Chapter 37

At dawn, Sha Zhu hurried out the door clutching that paper, his pace more than double his usual, as if some beast were chasing him from behind. He didn't take the wide main road to the Steel Rolling Factory, but chose the winding little lanes of the hutong, acting like a thief who'd done wrong and feared being discovered, both afraid of running into acquaintances and worried that if he slowed he'd lose his nerve.

The post office door had just opened, Sha Zhu stood on the steps, panting like a bellows, sweat dripping from his palms, enough to puddle on the ground. The copy slip Zhao Jianguo gave him had been rubbed until the edges frayed, the three characters 'Yi Zhonghai' like barbed iron nails, driven deep into the paper and into his heart.

Sha Zhu took a deep breath, as if about to charge into battle, then shoved the door open and strode inside.

Behind the counter sat an old master wearing reading glasses, leisurely brewing tea, his movements so slow they could make one anxious. Sha Zhu stepped up, his voice dry as parched earth: 'Master, I want to look up a remittance record—my father sent it from Baoding, surname He, given name He Daqing.'

The old master didn't even lift his eyelids, as if what Sha Zhu said had nothing to do with him: 'You want to check someone else's? That's not allowed—it's the rule.'

'It's not someone else—it's my own father, I'm his son, Sha Zhu.' Sha Zhu hastily pulled a yellowed family photo from his pocket, showing three of them standing before the old house, his father embracing him and his sister, smiling with simple honesty, like a freshly dug sweet potato: 'Look, this is my home.'

The old master glanced at it, then shook his head, his head wobbling like a rattle-drum: 'Rules are rules—without a letter of introduction, private individuals can't look anything up.'

Sha Zhu was now frantic, his voice jumping eight degrees higher like a shrill speaker: 'It's been almost eight years—my father has sent money sixty times and forty letters, yet not a single one has reached me! I hardly know if my father is alive or dead! Please, make an exception—let me see who signed for them.'

As soon as he spoke, the few people waiting for service in the room turned to stare, as if they'd heard some earth-shattering secret. The old master finally lifted his eyes to assess Sha Zhu—his eye sockets were red, veins bulging on his forehead like little snakes crawling—and he sighed involuntarily: 'Do you have a letter of introduction from your workplace?'

Sha Zhu blinked, his expression as if his pressure point had just been struck: 'What?'

'Without a letter of introduction, you can't check anything.' The old master's tone eased a fraction: 'If the Steel Rolling Factory issues a certificate saying it's for family matters, I could make an exception once.'

Sha Zhu's head buzzed, and he almost turned and walked out right then, as if his rear were on fire. But he suddenly recalled what Zhao Jianguo had told him the night before: 'You go, be prepared. Don't go empty-handed, and don't go alone.'

Sha Zhu gritted his teeth, turned, and sprinted toward the factory at a speed faster than a rabbit's.

Zhao Jianguo was squatting at the workshop door changing a belt pulley when he saw Sha Zhu come rushing in, breathless, one shoe askew—he knew something was wrong.

'No letter of introduction?' Zhao Jianguo asked.

'None.' Sha Zhu replied, breathing hard.

'Fine, I'll handle it.' Zhao Jianguo said no more, rose, and went to find the workshop chief—his efficiency was top-notch. In a few words he explained the situation, slipped him a pack of Daqianmen cigarettes, and said with a smile: 'Old brother, Zhuzi's family has kept this bottled up for ten years; today we need an explanation—please help us out.'

The workshop chief hesitated a moment, then signed.

Sha Zhu took the introduction letter stamped with a red seal, his legs turning to noodles. Zhao Jianguo then called over from the canteen an honest coworker of Sha Zhu's, Old Li, saying: 'You go with him as a witness.'

Old Li nodded, like a well-behaved student: 'Sure, I was just about to mail a family letter myself.'

The two returned to the post office; seeing the introduction letter, the old master finally relaxed. He slowly opened a thick ledger, its pages yellowed and edges curled, like wrinkles on an old man's face.

'March 1951, He Daqing remitted ten yuan, recipient—Yi Zhonghai.'

'June 1951, He Daqing remitted ten yuan, recipient—Yi Zhonghai.'

'January 1952, He Daqing remitted ten yuan, recipient—Yi Zhonghai.'

The old master read them off one by one; Sha Zhu's grip tightened until his nails dug into his palms, though he felt no pain, his hand like a vise. For nearly eight years, not a single entry missed—every one signed by Yi Zhonghai.

'And the letters?' Sha Zhu's voice trembled like autumn leaves: 'The quarterly family letters—forty-two were sent; do you have a record of them here?'

The old master flipped to another ledger, pointed at a few lines, and said: 'They're all here, and the recipient is still him.'

Old Li beside them shook his head, his head wobbling to the point of dizziness: 'Zhuzi, this… isn't right.'

Sha Zhu said nothing, merely asking the old master for permission to copy. His hand shook badly; by the third line his writing slanted, yet he didn't stop a stroke, like a tireless machine—he copied two full pages, then asked the old master to sign at the bottom and press his handprint.

By the time Sha Zhu left the post office, sunlight had reached the hutong entrance, golden as a gauze curtain. Old Li patted his shoulder and said earnestly: 'Go on home—say what needs saying, make a fuss if needed; don't bottle it up, or you'll make yourself sick.'

Sha Zhu nodded, folded the two sheets carefully, and slipped them into his inner chest pocket as if holding a red-hot iron, the heat seeming capable of burning through his clothes.

Just past noon, households in the siheyuan came out with their rice bowls to eat. Jia Zhangshi was ladling soup for Dong Xu, the spoon clinking 'ding-ding-dang' in the pot; Liu Haizhong squatted by the wall base gnawing a steamed bun, his eating as if he hadn't eaten in eight hundred years; Qin Huairu sat on the doorstep holding her child, who occasionally whimpered; Yi Zhonghai leaned on his cane, slowly emerged from his room, his usual kindly smile still on his face, like a laughing Buddha.

'Zhuzi, why didn't you go to the factory to eat today?' Yi Zhonghai asked.

Sha Zhu ignored him, walked straight to the courtyard center, set his rice bowl down with a clatter, then pulled out the two sheets and flicked them open.

'My father, He Daqing, from 1951 to 1958 sent ten yuan each month—sixty times total, forty-two letters.' Sha Zhu's voice, though not loud, struck each word like a hammer on the ground: 'The recipient—every single one—was Yi Zhonghai!'

The courtyard fell silent enough to hear a pin drop, the hush like the stillness before a storm.

Yi Zhonghai's smile froze instantly, as if hit by a paralysis spell.

'Where's the money?' Sha Zhu glared at Yi Zhonghai, his eyes like two sharp knives: 'Almost eight years—960 yuan, enough to buy two rooms! Where's the money? The letters? My sister never even saw the last one from our father! What are you hoarding for? Saving up for a coffin?'

'What nonsense!' Jia Zhangshi sprang up like an angry hen: 'Could Elder Yi harm you? He's just safeguarding it—afraid you'd waste it.'

'Safeguarding?' Zhao Jianguo, who had just returned unnoticed, held a paper that gleamed in the sunlight: 'Then I ask you, Teacher Yi's monthly wage is sixty-six yuan fifty; over ten years he should have saved eight hundred yuan. Yet his family has no savings, no accounts, and hasn't bought anything valuable. Where did those nine hundred sixty yuan go—did they fly away or burn up?'

Zhao Jianguo snapped the paper open with a rustle and said loudly: 'This is the wage record from the Steel Rolling Factory's finance department, which I looked up specially. You say you've been holding it for him—where did you put it? In the bank? Buried underground? Or stuffed in your waistband for rats to nibble?'

Everyone stared at each other, dumbfounded like a flock of clueless geese.

Liu Haizhong kept his head down, shoveling rice, too afraid to lift it, his head nearly buried in his bowl; Qin Huairu held her child, her lips twitching but ultimately silent, like a fish opening its mouth in water; Dong Xu snorted, slammed his bowl down with a 'pa', turned and left, his back full of contempt.

Yi Zhonghai's complexion shifted from green to white, like a painter's palette, his cane thudding 'dong-dong' on the ground: 'I… I was doing it for your own good! Your father's letters said you have a temper, afraid you'd gamble or drink away the money—I was keeping it for you.'

'Then why didn't you tell me?' Sha Zhu's eyes turned red as two lanterns: 'You wouldn't even let me see the letters! You said my father was healthy, but he coughed blood in '53! You said he'd come back at year's end, yet he died in '55! You hid it from me for five years!'

Sha Zhu pulled another crumpled paper from his pocket and unfolded it with a whoosh: 'You even wrote me a note saying the Dong'erfang house would someday be mine! Do you even own a house? That deed is in my father's name! You used someone else's property to dangle a promise, deceiving me for ten years!'

With a 'pa', Sha Zhu tore the note in two and tossed it at Yi Zhonghai's face; the scraps fluttered down like two broken-winged butterflies.

'I'm not an idiot!' Sha Zhu roared, his voice like a thunderclap on a clear day, shaking the whole courtyard: 'From now on I won't cook your meals, I won't haul your coal, I won't meddle in your troubles—I'm not your old-age donkey, nor your stepping stone for pretending to be virtuous!'

Having spoken, Sha Zhu turned and strode off, his steps firm and resolute.

No one tried to stop him; everyone stood rooted to the spot.

Yi Zhonghai stood where he was, cane braced on the ground, lips trembling, wanting to speak but unable to utter a word—like a fish stranded on shore. The torn paper scraps drifted slowly to his feet, like a withered yellow leaf, making the scene all the more desolate.

Jia Zhangshi still wanted to shout a few more words, but looking around she saw Qin Huairu head down, walking into the house with a hint of helplessness; Liu Haizhong slipped away with his bowl, faster than a rabbit; even Dong Xu, who usually obeyed Yi Zhonghai, didn't turn back—she opened her mouth, then closed it, the motion like a door shutting.

Zhao Jianguo stood at the courtyard gate, silent, merely watching Sha Zhu's receding back grow distant. That back remained as tall as before, but his shoulders were straighter, his steps steadier—like a tree that had weathered wind and rain.

In the afternoon, Zhao Jianguo returned to his room to tidy his tools, when suddenly he heard a low argument from next door.

'You're too hasty!' That was Jia Zhangshi's voice, tinged with resentment: 'Now the whole courtyard knows you've intercepted the money—who'll listen to you from now on?'

'Shut up!' Yi Zhonghai lowered his voice, fury ringing in it: 'This isn't over! If he dares tear my note, I'll make sure he can't move into the Dong'erfang! If he dares not cook for me, I'll see that he can't stay at the factory!'

Zhao Jianguo's hand paused; he lifted his eyes to the schedule board on the wall corner, his gaze as if pondering something.

He slowly closed his toolbox, then pulled a slip from the drawer bearing the three words 'Ma Dongmei'.

He stared at that name, gave a faint smile, his expression hinting at mystery:

'You're still playing that old trick?'

Alright.

Then let's see whose technique can better withstand the grind of days.

Zhao Jianguo folded the paper, slipped it into his pocket, was about to leave when he suddenly heard a burst of Footsteps from outside the courtyard.

He looked up and saw Sha Zhu returning, holding an oil‑paper parcel, his face a little awkward, the expression like a child who had done something wrong.

"Jianguo," Sha Zhu placed the oil‑paper parcel on the table, "I… I passed the cafeteria and, on the way, brought you two buns."

Zhao Jianguo gave no reply, just smiled at him, his smile like sunshine in spring.

Sha Zhu scratched his head, the gesture a bit uneasy: "I just went and changed the lock of Dong'erfang."

Zhao Jianguo nodded, praising, "Well done on the change."

Sha Zhu paused, his voice lowered, carrying a hint of hesitation: "I… I want to go to Baoding tomorrow."

"Go ahead," Zhao Jianguo said, "Someone should go speak their heart at your father's grave."