Chapter 490: Leisurely Travel Through Time

In April 2000, Li Ping'an, who had just celebrated his seventieth birthday, set out again with Lin Xueqing.

This time they wouldn't go far, just strolling slowly within Guangdong. From Shenzhen heading west, the first stop was Jiangmen Kaiping.

No driver, no secretary, no pre‑scouted reception staff—just the old couple, an ordinary‑license Santana, two suitcases in the back seat, and on the passenger side Lin Xueqing's homemade tea‑egg and flatbread.

Li Ping'an gripped the steering wheel, the window rolled down halfway, and the April wind poured in, carrying the scent of freshly turned field soil.

"This time we won't rush," he said, "we'll go wherever, stay a few extra days wherever we like."

Lin Xueqing peeled a tea‑egg and handed it to his mouth.

"You've been saying that since retirement, five or six times now,"

Li Ping'an took a bite, chewed, and smiled.

"This time I mean it."

The car passed Dongguan, and the fields gradually opened up. Mountains loomed in the distance, water nearby, and old banyan trees flashed along the road, under whose shade a few elders sat cooling off.

Li Ping'an glanced at the rearview mirror; Shenzhen's skyscrapers had already disappeared.

He suddenly felt the steering wheel in his hands looser than before.

April 7, Kaiping.

The bastion cluster of Zili Village glowed a faint creamy yellow in the afternoon sun. Those Sino‑Western hybrid buildings stood silently among the fields, Roman columns with green‑tile roofs, arched windows set into thick rammed‑earth walls, like a group of elders dressed in Western gowns yet bearing Chinese faces, having stood for over a hundred years.

Li Ping'an and Lin Xueqing walked slowly along a farm path, rice paddies lush on both sides, the wind stirring layer upon layer of fine ripples.

Further away a denser group of bastions rose, their roof ridges shaped like swallow tails pointing to the sky, as if ready to take flight.

"This place is interesting," Li Ping'an stopped before a bastion, tilting his head to look at the carvings, "both foreign and native, they look awkward at first, but the longer you stare the more pleasing they become."

Lin Xueqing stood beside him, also tilting her head.

"The people who built these towers back then, were they like you?"

Li Ping'an turned his head to look at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Having seen the world outside, earned money, yet unable to let go of the hometown."

Lin Xueqing said, "They brought back what they saw abroad, mixed it with local elements, and constructed these mismatched towers."

Li Ping'an thought for a moment and smiled.

"Are you praising me or scolding me?"

"Praising you." Lin Xueqing slipped her arm around his, "Praising that you, like them, have a root in your heart."

The two continued forward. When they reached Mingshi Tower, a local elder was selling cool tea at the entrance and greeted them warmly as they approached.

"Uncle and auntie, come in and sit? Five yuan per person, you can go upstairs for a full view."

Li Ping'an paid for two tickets and led Lin Xueqing inside. The stairs were narrow and steep, winding upward step by step, small shooting holes puncturing the walls, letting shafts of light stream in.

Reaching the top floor, the view opened up. The whole field lay beneath, distant bastions scattered like chess pieces, nearby rice paddies spread like a green carpet.

Li Ping'an leaned on the railing, watching for a long while.

"Those people back then," he said, "standing on this tower, looking at their own fields, what did they feel inside?"

Lin Xueqing gave no answer.

She simply stood quietly with him, letting the wind ruffle her white‑gray hair.

April 11, Guangzhou.

The roof of the Chen Family Ancestral Hall left Lin Xueqing staring in awe.

Those gray and ceramic sculptures crowded the ridge, figures, beasts, flora, pavilions layered one atop another, bustling as if a play were about to begin. Sunlight shone on them, illuminating every tile and every strand of hair clearly.

"My god," Lin Xueqing said, tilting her head, her neck aching, "how many people worked on this and for how long?"

Li Ping'an also looked up.

"I guess," he said, "it was more arduous than building our first car."

The two walked slowly through the hall, from brick carvings to wood carvings, from stone to bronze casting.

Lin Xueqing, trained in medicine, habitually examined details first; she pointed out each hollow dragon, each three‑dimensional deity, each bat and plum blossom hidden in a corner to Li Ping'an.

"Look at this one, the carving is so fine, even the whiskers are rendered strand by strand."

"Look at this, a person carved inside such a tiny gap."

Li Ping'an followed her gaze, listening to her commentary.

"You've come to Guangzhou so many times," Lin Xueqing suddenly asked, "have you ever been here before?"

Li Ping'an shook his head.

"No."

"Why not?"

Li Ping'an thought for a moment.

"No time," he said. "And no inclination."

Lin Xueqing looked at him.

"Now you have?"

Li Ping'an nodded.

"Got it."

The two spent the whole afternoon in the hall. When they left, the sun had already shifted westward, and the old banyan tree at the entrance cast a broad shade.

Li Ping'an turned back to glance at those bustling rooftops.

"We'll come again next time," he said.

April 15, Chaozhou.

Guangji Bridge spanned the Han River, eighteen shuttle boats linked together, connecting the stone piers on both east and west ends. The water flowed slowly beneath the bridge, a few white egrets foraged on the shallow sandbank, occasionally taking flight, their wings flashing silver in the sunlight.

Li Ping'an stood at the head of the bridge, watching the shuttle boats.

"This bridge is interesting," he said, "by day it connects for people to cross, by night it separates to let boats pass."

Lin Xueqing looked at the information plaque beside her.

"It is said to have been built in the Southern Song, over eight hundred years ago."

"Eight hundred plus years," Li Ping'an murmured, "people back then already understood this."

The two stepped onto the floating bridge. The planks under their feet swayed slightly, river water flowing through the gaps, a gentle babbling audible. Reaching the bridge's center, Li Ping'an stopped, leaning on the rail to look down.

The water was clear enough to see the pebbles below.

"Xueqing."

"Hmm."

"Tell me, over these years, have I become like this bridge?"

Lin Xueqing looked at him.

"How so?"

"By day it lets people walk, by night it rests itself," Li Ping'an said, "having carried so many, it doesn't even know fatigue."

Lin Xueqing said nothing.

She simply grasped his hand.

After a long while, Li Ping'an straightened up.

"Let's go, let's take a look over there."

April 20, Foshan.

In the ancestral temple, the lion awakening performance was about to begin; Li Ping'an and Lin Xueqing found a corner to stand. As the gongs and drums sounded, the multicolored lion sprang to life, blinking, shaking its ears, nodding and swaying its tail, leaping on the plum blossom posts.

Lin Xueqing watched intently, her hand unconsciously gripping Li Ping'an's sleeve.

The lion leapt onto the highest post, front legs raised, its whole body suspended. The audience held its breath.

"Great!" Li Ping'an couldn't help but shout.

The lion landed steadily, and the crowd erupted in applause.

When the performance ended, Li Ping'an remained where he stood.

"What's wrong?" Lin Xueqing asked.

Li Ping'an shook his head.

"It reminds me of my childhood," he said, "back home, there were lion dances during the New Year. My mother held me to watch, and I would tug at her hair."

He paused.

"Back then I thought the lion was so tall, so huge."

Lin Xueqing said nothing, merely standing quietly beside him.

After a long while, Li Ping'an took a deep breath.

"Let's go, go see Huang Feihong."

April 25, Zhaoqing.

Moss grew in the cracks of the Song city wall bricks, making the ground soft underfoot. Li Ping'an and Lin Xueqing walked slowly along the wall, old dwellings on the city side and newly risen skyscrapers beyond.

"This wall," Li Ping'an stepped on the bricks, "is nearly a thousand years old."

Lin Xueqing looked at the mottled bricks.

"A thousand years," she said, "how many people have walked over it?"

Li Ping'an thought for a moment.

"Countless."

The two approached a deserted tower; inside it was empty, only a few columns supporting the roof. Wind poured in through the windows, whistling.

Li Ping'an stood at the window, looking out at the city.

"Xueqing."

"Hmm."

"Tell me, what did the ancient city defenders think, standing here looking outward?"

Lin Xueqing gave no answer.

She moved beside him, watching the view together.

In the distance, new buildings rose, tower cranes rotating like tireless giants.

April 29, Guangzhou.

The Light Tower of Huai Sheng Temple stood amid the bustling city, surrounded by skyscrapers and traffic, its form unchanged from a thousand years ago. A cylindrical tower, brick-patterned, capped with a tiny spire.

Li Ping'an stood beneath the tower, tilting his head upward.

"From the Tang dynasty," he said, "over thirteen hundred years old."

Lin Xueqing was also watching.

"Those people back then," she said, "how did they build it?"

Li Ping'an shook his head.

"I don't know."

The two circled the tower once, without entering. The Light Tower was not open to the public, only viewable from outside.

Li Ping'an found a stone to sit on, just watching the tower.

Lin Xueqing sat down beside him.

"What are you thinking about?"

Li Ping'an was silent for a long time.

"I miss my mother," he said, "If she were alive, I'd bring her here to see all this—would she be happy?"

Lin Xueqing said nothing.

She simply rested her head lightly on his shoulder.

In the distance, the Light Tower's shadow shifted inch by inch, like an ancient sundial from a thousand years ago, still keeping time for this old temple.

May 3, Deqing.

The great hall of the academy was empty, only a few massive wooden columns supporting the roof. Li Ping'an tilted his head upward, looking at the beams, the brackets, and the mortise‑and‑tenon joints.

"Four pillars without a cap," he said, "this craft is on the verge of being lost."

Lin Xueqing stood beside him, looking at the information plaque.

"It says it was built in the Yuan dynasty, over seven hundred years ago."

Li Ping'an nodded.

He stood in the hall for a long time, walking from one end to the other, then back again. Each step was slow, as if measuring something.

Lin Xueqing did not disturb him.

She knew he was not measuring the hall.

He was measuring himself.

When they emerged, night was already near. The setting sun stretched the hall's shadow long, casting it onto the stone slabs before the gate.

Li Ping'an stood within the shadow and glanced back.

"Xueqing."

"Mm."

"Walking this whole way," he said, "I think I've come to understand something."

Lin Xueqing looked at him.

"What is it?"

Li Ping'an was silent for a few seconds.

"My mother, on her deathbed, said, 'Live well.'"

He paused.

"I used to think that living well meant getting things done, raising children, holding up the family."

He turned around, looking at his wife.

"Now I know that living well—means being able to stop and look."

Lin Xueqing looked at him.

A seventy‑year‑old man, his hair jet‑black, his back straight, yet the lines at the corners of his eyes held the softness accumulated from this slow journey.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

Li Ping'an gave no answer.

He simply reached out and gently gathered her wind‑tousled hair behind her ear.

May 5, Deqing, a small inn.

No star rating, no waitstaff, just an old woman at the front desk, the register still handwritten.

Li Ping'an and Lin Xueqing sat in the courtyard, two bowls of plain congee before them, a dish of pickled vegetables, and a plate of freshly harvested greens. The old woman brought out another plate of fried egg from the kitchen, saying it was from her own chickens and insisting they try it.

The last streak of twilight at the horizon was slowly fading, stars lighting up one by one. In the distance a dog barked, nearby insects chirped, and the wind carried the scent of rice flowers.

Lin Xueqing took a sip of congee and suddenly laughed.

Li Ping'an looked at her.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Laughing at you," Lin Xueqing said, "Twenty years ago, you were negotiating in Hong Kong, billions flowing each day. Now you're sitting in this shabby courtyard drinking plain congee, and you still find it quite fragrant."

Li Ping'an also laughed.

"Fragrant," he said, "more fragrant than those exotic delicacies."

He gazed at the fields in the distance; night was already fully dark, only a few lights flickering in the night breeze.

"Xueqing."

"Mm."

"Where shall we go for the next stop?"

Lin Xueqing thought for a moment.

"Let's head west," she said. "Guangxi, Guizhou, Yunnan… taking it slow all the way."

Li Ping'an nodded.

"Alright."

He lifted the bowl and finished the congee.

The bottom of the bowl was spotless, not a single grain left.

Night grew deep.

Li Ping'an sat alone in the courtyard, cradling a cup of ice‑cold tea. Lin Xueqing had already fallen asleep, and a steady breathing sound drifted from the next room.

He looked up at the night sky.

There was no moon; the stars shone especially bright.

He suddenly recalled that night in 1942, when ten‑year‑old him lay in the wilderness, too hungry to sleep, also staring at the stars. Back then he didn't know where tomorrow would be, nor whether he could survive to the next spring.

Now he knows.

Tomorrow is on the road.

Spring is behind him.

He gave a light laugh, splashing the cool tea onto the ground beside his feet.

Then he stood up and walked back into the house.

He gently pushed the door open, Lin Xueqing turned over, mumbling, "Still not sleeping?"

"Just going to sleep." he said.

He lay down, grasping that warm hand.

Outside the window, the insects' chirping rose and fell in the fields, as if this night were breathing gently.

Tomorrow, they would set out again.