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

Professor Qian's office door was closed, and the lights were off. He Yuzhu stood in the doorway, raising his hand to knock, his fingers hovering in mid-air. The corridor was pitch black, with the emergency exit light shining from the end, casting a long shadow of his. He knocked three times, the sound soft, but it was jarring in the empty corridor.

There was no movement inside.

He knocked three more times. "Professor Qian, it's me."

Several seconds later, the door opened a crack. Professor Qian stood behind the door, clutching a pencil in his hand, his glasses reflecting the light, obscuring his eyes. He didn't speak, but stepped aside, and He Yuzhu went in.

A pile of draft paper lay spread out on the table, densely covered with formulas, stretching from the edge of the table to the base of the wall. The calculator was still lit, its indicator light flashing. The leaves of the asparagus fern on the windowsill were mostly yellow, the soil in the pot dry and cracked, clearly unwatered for a long time. He Yuzhu sat down in the chair; Professor Qian was still standing in the doorway, his hand gripping the doorknob, not letting go.

"Xiao He, has something happened?"

He Yuzhu shook his head. "It's okay. We'll just stay somewhere else for a few days."

Professor Qian looked at him for several seconds, then didn't ask any more questions. He walked back to the table and began to collect the stacks of manuscript papers. His hands trembled slightly, and a page slipped through his fingers, floating to the floor. He bent down to pick it up, but his back wouldn't bend low enough, so he slowly squatted down, holding onto the edge of the table. He Yuzhu helped him pick it up and saw that half a curved track was drawn on the page, the pencil marks were smudged, and next to it was a line of small writing, the ink faded considerably, but still legible.

"The correction value for the third-level separation point needs to be verified."

Professor Qian took the paper, smoothed it out with his hand, and tucked it into his notebook. He then carefully put away everything on the table: manuscript paper, calculator, pencil, eraser, and even the broken ruler. He zipped up the bag, picked it up, and stood at the door.

"Let's go."

He glanced back at the windowsill. The asparagus fern was still there, its leaves yellowed, the soil dry, neglected. He looked at it for a few seconds, then turned and pushed open the door. The hallway light illuminated his gray hair, making it bounce like withered grass on a winter wall. He Yuzhu followed behind, closing the door behind him.

Yang Xiaobing's car was parked in the back alley, the engine still running, white smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe. When Professor Qian got in, he clutched his bag to his chest, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. He Yuzhu closed the door for him, stood at the alley entrance, and watched the car drive away. The taillights flashed, and it disappeared around the corner. He took out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, took two puffs, coughed from the smoke, stubbed it out, and threw it on the ground.

The alley was deserted, the streetlights were far apart and didn't reach where he was standing. He leaned against the wall, looking up at the sky. The moon was obscured by clouds, and he couldn't see anything. He put his hands in his pockets, his hands clutching the keys inside, which were icy cold.

When Yang Xiaobing's car returned, he had been standing there for almost twenty minutes.

"Commander, shall we go to Team Leader Lin now?"

He Yuzhu opened the car door. "Go."

Lin Jianguo lived in the row of bungalows in the backyard. The door faced north, and the windows were small, so the lights had to be on even during the day. He Yuzhu knocked on the door, and the sound of a chair being moved inside came through very softly, as if afraid of being overheard.

"Who?"

"I."

Several seconds later, the door opened. Lin Jianguo stood in the doorway, his hand gripping the doorknob tightly. The lights inside were off, the curtains were drawn tightly, and the table lamp was covered with a cloth, letting out only a sliver of light that illuminated half of his face, leaving it half bright and half dark.

"Pack your things, let's go to West Mountain."

Lin Jianguo was taken aback. "Where to?"

He Yuzhu didn't repeat himself. Lin Jianguo lowered his head, touched the key on his chest; it was digging into his clothes, causing a small bulge. He turned around, took the old leather bag from the drawer, and started stuffing stacks of documents from the table into it. He stopped halfway through, pulled out a handwritten notebook from the bag, flipped through it, and put it back. He zipped it up, picked up the bag, and stood at the door.

"Dean, what about the archives..."

"Someone is watching."

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but didn't. He Yuzhu patted him on the shoulder, and he followed him outside. When he reached the door, he turned back to look at the lamp covered with a cloth, the wick flickering in the fabric.

Yang Xiaobing's car was still parked in the same spot. When Lin Jianguo got in, he clutched his briefcase to his chest, his knuckles white. The car drove away, its taillights flashing. As they rounded the corner, He Yuzhu was still standing at the alley entrance. A chilly wind blew in from the alley entrance, and he pulled his collar up.

This is the last time Mr. Yuan will be making this trip.

He lived at the very back of the row of bungalows on the east side of the research institute. There were several flowerpots piled up by the door, but they weren't filled with flowers; they were filled with rice seedlings, short and a dull green. He Yuzhu knocked on the door, and came the sound of dragging footsteps from inside, very slow, like the soles of shoes scraping the ground.

The door opened. Old Yuan stood in the doorway, wearing a faded blue cotton jacket with frayed cuffs. He clutched a handful of golden rice ears, heavy with grains that bent the stalks. He saw He Yuzhu, but without asking, he turned and walked inside.

The room was even messier than Professor Qian's. Rice seeds were spread out on the table, wrapped in newspaper and labeled with numbers in pencil. Several pots of rice seedlings sat on the windowsill, some with ears of rice, others still growing. A hoe stood in the corner, still covered in mud.

"Mr. Yuan, pack your things and we'll stay somewhere else for a few days."

Standing at the table, Mr. Yuan stacked the rice seeds one by one and tied them with rope. His hands were steady, but his movements were slow. After tying each bundle, he tightened the rope with his fingers and then tied a knot.

"What should I do with my experimental field?"

He Yuzhu stood at the door. "Someone's in charge."

Old Yuan didn't reply. He stuffed the bundle of rice seeds into a canvas bag, then took out a packet of seeds from the bottom of a drawer, wrapped it in newspaper, and tucked it into his coat. He walked to the door, then turned back, picked up the pot of rice seedlings on the windowsill, looked at it, put it down, then picked it up again. He ran his fingers over the leaves; they were a glossy green, with water droplets clinging to their tips.

"You can't take it with you."

He Yuzhu stood at the door, not urging him. Old Yuan placed the pot of rice seedlings back on the windowsill, his finger lingering on the rim of the pot for a moment before he turned and walked over. Reaching the door, he glanced back again. The pot of rice seedlings rested on the windowsill, its leaves swaying gently in the breeze.

Yang Xiaobing's car was parked in the back alley, its headlights on, illuminating the gray wall in front. When Old Yuan got into the car, he handed the bundle of rice ears to He Yuzhu.

"Then you keep it for me. Don't let it dry out."

He Yuzhu took the rice stalks; they felt heavy in his hands. Old Yuan's hand remained clenched, not letting go. Both of them held onto the handful of rice stalks for several seconds before he finally released them, bent down, and got into the car. As the car started moving, he rolled down the window, leaned out, and looked at the back gate of the research institute.

"I will be back."

He Yuzhu stood at the alley entrance, watching the car drive away. The taillights flashed, and it disappeared around the corner. He looked down at the handful of rice stalks in his hand; the stalks were heavy, the stems still green, and you could squeeze water out of them if you pinched them. Clutching the rice stalks, he walked back.

He walked to the back door and stopped again. The alley was pitch black, and the streetlights were far apart, not illuminating the spot where he was standing. He took the key out of his pocket, gripped it tightly in his hand, and felt its coldness against his palm.

He pushed open the door. The corridor light was still on, a greenish glow illuminating his long shadow trailing on the ground. He held up the rice stalks to the light; the ears were golden yellow, each grain clustered together, plump and firm, like beads strung together.

He stored the rice stalks in his system space, placing them alongside the blueprints, lists, and codebooks. The corridor fell silent, except for the emergency exit lights. He walked towards his office, his shoes making a soft, rustling sound as they scraped against the floor.