Chapter 2889: Reunion (5)

Chen Shixin rose early. Senator Huang had entrusted him with an errand: a group photograph at Lingaojiao Park.

The Coconut Grove Photography Studio, like any old-fashioned studio worth its name, offered group portraits. But the work was exacting. A crowd of faces taxed the wet-plate collodion process past its modest limits, and shooting on location demanded steadiness, patience, and a nose for the chemistry of light. Chen Shixin was no professional, yet he was an art student—his eye for composition, for form, for the way shadow fell across a surface (even a black-and-white one) outstripped anything Senator Huang's apprentices could manage. So the task had fallen to him.

Six months of interning at the studio had taught him the craft in ways that textbooks could not. His confidence was ripening. There was also this: two young women had lately favored him with their company, and a young man's blood does not stay cool for long. The next holiday, he resolved, he would ask them out again. But to invite both? That seemed faintly improper. To invite only one? He could not choose. Besides, he liked them both.

Duties first. He inventoried his equipment with care: the cumbersome black wooden camera box, the tripod, the light shields, the dark cloth, a full stack of glass dry plates, brown bottles of silver nitrate solution, and the smaller jars of chemicals whose names he had learned to handle with respect. He hired three pedicabs—one for the gear, two for himself and his assistant.

By the time they set out, the morning mist had burned away. Sunlight lay over Lingaojiao like a thrown net, and from the harbor a long steam whistle split the air, announcing the day.

The Dadan Association members were already arriving at the park. They had spent the night at the Longhao Bay Hotel, eaten well, and after breakfast walked over on foot.

Lingaojiao Park still wore something of its pre-D-Day face: a barren beach studded with cactus, the jumble of rocks along the tideline. Since the designation, much had been built: coconut groves planted, terraces of landscaping laid in, paths winding through, pavilions and commemorative sculptures erected. Chief among them stood the D-Day Memorial Column.

The column had been raised on the third anniversary of D-Day, when conditions were still lean. Its form was plain—a single stone pillar, its capital carved with the Senate's iron-fist-and-gear emblem. Beside it, a stone pavilion sheltered a replica of the ship's bell from the Fengcheng.

Hu Wumei had chosen this spot for the photograph. "A beginning and an end," he had said. "A start and a finish."

Chen Shixin and his assistant were setting up when the members finished arriving. Schneider had exchanged yesterday's finery for a subdued naval service uniform ribboned with campaign bars. Ren Fu wore the standard cadre uniform of a naturalized citizen. Hu Wumei, irrepressible, had donned yet another "fashion" outfit—his diamond ring caught the morning light, for such baubles had lately come into vogue, following the Senators' tastes. Those still inside the system wore uniforms where they had them, cadre cloth where they did not; the men in private business were all in "new-style Song attire," which gave the group a general consistency. Only Chen Xiazi and Mr. Shen stood out in clothes that were clearly new and did not quite fit, their faces a mixture of restraint and barely contained excitement.

The two-day program—banquets, a sightseeing circuit, the founding of a mutual aid fund—had left everyone in high spirits. Now, walking into the park, they pointed and exclaimed, each voice carrying some memory. The Bopu landing ground lay only a few hundred meters away. The memories were still sharp. To stand again on this soil was like waking from someone else's life.

Chen Shixin had borrowed the tiered iron stands for group portraits from the management office. The park management kept them on hand for the local offices, schools, and enterprises that came through wanting a souvenir; during festivals the same racks served for flower displays, doing double duty.

The stands were ready, and the backdrop was more or less fixed—the Landing Memorial Monument. Beyond it, through the morning haze, the silhouette of Bopu Harbor loomed faintly, the tall arms of cranes and thin wisps of steam just visible.

"Comrades, three rows by height," Chen Shixin directed in Guangpu-tong, his Mandarin carrying the broad vowels of the Guangdong coast. "Stand close together and look at the lens—yes, that round glass. When I say 'start,' don't move. Don't blink. Hold your smile, or a serious expression, either is fine. Ten to fifteen counts. Hold until I say 'done!'"

The group shuffled into position, politely yielding place to one another. Schneider and Li Guangfa were naturally pressed into the center. Hu Wumei stationed himself beside Schneider, grinning. Ren Fu quietly took a corner in the back row. Chen Xiazi, looking somewhat lost, was pulled to stand next to Wang You.

The wait for an exposure is when the mind most easily wanders. The sea breeze rustled through the coconut groves. From the harbor came the distant whistle and mechanical rumble of work. More than one gaze drifted toward that sea and that coastline—familiar, yet strange.

Schneider looked out toward the mouth of the Wenlan River, and his thoughts slipped back years. It had been near this beach that dozens of vessels of every size had anchored in a dense cluster, and they had stepped onto this desolate land with fear clamped around their hearts. There had been no park then, no paved roads—only jumbled rocks, barren sand, and fully armed Australian soldiers with cold faces. He still remembered the sweat on his palms as he presented the roster and the chest of gold ingots. He remembered Chief Chen Haiyang's appraising look, and his cool but perfectly clear promise that they were "one family."

Wang You squinted at the Fengcheng's silhouette across the bay. It no longer seemed so enormous. In those days, that "great iron ship" and the four elusive "iron fast boats" had struck them with such force that any other notion in their hearts had been crushed flat. He muttered to himself: if they had not come, or had turned back halfway, who could say which stretch of sea their bones would be rotting in by now? Chief Lin was right. A man must know when to read the times.

Lin Dan's gaze swept past the harbor as if he could see his own sailing ships plying the route to Hirado. Men who had once lived hand-to-mouth at sea, branded "pirates" by the government, now haggled and struck bargains with the Japanese—and even Boss Zhu had never managed that.

Chen Xiazi stood rigid, eyes fixed on the lens, but his heart ached a little. He thought of his two increasingly useless broken-down boats, and then of what Fifth Master Hu had told him privately, promising to help him get some decent vessels. Perhaps this was what lending a hand meant. He stole a glance at the composed Commander Shi beside him. In the old days under Boss Zhu, Shi Shisi had already been known as a bold and loyal fighter. Now he was something else entirely.

Mr. Shen was thinking of his son, who idled his days away at home. The boy was neither clever nor hardworking. He had finished a few years of primary school, could read and keep accounts, and finding work should not have been difficult—but he was lazy, refused manual labor, would not join the army, and insisted on a "respectable" job. Respectable jobs within the system were not so easily had. And he was picky on top of it. Shi Shisi had promised to keep an ear out for recruitment opportunities, which had put Mr. Shen's mind somewhat at ease. The Senate's rules were strict, but at least the path was visible. That was more hope than the old days had ever offered, drifting at sea and keeping books for a pirate chief.

"Start!" Chen Shixin called, removing the lens cap and beginning to count silently.

Everyone froze. The sea breeze lifted a few hems, tugged at the brim of Hu Wumei's dress hat, but no one moved. Sunlight fell on their faces, illuminating the lines that different lives had etched. Some gazes were steady, some wistful, some held quiet expectation, and a few still carried the faintest trace of humility.

There was no click. But Chen Shixin swiftly replaced the lens cap and announced: "Done!"

They breathed out. Stiff necks rolled. Conversation resumed, low and relieved—"How did it turn out?" "When can we pick them up?"—and teasing about who had nearly blinked.

Hu Wumei clapped his hands. "That's settled! One print for each man, as a keepsake! In ten or twenty years we'll come back and take another. See what things look like then!"

A cheer went up, the mood turning festive. Schneider smiled, his gaze sweeping once more over the scene and the people. Yes, a keepsake. To commemorate that blood-soaked, involuntary past, and to witness this self-satisfied present. What the future held, he did not know.

Suddenly a young naturalized-citizen cadre in a neat uniform came striding down the path. He walked straight to Schneider and murmured a few words. Schneider's smile froze in disbelief, then broke into an excited grin. "Really?! Really?!"

"Yes. The Chief will arrive in ten minutes." The man turned and left at once.

Schneider turned to the crowd. "Chief Lin is inspecting work nearby. Hearing that we're gathered here for a commemoration, he'll be dropping by shortly. Don't move—wait here!"

The news struck the group silent for a heartbeat, then a buzz of murmurs spread rapidly. Lin Baiguang was coming. The name had always carried weight for them. Though their lives had diverged and close contact had faded, Chief Lin was not merely their guide; in a sense, he was their benefactor.

Schneider and Li Guangfa exchanged a quick glance, excitement naked on their faces. They had already felt honored that Hu Wumei had procured a Senator's congratulatory letter—Senators rarely wrote for private gatherings. To think he would appear in person!

Hu Wumei's eyes brightened. The honor and distinction implied in the visit made him radiant. Ren Fu had already begun unconsciously straightening his already immaculate cadre attire. Chen Xiazi and the others were overwhelmed, caught between a sense of being favored beyond their station and not knowing what to do with their hands.

The atmosphere turned formal, almost stiff. People instinctively brushed nonexistent dust from their clothes. Hu Wumei called out: "Don't panic! Chief Lin is the most approachable man alive. Follow Brothers Shi and Li in greeting him—speak little, listen much." He removed his own dress hat, smoothed his hair with care, and did not put it back on.

Time thickened. The sea breeze continued as before, but the easy leisure of the photo session had evaporated. Every pair of eyes kept darting toward the entrance of the path.

At last a group of figures appeared at the far end of the tree-shaded walk. In the lead was Lin Baiguang himself, wearing a light gray short-sleeved shirt and khaki trousers, a woven sun helmet on his head, his stride steady. Behind him followed several naturalized-citizen cadres carrying briefcases and notebooks.

The men on the stands immediately came to attention. Someone started the applause, and it erupted with fervor—few in number, but in the open spaces of the seaside park it rang out with unusual clarity.

Lin Baiguang wore his customary mild, slightly detached smile. He raised a hand in acknowledgment, walked to the open ground before the stands, and let his gaze move slowly across the group.

"All gathered here, are you? Good, good." His voice was not loud, but it carried a calming steadiness. "Fine choice of place. Full of significance."

Schneider quickly stepped forward half a pace and replied on behalf of everyone. "Reporting to the Chief, thanks to Brother Hu Wumei's arrangements, some old brothers from the old days have gotten together. We happened to have the photography studio comrades come take a group photo for a memento. We never expected to disturb you, Chief."

"What's this about disturbing?" Lin Baiguang waved his hand, his smile warming a touch. "I happened to have business back in Lingao yesterday. Today I was just passing through. It reminds me—when I led seventy-eight boatloads of brothers fleeing from Dadan all the way here, nobody looked nearly as spry as you do now." His gaze swept the faces, full of reflection. "We've all gotten older. Not easy. That you've all found your footing in various trades, and some have made real accomplishments—I'm very gratified."

His tone was mild, yet it stirred warmth and ache in many hearts. Wang You spoke up. "It's all thanks to the Chief pointing us the right way back then, and the Senate giving us a place to settle." The others nodded with fervent agreement.

Lin Baiguang gave a slight nod. "You were just taking a group photo? Is it done?"

"Yes, Chief," Chen Shixin answered promptly.

"Take one more. With me."

Lin Baiguang wanted to join the photograph. Another stir went through the crowd as they hastily cleared the center position.

Chen Shixin, who had never in his wildest dreams imagined such a turn, scrambled to readjust the camera and captured this historic moment.

After the photo, Lin Baiguang turned and waved in acknowledgment. Schneider suddenly snapped to attention and called out: "Salute to the Chief!"

Every man on the stands, military and civilian alike, snapped to attention as one and saluted in unison, their voices ringing out:

"Loyalty!"

A faint, inscrutable smile touched the corner of Lin Baiguang's mouth. He nodded once more to the group, then turned and departed.

"Farewell, Chief!" the crowd called in unison, applauding with fervor again.

Not until his figure had completely disappeared from view did the men on the stands truly relax. Many discovered their palms were damp with sweat. After a brief silence, a buzz of commentary erupted.

"The Chief is as easygoing as ever—not a trace of airs!"

"The Chief has a remarkable memory—he still remembers how many boats we had that day..."

"The Chief looks stern, but he's a man of feeling underneath. Did you see—when he turned to leave, his shoulders were trembling slightly."