water as he stepped on it. The streetlights cast a dim yellow glow on the damp asphalt, reflecting patches of light. The air smelled of earth, mixed with the fresh scent of rain-washed poplar leaves. He walked slowly, each step making a soft slapping sound as his shoes sank into the water. He remembered the first time he met Zheng Yanxi; she stood at the entrance of the medical station, coldly saying, "First, we're just here for housing." Back then, he never imagined that one day they would sit together and she would say, "You're the most stubborn person I've ever met."

He smiled and quickened his pace.

When they got home, Jiang Yuan was already asleep. The little guy was lying on his side, face inward, the blanket kicked up to his feet, revealing two chubby little feet. He squatted down, pulled the blanket up, and covered the little guy's feet. The little guy whimpered, rolled over, face outward, mouth slightly open, breathing evenly.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his son for a long time. Jiang Yuan had a round face, a small nose, and long eyelashes like two small fans. When he was asleep, he was like a little animal, completely unguarded, giving you his whole self.

He reached out and gently touched his son's cheek. His skin was smooth and soft, like a freshly peeled egg. Jiang Yuan stirred, nestled into his hand, and then fell into a deep sleep again.

"Daddy's going to Beijing," he said softly. "Be good at home and listen to Mommy."

The little guy couldn't hear, of course. But he felt like he could.

He stood up and began packing his luggage. A few changes of clothes, two notebooks, a vernier caliper, a micrometer, a feeler gauge, and the research report on thermal barrier coatings. He took the report out of the drawer, flipped through it, and then put it back. He had already sent the report to Professor Zhou; he didn't need to bring it anymore.

But he still put it in his bag, not to use it, but to feel at ease.

After packing his luggage, he sat down at the table, turned on the desk lamp, took out a piece of stationery, and began to write a letter. It wasn't for Zheng Yanxi, but for Huang Deqing.

Although he will see his master tomorrow, there are some things he cannot say to his face.

"Master: I'm not confident about going to Beijing this time. It's not that I'm afraid of my skills, it's that I'm afraid of the people. I've met those experts. They're polite to my face, but they look down on me. I feel at ease with you by my side. It's not that I'm relying on you to speak up for me, it's that I know someone is standing behind me. Thank you."

He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Then he turned off the lamp and lay down. Outside the window, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the cactus on the windowsill. The little sprout next to it had grown a bit more, a tender green, with two small leaves that looked like a pair of outstretched hands.

He closed his eyes, his mind still racing with thoughts of the turbine blades. The data, formulas, and process parameters swirled in his head like a swarm of headless flies. He turned over, pulled the blanket up to cover his shoulders, and finally, after what seemed like an eternity, fell asleep.

The next morning, Jiang Cheng went to the post office and mailed the letter. It wasn't for Huang Deqing—he thought about it, but decided against it. He put the letter back in his pocket and boarded the train with his master and Sun Deming. As the train started moving, he leaned against the window, watching the platform recede little by little. The sunlight shone brightly on the tracks. He touched the letter in his pocket; the edge of the paper was rough against his fingers and slightly warm.

Summers in Beijing are much hotter than in Shenyang. As Jiang Cheng stepped out of the train station, a wave of heat hit him, like stepping into a giant steamer. The air was sticky, clinging to his skin, preventing sweat from escaping and making it hard to breathe. The sky was a hazy gray, not overcast, but smog—the kind of gray unique to Beijing, like a thin veil draped over the city.

Old Zhou sent Chen Siyuan to pick him up at the station. Chen Siyuan drove a gray van with no air conditioning and all the windows open, letting in a draft that smelled of exhaust fumes. He tossed Jiang Cheng and Huang Deqing's luggage into the back seat, then turned around and shook hands with Huang Deqing.

"Master Huang, Old Zhou always talks about you. He says you're the best fitter he's ever met."

Huang Deqing was a little embarrassed by the praise and waved his hand. "No, no, no, I'm just a worker."

Chen Siyuan then turned to Sun Deming and looked him up and down. "You're Sun Deming? You repaired that ball mill in Benxi?"

Sun Deming was stunned for a moment, not expecting his name to have spread to Beijing. "Yes...it's me."

"Old Zhou read your report and said you have a stubborn streak." Chen Siyuan started the van, the engine sputtering. "Stubbornness is good. In our line of work, stubbornness is what we rely on."