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

When He Yuzhu came out of the meeting room, one of the lights in the corridor was broken, leaving dark patches every few steps. He walked slowly, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Turning the corner, he passed the archives room; the iron door was closed, three heavy locks hanging on it. He paused, reaching out to touch the middle lock—his lock, cool, the metallic coolness seeping up through his fingertips.

Stepping outside, the wind was much colder than inside. The car was parked at the bottom of the steps; the driver had already started the engine, and a puff of white smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe, dissipating in the wind. He Yuzhu opened the car door, got in, and took off his hat, placing it on his lap.

"go home."

As he drove out of the compound gate, he glanced at the building in the rearview mirror. The research institute building was pitch black, with only a sliver of light shining from the window of the archives room—the corridor light, which had been left on.

There weren't many cars on the road, and the streetlights rushed past one by one. He leaned against the car window, watching the signs, utility poles, and slogans painted on the walls flicker in the light. A vendor selling roasted sweet potatoes pushed his cart along the roadside, the firelight from his oven reflecting on his face, making him look rosy. A woman held a child waiting for the bus; the child was asleep on her shoulder, mouth open. He Yuzhu looked away, glancing down at the hat on his knee. The cap badge gleamed, reflecting a tiny point of light from the streetlight.

As the car turned into the alley, it slowed down. Someone was arguing; the man's voice was loud, the woman's shrill, and it was impossible to hear what they were saying. Someone was cooking; the smell of cooking oil wafted from the wall, mixed with the aroma of scallions frying in a pan. He Yuzhu put on his hat and opened the car door.

The light in the courtyard was still on, casting a dim, yellowish glow from the window of the west wing. He pushed open the wooden door; it creaked open, and the clothes hanging in the yard swayed in the breeze. He Nianhua was already asleep. Qin Huairu was sewing his old military uniform under the lamp; the elbows were worn raw, revealing the cotton underneath. She sewed slowly, the needle piercing in, then pulling out, the thread taut. Hearing the door open, she looked up.

"You're back?"

He Yuzhu sat down beside her and took off the gloves, placing them on the table. Qin Huairu lowered her head and continued sewing, her stitches fine and dense, one stitch at a time. After finishing one row, she bit off the thread, unfolded the uniform to look at it, folded it up again, and placed it on his lap.

"The rain has brought news."

He Yuzhu didn't move.

"What did you say?"

Qin Huairu inserted the needle into the ball of thread and rested her hands on her knees for a while.

"They say this year's harvest is alright."

She paused for a moment.

"They said there's still not enough food in some places."

He Yuzhu looked at her. She didn't look at him, picked up the ball of thread, pulled out the needle, and then put it back in.

"Can that gold be exchanged for food?"

He Yuzhu was taken aback. She asked very softly, as if afraid someone would hear. He picked up the military uniform and touched the patch on the elbow; the stitches were very fine, and the color was almost the same as the original.

"Let me ask."

Qin Huairu nodded, stood up, and put the ball of thread and needles into the basket. She went to the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and tucked the blanket around He Nianhua. The boy was sleeping soundly, his little hand hanging outside the blanket, clutching the cannon barrel of a tank with a shell casing. She gently tucked his hand back in.

Go to bed early.

The light went out. He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. He Nianhua turned over, her little arm resting on his face, warm and soft. He didn't move, just lay there, listening to her soft breathing.

The next morning, He Yuzhu called Zhao Dayong. When the call was answered, the voice was intermittent, its volume fluctuating due to the wind. Zhao Dayong was in Tibet, so he had to shout to speak.

"Director He, what did the higher-ups say about the gold?"

He Yuzhu held the microphone.

"Ship them back first. Register them and make sure there are no mistakes."

Zhao Dayong agreed. There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, only the sound of wind howling, as if it were tearing something apart.

"Director He, there's one more thing."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

Zhao Dayong lowered his voice.

"This batch of gold is not from India. It has markings on it."

He Yuzhu's hand tightened slightly.

"What mark?"

Zhao Dayong said.

"The character 'light' is engraved on the gold bar. You need a magnifying glass to see it clearly."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. He Yuzhu heard Zhao Dayong talking to someone next to him, but his voice was very low and he couldn't hear clearly.

"Where does it grow?"

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement.

"It matches the 'Restoration Society' on the ledger."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood there, only the busy tone remaining on the receiver. He thought of the account book, the burned pages, and that "prince." Now there was another "Restoration Society."

When Lao Sun arrived, it was already afternoon. He pushed open the door, didn't sit down, and placed a document on the table.

"Found it."

He Yuzhu opened it, and inside were several photos. The first was of an artillery shell, with a brass casing, and the Russian letters on the bottom were clearly visible. The second was of an anti-tank missile, cylindrical in shape, with Russian serial numbers printed on it. He turned the photo over, and on the back were a few lines of writing, in the handwriting of a frontline reconnaissance soldier, the handwriting messy and blurred in some places by sweat.

"AT-3, Sager. The latest Soviet model."

He Yuzhu raised his head.

"More advanced than the generation sold to us."

Old Sun lit a cigarette, took a puff, didn't exhale, held it in his mouth, and slowly exhaled it through his nose after a few seconds.

"The serial number matches. The manufacturing record is also available."

He sat down in the chair opposite him and flicked the ashes onto the ground.

"It went through the Czech Republic."

He took another puff.

"But the source is Moscow."

He Yuzhu put down the photo and looked at Lao Sun. Lao Sun didn't look at him, staring at the cigarette in his hand, a bit of ash accumulated, which he didn't flick off.

"Our batch is still the old-fashioned AT-1."

He Yuzhu remained silent. He recalled his trip to Moscow years ago, when the Soviets tried to fool him with technology from ten years prior, and he cursed them in Russian before leaving. Now, they wouldn't even bother with the cursing; they'd simply hand the knife to the Indians.

"Take a photo and send it up."

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe and stood up. He carefully arranged the shells one by one and took out his camera to photograph them. The sound of the shutter was loud in the quiet office, click, click, each click like the hammering of nails. He Yuzhu stood beside him, watching the shells flash in the lens.

After taking the photos, Lao Sun put the camera away and put the shells back into the box one by one.

"Keep these things as evidence."

He Yuzhu closed the box.

"You keep it."

Old Sun carried the suitcase to the door, then turned back.

"Old He, the Soviets are handing us a knife from behind, while the Satisfied ones are stabbing us in the back. There are Indians in front, and spies behind."

He stood there, the door half-open, the wind blowing in from the corridor, lifting the hem of his clothes.

"It's drafty on all sides."

The door closed. He Yuzhu sat alone in his office, took the spent cartridge case out of the drawer, and placed it on the desk. The Russian letters were clearly visible in the sunlight, but he looked at them one by one, unable to recognize them. He then took out the photograph and placed it side by side with it. The cartridge case was bronze-colored, the photograph was black and white; placed side by side, they seemed like things from two different worlds.

The phone rang. He Yuzhu answered it; it was Ma Yuejin on the other end.

"Dean, the gold has been brought back. Zhao Dayong asked me to ask you, where should we put it?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment.

"Put it in the research institute's storeroom. Lock it up for now, I'll check it when I get back."

Ma Yuejin agreed.

"Director, there's one more thing. I've kept a few of those shells as samples. Is that alright?"

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He remembered the gleaming bullet casing, and the gleam in Ma Yuejin's eyes when he took it out of his pocket and handed it to him.

"Keep it."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. When Ma Yuejin's voice came through again, it was a little softer than before.

"Thank you, Dean."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood there, a cool breeze blowing in from the window. He put the spent cartridge and the photograph into the drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. He stood up, walked to the window, and put on his gloves. They were made of Qin Huairu woven fabric, old, with frayed edges, but still wearable.

The phone rang again. He answered it, and it was Zhao Dayong on the other end, his voice even lower than before, as if he was afraid someone would hear.

"Director He, there's one more thing."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

Zhao Dayong remained silent for a few seconds.

"This batch of gold doesn't just come from India; some was also shipped out of China."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood there, listening to the busy tone on the receiver. The wind outside had stopped, the snow hadn't fallen, and the sky was still gray. He turned off the light. In the darkness, the drawer was locked, the spent cartridges were still inside, and the Russian letters remained visible in the darkness as well.