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

When the train pulled out of Beijing Station, it was still dark. He Yuzhu leaned against the window, watching the figures of those seeing them off on the platform grow smaller and smaller until they became a blurry mass. Yang Xiaobing sat opposite him, clutching the dagger he never parted with, slowly wiping it with a soft cloth. Old Lu sat by the aisle, his eyes closed, seemingly asleep, but He Yuzhu knew he wasn't.

By the time the train crossed the Yellow River, it was completely dark. Yang Xiaobing put away his dagger, leaned back in his seat, and looked out at the pitch-black night. Old Lu turned over, mumbled something, and fell asleep again. He Yuzhu wasn't asleep; he listened to the sound of the wheels rolling over the rails, clanging and clattering, each sound like a heartbeat. The river outside the window was no longer visible, only the occasional flash of light flickering on the water before disappearing. He remembered that year when he went to Northeast China, on a night like this, on a train like this. Back then, he was looking for account books; now he was looking for people. He wondered if he could find them this time.

It was the afternoon of the third day when they arrived in Guangzhou. As soon as the train doors opened, a wave of heat rushed in, damp and clinging to their skin. The platform was packed with people—carrying burlap sacks, shoulder poles, and holding children—the noise a cacophony of voices like a pot of boiling porridge. Someone shouted in Cantonese, a high-pitched voice that He Yuzhu couldn't understand a word of, but he could sense the urgency. He stood by the train door, and was pushed by someone behind him to step down the stairs. His feet touched the soft concrete of the platform, still damp from being in the sun all day.

A middle-aged man in a police uniform was holding a sign that read "Welcome Comrade He Yuzhu from Beijing." He was jostled by the crowd. When he saw He Yuzhu, he pushed his way through the crowd, stretched out his hand. His hand was rough and calloused, his face was tanned dark red, and he spoke with a heavy Cantonese accent.

"Where is the director? I'm from the Guangzhou Municipal Public Security Bureau, my surname is Chen."

He Yuzhu shook hands with him. Officer Chen didn't immediately get to the point. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and slowly exhaled.

"That Chen Zhiyuan..." He paused, "We investigated. He lived in Shamian for a while. He used a fake identity called 'Li Guoqiang'."

He held the cigarette between his fingers and looked at He Yuzhu.

"They said they were overseas Chinese who returned from Southeast Asia."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

Police Officer Chen took another drag of his cigarette.

"But we checked in Southeast Asia, and there's no such person there."

Shamian is on the banks of the Pearl River, formerly a concession area. The old Western-style buildings still stand, red brick, white-walled, with palm trees drooping in front, their leaves wilting in the sun. The streets are nearly deserted, save for a few old women sitting under the arcades, fanning themselves with palm-leaf fans, the fans making a soft, pattering sound against their legs. Chen Gong'an parked the jeep by the roadside, turned off the engine, and suddenly everything fell silent except for the piercing chirping of cicadas. He Yuzhu got out of the car, his shoes touching the asphalt, then sticking for a moment before lifting them again. The air here was even more humid than at the train station; inhaling it made his lungs feel heavy.

The building where Chen Zhiyuan used to live was in a quiet alley. It was three stories high, dusty, and the paint on the walls was peeling off. Officer Chen took out his key and opened the door. The stairs were narrow, and the wooden floor creaked underfoot.

"302, third floor."

He Yuzhu followed him upstairs. The stairwell was dark; the lights were broken, and Officer Chen used a flashlight to light the way. The door to apartment 302 was sealed shut; after tearing it off and pushing it open, a musty smell wafted out. The apartment wasn't large, a one-bedroom, one-living room unit. The furniture was still there, but everything that could be moved had been taken. He Yuzhu stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the empty desk. A painting hung on the wall, depicting the night view of the Pearl River, signed "Li Guoqiang." The frame was crooked, as if someone had bumped into it and then left it uncorrected.

Yang Xiaobing squatted down and looked at the ground. There was a rectangular mark on the floor, as if a box had been placed there.

"Commander, something was left here. It wasn't small."

He Yuzhu walked over and squatted down to examine it. A rectangular mark was visible in the dust, revealing the grooves on the bottom of the box. He stood up and went to the bedroom. The bedding was still on the bed, neatly folded. On the bedside table lay a copy of "Three Hundred Tang Poems," the page open to the line "Alone in a foreign land, a stranger I remain." He picked up the book, turned to the title page, which read, "Purchased by Li Guoqiang in Hong Kong, Spring 1963." He put the book in his bag.

"Have you been able to find out where he went?"

Police Officer Chen shook his head.

"We can't find anything. He used a fake identity; he didn't leave his real name on the train or bus tickets. We checked the port, but there's no record of him leaving the country. But..." He hesitated for a moment, "we asked around among the neighbors, and someone said they saw him talking to a young man at the alley entrance last month. He was in his early twenties, had a round face, wore glasses, and they talked for about twenty minutes. When he left, the young man went east."

He Yuzhu stood by the window, looking at the Pearl River outside. The river water was yellowish, shimmering in the sunlight. On the opposite bank was Baietan, where several boats were moored, their flags drooping, motionless. He thought of the crooked picture frame, the open book, and the feeling of being "a stranger in a strange land."

He's waiting for someone.

Police Officer Chen didn't hear clearly.

"What?"

He Yuzhu turned around.

"The book was open. The picture frame was crooked. He wasn't in a hurry; he had time to tidy up. But he didn't finish—someone came, or he thought someone came."

Police Officer Chen paused for a moment, walked to the window, looked at the painting, then at the book, and said nothing.

The next day, Officer Chen took them to the Overseas Chinese Store. Located on Shangxiajiu Road, the store wasn't large, but it sold imported goods: watches, pens, lighters, and foreign liquor. The manager was a plump man in his fifties surnamed Huang, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and speaking slowly and deliberately. When he saw He Yuzhu and the others enter, he didn't immediately greet them. Instead, he finished his tea before slowly approaching, wiping his hands repeatedly on his apron.

"Are you police?"

Police Officer Chen flashed his identification.

Manager Huang didn't take the photo. He glanced at He Yuzhu, then at Yang Xiaobing, before finally taking it. He held it up to look at it, looking at it from a distance and then closer, examining it repeatedly.

"Li Guoqiang?" He put down the photo, shook his head, and said, "Doesn't look like him."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

Manager Huang glanced at him and then picked up the photo again.

"That Li Guoqiang, round face, glasses, slicked-back hair." He looked at the photo again. "This person is thin, with high cheekbones. It's not the same person."

He pushed the photo back, then pulled his hand under the counter, clutching the cloth he used to wipe it.

"What do you want with him?"

He Yuzhu did not answer his question.

When was the last time he came?

Manager Huang hesitated for a moment.

Last month, I bought a Parker pen and a watch. I said they were gifts.

He paused.

"He seems to have known you were coming."

He Yuzhu looked at him.

Manager Huang lowered his voice.

"He was different from usual when he came that day. He bought some things and didn't leave. He stood in the store for a while and looked outside several times. When he left, he said something that I didn't hear clearly. Now that I think about it, he said—'That's about enough.'"

The warehouse was in an alley in the west of the city, narrowing as you walked, the walls on both sides squeezing in, leaving only a sliver of sky. The tin roof was rusted red, burning hot to the touch after a day in the sun. Piles of rotten wood, already blackened, emanated a waterlogged, decaying smell from the doorway. When He Yuzhu pushed open the door, the hinges creaked and dragged on for a long time, like someone sighing. Inside, it was even hotter, stuffy like a steamer. Dust rose from the ground, swirling in the sunlight, landing in his nose, making him itch and want to sneeze.

The landlord was an old man who had lost half his teeth and spoke with a lisp. He stood at the door and peered inside.

"That guy surnamed Li rented it for six months. He said he was there to store goods, but I've never seen him bring any goods."

Yang Xiaobing went inside and kicked the few tattered cardboard boxes in the corner. The boxes fell apart, revealing a metal box underneath. He squatted down, took out the metal box, which was badly rusted and had a lock on it that opened easily. Inside, there was cotton padding, and on top of the cotton lay a notebook with a worn kraft paper cover. He Yuzhu took it and opened to the first page.

The names were densely packed, some circled, some crossed out, followed by codes and dates. It was exactly the same as the ledger from Northeast China. He turned to the middle, his hand pausing. On that page were written a few words—"Chengshan Research Institute." Followed by a name.

He recognized the handwriting. He remembered this person reporting to the research institute that year, standing at the entrance, head down, speaking very softly. He remembered him always sitting in the last row at meetings, never speaking, but taking the most meticulous notes. He remembered Old Sun saying that this person's background had been investigated, no problems, absolutely no problems.

Yang Xiaobing leaned closer and saw the name.

"Commander, isn't this...?"

He Yuzhu closed the notebook. His fingers pressed on the cover for a long time. So long that Yang Xiaobing thought he was going to say something, but he said nothing. He stuffed the notebook into his bag, zipped it up twice.

"Walk."

He stood up and walked to the door. He glanced back at the empty warehouse. The setting sun streamed in through the broken window, illuminating the footprints on the ground clearly. More than one person's footprints. Someone had been here before He Yuzhu. That person knew He Yuzhu would come. Did that person leave this ledger behind, or simply not have time to take it with them?

He Yuzhu stood at the door, clutching the strap of his bag. The wind blew in, carrying the smell of rust and rotten wood. He didn't leave immediately, standing at the door for a long time.

On the train back to Beijing, He Yuzhu didn't sleep a wink. He took out the account book, turned to that page, and looked at it again. Next to that name, a few words were lightly written in pencil, so small they were almost invisible—"Verified."

He closed the notebook, clutching it tightly in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

Yang Xiaobing was asleep across from him, his breathing heavy. Old Lu was also asleep, snoring. He Yuzhu sat alone in the darkness, listening to the sound of wheels rolling over the rails, clanging, clanging, like a heartbeat. He closed his eyes, his mind filled with that name.

As dawn broke, they arrived at Beijing Station. He Yuzhu got off the train, carrying his bag. His feet touched the hard concrete of the platform. Old Sun was waiting for him at the exit. Seeing him get off the train, he took two steps forward to greet him, then stopped. He looked at He Yuzhu's expression, said nothing, and followed him out.

Old Sun only spoke when they reached the end of the platform.

"Found it?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

"Who?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He walked forward, took a few steps, and stopped. Standing on the steps, he reached into his pocket and felt for the key. The key to the archives was still there. He clenched it briefly, then released it.

"Let's talk about it back at the hospital."

Old Sun looked at him but didn't ask any more questions. The three of them crossed the platform and walked out of the station. The sky outside was overcast, looking like it was about to rain. He Yuzhu stood on the steps, took the ledger out of his bag, opened it, and took one last look. Next to that name, the three words "verified" were clearly visible in the morning light. He closed the ledger, put it back in his bag, and zipped it up.

"Let's go."