Chapter 22

Three weeks after Li Ting's coma, Chen Huan informed Chang Yueqing and Li Wangnan. A week later, mother and son flew back to Hancheng from the American West Coast. They visited him at the hospital, and Chen Huan returned to Yunjingli, leaving the three of them alone. In the afternoon, Chen Huan had Jin Tuo prepare food at home, and mother and son would come over for dinner that evening.

Li Wangnan looked a bit more robust than he had been a few months ago, his lips rosy, his hair shaved on the sides, and he was quite handsome. Perhaps his attitude had been less than respectable the last time they met, because this time he had brought gifts: red wine, a silk scarf, and a bone china plate, presumably prepared by his mother, which she thrust into his hands before he entered.

Chang Yueqing wasn't wearing heavy makeup today. Her eyes were tired, with fine lines covering the corners of her eyes. She seemed several years older than the last time they met. Shen Huan realized that he had always treated Chang Yueqing as just an ex-wife, like a new person replacing a new position in the company or a new name on the sign on the corner of her desk.

But Chang Yueqing and Li Ting's marriage has lasted for more than ten years. It is a relationship in which they fight side by side. It may not be sweet, but it has deep roots.

Li Wangnan had his own room in Yunjing, and Chen Huan had also prepared a guest room for Chang Yueqing, but Chang Yueqing insisted on staying at his grandfather's. Chen Huan nodded and said he would come back when he had time.

After seeing them off, Li Wangnan went to the garage to see his father's new car.

Chang Yueqing spoke to Shen Huan at the door. Shen Huan understood what she meant. Previously, Li Ting wanted Shen Huan to hold Li Wangnan's shares on his behalf, and Chang Yueqing couldn't persuade him. Now that Li Ting was unconscious, if he died and the court proceeded, the 7% share of the holding group would be given to Shen Huan for nothing. Chang Yueqing naturally wouldn't agree, but she didn't force it. She said, "Name a price, and don't worry about the rest. I'll go to Gao Yufei to arrange it."

Chen Huan looked at the garden in the front yard, her expression still gentle, but she didn't respond. She knew that when doing business with Chang Yueqing, she would only make mistakes. No matter how soft-hearted she was, she knew that the proxy holding agreement meant nothing; Chang Yueqing couldn't tie her to the table and make her sign it.

Perhaps remembering the favor she'd previously done Li Wangnan for in the hospital, Chang Yueqing held back, maintaining a conciliatory smile. She said that Xuan Tao was in turmoil, and that if you couldn't hold onto these shares, you'd either sell them to me or give them to Chen Yue. Do you think Wu Ruifeng from Chen Yue's company would be easy to deal with?

It was already autumn, and the evening breeze was blowing the half-yellow leaves off the trees in the front yard. Shen Huan crossed his arms and folded them over his chest.

Chang Yueqing said, "I know what you are thinking. You believe that you still have a safety net and Meng Zixuan will not harm you."

Shen Huan pressed her thumb against the inside of her elbow, rubbing a small area of ​​skin back and forth. She still didn't speak. Shen Huan didn't know where Chang Yueqing had heard about her and Meng Zixuan.

Chang Yueqing continued, "But you have to know that Meng Zixuan has no need to offend Chen Yue over this matter, otherwise why would he and Lou Hetai push you out to pretend?"

Chang Yueqing paused for a moment, half turned around, looked at Shen Huan and said, “As for the trust set up by Li Ting in New York, as long as Wangnan and I agree, the specific beneficiaries and terms can be discussed.”

Chang Yueqing finally laid it all out: "Let's change the proxy holding to open holding. You're also part of the family, and the trust will have your name on it." For you, how could voting rights in the company be as secure as holding actual money in your hands?

Chen Huan retracted her gaze and looked at Chang Yueqing's face. She spoke softly, "I don't know what a proxy holding agreement is."

Chang Yueqing smiled at this, then put it away, straightened her back a little, and adjusted the cuffs of her silk shirt. She said, "Chen Huan, you've really improved. Three months ago, when we signed the contract in your living room, you weren't so stiff-backed. Or are you just putting on that delicate act for Old Li to see?"

Chen Huan replied calmly, "When Li Ting was here, I signed whatever he asked me to sign. Now that he's not here, I'll wait for him to wake up."

Chang Yueqing took a deep breath, reached out and pinched her right earlobe, and slowly turned the earring. She adjusted her mood and politely advised, "You can think about it for a while, wait for the people from Qingyu to give you a quote, and then come back to me."

Shen Huan asked what Qingyu was.

Chang Yueqing talked about Blackfish Capital, the herring that was pan-fried, and the holding platform created by Meng Zixian and Chen Yue.

What a coincidence this name is, Shen Huan thought.

Meng Zixian returned to New York and visited Jidian headquarters to learn about the project's progress. He couldn't stay long; the due diligence team stationed at Pan-Atlantic Savings Bank had already arrived in Lithuania, and his flight was scheduled for three days later.

Jidian partner Kaufman was somewhat irritated by Meng Zixian's two-timing arrangement. When they initially tried to persuade Meng Zixian to join, they only asked him to commit to twenty hours online a week and five hours offline a month, sharing his "valuable experience working with local private foundations in the three Baltic countries." But now, "sharing experience" also included helping them track the entire money laundering chain in Eastern Europe.

At noon, Kaufman went to meet Meng Zixian for coffee. Meng Zixian only asked for ice water. Since leaving the Grand Canyon, he had been coughing frequently, often waking up on his own at three or four in the morning. Standing up was better than lying down. He was more controlled with his diet, limiting sugar and not drinking coffee.

The two sat down at a small table at the entrance of the cafe. Meng Zixian told Kofman that he didn't have time to get deeply involved in the anti-money laundering and antitrust investigation projects.

"Of course, of course." Kofman took out a pen from his chest pocket, wrote a number on the blank space of the coffee receipt, and pushed it across the table in front of Meng Zixian. Meng Zixian looked down at the string of numbers, picked up the note and put it in his pocket. Kofman smiled with satisfaction.

"I don't know your business in Hancheng, but I've been in this business for almost thirty years and have seen too many thankless tasks. Huge responsibilities, shitty rewards. If you do it well, you're a savior, but if you're not, you're just a witch who gets stoned every time you walk down the street. When I was your age, I wanted to play the savior too—believe me, I volunteered by the Ebola River—but nine times out of ten, you'll end up at the stake, and the other time, you'll save everyone, but they'll know nothing about it. It's like Jesus—God forgive me for this metaphor—Jesus was nailed to a stake to save people, but thousands of years later, people are still complaining about him not stopping the floods and wildfires. This is what happens when you roll up your sleeves and try to do something practical: you become an image of Jesus in the hearts of the poor, hanging on a cross from morning to night.

"I have four kids, two sons and two daughters. I coach my son's football team, and I never miss my daughter's ballet recital. And I'm really, really, really rich. You know why? Because I never bet at that dirty table. I don't get into those messy deals that get my hands dirty. So I always tell talented young people to wash their hands, put on their cufflinks, and play at a different table. You come to Jidian, and we'll work together for ten, twenty years. Most of the time you'll be skiing in Colorado or running a slaughterhouse in Texas, answering a few calls, having a few drinks, and closing a deal. What really matters is that you know who to talk to and how to talk to them. And I don't think there's anyone in the world who could be better suited for that than you. The revolving door, you know.

"Of course, I'm talking about 'most of the time.' For the little time that remains—like right now—you must immediately abandon the pigs at the slaughterhouse, put down your ski poles, forget your wife, children, and dog, and get on the company plane with me. I sit here today and can promise that such moments will be few and far between in the next few decades. But I need to see your sincerity first."

"But Miles, let me put it this way." Kaufman picked up the espresso, which was only the size of his nose, between his thumb and index finger and took a slow sip. A layer of slowly expanding foam clung to his graying beard. "I don't think it's that job that's trapped you in Hancheng."

The morning before his flight to Lithuania, Meng Zixian didn't have much time, so he didn't go for a morning run outdoors. Instead, he went to the gym. The two-mile warm-up on the treadmill was not easy. His breathing was faster than usual, and cold sweat oozed from his forehead.

Meng Zixian chalked it up to a fluctuating state of mind, then stepped off the treadmill and headed for the equipment area to do some squats and deadlifts. He gripped the barbell, tightened his waist, and rose, his upright position almost entirely relying on willpower. He forced himself to breathe slowly, barely managing to complete three sets without much change in expression. During this time, his training partner, Bob, helped him remove fifty pounds of weight from the barbell to maintain his form.

Lifting weights had never been Meng Zixian's strong suit; he excelled more at endurance and obstacle avoidance. He was seventeen when he enrolled in military school. The freshman camp, filled with mostly eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds, had shoulders as broad as door panels and could easily lift a barbell twice their bodyweight. Meng Zixian stood in front of the bar, his feet planted firmly in place. Pulling a hundred and fifty pounds was a grueling task.

Henry Schumer, a junior, was their instructor. He smiled and called the other freshmen over: "This kid left his gluteus maximus and butt in his mother's arms!" The sidelines burst into laughter. Some people thought the joke was funny, while others just flattered Schumer.

The final step in physical training was tactical crawling. The field had been plowed by countless men, and sweat mixed with mud clung to their bellies, their combat uniforms clinging to their bodies like half-shedding skin.

As the final whistle blew, people nearby collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, and some even lay flat on their backs. Meng Zixian took off his combat uniform, lifted the hem of his T-shirt, and wiped his face. Before he could wipe the mud off his eyelids, Schumer called him to the edge of the playground.

"Lift it up with one hand." Schumer pointed to the kettlebell on the ground.

Meng Zixian leaned over and grabbed the handle of the pot with one hand.

"Stop. Don't bend your waist." Schumer crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Yes, sir."

"Twenty push-ups," Schumer ordered.

Meng Zixuan put down the kettlebell, lay on the ground, propped up his legs, and rose and fell twenty times on the ground. Then he stood up and reached out to grab the kettlebell.

"Stop." Schumer clicked his tongue. "I just said, one-handed. Are you deaf?"

"No, sir."

"Then why are you holding out your hands? Are you surrendering?"

Meng Zixuan gritted his teeth and replied, "No, sir."

"Thirty push-ups."

The kettlebell fell to the ground with a "bang" again. Meng Zixuan lowered his body, his palms touching the ground, his waist and back tensed. With each landing, his breathing became heavier, and sweat dripped down his chin into the mud.

New recruits from the battalion walked by, some of them peeking out, only to be glared back at by Schumer. Everyone stopped laughing and walked away from the playground without looking away.

When Henry Schumer graduated from his senior year, Meng Zixian's deadlift was 350 pounds. "Keep that attitude, rookie," Henry said, patting Meng Zixian on the shoulder with a smile. "Otherwise, you'll be in my hands again sooner or later." During that year's graduation ceremony, a light rain fell from the sky above the Hudson River. Rumor had it that such weather was unlucky; in rainy weather, soldiers couldn't find their way home.

Meng Zixian emerged from the gym showers, his face pale. He must have a fever. The cold shower lowered his temperature somewhat, but the movement of his arm as he dried himself sent a sharp pain through his right chest. He walked to his locker and unlocked it. His phone flashed with several messages.

Stan Collins asked him if Meng Zixian would bring a female companion to his sister Evelyn's wedding in Rhode Island next weekend. After retiring, Stan went to Brown University to coach basketball. Meng Zixian hadn't seen him for a long time, but she heard that Chen Huan and his wife Danni were in regular contact.

Xiao Jun from Chenyue asked Meng Zixian when he would return to Hancheng. Wu Ruifeng and Lu Ye were unable to push forward the due diligence on several fund managers at Ronghe.

Meng Zixian wasn't surprised. Wu Ruifeng had his eye on a future board seat and was trying to curry favor with the group's minority shareholders, so he'd stepped on Lou Hetai's shoulders the day before Ronghui. Lou Hetai wasn't a pushover, but he was a great rallying point, so Wu Ruifeng had hit a wall.

Xiao Jun had to ask about this, and it seemed Wu Ruifeng had run out of ideas. "Xiao Meng, we're still relying on you to smooth things over with those people at Ronghui. Sorting out the good and bad debts as quickly as possible. My asset management company should also get involved as soon as possible. If we work together, maybe we can wrap this up before Old Li even wakes up."

Meng Zixuan wanted to make a phone call, but when he raised his hand, he felt a wave of chest tightness, a dull pain in his lungs as if a layer of membrane had been stretched. He closed his mouth tightly, but when he took another breath, he still coughed violently. He covered his face with the towel hanging around his neck, removed it, and saw blood in his sputum.