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

When He Yuzhu closed the last register, his fingers froze.

He looked down at his right hand; a red mark was rubbed between his index and middle fingers, the skin almost breaking. He shook his hand and stacked the notebook on top of the pile on the table. Ma Yuejin was squatting on the ground, still arranging the notebooks by year. When he got to 1974, the top one was thinner, with an oil stain on the cover—he couldn't tell if it was from canteen soup or machine oil.

"Dean, the choreography is complete."

Ma Yuejin tried to stand up, but his knee cracked. He slowly straightened up, holding onto the edge of the table. His legs were numb, and he had to shuffle his toes on the ground a couple of times before he could stand up.

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He walked to the wall and looked at the map that had been hanging there for ten years. The map was covered with dense red dots: Daqing, Anshan Iron and Steel, North China, Shanghai, Xi'an, Baotou. He had visited every single one of these locations this year, stood beneath every iron tower, and scorched his face in front of every blast furnace. He reached out and pressed his finger on the red dot for Daqing. The map paper brittled, the edges curling up; he pressed it down, and it bounced back.

"Dean, how many visits are there?" Ma Yuejin walked over and stood next to him.

He Yuzhu turned around, walked to the table, and picked up the statistical report. He turned to the last page, stared at the number, and pressed his finger on the paper until his knuckles turned white.

More than 5,300 people. Ten years.

Ma Yuejin swallowed hard. He reached out and touched the stack of notebooks. The bottom one, from 1964, was yellowed and the edges were curled. He opened to the first page: Daqing Oilfield, Zhao Deming, Third Phase Oil Recovery Technology. Zhao Deming's signature was crooked and illegible, like a primary school student's handwriting, but every stroke was forceful, making the back of the paper bulge.

"Chief Engineer Zhao is seventy-two this year, and he's still working at the well site." Ma Yuejin closed his notebook and lowered his voice. "He has a limp and uses crutches, but he still goes."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He walked to the window and opened it a crack. The wind blew in, carrying a dusty smell; it was going to rain. He stood there for a moment, then turned around.

"Let's go eat."

The cafeteria wasn't crowded. He Yuzhu sat down in a corner, carrying an enamel mug. Ma Yuejin sat opposite him, placing his mug on the table with his chopsticks resting on the rim, but not moving. The head chef passed by, scooped an extra spoonful of food into He Yuzhu's mug, muttering, "It's been a long time since Dean He has come." He Yuzhu nodded but didn't say anything.

Ma Yuejin picked up his chopsticks, took a piece of cabbage, chewed it a few times, and swallowed it. He put down his chopsticks and looked at the vegetable soup in the jar, where the cabbage leaves were floating.

"Dean, you mentioned those technologies, could they have been developed without a data room?"

He Yuzhu put down his chopsticks, not in a hurry to answer. Someone was laughing loudly from the other end of the cafeteria; the laughter was so loud it echoed through the empty space. In the distance, there was the clanging of spatulas against woks, the head chef cooking.

"Yes, it's possible," He Yuzhu said, "but it will take a few years."

He paused, picked up the jar, didn't drink from it, and put it down again.

"A few months' delay means millions less oil production in Daqing. A few days' delay means countless fewer lives saved by medicine in North China."

Ma Yuejin didn't say anything. He finished the soup in the jar, put the jar on the table, and didn't pour any more.

"That old man survived."

He Yuzhu raised his head and looked at Ma Yuejin.

"The one from Daqing, kneeling on the ground. Zhao Deming told me about it. During the drought years ago, that old man knelt in the field praying for rain. Later, you carried out artificial rainmaking, and the rain came down, and the crops survived. The old man later sent someone to deliver a letter, on which the words 'benefactor' were written in crooked handwriting."

After Ma Yuejin finished speaking, he lowered his head and used his chopsticks to pick at the few remaining grains of rice in the jar.

He Yuzhu didn't say anything. He ate all the rice in his bowl, put the jar down, and stood up.

"Let's go."

That evening, He Yuzhu sat alone in his office. He didn't turn on the lights, nor did he draw the curtains; the moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the room in a pale light. He sat at his desk, retrieved the list from the system space, flipped to the "Records Room" page, picked up a pen, and wrote in the blank space: "Over 5,300 borrowers in ten years, with a technology conversion rate of 53%."

After he finished writing, he put the list away and locked it in the drawer.

He stood up, walked to the window, and placed his hand on the windowsill. The windowsill was cold, made of cement, and had a crack running from left to right. He looked down at the crack for a long time.

There was a knock on the door. It wasn't the usual rhythm; it was urgent, three knocks, then three more.

He Yuzhu turned around. "Come in."

Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door and came in, his face pale. He didn't speak immediately, but closed the door first, leaned against it, and took a breath. He was clutching a piece of paper tightly in his hand, the edges of which were crumpled.

"Commander, the 'Prince' has sent people into the country again."

He Yuzhu didn't move. He stood by the window, his hand still resting on the windowsill.

"They came from Hong Kong by sea and landed in Shantou. There were two of them, and they were carrying something." Yang Xiaobing handed over the paper.

He Yuzhu took the paper and glanced at it. There were only a few lines of text on it, copied in pencil, the handwriting messy: "Goods have been shipped. Please check upon receipt."

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He walked to the window, pulled the curtains open a crack, and looked out at the night. There wasn't a soul in sight under the streetlights. The dim streetlights illuminated the empty alleyway entrance and the dusty gray paint on the courtyard walls.

"Starting today, the research institute will have double guards. There will be 24-hour patrols around the perimeter. Strangers are strictly prohibited from entering." He Yuzhu turned around, his voice not loud, but every word was clear.

Yang Xiaobing nodded. "Okay. I'll make the arrangements."

He turned to leave. He Yuzhu called out to him, "Wait."

Yang Xiaobing stopped and turned around.

Do you have any cigarettes on you?

Yang Xiaobing paused for a moment. He Yuzhu didn't usually smoke. He took out a pack of Daqianmen cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and handed it to him. He Yuzhu took it, put it in his mouth, and Yang Xiaobing lit a match and brought it to his lips. He Yuzhu took a puff, coughed, and his eyes reddened, whether from the smoke or something else, it was hard to tell.

"Add another guard at the records room. I have the key, and we can't lose any personnel."

Yang Xiaobing responded and turned to leave. The door closed, and the footsteps in the corridor faded into the distance until they disappeared completely.

He Yuzhu stood by the window and finished his cigarette. The ash fell to the ground, but he didn't brush it off. He stubbed out the cigarette on the windowsill, leaving a small, charred mark.