Chapter 91: What? My Father

“What’s going on? Take your time and explain.”

Liu Rulong: “Last month and this month, my dad hasn’t sent me any money!”

Wei Ming: “So you guessed something happened to your dad?”

“Yeah!” A Long said. “I wrote him letters, and he hasn’t replied in a month.”

Wei Ming wasn’t worried at all, because he knew Uncle Liu and Teacher Yang would later have a second child named Liu Ruyan, so he definitely wasn’t in trouble now.

“Have you asked Teacher Yang?”

“What if my mom doesn’t know he’s in trouble yet? If I ask, she’ll find out and get anxious.”

“Given how rarely your dad and mom communicate, she probably already knows. Maybe Teacher Yang didn’t mention it because he didn’t want you to worry.”

Liu Rulong thought that made sense.

“Then I’ll call tomorrow and check the situation.” Liu Rulong conceded this was the only option.

But the next day, while Wei Ming was developing photos in the darkroom, Liu Rulong showed up again.

“I called the school—they said my mom suddenly took leave and hasn’t worked for half a month!”

“What!?”

Now Wei Ming couldn’t be so sure anymore. Was this the butterfly effect?

And Hong Kong was so far away, communication was a nightmare. For now, Wei Ming decided he had to use the connections he’d just built up.

“A Long, come with me to the Beijing Hotel!”

“Huh?”

Wei Ming: “Wait a sec—I need to finish developing this photo first.”

“Since when do you even develop...”

But when Liu Rulong saw the person in the photo, he shut up immediately.

When they spotted Wei Ming and Liu Rulong riding past the South Gate, Biaozi shouted: “Where you headed, Ming Ge? Didn’t we agree to go to the sports school today?”

“Biaozi, we can’t make it today. Maybe another time.”

Biaozi: “Another time? By then Yanzi’ll be back—pfft!”

The Beijing Hotel stood on Chang’an Avenue, next to Wangfujing Shopping Street, and was one of Beijing’s few major hotels for foreign guests, offering both dining and lodging.

Wei Ming knew Xia Meng lived here, but after yesterday’s Writers’ Congress, he wasn’t sure if she’d left yet—he could only gamble.

At first, when the guard heard they wanted to see Ms. Xia Meng, he refused them entry outright. Saying you knew her meant nothing—she had fans across the mainland, all claiming to know her.

The security here was far stricter than at Peking University—even armed guards stood watch.

So Wei Ming showed them the photo he’d just developed.

When the guard saw the elderly woman in the middle, he stiffened.

“May I ask who you are?”

It worked! They were even using “you” respectfully now.

Wei Ming wasn’t annoyed—it was just part of the job.

“I’m a writer. I need to speak with Ms. Xia Meng. Tell her I’m Wei Ming from Peking University. If she refuses to see me, we’ll leave right away.”

The guard hurried off to deliver the message.

Honestly, so many people had taken photos with Xia Meng these days that some she couldn’t recall—but she remembered Wei Ming.

First, he was young. Second, he was handsome. Third, he always mentioned Peking University—Weiming Lake was famous, after all. So she noted down “Wei Ming from Peking University,” and knew he’d written the poem “Ideal,” recited by Sun Daolin.

But recently she’d read his new poem, “Far and Near,” and liked that one even more.

“Please come inside.” With Ms. Xia Meng’s permission, Wei Ming and A Long went upstairs to her private room.

“Comrade Wei Ming, we meet again.”

A Long was stunned. Was this the woman who had haunted Jin Yong’s dreams? Though she was getting older, she was so elegant, so beautiful!

Liu Rulong had indeed been Wei Ming’s gateway into wuxia novels—he’d returned from Guangdong often telling Wei Ming about Jin Yong’s wuxia stories, and knew how obsessed that man was with this woman.

After greeting her, Wei Ming introduced Liu Rulong’s identity and explained their purpose in the briefest terms.

“This visit is very impolite, but my classmate is deeply worried about his father’s safety and can’t reach him. I could only think to ask for your help.”

Xia Meng nodded: “What do you need me to do?”

Wei Ming: “Could you use your contacts in Hong Kong to check with the police if there’s a man named Liu Bin from Foshan who’s been detained—or... killed?”

Hearing those last two words, Liu Rulong clenched his fists, his breathing quickened, his fear deepened.

“Of course, no problem. Let’s go downstairs to make the call—this room’s phone won’t work.”

In the lobby, they could use the international line. Xia Meng dialed her husband in Hong Kong.

“We may have to wait a bit,” Xia Meng smiled after hanging up. “It’s getting late. Let me treat you two to dinner.”

“Aren’t you catching a flight? We can wait here ourselves,” Wei Ming said, having noticed her packed luggage.

Xia Meng smiled: “My flight’s in the evening—no rush.”

She then asked a waiter to monitor the phone, and took them out for dinner.

During dinner, Liu Rulong stayed silent; Wei Ming handled the conversation.

Xia Meng was quite interested in this young writer, so Wei Ming shared his creative experiences—even revealing he was planning a wuxia novel.

“Oh, you’re going to write wuxia?”

“Yes. Right now, when people mention wuxia, they think of Jin Yong in Hong Kong and Gu Long in Taiwan. On the mainland, outside the Republican era, there are no famous wuxia authors. I want to fill that gap. Besides, didn’t the Writers’ Congress say ‘let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend’? How can the mainland have no wuxia novels?”

“Haha, ambitious,” Xia Meng said. Though she didn’t read much wuxia, she didn’t look down on it, nor did she share the mainland’s disdain for popular fiction. She wished him well: “I hope one day you’ll stand shoulder to shoulder with those two.”

As they talked, a waiter approached: “The call from Hong Kong has come back.” Liu Rulong hurried: “I’ll take it—I’ll go. You two keep eating.”

He feared hearing the worst news—he didn’t want to cry in front of so many people.

Minutes later, Liu Rulong returned. He wasn’t crying, but his face was pale.

He spoke up: “It’s all resolved now. Thank you, Ms. Xia.”

Xia Meng didn’t press further: “Good that it’s resolved. I’m glad I could help. Please, eat.”

Not only had she helped, she’d treated them to a star-rated meal—what a kind person. Wei Ming decided he’d never haggle with her in future collaborations.

Also, before leaving, he gave her the three-person photo. She loved it and promised to develop more copies later.

Once outside the Beijing Hotel, Wei Ming asked: “So, what happened?”

Liu Rulong looked embarrassed: “My dad was arrested.”

“For what?”

Liu Rulong was even more awkward: “Organizing illegal activities.”

!

“What?”

Liu Rulong stared at Wei Ming blankly: “My dad... and he’s a big shot.”

Wei Ming muttered “Damn.” Now he understood why Liu Rulong had ended up on that path in Japan—it was family legacy!

“But your dad’s a college student—how did he end up on that path?” Wei Ming was puzzled. Uncle Liu wore glasses—he was such a refined man.

“Maybe he wanted to make money so my mom and I could live well. But even without his money, I was happy. I’d rather he’d never gone down that road.” At this, A Long finally broke down and cried.

Wei Ming patted his shoulder comfortingly.

“Did they say how long he’ll be held?”

“Ms. Xia’s husband guessed at least half a year, maybe two or three years.”

Wei Ming thought that wasn’t too serious.

“Do you have enough money?” he asked.

“For now, yes. Next month I’ll be tight, but I can ask my grandpa.”

Wei Ming said: “Keep an eye on the school mailbox—the illustration fee from ‘Children’s Literature’ should arrive soon. If it’s not enough, come to me. Brother’s got cash to burn.”

Hearing this, Liu Rulong laughed through his tears: “Actually, I don’t need family money—I can support myself with my own skills!”

“That’s the spirit.”

Wei Ming checked the time: “It’s still early. Want to come with me to Shichahai Sports School?”

“Huh?”

About two hours later, they finally waited at the school gate for Zhao Debiao, who’d pedaled his bike until sparks flew.

Wei Ming called the South Gate and told Biaozi to hurry over—they’d treat Coach Wu to dinner tonight.

“Did you finish your business?”

“Yeah.”

Biaozi grinned, parking his bike at the gate: “Welcome to Zhao Debiao’s Shichahai Sports School!”

Three minutes later: “Sir, I used to study here—I’m Debiao, the toughest guy in Shichahai. Ask anyone, they know me—let me in!”

Watching the locked gate, Wei Ming shook his head: “Biaozi, your reputation’s not that strong.”

Zhao Debiao: “Ming Ge, let’s climb the wall—I know where to get in!”

When he found the best spot to scale the wall, Wei Ming boosted him up—just as a middle-aged, muscular man rode past on a bike, shouting: “What the hell are you doing?!”

Zhao Debiao jumped in fright and yelled: “Coach! I missed you!”

“Zhao Debiao!” Coach Wu narrowed his eyes. Zhao Debiao tumbled right off the wall.

Ten minutes later, in a state-run little eatery, Wu Bin—the legendary coach who trained Li Lianjie, Wu Jing, Wang Qun, Kou Zhanwen, Huang Jiaoyan—understood Wei Ming’s purpose.

He wanted to write a Qing Dynasty wuxia novel and needed to learn martial arts knowledge.

Zhao Debiao added: “Coach, he’s the most brilliant writer under twenty in the whole country right now.”

A Long added: “Under thirty too.”

Wu Bin sipped his wine: “What aspect are you most interested in?”

Wei Ming toasted in return: “Tell me about Hong Quan first.”

Wei Ming’s story was about the Heaven and Earth Society, which was in fact Hong Men, and Hong Men derived its name from Xiao Hong Quan.

Since he was writing wuxia, Wei Ming wanted to be professional—to make readers’ blood boil through his words.

Wu Bin, no doubt a master of martial arts, explained the origins and development of the art, its stylistic traits, with great depth; as he spoke, he had Zhao Debiao demonstrate on the spot, leaving the restaurant manager muttering under his breath.

“What about Bagua Zhang?”

Wu Bin glanced at Biaozi, put down his chopsticks, and continued demonstrating.

“Tang Lang Quan…”

“Biaozi, show us.”

Wei Ming noticed something: “Biaozi, you know everything!”

Wu Bin snorted: “Know everything, master nothing. If you’d focused on one style, you wouldn’t have failed to win even a city championship as a child.”

Zhao Debiao scratched his head awkwardly, but Wei Ming’s eyes gleamed—he was sitting right next to a living encyclopedia of Chinese martial arts!

…

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(End of chapter)