A charming smile
On Sunday morning, Youlin took advantage of Li Fuqiang's free time to report in a low voice: "Yesterday, when I was shopping with Zhiwei, Zhou Xuanyu happened to see us. He seemed to have gone to see Zhiwei afterwards, but when he came to return the car keys in the evening, he was quite calm."
Li Fuqiang looked at her expression and asked, "What's wrong? Feeling guilty?"
Youlin joked, "We're all old hands at this, why bother with being so subtle? He himself said that Zhiwei was right, that no one coerced or deceived anyone from beginning to end."
"He said it was Xiaowei who said it?"
"Yes, it must be about what happened before he came to see me last night."
On Monday, Li Fuqiang appeared in the classroom again. Zhiwei patted the empty seat next to her, and he sat down naturally.
"I thought you weren't coming to class anymore," she said softly. Now that she'd already won him over, why bother showing up again?
He smiled but said nothing. He was distracted throughout the class, but Zhiwei listened attentively. He would occasionally glance at her, noticing her lowered profile half-hidden by her long, seaweed-like hair; sitting there quietly, she was already a picture in herself.
He felt as if he had returned to his youth, watching his first love work with her head down, always unable to resist stealing glances. It had been so long since he had felt this bubbly joy in his heart.
After class, while packing up her art supplies, she asked, "The next class is photography, do you want to come together?"
"Is your homework just about taking a nice photo? That's not easy."
She laughed: "It's difficult to create a good work. The Pulitzer Prize won't give a photo of a beautiful woman in Times Square—unless it's a 100-year-old woman with a face full of wrinkles, wearing ethnic clothing, and whose wrinkles tell a hundred stories."
As soon as she finished speaking, seeing him deep in thought, she quickly interjected with a wry smile, "Mr. Li, stop! I was just giving an example. Please don't actually bring an old lady from China, or I'll be committing a sin. I know my limitations; I don't have that talent. I'll just graduate as a student."
Li Fuqiang didn't actually know what the Pulitzer Prize was, but in his eyes, his girlfriend would do anything for him, even if it meant plucking stars from the sky.
He had come to find out if yesterday's events were bothering her, but seeing her smiling and making witty remarks, he knew she truly wasn't bothered. For a moment, he didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
“I’ll just listen to the lecture and get a feel for the atmosphere. I wouldn’t understand such advanced lectures anyway.” He patted her hand. “I’ll go back later; I have some work to take care of.”
"Alright then. I was thinking of taking you to a coffee shop at noon if you continued listening, so you could experience a poor student's lunch."
Seeing her intimate words, he wanted to ask, "You really don't mind me being here?", but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Why bother?
"By the way, let Old Wu go back. I only go to a few places most of the time, there's no need for him to wait around all day. He doesn't listen to me, he only listens to you."
Seeing her sincere attitude, he nodded: "Okay, I'll do whatever you say."
On Thursday, Zhiwei and May went to the studio to check on the project's progress. The house had been completely transformed: an entire wall in the kitchen had been knocked down, replaced by bright and elegant black and white checkerboard tiles; the master bedroom and living room had been opened up, and the balcony door was now open, making the entire space bright and spacious. On a sunny day, sunlight streamed through the windows onto the evergreen trees outside, and Zhiwei almost fell in love with the room—it was a far cry from the old, gloomy house she had once lived in.
She was wearing an old jumpsuit today, fully equipped with protective gear. Michael had prepared a wooden frame so she could work while half-lying down.
After mixing the paint, she climbed onto the shelf, dipped a medium-sized brush in pale gold fluorescent paint, and began to splash it across the ceiling. Sparse, irregular oval spots fell, some splattering onto her clothes, but she didn't mind.
During a break, she held a cup of coffee and said to May, "Now I can better appreciate the greatness of Michelangelo painting the cathedral dome. This workload is truly beyond what ordinary people can handle."
May laughed in disbelief: "Our little job, dares to compare with the masters?"
The two of them burst into laughter.
After resting, she continued to randomly select spots and draw them into various kinds of stars: pentagons, squares, diamonds, and those with long tails, occasionally hiding a few with small eyes or hearts. Near the balcony, she drew a crescent moon.
Everyone ate pizza for lunch, and Zhiwei decided to finish drawing The Little Prince in one go. She first drew a large semicircle on the ceiling of the studio, near the living room, and then drew a small silhouette of the Little Prince sitting on a planet, gazing at the crescent moon and the Milky Way. A silhouette of a rose accompanied him.
The Little Prince wasn't visible in the living room; you had to walk to the studio and look up to spot his solitary figure. It was almost dark when she finished. She shakily climbed down the scaffold, her arms aching. The paint wasn't completely dry; the image was still faintly visible on the floor. She took a picture with her phone, intending to send it to her mother that evening.
May also finished work. Zhiwei looked at the house with a little reluctance—this was the first project she had ever worked on.
That evening, Zhiwei received an email from her mother saying that her wound had healed and no longer needed dressing changes, but she still dared not engage in strenuous exercise. Aside from chemotherapy at the hospital, she hadn't dared to go out for a walk. She also half-jokingly complained: "Xiao Yang's cooking is too good; I've gained two or three pounds in just over ten days."
Zhiwei felt much relieved and wrote back to tell her mother not to rush and to wait until she was stronger before going for a walk. She sent her mother a photo of the rooftop she had drawn that day.
On Wednesday, she received a call from Jingnan saying that the property certificate had been processed. Zhiwei asked her to put it in a file folder and deliver it to her mother when she had time. She timed it perfectly and called her mother around 10 a.m. in Beijing.
"Mom, where are you?"
"Weiwei, Xiao Yang and I are taking a walk by the river. The grass is still withered and yellow, but the sun is shining and there's no wind today. The sky is a deep, clear blue; you rarely see a sky like this in Shanghai. It should look even better in two months when the grass turns green."
Zhiwei felt much more at ease when she heard her mother's voice sound more energetic.
"That's good. By the way, Jingnan will send over a file folder; you can put it in the safe for me."
Xu Anyi agreed without asking what was inside.
Life went on simply and monotonously. Zhiwei attended classes and did her internships, and in her spare time, she would have meals and go to the opera with Li Fuqiang, exploring all the upscale areas of New York.
Xuan Yu ran into Leno while interning at AIA. Leno remembered him and kindly asked about his internship experience. Unbeknownst to Xuan Yu, after their conversation, Leno went to the department manager to inquire about his performance.
A week later, Jingnan sent an email saying that the property certificate had been handed over to Xu Anyi. She also thoughtfully attached a photo of herself and Xu Anyi—Xu Anyi looked well, her hair hadn't thinned significantly, and it was even a little longer than when she was discharged from the hospital.
Zhiwei's biggest worry was her mother's health. Reading the email brought her great comfort and gratitude for Jingnan's care. She didn't need to do so much.
Jingnan also told her that Xu Anyi had her monthly check-up. Dr. Li from the International Department of Peking Union Medical College Hospital shared the results: the previously remaining metastatic tissue had significantly shrunk. The surgery and post-operative chemotherapy were very effective, and the treatment was adjusted to once a week for another two months to monitor progress.
Zhiwei felt relieved.
In early April, the house's hard decoration was finally completed. Zhiwei hadn't had a chance to see the finished product until this Thursday, when the seasonal prints she had purchased arrived, and the last few pieces of furniture were also scheduled for delivery. So she went with May and Maggie to see it.
Pushing open the door, Zhiwei and May exclaimed in unison, "It's so beautiful."
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