Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

Before returning, Jiang Cheng went to the 301 Hospital of the People's Liberation Army and bought three courses of ointment to give to Huang Deqing. Huang Deqing didn't say anything after receiving it, but just patted Jiang Cheng's shoulder hard.

Jiang Cheng returned to Shenyang on a Tuesday.

The train arrived at 2 PM. He stepped out of the station and immediately saw Zheng Yanxi. She stood at the exit, wearing a light blue shirt, her hair tied in a ponytail, not carrying Jiang Yuan. She had come alone. Sunlight shone on her face from the side, casting a small fan-shaped shadow on her cheek from her eyelashes. The collar of her shirt was slightly faded, and the cuffs were rolled up twice.

Where is Jiang Yuan?

"He's at his maternal grandma's house. I was afraid he'd cause trouble, so I didn't bring him."

Jiang Cheng walked over and stood in front of her. In the month since he'd last seen her, she had lost weight, her chin was sharper, her cheekbones more prominent, but her eyes were bright. It wasn't a reflection of light; it shone from within. It was as if someone had lit a lamp behind her eyes—small, but bright. She looked at him, without saying a word.

"Let's go," he said.

"Um."

The two walked out of the station side by side. The sun was shining brightly, warming them. Autumn came earlier in Shenyang than in Beijing; the poplar leaves were already turning yellow, rustling in the wind. A few leaves fell, twirling and landing on her shoulder. She didn't notice, and he reached out to remove them for her. The leaves left a small dust mark on her shoulder.

"You've lost weight," she said.

"You've lost weight too."

"I haven't lost weight. You've lost weight." She glanced at him. "Is the food at the Beijing cafeteria bad?"

"It's delicious. But it's too sweet. Beijingers put sugar in their cooking. They even put sugar in stir-fried vegetables."

She smiled slightly, knowing that Jiang Cheng was joking.

They took the bus back to the factory. The bus wasn't crowded, and they sat in the last row. Jiang Cheng leaned against the window, watching the street scene outside. A month had passed, and Shenyang hadn't changed much—still the same dusty buildings, the same potholed roads, the same slow-moving buses. But he felt a sense of familiarity. A vendor selling candied hawthorns passed by the window, the bright red berries glistening in the sunlight. An old man led a yellow dog across the street; the dog walked slowly, and the old man didn't urge it. These were all from Shenyang, not Beijing.

"Yanxi, how's your exam preparation going?"

"The exam is the day after tomorrow. Chinese, Math, English, and Medical Comprehensive. Four subjects."

Are you nervous?

"A little." She paused, "but I'm not afraid."

Jiang Cheng looked at her. Her profile was clearly visible in the sunlight; her eyelashes were long, her nose was straight, and the corners of her mouth were slightly upturned. She had changed. Not in appearance, but in her demeanor.

She used to be cold, like the winter wind. Now she's still cold, but not as bitingly cold anymore.

It was a calmness, not indifference. Like a pair of stainless steel scissors on an operating table—cool, but sharp and useful. You don't feel the coldness when you hold it, because you know it can save a life.

"You've changed," he said.

She turned to look at him. "What's changed?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it. It's just different."

She didn't speak, but her ears turned red. Sunlight streamed in through the car window, illuminating her ears and revealing the veins beneath her thin, pale skin.

Upon arriving at the factory, Jiang Cheng went to the center first. The center's main gate was open, and the white sign with black lettering at the entrance was spotlessly clean, indicating that someone was specifically maintaining it. Han Zhiguo was in his office. When he saw Jiang Cheng enter, he stood up, walked over, and shook his hand. His hand smelled of ink, probably from writing some documents.

A stack of documents lay on the desk, and a pen, its cap undone, sat beside it, the ink on the nib almost dry.

"Jiang Cheng, you're back? How's it going in Beijing?"

"The project is progressing, but it will take time. Director Han, how's it going at the center?"

"It's alright. Old Zhao is keeping an eye on things, and nothing major has gone wrong." Han Zhiguo paused for a moment. "The provincial department's document is going to be discussed next week. I spoke with the ministry, and Director Zhang said he would keep an eye on it. He also said, 'Just focus on the project and don't get distracted.'"

Jiang Cheng nodded. "Director Han, I'll be back for a few days this time. The equipment upgrades in Beijing are about to begin, and I need to go back and oversee things."

"A few days?"

"Three to five days. After Yanxi finishes her exams."

Han Zhiguo tapped his hand lightly twice on the table. Someone was calling him from outside the window, but he didn't answer. After a few seconds, he said, "Okay. Take care of things at home before you leave. Don't worry about things at the center."

After leaving the center, Jiang Cheng went to the workshop. Old Zhao was squatting in front of a piece of equipment, repairing it with several young workers. Old Zhao's hands were covered in oil, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing an old scar on his forearm. The scar was from a part he had cut at the mine last year, requiring five stitches. He squatted there, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, ash falling on his clothes, which he didn't bother to brush off.

"Master Jiang, you're back?"

"You're back. Old Zhao, you've worked hard."

"What's the trouble? We'll keep working even without you." Old Zhao smiled. "How's that kid Sun Deming doing in Beijing?"

"He's doing well. He's lost some weight, but he's in great spirits. A couple of days ago he drew a picture, revised it seven times, and even Master Huang couldn't find fault with the final version."

"That kid used to be so impulsive, but he's much more composed now. You've done a good job training him."

Jiang Cheng shook his head. "He improved on his own. I only taught him the basics, and he figured out the rest on his own."

That evening, Jiang Cheng went to Zheng's mother's house to pick up Jiang Yuan. The door to Zheng's mother's house was green, and the paint was peeling off a bit. He knocked on the door and heard footsteps inside, then Jiang Yuan's voice, and then Zheng's mother's voice—"Coming, coming."

The door opened. Jiang Yuan was standing in the middle of the living room, holding a plastic duck in his hand, its belly covered in teeth marks. Seeing Jiang Cheng enter, he paused, dropped the duck, and ran towards him. He ran very fast, his knees straight, his feet slapping the ground. Reaching him, he reached out his arms, wanting a hug.

"Dad—" he called out. This time it wasn't "baba" or "papa," but a clear and distinct "Dad." Two syllables, one level tone and one oblique tone.

Jiang Cheng squatted down, picked him up, and held him above his head. The little guy spread his arms out like a bird. His laughter was clear and crisp, like someone tapping a small bell. One tap after another, very rhythmic.

"Dad—" he called again.

"Yes," Jiang Cheng responded, his voice trembling slightly.

Zheng's mother peeked out from the kitchen, holding a spatula. The spatula was still covered in chopped scallions. "You're back? Have you eaten?"

"not yet."

"Perfect timing. I stewed some pork ribs; Yanxi said you wanted some. I've been stewing them all afternoon; the bones are practically falling apart."