Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

On that morning, He Yuzhu asked the factory for leave, saying he was going to the city to take care of some business.

Yang Deming looked up at him. His gaze lingered on He Yuzhu's face for two seconds, his lips moved, but in the end he didn't ask anything and signed the leave slip. When He Yuzhu took the leave slip, he noticed that Yang Deming's fingers tapped lightly twice on the table—a small gesture he made when nervous.

He Yuzhu stuffed the leave slip into his pocket and pushed his old bicycle out of the factory gate. After riding for about two miles, he parked it at a repair shop by the roadside. The shop owner, a lame old man, was squatting on the ground patching a tire, with a model opera playing softly on the radio. He Yuzhu said he would come to pick it up in the afternoon, and the old man didn't even look up, just grunted in response.

He boarded the bus.

The car drove out of town, further and further away from the city. The gray-tiled houses outside the window slowly receded, replaced by endless fields of crops. The corn grew taller than a person, lush and green, rippling in waves when the wind blew. He Yuzhu sat in the last row, watching the field ridges, irrigation ditches, and scattered graves glide past the window. People got off the bus in waves, until finally only he and a dozing old man remained. The old man wore a faded blue cloth jacket, carrying a bamboo basket covered with a floral cloth, revealing a corner of green vegetables.

The ticket seller walked over from the front; she was a young woman in her early twenties with two braids and a stack of tickets in her hand: "Comrade, this is the final stop."

He Yuzhu got off the bus.

All around were fields of crops. The corn leaves rustled in the wind, like countless hands clapping. A dirt road stretched ahead, its end nowhere in sight. He walked along the road, the dry, hard earth crunching under his feet. After walking for almost twenty minutes, he saw a crooked tree by the roadside, a faded red cloth strip tied to its trunk, reduced to just a few strands by the wind—the mark Raymond had mentioned.

He turned off the dirt road and walked into the farmland.

The corn leaves stung his face. He shielded his eyes with his arm, head down, and walked in step by step. The fine hairs on the leaves brushed against his skin, tickling him and carrying a raw, green smell. In the distance, the sputtering of a tractor came, intermittent, like someone hiccuping.

After walking for about five minutes, the view suddenly opened up before me.

A dilapidated temple.

The temple was small, with a main hall and two side rooms, half of which had collapsed. The whitewash on the walls had peeled off in pieces, revealing the adobe bricks underneath, with withered foxtail grass growing in the cracks. Many of the roof tiles were broken, and sunlight leaked through the holes, creating patches of light on the ground. Dust floated slowly in these patches of light, like microorganisms in water.

He Yuzhu stood at the temple entrance, looking inside.

no one.

He went inside. The main hall was empty; the Buddha statue was long gone, leaving only a stone offering table, a piece of which was missing from one corner. Scattered on the floor were broken tiles, some still bearing the sheen of their blue glaze. A few bundles of dry grass lay in the corner, probably left by a passing farmer resting. On a pillar, a few words had been written in chalk, now blurred and illegible, but one could vaguely make out something like "Down with" or something similar.

He leaned against a pillar and waited.

I waited for almost an hour.

The sun moved from the east to its zenith, then shifted slightly westward. The light and shadow in the temple moved slowly, spots of light climbing from the ground to the walls, then sliding down again. He Yuzhu changed positions several times, but his legs still ached. He remembered that time he was infiltrated during the Korean War, lying motionless in the snow, his toes turning black from the cold. Back then, he was also waiting—waiting for orders, waiting for the attack, waiting for shells that might fly in at any moment.

There was movement behind the pillar.

He didn't move, not even his breathing changed.

Footsteps came from behind the pillar, very light, crunching on the broken tiles.

A man stood in front of him.

He was in his forties, thin, with a dark complexion and high cheekbones. He wore a gray cloth jacket with the sleeves rolled up, revealing an old scar on his forearm. The scar was long, extending from his wrist into his sleeve, like a knife cut. When he looked at people, his eyes were fixed, his pupils bright, like two shards of glass.

"Deputy Factory Director He?"

Southern accent. Soft and slightly sticky, like soaked glutinous rice.

He Yuzhu nodded.

The man nodded, looked around, and then took a few steps into the temple, standing in a patch of light that shone through the roof. The light illuminated half of his face, making it appear white, while the other half remained in shadow.

"My surname is Li. You can just call me Mr. Li."

He Yuzhu didn't move.

Mr. Li looked him up and down. His gaze traveled from He Yuzhu's rubber shoes to the pockets of his Zhongshan suit, and finally settled on his face.

"Raymond told me about you. He said you're someone who wants to get things done."

He Yuzhu did not respond.

Mr. Li smiled. The smile was brief, barely moving a few muscles at the corners of his mouth, and it vanished in the blink of an eye.

"I know a bit about your situation. You fought in North Korea, earned merits, and came back to become the deputy factory director. You have a knack for technology. But the factory doesn't value you, and nobody listens to your ideas."

He Yuzhu looked at him, his voice flat: "Did Father Lei tell you that?"

Mr. Li didn't answer, but continued, "You want to get things done. These days, to get things done, you need people. With people, there's a way."

He took two steps forward, getting closer to He Yuzhu. His voice was even lower, but every word was clear, like nails being hammered into wood:

"Deputy Factory Director He, are you willing to do something truly significant for the country?"

He Yuzhu looked at him.

"What country?"

Mr. Li's eyes lit up.

"Of course, it's the Republic of China."

The temple was quiet.

A gust of wind rushed in through the broken door, sending the broken tiles on the floor tumbling twice. Patches of light filtering through the holes in the roof rippled between the two men like waves on water. He Yuzhu's pupils contracted slightly. On the Korean battlefield, he had seen far too many people die because of those four words. Those faces flashed through his memory—comrades-in-arms, enemies—all eventually mingling together, turning into scorched earth.

But now he just lowered his eyes, and his face showed nothing.

After several seconds, he spoke, his voice flat:

"What do you want me to do?"

Mr. Li's lips curved upwards.

"No rush. Go back first and wait for notification. Someone will contact you."

He pulled something from his pocket and handed it to He Yuzhu. He took it and looked at it; it was a piece of paper, folded into four sections, the edges pressed neatly, as if it had been ironed. Unfolding it, he saw only one address, written in neat pen: No. 17, Liushu Hutong, East of the City. Not far from the steel mill, a fifteen-minute walk.

Mr. Li looked at him, took the paper back from his hand, folded it, stuffed it into the top pocket of his Zhongshan suit, and patted it down.

"Got it?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

Mr. Li took a step back and glanced at him again. His gaze was complex, as if he were looking at someone about to step onto the gambling table.

"Deputy Factory Director He, if you've chosen the right path, everything will be easier to discuss later. If you've chosen the wrong path—"

He didn't finish speaking, then turned and disappeared behind a pillar. The sound of his footsteps grew fainter and fainter, finally vanishing into the wind.

He Yuzhu stood still, without moving.

He waited for three minutes before coming out of the temple.

As he walked into the cornfield, he couldn't help but glance back. The dilapidated temple stood quietly amidst the crops, like an old man squatting down. He suddenly remembered a damp cigarette butt on the ground where Mr. Li had stood. He hadn't picked it up.

The corn leaves still scratched his face. He kept his head down, shielding his face with his arm, and walked out step by step. He didn't walk fast, but every step was firm.

When he reached the dirt road, he stopped and looked back.

The fields were quiet, save for the wind. The corn leaves rustled and swayed in the breeze. The sputtering of the tractors in the distance had long since ceased.

He walked back along the dirt road. After walking for about ten minutes, he turned a corner and paused.

There's someone behind us.

It wasn't the sound of footsteps, but the rustling sound of footsteps on a dirt road, mingling with his own. The faster he walked, the faster the sound became; the slower he walked, the slower the sound became. Like a shadow, impossible to shake off.

He didn't turn back and kept walking. He reached the crooked tree and turned onto the main road.

The sound was still behind us, not too far away, about twenty or thirty meters away.

He boarded the bus and sat in the last row. As the bus started moving, he looked out the window and saw a person standing under the bus stop sign. The person was wearing a gray jacket, and although he couldn't see their face clearly, they were standing very straight and didn't look like an ordinary farmer.

The person didn't get on the bus.

As the car drove further and further away, the figure grew smaller and smaller until it became a dot and disappeared behind the fields.

He Yuzhu leaned back in his chair. He reached into his pocket and touched the note. The paper was thin; he could feel the creases.

He's not a policeman. He wouldn't fail to recognize Lao Sun's men.

That's another group.

He closed his eyes and heard his own heartbeat, steady and unhurried.