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

When the train arrived in Beijing, it was still dark.

He Yuzhu got off the bus. The platform lights were still on, casting a dim yellow glow on the people carrying large and small bags, their shadows stretching long. The air smelled of coal smoke mixed with the comforting aroma of scallions from breakfast stalls. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, carrying his canvas bag filled with account books and things he'd brought back from Guangzhou. Old Lu brought up the rear, silent, stepping on his own shadow.

A man stood at the exit, wearing an old military overcoat with the collar turned up, his face reddened by the wind. It was Old Sun. He held a cigarette between his fingers, the ash piled high and untouched. He had stubbed out three or four cigarette butts under his feet, which lay scattered crookedly. Seeing He Yuzhu, he didn't speak, but threw the cigarette butts on the ground, stomped them out, and opened the jeep door.

He Yuzhu walked over and paused in front of him. The two looked at each other for a second. Old Sun's eyes held a message, but he didn't say it. He Yuzhu didn't ask either, and bent down to get into the car. Old Sun sat in the passenger seat, rolled down the window halfway, and a cold wind blew in, carrying the dampness of the morning.

"I've looked up that name." Old Sun's voice was low, as if he were talking about something he didn't really want to say.

He Yuzhu did not respond.

"Old Liu. Logistics Department, in charge of the warehouse." Old Sun paused, "He worked at the research institute for ten years."

He turned his head to look at He Yuzhu, and added, "You know him."

He Yuzhu knew him. Everyone in the compound knew Old Liu. He was in his early fifties, short and stout, walked slowly, and always had a smile on his face. Every time someone went to the storeroom to collect something, he was there, holding a notebook, carefully writing things down stroke by stroke. His handwriting wasn't beautiful, but he was very diligent. During the New Year, he even made a small wooden horse for He Nianhua, painted it red, and it looked quite convincing.

"Where are they?" He Yuzhu asked.

"Yes," Old Sun said. "I haven't run away."

After saying those two words, he glanced at He Yuzhu again. The jeep turned into the alley, the sky began to lighten, and a hazy light peeked through the gaps in the clouds. The car stopped at the back gate of the research institute, and Lao Sun got out and pushed the gate open. The courtyard was quiet, with only a few early-rising workers sweeping the floor, their brooms making a swishing sound, as if they were grinding something.

He Yuzhu got out of the car and stood in the yard. He paused as he passed the warehouse. The door was closed and locked securely. He put his hands in his pockets, felt for the gloves, but didn't take them out. He stood there for three seconds, then continued walking.

Old Liu's dormitory was in the backyard, a small bungalow with a north-facing door and small windows, making the room dimly lit. A security guard stood at the door; upon seeing He Yuzhu, he stepped aside. The door was old, most of the paint peeling off, the handle worn smooth from years of handling. He Yuzhu's hand paused on the doorknob for a moment before pushing it open.

A strong smell of old age mixed with the smell of cigarettes wafted over. Old Liu sat on the bed, head down, hands resting on his knees, motionless. He wore a faded blue cotton jacket, the cuffs frayed and the collar pilling. Hearing the door open, he looked up, saw He Yuzhu, paused for a moment, then stood up.

He stood up slowly, as if his knees hurt. He braced himself against the edge of the bed, straightening his back little by little. The flesh on his face was sagging, and his eyes were red and swollen, as if he had been crying for a long time.

"Where is the head of the village..." he began, his voice hoarse, as if a wad of cotton was stuck in his throat, making it hard to breathe.

He Yuzhu didn't speak, but sat down opposite him. Old Liu stood there, unsure what to do with his hands, sometimes clutching the hem of his clothes, sometimes putting them in his pocket, then pulling them out again. He Yuzhu pointed to the edge of the bed, sat down, then stood up, then sat down again. The bed creaked.

The room was quiet for a long time. So quiet that you could hear the sound of sweeping outside, swish, swish, one stroke after another. Old Liu rubbed his hands on his knees until his knuckles turned white.

"Where is the head of the village..." he began again, his voice even lower than before.

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue. Old Liu fell silent again. He raised his head, glanced at He Yuzhu, then lowered it again. He looked back and forth several times, as if weighing something, or perhaps gathering some courage.

"My son..." he said, then stopped. His lips trembled, and when they touched, they made a very soft sound, like something breaking.

He Yuzhu didn't move, nor did he urge him.

Old Liu took a deep breath, as if he were forcibly pulling something out of his chest. The breath was so long that one worried he might faint.

"Three years ago, someone came to me." His voice trailed off, until it was almost a soliloquy. "They said my son was in their hands. They sent photos of my son tied up, his face covered in bruises."

He clenched his fist, held it for a while, and then relaxed it.

"I'm scared. I'm scared of where the director is. He's my only son."

He Yuzhu looked at the back of his head. His gray hair was messy and hadn't been washed for days. He remembered that year during the Spring Festival, Old Liu came to the house to deliver a small wooden horse. He stood at the door, rubbing his hands, and said, "It's for the child, it's not worth much." The horse was painted red, its tail sticking up, and He Nianhua held it tightly, refusing to let go.

"They told me to write down who went in and out of the compound and hand it over to someone every now and then," Old Liu said in a muffled voice. "I've never met that person. They always left it at the train station's luggage storage. They'd just leave it there and leave."

He looked up at He Yuzhu, his eyes bloodshot and the whites of his eyes red.

"I didn't know they were Manchu remnants until I found out, by which time it was too late to escape."

He Yuzhu remained silent. The room fell silent again, and the heavy breathing of Old Liu could be heard, like he was pulling a broken bellows.

Where is your son?

Old Liu was stunned for a moment, as if he hadn't expected He Yuzhu to ask this.

"He was released last year. They said... I did a good job releasing him." He lowered his head, his voice even softer. "My son doesn't remember anything. He said he took some kind of medicine and forgot everything that happened during that time."

He Yuzhu tightened his grip on his knee. He remembered Zhao Weiguo's mother from that year, who had also been kidnapped, drugged, and forgotten everything.

"Who is the person above me?"

Old Liu remained silent for a long time. He rubbed his hands on his knees, rubbing faster and faster.

"They call him..." He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, "'Third Master.' From the Northeast. He's always the one who gets someone to contact me."

Have you seen it before?

Old Liu shook his head. "Never seen it. Never seen it before."

He was silent for a while, as if he was thinking about something. Then he looked up and hesitated for a moment.

"Once, they asked me to leave my things at the Shenyang train station's storage area. I went there and saw a man standing across the street smoking." His voice lowered further. "He was wearing a hat, so I couldn't see his face. But that posture..."

He stopped.

"What's wrong?"

Old Liu swallowed hard: "That posture, it's like a soldier."

The room fell completely silent. He Yuzhu pressed his hand on his knee, his knuckles turning white. A soldier. "Third Master," he'd served in the military.

Looking at his face, Old Liu seemed to realize something, and his lips began to tremble again.

"Where is the director? I..." He couldn't finish his sentence.

He stood up, then knelt down again. His knees slammed onto the ground with a loud thud in the quiet little room. He Yuzhu sat there, motionless. Old Liu, still kneeling, took a step forward, his forehead hitting the ground. He took another step, and hit the ground again.

"Director He, I'm sorry..." His voice was muffled on the floor, barely audible.

He Yuzhu looked at the back of his head. His hair was gray and messy. He remembered when Old Liu brought the little wooden horse that year, he stood at the door in the same posture—head down, rubbing his hands.

"Get up," He Yuzhu said.

Old Liu didn't move. His shoulders were twitching, like a machine that was about to fall apart but was still stubbornly holding on.

He Yuzhu reached out and supported his arm. The arm was so thin it was just bones, and it felt rough in his hand. He pulled Lao Liu up, and Lao Liu stood up with the help of the support, then sat back on the bed, his hands supporting him on the edge of the bed, his knuckles white.

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. It was dawn outside; the sun peeked through the clouds, casting a pale golden glow on the courtyard wall, making the gray paint shimmer. He stood there for a long time. So long that Yang Xiaobing peeked out from the doorway, saw his back, and then quickly retreated back inside.

The sound of brooms sweeping outside stopped after a while.

"Take him away." He Yuzhu turned around, his voice not loud. "Treat him leniently."

Old Liu was stunned. He looked up, his face covered in tears and snot. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but a strange sound came from his throat, as if something was stuck there, unable to go up or down.

He Yuzhu didn't look at him again and pushed the door open to leave.

The sun shone into the courtyard, illuminating the jujube tree, making its leaves shine a vibrant green. He stood at the doorway, took his gloves out of his pocket, and put them on. They were made of fine, woven fabric, old and worn, with frayed edges, but still wearable.

Old Sun followed from behind and stood next to him.

"I'll investigate Third Master's matter."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He remembered Lao Liu's last words—"Your posture is like a soldier's."

"Old He?" Old Sun called out to him.

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement and pulled his gloves up a bit.

"Investigate. Investigate thoroughly."

He walked forward. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at the small house. The door was open, and it was pitch black inside; he couldn't see anything. He stood there for two seconds, then turned around and continued walking.

Behind me, the sound of sweeping started again, swish, swish, one sweep after another.