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

He Yuzhu stared at the word "owner" on the ledger for three days.

He turned the page over and over, the edges curled up and covered in a fine fuzz. Old Sun sat opposite him, a cigarette between his fingers, but he hadn't lit it. Outside the window, everything was hazy and the clouds hung low, as if it were about to snow but hadn't yet. The room was dimly lit, the table lamp casting a warm glow that projected the two men's shadows onto the wall, making them flicker.

"We've been investigating for three days." Old Sun put his cigarette on the table, but didn't smoke it. He tapped his fingers on the table twice. "Not a single clue. All we know is that he's in Beijing, at a very high level. Nothing else."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He put the paper down, picked it up again, and put it down again. The paper lay open on the table, the two characters yellowed under the light, the strokes long and drawn out, as if written in haste, the pen pausing slightly at the last stroke, leaving a small ink dot on the paper. He stared at that ink dot for a long time.

The silence lasted so long that Old Sun thought he wasn't going to say anything more. Old Sun picked up his cigarette, then put it down again.

"What about the Manchu imperial family?"

Old Sun paused for a moment. He looked up at He Yuzhu, his eyes seeming to confirm whether he was serious. He Yuzhu didn't look away, just stared at him.

"The Manchu imperial family?"

He Yuzhu stood up, the chair leg scraping against the floor with a loud thud in the quiet room. He walked to the window and pulled the curtains open a crack. The sky outside was hazy and gray, the branches of the jujube tree in the yard were bare, pointing towards the sky, and a few fallen leaves, not yet swept clean, were piled up under the tree, swirling against the wall in the wind.

"The account books are Manchu remnants." He turned around, leaning against the windowsill with his hands in his pockets. "'Prince,' 'Sir,' 'Manager,' 'Owner,' they all use that kind of title. Go back and check the family tree."

Old Sun didn't reply. He picked up the unlit cigarette, twirled it between his fingers twice, and then put it down. After a long while, he finally spoke.

"Genealogy? The genealogy of the Manchu imperial family?"

"right."

Old Sun stood up, walked to the door, and then stopped. He turned around and looked at He Yuzhu.

"That thing is in the Palace Museum. We need to borrow it."

He Yuzhu nodded.

"borrow."

The family genealogy arrived on the third day. Old Sun rode his bicycle, with a blue cloth bundle tucked under the back seat; he rode very slowly to avoid damaging it from the bumps. He Yuzhu was waiting for him in the office. Hearing the bicycle bell, he opened the door and went out. Old Sun took the bundle off, held it in both hands, and placed it on the table.

"The people at the Palace Museum said to handle it gently and avoid folding the edges."

The bundle was opened, revealing a thick book inside. It had a blue cloth cover, was thread-bound, with frayed edges and yellowed pages that rustled as it was turned. Inside were densely packed names, written vertically, with birth and death dates noted beside them. He Yuzhu leaned over the table, turning the pages one by one.

Aisin Gioro. Four characters, appearing over and over again. The generation names: Zai, Pu, Yu, Heng. Some names have "died young," some have "adopted," and some have "overseas"—the English letters are written crookedly, as if the writer wasn't quite sure how to write them.

He turned to the page with the character "Pu" in his name.

Puyi, Pujie, Puren. The names are listed first, in neat handwriting and dark ink. A line of smaller characters follows, in lighter ink, as if added later: Puzheng, a distant relative, born in the 26th year of the Guangxu Emperor's reign, went to Japan with his father in his childhood, and later moved to Hong Kong, where he ran a rubber plantation.

He Yuzhu pressed his finger on the line of words, and his fingertip could feel the unevenness of the paper.

"Pu Zheng".

Old Sun leaned over and peeked inside.

"This man went to Hong Kong before the liberation. Later, he opened a rubber plantation in Southeast Asia and did quite a good business. He still keeps in touch with those old Qing dynasty loyalists."

He Yuzhu closed the family genealogy book and pushed it in front of him.

"Investigate him. Investigate thoroughly."

Three more days passed.

He Yuzhu hadn't been home much in the past three days. He spent his days sitting in his office and his nights sleeping on the sofa. He Nianhua had Qin Huairu deliver a message once, asking, "Does Dad not want me anymore?" Upon hearing this, He Yuzhu put on the gloves, then took them off and put them in his pocket.

When Old Sun came again, it was the afternoon of the fourth day. He pushed open the door and came in, his hat and shoulders covered in a layer of snow. He didn't take any pictures, just walked in and closed the door behind him. The room wasn't warm, so he rubbed his hands together, sat down in a chair, and took out a brown paper envelope from his pocket.

"Found it."

He emptied the contents of the envelope and spread them on the table. Photos, files, and copies of remittance slips were laid out one by one. He Yuzhu picked up the top photo. It showed an old man, thin, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a dark suit, standing in front of a small Western-style building. His hair was neatly combed, his face was not fleshy, his cheekbones were high, his eyes were small, and his lips were thin, giving him a shrewd look. The building behind him was made of red brick, with narrow, long windows and drawn curtains.

"Pu Zheng was born in the 26th year of the Guangxu Emperor's reign, and he is 64 years old this year." Old Sun pointed to the photo. "His father was a distant relative of the Pu generation. He spent a few years in Japan during the Guangxu era. Pu Zheng went with him when he was a child. Later, he returned to China and then went to Hong Kong. Before 1949, he lived in Beijing for a while and had contact with the Manchu loyalists. After liberation, he went to Hong Kong and never came back."

He Yuzhu put the photo down and picked up a photocopy of a remittance slip. The handwriting was blurry, but the amount was legible. The remittances were small, one by one, but occurred every month.

"The rubber plantation is in Malaysia, on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur, covering several thousand acres. His son manages it; he lives in Hong Kong and visits occasionally."

Old Sun then pulled out a few more sheets of paper from the envelope.

"There is contact with Taiwan. These remittances are sent from Hong Kong to Taiwan, and then to Japan. There are also a few letters that were forwarded through a businessman in Hong Kong. The contents of the letters cannot be found, but the timeline matches the activities recorded in the ledgers."

He Yuzhu gathered the things together, stood up, and walked to the wall. The wall was empty, so he found some thumbtacks and pinned the photos on one by one. Pu Zheng's, Chen Zhiyuan's, Wang Defa's, Sun Dewang's. He used a lot of force when he pressed the thumbtacks in, leaving dents in the paper.

Yang Xiaobing came in from the doorway, stood next to him, and looked at the photos for a long time. He reached out and pointed to the one of Pu Zheng.

"That old bastard. He's been hiding his true intentions well."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything. He pressed the thumbtack down again, making the dent even deeper.

"In Hong Kong?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

Yang Xiaobing withdrew his hand and wiped it on his pants. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then swallowed it back.

"I can't reach it." After a long while, he said. His voice was muffled, as if he were talking to himself, not to He Yuzhu.

He Yuzhu took the photo down, glanced at the words on the back, and then pinned it back in. The thumbtack sank into the wall with a soft "thud."

"Even if you can't reach it, you have to reach it."

Old Sun lit a cigarette behind him. The smoke drifted in the lamplight, hazy and obscuring half of his face. He took a drag and slowly exhaled.

"Old He, that's Hong Kong. British territory."

He Yuzhu didn't turn around. He stood in front of the wall, staring at Pu Zheng's photo. The old man in the photo was standing in front of the Western-style building, his hair neatly combed, and the frames of his glasses reflected the sunlight, obscuring his eyes.

"Keep an eye on it. Wait for an opportunity."

Old Sun didn't say anything more. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and left. The door closed, and his footsteps faded into the distance in the corridor.

He Yuzhu was still standing in front of the wall. The room was quiet, the exhaust fan was humming, and the snowflakes outside were hitting the glass with a soft rustling sound, like someone rubbing their hands outside.

Yang Xiaobing didn't leave; he stood to the side without saying a word.

After a long time, He Yuzhu took the photo down, put it in the drawer, and locked it. The key was in his pocket, feeling heavy.

When Qin Huairu got home that evening, He Nianhua was already asleep. Qin Huairu was sewing clothes under the lamp when she heard the door open and looked up.

"You're back?"

He Yuzhu sat down next to her.

"We've found that 'boss'."

Qin Huairu put down what she was doing.

"Who?"

"Pu Zheng. A member of the Manchu imperial family, in Hong Kong."

Qin Huairu didn't speak. She put away the needle and thread, folded them up, and placed them on the kang cabinet.

"Can we catch them?"

He Yuzhu shook his head.

"Can't reach it."

Qin Huairu looked at him. The light behind her cast shadows on her face, obscuring her expression. After a while, she reached out, picked up the pair of gloves from the table, folded them, and placed them beside him.

"Go to sleep."

The light went out. He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. He Nianhua turned over, her small hand resting on his face—warm and soft. He closed his eyes, his mind filled with that photograph. A thin old man, gold-rimmed glasses, a dark suit, standing in front of a Western-style house, his hair neatly combed. The house was made of red bricks, with narrow, long windows and drawn curtains. He had never been to Hong Kong, but he had heard from those who had that the Kowloon Tong area was full of these small Western-style houses. Looking across the Shenzhen River, that side was British territory.

I can see it. But I can't reach it.

The phone rang in the middle of the night.

He Yuzhu answered the phone, and it was Old Sun on the other end, his voice very low.

"Old He, we've got news from Southeast Asia."

He held the microphone but didn't speak.

Old Sun waited a while, then spoke again.

"Pu Zheng has been in frequent contact with Taiwan lately. He sends three telegrams a month, twice as many as before."

The sound of turning pages came from the other end of the phone.

"I also met with a few people from Japan. I can't find out what we talked about."

He Yuzhu stood there, listening to the busy tone on the receiver. The snow outside the window had stopped, and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the jujube tree in the yard, its branches covered with a layer of white.

"What does he want to do?"

Old Sun remained silent for a while.

"I don't know. But it's definitely not a good thing."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood by the window, looking at the night outside. The moon was bright, shining on the snow with a pale golden light.

He stood there for a long time.