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

The day Yang Xiaobing left, a strong wind was blowing in Beijing. The locust tree leaves outside the research institute were scattered all over the street. He was wearing a gray cloth jacket and a straw hat, standing next to the jeep, looking like a street vendor. He Yuzhu handed him a piece of paper, which rustled in the wind.

"Yangon Chinatown, number 16. Old Wang, a Fujianese, runs a tea business. Just call him Old Wang, and he'll make arrangements."

Yang Xiaobing folded the paper twice, stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket, and patted it down. "Don't worry, Commander."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "It's chaotic over there. If something happens, no one will bail you out."

Yang Xiaobing grinned and climbed into the car. The jeep turned out of the alley, the fallen leaves kicked up by the rear wheels swirling in the air. He Yuzhu stood at the door until the taillights disappeared at the alley entrance before turning back.

The route from Yunnan to the border is the Ruili line. "Falcon" took this same route when he came from Myanmar. There's no wall along the border, only a dry ditch. On one side is a Chinese dirt road, and on the other side is Myanmar's forest. The forest is so dense you can't see the sky; the reeds are taller than a person, and when the wind blows, they rustle like someone running inside.

The guide was an elderly Dai man, around fifty years old, with a dark, shiny face and a slightly hunched back, but he walked very fast. He didn't speak, just walked at the front, occasionally slashing at the vines blocking his path with his machete. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, sweat pouring down his back, his wet jacket clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Old Lu brought up the rear, with Xiao Zhao sandwiched in the middle; all three remained silent.

They traveled for three days. On the first day, they stayed in a village. Pigs were raised under the bamboo houses, and the smell of pig manure was overwhelming. The guide spoke a few words in Dai language to the owner, who gave him a pot of rice and a bowl of pickled vegetables. Yang Xiaobing ate two bowls and shared the rest with Lao Lu and Xiao Zhao. That night, they slept on the hard floor; turning over, they could hear the pigs grunting below. On the second day, they went deeper into the forest. The sky was invisible, only a few slivers of light filtering through the leaves. Yang Xiaobing took out his compass, checked the direction—it was correct—and put it back. On the afternoon of the third day, they arrived at a small town in northern Myanmar.

The town had only one dirt road, with stilted houses leaning precariously on both sides, chickens and pigs roaming underneath. A child squatted by the roadside, poking ants with a stick, glancing up at them before looking down again. Yang Xiaobing found a small inn, a wooden cabin with poor soundproofing; he could hear the snoring from next door clearly. He told the guide to go back first. The guide took the money, counted it, put it in his pocket, turned and left without even saying goodbye.

The journey from north to south took three days by long-distance bus. The bus was an old, discarded Japanese bus; the seats were so worn the foam was showing, and the window had a crack, letting in a howling wind. The bus was packed with people: Burmese, Indians, and a few Chinese wearing longyi (traditional Japanese robes). Xiao Zhao got carsick and stuck his head out the window, vomiting twice, his face turning pale. Old Lu handed him a water bottle; he rinsed his mouth, then vomited again.

Yang Xiaobing leaned against the car window, watching the scenery slowly change. The mountains to the north grew shorter, the forests thinned, and finally, the plains stretched out, revealing fields of lush green rice paddies. A Burmese woman sat beside him, holding a child who had cried the entire way, but she didn't try to comfort him, just held him, her eyes fixed on the scenery outside the window. Yang Xiaobing glanced at her, then turned his face away.

Yangon arrived. The station was in the north of the city, a chaotic scene filled with people carrying large and small bags. Yang Xiaobing got off the train, his legs weak, and squatted by the roadside to rest for a while. Lao Lu went to buy some sugarcane, and the three of them ate it as they walked towards Chinatown. The sun was scorching, making their scalps tingle. Yang Xiaobing pulled his straw hat down further, sweat streaming down his neck.

Chinatown was cleaner than the outside. Chinese signs, in traditional characters, hung on both sides of the street; some had peeling paint, and the strokes were missing. Number 16 was a tea shop, with two potted cycads at the entrance, their leaves wilted and half-yellow. Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door and went in. Behind the counter sat a fat man, about fifty years old, with a round face and a beaming smile.

"Buying tea?"

Yang Xiaobing took off his straw hat. "Old Wang? From Beijing?"

Old Wang's laughter subsided. He stood up, glanced outside, closed the door, and lowered the curtain. He led Yang Xiaobing to the backyard, through a narrow corridor, and pushed open a wooden door. The backyard wasn't large, piled with cardboard boxes and tea baskets. In the corner stood a vat containing water lilies, their leaves an unnaturally green hue.

"The person you're looking for, surnamed Chen, stayed here last month. He stayed for three days, checked out, and headed north."

Yang Xiaobing pulled out Chen Zhiyuan's photo from his pocket. Old Wang took it, held it up to the light, and looked at it for several seconds.

"It looked like him. But I'm not sure. He was wearing a hat that day, and the brim was pulled low, so I couldn't see his whole face."

Yang Xiaobing took the photo back. "Was there an old man next to him? Thin, wearing gold-rimmed glasses?"

Old Wang thought for a moment. "Yes. They live together, but they don't talk much. They leave early and come back late, and when they do, they don't say a word, they just go straight upstairs. I asked the waiter to bring them hot water, but they wouldn't open the door, they just told me to leave it at the door."

Yang Xiaobing tapped his fingers on the table. "Is it still possible to find the hotel owner?"

Old Wang hesitated for a moment, then lifted the curtain a crack and looked outside. "Yes. I'll take you. But don't say I introduced you."

The hotel was on the edge of Chinatown, in an old, three-story building. The plaster on the walls was bubbling and peeling in places, crumbling at the slightest touch. The owner, surnamed Lin, was a thin, Fujianese man in his fifties, wearing reading glasses, and sitting behind the counter, working on an abacus. Old Wang didn't go in; he stood across the street waiting. Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door and went in. The electric fan on the counter whirred and whirred, blowing out hot air.

The shop owner, Mr. Lin, looked up and glanced at him. "Checking in?"

Yang Xiaobing took out the photo and placed it on the counter. "Have you seen this person before?"

Mr. Lin picked up the photo and looked at it closely. He pushed his reading glasses up, looked at it for a while longer, and then put it down.

"I've seen him. He stayed on the second floor, in the room near the stairs. He stayed for three days, then checked out. He hired a car and headed north."

Yang Xiaobing's heart skipped a beat. "North? Where to?"

Mr. Lin pushed the photo back. "I don't know. They didn't say, and I didn't dare ask. The north is so big, that area bordering Myanmar, Laos, and Thailand, who can control that?"

Yang Xiaobing placed the money on the counter. "Thank you."

Mr. Lin pushed the money back, refusing to take it. "It's not easy for anyone when they're away from home."

Yang Xiaobing put the money away and walked out of the hotel. The sunlight was blinding, so he squinted and stood on the street for a while. Old Wang walked over from the opposite side, looking left and right.

"How is it?"

Yang Xiaobing shook his head. "It's late again. They headed north."

Old Wang sighed. "The north is in chaos. Why are you still chasing them?"