Chapter 88: Watching a Movie and the Family Dinner

Lans leaned against the car, smoking, watching pedestrians along the street.

Middle-class neighborhoods had strict access controls; the guard eyed Lans with suspicion, convinced this kid wasn’t a good person.

It wasn’t that he had any psychic ability or mind-reading—just that he assumed every non-resident looked suspicious, let alone one who was handsomer than him.

Recently, Lans’s business had begun to improve, and he’d met some people who told him about Patricia’s father.

Patricia’s father, Mr. William Lawrence, was a civil servant at City Hall, working for the mayor—a man neither prominent nor insignificant.

The Federation had three major parties: the Free Party, the Social Party, and the Federal Party; Mr. Lawrence was a member of the Federal Party.

Originally, there had been only two major parties: the Free Party and the Federal Party.

The Free Party better served the interests of the Federation’s lower and middle classes, until many years ago, when a major internal split occurred, leading to the eventual formation of the “Social Party.”

Social Party members believed excessive freedom would bring disaster to society and the nation, and that industrial and economic development should be prioritized—completely opposing the Free Party’s platform.

The Free Party promoted “liberalism,” but was denounced by the Social Party as “reckless liberalism,” arguing that excessive personal freedom had no practical value for national development or economic construction.

The core conflict between the two parties—whether the individual or the state came first—was irreconcilable.

Thus, a group emphasizing that “individual freedom must not override national interests” broke away and formed today’s Social Party.

Some of the Social Party’s ideas received strong support from capitalists, allowing rapid growth; it frequently held power and commanded a majority in Congress.

In comparison, the Free Party and the Federal Party were at a disadvantage.

This might explain why Mr. Lawrence, at forty, remained only a mid-level civil servant—his faction offered him little backing.

In an era where even ideals must bow to capital, ideals alone mean nothing.

Two young girls on the sidewalk waved at Lans; he smiled and greeted them back.

Summer winds always stirred hearts unintentionally—not to prompt action, but simply to let the breeze blow, making even brief moments feel enough.

“Lans!” Patricia emerged from the community like a spirit stepping from a painting; Lans tossed his cigarette aside and stepped forward, embracing her and lavishing praise, “You look beautiful.”

Being praised by someone you love always brought joy; Patricia laughed genuinely, “I think so too!”

She naturally linked arms with him, “There’s something I want to tell you.”

Lans opened the car door for her, “What is it?”

Patricia hesitated, “William and the others want to invite you to dinner tonight—to come home with me.”

Lans returned to the driver’s seat and started the car, “Good news.”

“Aren’t you nervous?” the girl asked.

Lans shook his head, “If meeting the person you care about most is a burden, then you should ask yourself: do you truly love me, or just want to sleep with me?”

“This is something I must go through—either I convince them, or they convince me!”

“I’ll become a warrior!”

He flashed a bright, sunny smile; Patricia felt her heart melt.

That afternoon, they went to the movies—an uncommonly cheap and universal form of entertainment in this era.

They went to a high-end cinema, where a ticket cost twenty-five cents; such places were cleaner and smelled better.

In summer, at the ten- or fifteen-cent cinemas, you never knew what the previous occupant of your seat had done there.

Twenty-five-cent theaters had dedicated staff to clean and remove trash, and those who attended tended to be slightly more refined.

Love in Turbulent Times, a film about war and love—people loved grafting war elements into romance, as if only hardship and tragedy could make love unforgettable.

Patricia watched intently; Lans’s attention wandered.

She watched closely, yet for some reason, her face grew redder and redder.

At the end, after a long wait, the heroine received her husband’s ashes, stroked her pregnant belly, and smiled with quiet strength as she faced a new life.

Clearly, even then, they were already chasing political correctness—and it genuinely moved many.

First came scattered, hesitant applause, like an old man of sixty unfastening his belt in the restroom—half-hearted and weak.

Then came thunderous applause, as people were moved by the girl’s devotion to love, loyalty to family, and steadfast waiting for her husband.

Patricia clapped, and Lans clapped too—but less enthusiastically.

At that moment, the applause was like a seven-year-old boy pulling down his pants and letting out a quick, messy burst.

“You cried.”

“It was so touching!” Patricia gripped Lans’s hand, “Don’t you think the heroine was great?”

Lans shook his head, “Actually, she should’ve been selfish—then her husband wouldn’t have died, nor would her child’s father.”

“Pat, from a cinematic or artistic perspective, war, love, death, and the imminent birth of new life form an artistic cycle.”

“But from an ordinary person’s view—if we married and war broke out, I’d take you away.”

“I can’t choose between loyalty to my country and loyalty to love—but if I must choose, I choose you!”

Patricia, already weeping uncontrollably, erupted into a passionate kiss.

After a moment of kissing, she grew shy again, blushing.

Church-run girls’ schools enforced strict discipline; the nuns often suffered psychological disorders and used public corporal punishment to destroy students physically and mentally.

Some schools had seen multiple student suicides, but all were suppressed by the Church and the Federal government.

Patricia was a good girl—never dared to make a mistake.

Lans knew the girl was embarrassed; he took her hand and led her out of the cinema. Outside, the sky had darkened, the sun no longer blazed.

They ate some street snacks—taste was mediocre, but Patricia devoured them happily, “I rarely eat street food—my father says it’s unsanitary.”

Lans didn’t deny or argue, “True enough.”

She paused mid-bite, looking at Lans; he wiped grease from her face, “But if you avoid experiences you’ve never had just because they’re unhealthy, you’ll regret it when you’re old!”

“A little unhealthiness for a lot of joy—I think the small sacrifice is worth it!”

“You’re right, Lans!”

Lans took her to try many street snacks; by the time night fully fell, she was full.

She looked at Lans nervously, “We have to go home for dinner—they’ll notice.”

“Then tell them.”

What should have made Lans uneasy made Patricia uneasy instead—she loved Lans because he respected her, and she felt it.

It was a… peculiar feeling, one she couldn’t describe, but she knew: in Lans’s eyes, she wasn’t just an object, not merely a body.

The car arrived at Patricia’s neighborhood; the guard lowered his head, peering through the window and recognizing Patricia, “Miss Patricia, this handsome gentleman is…”

“My boyfriend. Please open the gate.”

The guard nodded, opened the gate, then sighed as he watched the car drive away—this was likely the most painful moment every guard faced.

“Are you nervous?” Lans parked the car and stepped outside her front door; she couldn’t help asking.

Actually, she was nervous—not Lans.

Lans shook the brandy in his hand, "If Mr. Lawrence doesn't dislike brandy, then I won't be nervous."

Patricia took a deep breath, linked arms with Lans, and knocked on the door.

In fact, the Lawrence couple had already been watching from behind the window as they parked; Mrs. Lawrence liked Lans, but Mr. Lawrence still needed to observe him further.

The door opened; Mrs. Lawrence had changed into a sleeveless pale pink dress, wearing a string of pearls, glowing with radiance—whether from naturally good health or something else, it was hard to say.

But she definitely hadn’t waxed.

“Welcome, Lans,” she took the brandy from him and handed it to her husband, “Thank you for the gift—how thoughtful of you.”

Mr. Lawrence glanced at the brandy in his hand, then at his daughter—he knew she’d chosen it.

She knew what he liked, but he silently admired Lans’s generosity.

The best standard cognac on the market cost over twenty dollars a bottle; even he wouldn’t drink it as daily liquor—only on special occasions.

“A very valuable gift—we can try it tonight,” he passed the bottle back to Mrs. Lawrence, “Open it.”

Then, as head of the household, Mr. Lawrence invited Lans to sit in the parlor first.

“What would you like? Black tea, coffee, or juice?”

“Water.”

Mr. Lawrence paused, then laughed, “Aren’t you nervous?”

Mrs. Lawrence and Patricia stood nearby, eavesdropping on the two men’s conversation—far more entertaining than setting the table!

They also eagerly awaited how Lans would respond to Mr. Lawrence’s first strike—a seemingly ordinary exchange, but secretly lethal.