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

One of the lights in the corridor was broken, and it only turned on every three meters, making people's faces flicker between light and shadow.

He Yuzhu stood at the door of Liu Zhiqiang's dormitory, not in a hurry to go in. The door was open, and the aroma of braised pig's head wafted out, mixed with the smell of smoke and foot odor, lingering in the stifling corridor. In the next room, someone was cooking, the spatula clanging against the wok, a child was crying, and a radio was playing model operas, their notes swaying and groaning.

He glanced inside. Liu Zhiqiang was sitting at the table eating, with two dishes and a soup in front of him, along with a half-empty bottle of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor). A new woolen overcoat hung on the wall, its collar standing up; it looked quite sturdy. On the bedside table sat a radio, a nearly new, Red Lantern brand.

He Yuzhu knocked on the open door.

Liu Zhiqiang looked up, his chopsticks hovering in mid-air. He paused for a moment, then quickly put down his bowl and stood up. He wiped his hands on his pants, his smile looking somewhat forced.

"Director He? What brings you here?"

He Yuzhu went in and sat down on the edge of the bed. The sheets were new and neatly folded, and a book was under the pillow, with a corner peeking out—it was "Red Crag." The watch on the table sat next to the wine bottle, its dial reflecting the light.

"Are you eating?"

"Hmm." Liu Zhiqiang stood to the side, unsure of what to do with his hands. "Have you eaten? I'll get you a bowl."

"No need." He Yuzhu picked up the watch, weighed it in his hand; it was heavy. "This watch is not bad. How much did you pay for it?"

Liu Zhiqiang's smile froze for a moment.

"It's cheap. A friend brought it back from Shanghai; it's secondhand, so it didn't cost much."

He Yuzhu put down his watch, raised his head, and looked into his eyes.

Where does your wife work?

"She..." Liu Zhiqiang's hands gripped the hem of his shirt, his knuckles turning white, "She doesn't work. She stays home to take care of the children."

"So you're earning money to support a family of three all by yourself?" He Yuzhu looked around, his gaze sweeping over the new overcoat before settling on the radio. His voice was slow and deliberate. "Life must be pretty tight, right?"

Liu Zhiqiang's face turned pale.

The room quieted down. The radio next door was still playing, the model opera reaching its climax, the gongs and drums beating loudly. Someone walked by in the corridor, their footsteps drawn out.

"I was on a winning streak recently and won a few rounds." Liu Zhiqiang's voice was weak, as if it were being squeezed out of his throat.

"How much did you win?"

"Not much..." He licked his lips, "just a few hundred yuan."

Yang Xiaobing entered through the door, said nothing, went straight to the bedside, and bent down to look under the bed. Liu Zhiqiang tensed up, his eyes following him.

Yang Xiaobing pulled a brown paper envelope from under the bed and dumped it on the table. Several dozen yuan, all brand new bills, were scattered on the table.

Liu Zhiqiang's legs went weak. He braced himself against the edge of the table, his fingers picking at the lacquered surface, scraping off a small piece.

"That was given to me by my father..." His voice began to tremble. "He had saved it up for a long time."

He Yuzhu didn't speak, just stared at him. The food on the table had gone cold, and the oil had congealed into a white film. The light in the corridor flickered again and went out.

Silence weighed heavily on the room, like a stone.

"Liu Zhiqiang," He Yuzhu began, his voice low, "who gave it to you?"

Liu Zhiqiang's shoulders slumped, and he slowly slid down the edge of the table until he squatted on the ground, holding his head in his hands.

"Third brother..." His voice was muffled in his arms, "He told me to keep an eye on the records room. Write down who goes in and who goes out and tell him."

Yang Xiaobing stood beside him, staring at his new overcoat. He thought of his own faded old military uniform in his closet, and of Liu Zhiqiang standing at the entrance of the research institute last year in his uniform, full of vigor and spirit, a stark contrast to his current appearance.

"How much did you give?" He Yuzhu asked.

"One thousand." Liu Zhiqiang looked up, his eyes red. "I paid five hundred first."

"Where is the third brother?"

"I don't know. He ran away after the account book incident. He stopped calling." He paused. "He said the master instructed that the items had been sent out and that they shouldn't touch them for a while."

He Yuzhu tightened his grip on his knee.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. The third brother didn't say."

Yang Xiaobing walked up from behind, grabbed Liu Zhiqiang by the collar, and pulled him up from the ground. Liu Zhiqiang's face was close to Yang Xiaobing's; Yang Xiaobing stared at his reddened eyes for two seconds, then slapped him across the face.

The sound exploded in the room, louder than the gongs and drums next door.

Liu Zhiqiang covered his face, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. He didn't dare to look up, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto the collar of his new overcoat, leaving a small dark stain.

Yang Xiaobing lowered his hand, standing there panting heavily. He looked at his own hand, the one that had hit him, his fingers trembling slightly. He remembered when Liu Zhiqiang first arrived last year, calling him "Brother Yang" and offering him cigarettes. Back then, the kid still had a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Do you deserve this outfit?" His voice was hoarse.

Liu Zhiqiang remained silent.

He Yuzhu stood up, walked to the door, then turned back. Liu Zhiqiang was squatting on the ground, his hands still covering his face, his shoulders trembling. The collar of his new overcoat was stained with blood, which looked black under the light.

"take away."

Yang Xiaobing helped the man up and carried him outside. At the door, Liu Zhiqiang suddenly stopped and turned back.

The corridor lights went out. His face was obscured in the darkness, only a pair of eyes visible, staring intently—not with hatred, not with fear, but with something else entirely. Like a dry well, pitch black, its bottom unseen. A trace of blood at the corner of his mouth flickered in the last glimmer of light, as if tugged, yet also as if it remained still.

The door closed.

He Yuzhu stood in the room, shrouded in darkness. The radio next door had changed its program; someone was singing "Socialism is Good," the voice loud but muffled as it came through the wall. The dishes on the table hadn't been cleared away, the wine bottle lay overturned, and the watch was still there, its dial dusty.

He stood there for a long time.

Old Sun came in from the corridor, bringing with him a smell of smoke.

"Any news from the south?" He Yuzhu asked.

"We're still investigating." Old Sun paused. "The 'gentleman' Liu Zhiqiang mentioned has more connections than Lao San. He manages several lines of money, and half of the remittances recorded in the ledgers came from the south."

What the "thing" was, and where it was sent, no one knew. He Yuzhu walked out of the dormitory building. It was completely dark outside, and the moon was obscured by clouds, letting out only a faint light. In the distance, the lit windows looked like countless eyes.

That "gentleman" is in the south. That "prince" is nowhere to be found. And that figure—thin, slightly hunched, walking slowly but steadily. I've seen him before, but I can't remember where.

A gust of wind blew into my collar, making it feel chilly.