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

When the phone rang, He Yuzhu was sitting at his desk, flipping through the documents that Carter had reviewed.

Some pages were folded at the corners, which he smoothed out with his palm. He double-checked several potentially leaked data points. The sky outside was overcast, and the room was dimly lit. He turned on the desk lamp, and a layer of dust settled on the bulb.

the phone is ringing.

He answered the call.

There was a two-second silence on the other end. He Yuzhu heard breathing coming from the receiver, very soft and slow.

"Comrade He Yuzhu."

He rubbed his fingers, which were holding the microphone, against the plastic casing.

He recognized that voice. That office in Zhongnanhai, that sofa, that phrase "Work hard."

"lead."

The other end responded with a "hmm".

"I know about Carter."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

"Your formula is safe. The security bureau wrote a report saying you did a great service."

A breeze picked up outside the window, and the poplar branches swayed. He Yuzhu looked at the tree and listened to the voice coming from the microphone.

"There's something I'd like to ask for your opinion on."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

"The central government is preparing to establish a program called 'Spark,' which will bring together the nation's best experts to tackle key technological challenges."

There was a pause on the other end.

Would you like to participate?

He Yuzhu looked out the window at the gray sky, at the smoke billowing from the factory chimneys in the distance, and at the bare poplar tree.

"willing."

The other end responded with a "hmm".

"I knew you'd say that."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He turned his gaze back to the documents on the table. The numbers were clearly visible under the light.

"Your lab will be one of the key projects going forward. Funding, equipment, and personnel will be prioritized. Your job is simply to get the results done."

"it is good."

There was a short laugh on the other end, but He Yuzhu heard it.

"There's one more thing."

He Yuzhu waited.

"I know you're not focused on your research, you're on the battlefield."

He Yuzhu lowered his hand holding the microphone slightly, then raised it again.

"Do you remember the special forces team you used to lead?"

The branches of the poplar tree outside the window swayed in the wind and bumped against the wall with a soft thud.

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He thought of Lao Lu, Chen Dashan, and Yang Xiaobing. He thought of those young faces—some still around, some no longer.

"Remember."

His voice was a little lower than before.

"They're still around, though there have been a few changes, but they're still there. Headquarters has decided to transfer them to be stationed next to your lab. Ostensibly for security, but actually—"

The other end paused for a moment.

"You can go train them. Continue doing what you want to do."

He Yuzhu stood there, holding the microphone, without saying a word.

The breathing sounds from the microphone were even; I was waiting for him.

He remembered that winter when Yang Xiaobing lay on his back, blood gushing from his chest, warm and trickling down He Yuzhu's collar. Yang Xiaobing was nineteen years old that year, from Hebei, and had a younger sister.

"Instructor He, I'm cold."

That was the last thing he said.

"Feed?" the other end asked.

He Yuzhu took a breath.

"Boss, I..."

"Stop talking nonsense. Get to work."

The phone hangs up.

He Yuzhu listened to the busy tone on the microphone, one note after another. He held the microphone to his ear and listened for three more seconds before slowly putting it back down.

Outside the window, the branches of that poplar tree were still swaying.

He sat in the chair, not moving.

The desk lamp was on, illuminating the pile of documents on the table, the calendar on the wall, and the dusty pen holder. The calendar was still stuck on the month Carter arrived; he had never turned it.

He touched his left breast pocket.

The letter is still there.

He took it out. The envelope was as soft as an old piece of cloth, the edges were frayed, and the dried bloodstains had turned dark brown in patches. It was written by Qin Huairu, but he didn't open it.

He held the envelope up to the lamp and examined it against the light. The light couldn't penetrate it; only the dark brown marks on the envelope's surface were visible.

Yang Xiaobing's blood.

He put the letter back.

It's not the right time yet.

He stood up and walked to the window.

The sky was still gray, but a crack appeared in the clouds to the west, letting in light that shone on the factory's chimneys.

He suddenly wanted a cigarette. He checked his pockets; they were empty. He had quit smoking after he came back.

He stood there, looking at the light coming through the crack, for a long time.

When He Yushui got home that evening, she was collecting laundry in the yard. Seeing him come in, she pulled a coat off the line and ran over.

"Brother, why are you back so early today?"

He Yuzhu was stunned for a moment.

"Is it early?"

He Yushui nodded.

"I usually get home around 7 p.m., but it's only 6 p.m."

He Yuzhu looked up at the sky. Indeed, the sun had not yet completely set; there was still some light in the west.

"There's not much to do today."

He Yushui looked at him.

"Brother, what's wrong?"

He Yuzhu shook his head.

"fine."

He Yushui didn't believe it. She stood there, looking at him for several seconds. Then she reached out and gently pressed the skin under his eye.

"Brother, there's a little bit of red here."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

He Yushui took his hand and walked into the courtyard.

"Grandma is waiting for you to eat. She made dumplings today. They're fennel-filled, your favorite."

He Yuzhu followed her.

As he reached the old lady's door, he looked back.

At the alley entrance, the streetlights had just come on, casting a dim, yellowish glow. Someone rode past on a bicycle, and the bell rang once.

He suddenly remembered what he had said on the phone.

"Do you remember the special forces team you used to lead?"

remember.

How could I not remember?

Three days later, the transfer order arrived.

He Yuzhu read the paper three times. He folded it up and put it in his uniform pocket.

He stood by the office window, looking outside.

The sky cleared. Sunlight shone on the factory chimneys, on the poplar tree—its branches were bulging with small bumps, ready to sprout. It shone on the workers coming and going, their shadows stretching long on the ground.

He touched his left breast pocket.

The letter is still there.

He took it out and glanced at it.

The envelope was as soft as an old piece of cloth. The bloodstains had dried and turned dark brown, appearing in patches.

He remembered Yang Xiaobing's weight as he lay on his back, and the words, "I'm cold." He remembered how the body grew colder and colder on the way back. He remembered how, during the burial, he personally took the letter from Yang Xiaobing's pocket and then tucked it into his own bosom.

He stood by the window, the sunlight shining on him and illuminating the dark brown bloodstains.

He held it up into the light and looked at it for a long time.

Then he put it back and patted his pocket.

It's not the right time yet.

He turned around and walked out of the office.

The sun was shining brightly in the courtyard. He paused in the middle of the courtyard, suddenly unsure which way to go—to the laboratory or the playground.

Finally, he headed towards the laboratory. He walked very slowly, as if waiting for someone to catch up from behind.

There was only the wind behind me.