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

He Yuzhu sat in his office, the library book beside him. The sky outside was overcast, the clouds hanging low, threatening rain but not quite. He opened the book, then closed it again. Daqing Oilfield, North China Pharmaceutical Factory, Shanghai Radio Factory, Anshan Iron and Steel—those names swirled in his mind, each one clear and distinct. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in light through the gaps, illuminating the corner of the desk, where dust motes floated and swayed in the beam of light.

Shouts came from afar.

He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains open a crack. He couldn't see anything at the alley entrance, but the sound grew closer, indistinct and unclear. He stood there for a while, then sat back down. The phone didn't ring, and there was no sound outside. He stood up again, walked to the door, and opened it a crack. The corridor was pitch black, except for the emergency exit light, which was a pale green, but there was nothing there.

The shouts came again. This time they were closer, and a few words could be heard clearly—"Down with!" "Expose!" "Reactionaries!" He Yuzhu closed the door, walked back to the table, stuffed the register into the drawer, turned the key once, pulled it out, and held it in his hand.

Footsteps surged up from downstairs, a jumbled cacophony of shouts, jostling and bumping through the corridor. Someone called "He Yuzhu," someone else "Professor Qian," and others called other names, but it was unclear. He Yuzhu pushed open the door and walked down the corridor. He stopped at the door of the archives room. At the other end of the corridor, a group of people poured out from the stairwell. The young man leading them had his red armband askew on his wrist; he didn't bother to fix it, his eyes scanning the corridor, seeing no one, and the veins on his neck bulged.

Where is He Yuzhu?

The people behind him were huddled together, some craning their necks to look ahead, some standing on tiptoe, and some pushed against the wall, using their hands to steady themselves. He Yuzhu took a step forward from the door of the archives room and stood in the middle of the corridor.

"I'm here."

The young man saw him and paused for a moment. He probably hadn't expected He Yuzhu to come out on his own. He took a half step back, and the people behind him surged backward, but he held them back. He steadied himself and pointed at He Yuzhu.

Where is Professor Qian?

He Yuzhu didn't move. "What do you want with Professor Qian?"

The young man stared at him, his Adam's apple bobbing. "He's a reactionary academic authority; we must expose and criticize him."

After saying this, he glanced back at the people behind him. They were silent for a moment, then resumed shouting, even louder than before. The young man turned his face back, chin raised.

He Yuzhu put his hands behind his back. The keys were gripped tightly in his palm, digging into his flesh and causing a slight pain. "Professor Qian is a national hero. Missiles, satellites—none of them can function without him." He paused, his voice low, but in the narrow corridor, each word bounced back against the wall. "You criticize him? What do you know?"

The young man's face flushed red and then paled. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Someone pushed him from behind, and he stumbled forward a step, then regained his balance. His hands clenched into fists, then relaxed.

"You're protecting reactionary authorities; you're a capitalist roader too!"

When he shouted those words, his voice was shrill, as if something was choking him. He Yuzhu took a step forward. The young man took a step back. The people behind him followed suit, their footsteps a chaotic jumble, someone stepping on someone else's foot, yelping, and then pressing down.

"Professor Qian isn't here." He Yuzhu stared into his eyes, unmoving. "You've come to the wrong place."

The young man stared at him, his lips moving slightly. "Someone saw him. He's at the research institute."

When he said this, his voice was half as low as before. He Yuzhu took another step forward. This time the young man didn't back down, but he shrugged slightly.

"The research institute is not a place for you to run wild."

He Yuzhu's voice wasn't loud, but the corridor was quiet, and everyone could hear him. The young man raised his hand from his side, pointed at He Yuzhu, his finger trembled, and then he withdrew it. He gritted his teeth, turned, and walked towards the stairwell. After taking two steps, he stopped and looked back.

"He Yuzhu, don't be so smug. We'll be back."

He left. The people behind him followed, their footsteps quick, then fell silent. The corridor darkened again, the emergency exit light illuminating the pushed-open door, its panel askew, hinges loose, a cool breeze seeping in through the cracks.

He Yuzhu turned around and walked down the corridor. Professor Qian's office was at the very back, and the door was closed. He knocked twice, but there was no response. He knocked twice more.

"Professor Qian, it's me."

The door opened a crack. Professor Qian's face peeked out from the crack, pale as an ash. He opened the door wide, and He Yuzhu walked in. The stack of documents on the table lay open, the calculator was still lit, its indicator light flashing. He held a pencil in his hand, the tip touching the door frame, leaving a small white dot.

"Xiao He, have they left?"

He Yuzhu nodded. "Let's go."

Professor Qian closed the door, his hands still trembling. He walked back to the table, gathered the documents together, and noticed that the top page had a corner blown up by the wind. He reached out and pressed it down, holding it for a long time before releasing it.

"Those documents..."

"The documents are in the archives, locked securely. No one can take them away."

Professor Qian looked at him, his eyes reddening. He reached out and grasped He Yuzhu's hand. The hand was so thin it was just bones, icy cold, with a thin layer of sweat on the palm. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but his lips moved without uttering a sound. He Yuzhu helped him sit down, gathered up the stack of documents, neatly arranged them page by page, and put them in the drawer.

"Professor Qian, don't worry."

Professor Qian took off his glasses and wiped them with the corner of his shirt. The lenses were clean; there was nothing to wipe. He wiped them from left to right, then back again, looked at them against the light, and wiped them again. He Yuzhu stood beside him, waiting for him to put them on.

"Xiao He, you can go back now."

He Yuzhu walked to the door and glanced back. Professor Qian opened the drawer, took out the documents, and spread them out on the table. He gripped the pencil tightly in his hand, his knuckles turning white.

The door closed. He Yuzhu stood in the corridor; the emergency exit light was still on, glowing green. He stood there for a moment, then walked towards his office. He stopped at the door of the records room. The door was closed and securely locked. The key was in his pocket, digging into his thigh. He continued walking.

At night, He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), half asleep and half awake. He Nianhua turned over and placed her small hand on his face. The phone rang. He opened his eyes and reached out to answer it. He Nianhua snorted, and Qin Huairu pulled him closer.

It was Yang Xiaobing on the other end, his voice very low. "Commander, Professor Qian's house."

He Yuzhu hung up the phone and sat up. Qin Huairu, holding He Nianhua, also sat up.

"What's wrong?"

He Yuzhu had already reached the door. "It's alright. You go to sleep."

The door closed. The room remained quiet for a long time before Qin Huairu finally lay down.

He Yuzhu ran downstairs, where the car was already waiting at the door. The engine was still running, and white smoke was billowing from the exhaust pipe. Yang Xiaobing, sitting in the driver's seat, saw him get in, shift gears, and the car sped off.

Professor Qian lived in an old building, on the third floor. He Yuzhu glanced up as he got out of the car. The window was dark, and the curtains fluttered out from the hole, billowing in the wind like a person panting. Broken glass lay scattered on the concrete ground below, gleaming coldly under the streetlights.

He ran upstairs. Half the lights in the stairwell were broken, and his footsteps echoed loudly in the hallway. On the third floor, the door was open. Yang Xiaobing stood in the doorway, clutching the dagger in his hand. Seeing He Yuzhu, he tucked the dagger back in and nodded.

Inside, Professor Qian sat at his desk. A stack of documents lay open on the table, and the calculator was still lit. A piece of glass was broken, and half of the curtain had been torn down and was draped over the windowsill. Wind blew in through the hole, rustling the papers on the table. Professor Qian reached out and pressed down on a page of paper, only releasing it when the wind stopped.

He Yuzhu walked to the window and picked up the broken glass piece by piece. He placed the larger pieces on the windowsill and the smaller ones in his palm. One piece pricked his finger, drawing blood, which he wiped on his trouser leg before continuing to pick up the broken glass. He pulled down the curtains, folded them neatly, and placed them on the chair. The wind had stopped blowing in, and the room became quiet, with only the indicator light on the calculator still flashing.

"Yang Xiaobing, you stay here tonight."

Yang Xiaobing moved a chair and sat by the door. He drew the dagger from its sheath, placed it on his knee, and left it there without wiping it.

He Yuzhu stood in the room, watching Professor Qian. He picked up the scattered documents page by page, stacked them neatly, and placed them on the table. Professor Qian didn't look up, turned the calculator off, and then on again. The indicator light flickered on and off.

"Xiao He, you should go home. You have children at home."

He Yuzhu sat down in the chair. "No rush."

Professor Qian didn't speak again. He smoothed out the page of paper that had been blown by the wind, picked up the pencil, and then put it down again. The wind outside had picked up, making the window frame rattle. Yang Xiaobing sat in the doorway, turned the dagger over, and placed it on his lap.

As dawn approached, He Yuzhu emerged from Professor Qian's house. Standing downstairs, he glanced at the window one last time. The curtains were gone; it was pitch black, and he couldn't see anything. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, tucking his dagger back into his waistband.

"Will you come again tomorrow?"

He Yuzhu got into the car. "Come on. Come every day."

The car drove out of the alley, and the sky began to lighten. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Professor Qian's hand, which had been pressing on that page, was now white at the knuckles; when he wiped his glasses, he wiped them from left to right and back again. These images swirled in his mind, unable to stop. He opened his eyes; outside the window, everything was hazy, and the streetlights were still on.

Back at the research institute, it was already dawn. He Yuzhu sat in his office and took the protection list out of the drawer. After Professor Qian's name, he wrote: "Home vandalized, Yang Xiaobing will guard it." He finished writing, put the list back, and locked it. Outside, someone was shouting slogans; the sound was too far away to make out. He pulled the curtains open a crack. Several people with red armbands were standing outside the courtyard wall, putting up big-character posters. They left quickly after finishing. He watched for a while, then closed the curtains and sat back down at his desk.

There's a lot to do.