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

He Yuzhu had been pursuing the name Chen Zhiyuan for three years. From its first appearance in Zhou Weixian's confession, to its repeated appearance in Jin Dehou's account books, and finally to Zhang Jianguo's confession while kneeling on the ground, the name was like a rusty nail, driven into his mind, impossible to remove. Each time he tried to pull it out, it seemed to drill deeper.

He pulled out the earliest piece of paper torn from the account book; the words "Your Highness" were yellowed and the edges were curled. He flattened the paper, looked at it for a few seconds, and put it back in the drawer. There were three photos in the drawer. One was of Pu Zheng in front of a small Western-style house in Kowloon Tong, Hong Kong; another was a profile shot taken by Yang Xiaobing from the entrance of a teahouse; and the third was a distant view of a rubber plantation in Chiang Mai, the fog so thick that details were obscured, only a few rows of houses and a rubber grove were visible.

He pinned the three photos side by side to the wall, stepped back, and looked at them for a while. A small Western-style house. A teahouse. A rubber plantation. He Yuzhu meticulously followed the path Pu Zheng had taken, from Hong Kong to Kunming to Chiang Mai.

Old Sun called every few days. The first week, he said Mr. Lin was still inquiring, and their old friend in Chiang Mai hadn't replied yet. He Yuzhu grunted in response, hung up, and stood by the window, smoking a cigarette. The big-character posters on the courtyard wall had been replaced with new ones, the edges curling up and rustling in the wind. He looked at them for a while, then stubbed out his cigarette.

The following week, Lao Sun said that Mr. Lin's old friend had some concerns, fearing trouble, and was reluctant to help. He Yuzhu held the microphone and remained silent for a few seconds.

"Tell Old Lin that he doesn't need to do anything dangerous. Just ask for a few names and look at a few photos."

Old Sun sighed. "Alright, I'll discuss it with him again."

A few days later, Old Sun called, his voice a little louder than usual. "Old Mr. Lin's old friend has relented. He said he can help inquire, but we have to take it slowly and not rush it."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He walked to the wall, looked at the photo of the rubber plantation, reached out and touched it; it was cold.

"how long?"

Old Sun said, "I don't know. The mountains over there are high and the forests are dense, and the roads are difficult to travel. He'll have to find an opportunity."

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement and hung up the phone.

For the next month, He Yuzhu went to see Lao Sun every few days. Sometimes he went to ask for news, sometimes he just sat there, smoked a cigarette, and looked at the map. Yang Xiaobing went with him a few times, standing at the door of Lao Sun's office but not going in.

"Commander, should I go?" Yang Xiaobing said once.

He Yuzhu shook his head. "You can't go. We don't have diplomatic relations there, so our people can't get through."

Yang Xiaobing fell silent.

On that map, He Yuzhu circled Chiang Mai repeatedly with a red pen, almost wearing the paper out. He looked at it every day, then folded it up and locked it in a drawer.

Mr. Lin called one evening two months later. He Yuzhu answered the phone; the voice on the other end was old and had a heavy Minnan accent.

"My friend replied. He said there's a rubber plantation in the mountains of Mae Rim district in Chiang Mai, and the owner's surname is Pu. Pu, the same Puyi. People there call him 'Mr. Pu'."

He Yuzhu's hand tightened on the microphone. "Surname Pu?"

"Yes. Puyi's Pu. A Hong Konger, he's been there for many years. His rubber plantation is quite large, several thousand acres, with dormitories, warehouses, and a fleet of vehicles. He also does other businesses."

He Yuzhu held the microphone, but didn't speak. He stood up and walked to the window. The sky outside was overcast, threatening rain. The large posters on the courtyard wall rattled in the wind. He stood there for a long time.

"Is that guy surnamed Chen, Chen Zhiyuan, over there?"

Mr. Lin was silent for a few seconds. "My friend said there's a manager in the rubber plantation named Chen, who's the boss's subordinate. He saw the photo and said it looks like him."

He Yuzhu took the photo off the wall, looked at it against the light, and then pinned it back on.

"Thank you, Mr. Lin."

Mr. Lin sighed. "Director He, I can't be of much help. I won't interfere in your affairs. But there's one thing: the mountains are high and the emperor is far away there; if you want to arrest someone, you can't reach them."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. The phone call ended. He stood by the window, looking at the gray sky, for a long time. Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door and came in, carrying two enamel mugs.

"Commander, is there any news?"

He Yuzhu took the jar and took a sip. "Found it. Chiang Mai, Thailand, in the mountains. Pu Zheng's rubber plantation. Chen Zhiyuan is in charge there."

Yang Xiaobing placed the jar on the table, walked to the wall, and looked at the newly nailed photograph. The fog was thick, obscuring the details, but he could see several rows of white-walled, red-roofed houses scattered among the green rubber plantations.

"Can we arrest him?"

He Yuzhu shook his head. "We can't reach it. That's Kuomintang territory; our people can't get there."

Yang Xiaobing didn't ask any more questions. He picked up the jar, took a sip, and it was cold.

Over the next few months, Mr. Lin's friend sent back some more news. The rubber plantation wasn't just about growing rubber; they also did other businesses. Strangers often came from Myanmar and Laos, stayed for a few days, and left; no one knew what they were doing. He Yuzhu carefully put all the intelligence reports into a drawer and locked it.

One day, Old Sun called, his voice very low.

"Old He, something's happened in Thailand."

He Yuzhu pressed his hand on the table. "What is it?"

Old Sun said, "The Thai government expelled overseas Chinese. In Chiang Mai, many overseas Chinese's properties were confiscated. Pu Zheng's rubber plantation changed hands."

He Yuzhu stood up, walked to the wall, and looked at the photograph. The fog was thick, obscuring the details, but the houses and rubber plantations were still there.

"Who took over?"

Old Sun was silent for a few seconds. "We can't find anything. We only know he's a Thai man with ties to the military. Pu Zheng's men have all left, and Chen Zhiyuan has also gone. Their whereabouts are unknown."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He took the photo down from the wall, glanced at it, and then flipped it back. On the back of the photo were the words "Chiang Mai, Mae Rim District" written in pen; the ink had already dried.

"Old He?" Old Sun called out from the other end of the phone.

He Yuzhu put the photo back on the table. "Here."

Old Sun sighed. "That line... it's broken."

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He hung up the phone, stood by the window, and looked at the night outside. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the courtyard wall, casting patches of shadows from the big-character posters on the ground. He stood there for a long time, then drew the curtains.

That evening, He Yuzhu returned home. He Nianhua was hunched over the table doing her homework, the pencil stub scratching on the paper. Qin Huairu was busy at the stove, the spatula clanging against the iron pot. He Yuzhu sat down in a chair, took off his gloves, and placed them on the table.

"Dad, today the teacher taught us how to write the character '等' (děng, meaning 'wait')."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "How do you write the character 'wait'?"

He Nianhua put down his pencil and drew on the table with his finger. "The top part is the bamboo radical, and the bottom part is the temple radical. The teacher said that 'wait' means to wait, to wait for time to pass."

He Yuzhu picked him up and placed him on his lap. The child was heavy again, and it was difficult to lift him. He Nianhua leaned on his shoulder without saying a word.

"Dad, what are you waiting for?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment. "Waiting for someone."

He Nianhua looked up at him. "Did you wait?"

He Yuzhu shook his head. "Not yet. But soon."

He Nianhua slid off his lap and lay back down on the table to write. Qin Huairu brought out the dishes: a plate of scrambled eggs, a plate of stewed cabbage, and a bowl of soup. He Nianhua climbed onto the stool, picked up his chopsticks, and popped a piece of egg into his mouth.

"Dad, will that person come?"

He Yuzhu placed a piece of cabbage on his plate. "I will."

He Nianhua nodded and lowered her head to continue eating. Qin Huairu sat beside them, watching them without touching her chopsticks. He Yuzhu placed a piece of food on her plate, and she lowered her head to eat slowly.

That night, 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 opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the room. He gently placed He Nianhua's small hand back under the covers and turned over.

The rubber plantation changed hands; Pu Zheng fled, and Chen Zhiyuan fled too. They'll reappear, in a different place, under a different name. Those spies will still come from the border. The supply line is broken, but the loose ends are still there. He has to wait. Wait for them to reappear.