Chapter Eleven: I'm not afraid of retribution, I'm only afraid of it falling on you.
The door closed again.
Uncle Chen frowned even deeper, turning to Qiao Yuan with deep concern: "Master Qiao, this woman... her intentions are impure, she's definitely not a good person!"
Qiao Yuan simply walked to the window, his back to Uncle Chen and A Chen, his tone carrying the usual contempt for the weak: "What trouble can a helpless little woman who only knows how to act cute and buy things cause? Uncle Chen, you're overthinking it."
He paused, then abruptly changed the subject, his voice turning somber, "As for that Chen Kan... We used to have a good relationship with Chen Minhao, but with a new master, his temperament is so different, it will be difficult to cooperate in the future."
When Uncle Chen heard him mention the Chamber of Commerce, he put aside Cheng Qing's trivial matters and continued along Qiao Yuan's train of thought: "The Chen family is currently in a bit of an unstable position with both the Nationalist government and the Central Bank. Their eldest son is being investigated by higher-ups for his alleged communist sympathies. Old Master Chen was so anxious that he hastily transferred Chen Minhao back to Beiping to handle those affairs and put Chen Kan, who grew up outside, in charge of the Shanghai Chamber of Commerce. I heard that Old Master Chen personally selected him."
Qiao Yuan's fingertips traced the jade paperweight on the edge of the desk, the cold, hard texture penetrating through his calloused skin. He suddenly chuckled, a chilling sound in his voice: "Uncle Chen, do you think there really are people in this world who look so alike?"
Uncle Chen stood there, his brows furrowed so deeply they could trap a fly: "Master Qiao, in my opinion, even if Chen Kan looks like Mr. Bai, they might not be the same person. Although the Chen family is in some disarray now, Old Master Chen values bloodlines the most. How could he let a child from his concubine's family take over such a large undertaking?"
Qiao Yuan didn't speak. He looked up at the window; the night was like a thick, unyielding block of ink, with only the distant streetlights emitting a faint glow. He felt a tightness in his chest, as if he had been punched hard.
"Master Qiao?" Uncle Chen called him softly.
Qiao Yuan snapped out of his daze and looked at A Chen, "A Chen, never mention Bai Mu again."
Ah Chen nodded somewhat absentmindedly.
"Uncle Chen, keep an eye on him."
Uncle Chen responded and turned to leave, but Qiao Yuan called him back: "Wait a minute." He took out a stack of silver dollars from the drawer and placed them on the table: "Send this to Old Zhou and tell him to shut up."
Uncle Chen understood his meaning and took the silver dollar: "Don't worry, Master Qiao, Old Zhou knows what's important."
After the door closed, Qiao Yuan sat down again.
He took out an old photo from the drawer. In the photo, Lin Tang was wearing a school uniform, with her hair in braids, and smiling brightly.
Qiao Yuan's fingertips slowly traced Lin Tang's braided hair in the photo, recalling how Old Zhou had told him with silver dollars, "Master Qiao, I've taken care of the body. Her face was gnawed by fish, and she's dressed in Mr. Bai's clothes. You definitely won't recognize her."
He suddenly felt tired. For so many years, he had been deceiving her and himself, thinking that as long as he erased Bai Mu's traces, she could forget him. But when she looked into Chen Kan's eyes on the train, she knew that she still loved Bai Mu, more than ever before.
The wind outside the window grew stronger, making the window creak. He suddenly remembered that after Lin Tang was ambushed years ago, her life hanging in the balance in the hospital. He was not a believer in ghosts or gods, but that day when he confessed in church, the priest said, "Qiao Yuan, you have done something wrong, and you will be punished."
He fled from Northeast China to Jiangcheng and worked his way up to where he is today with his own brains and hands. He doesn't believe in retribution, but when he saw Lin Tang lying in a pool of blood, he was afraid. He was afraid that his retribution would fall on Lin Tang.
The clock downstairs struck ten. Qiao Yuan stood up and walked to the door. He opened the door and looked towards the second floor. Lin Tang's room was dark.
He stood there for a while, then closed the door and returned to his desk.
He picked up a pen and wrote a line on the paper: "Tangtang, if you want to leave, I won't stop you." After writing it, he folded the paper and put it in an envelope.
He stared at the envelope and suddenly remembered the marriage proposal he had written to Lin Tang years ago, which contained a gold ring. He smiled and put the envelope in the drawer.
The snow was still falling outside the window. Qiao Yuan sat at his desk, gazing at the night view outside the window, lost in deep thought.
...
At this moment, Cheng Qing practically fled the study without touching the ground. The darkness of the corridor enveloped her, and the tears she had just forced out evaporated instantly, leaving only a pair of eyes that gleamed with a cold, sharp light in the shadows. She did not immediately return to her room, but instead turned and drifted like a ghost toward the stairs leading to the master bedroom on the second floor.
The heavy, carved wooden door to the master bedroom was ajar, letting in a sliver of warm yellow light.
Cheng Qing tidied her hair slightly outside the door, picked up a delicate almond shortbread from the pastry plate, put on that just-right smile with a hint of timidity and ingratiation, and then gently knocked on the door.
"Sister Tang? Are you asleep?" Her voice was soft and sweet. "I noticed you haven't eaten anything since you came back. I brought you some almond cookies. Would you like to try some?"
There was a moment of silence inside before Lin Tang's emotionless voice came through: "Come in."
Cheng Qing pushed open the door and entered.
Lin Tang was not asleep. She was wearing only a plain silk nightgown and stood in front of the huge French window with her back to the door.
Cheng Qing took a small step forward, lowering her voice even further, with a kind of trepidation as if she were about to share a shocking secret: "Sister Tang... I... I just came from the study, and I accidentally... I accidentally overheard Brother Chen and Master Qiao arguing about something... Their voices were low, so I couldn't hear clearly, but... but it seemed... they mentioned Mr. Bai..."
Lin Tang's back tensed almost imperceptibly, and her lips clenched tightly in an instant, reflected in the blurry windowpane.
Cheng Qing seemed startled by her own words, or perhaps eager to clear herself, speaking rapidly and urgently: "Brother Chen seems... seems particularly agitated about Mr. Bai's matter back then... keeps asking Master Qiao something... about 'that shot'... 'who exactly was shot'..." As she spoke, she nervously glanced at Lin Tang's reaction, "Sister Tang, why don't... why don't you ask Brother Chen yourself? He definitely wouldn't dare to hide it from you..."
Finally, Lin Tang slowly turned around, her gaze like an icicle, fixed on Cheng Qing's face, which was filled with "worry" and "innocence".
“Cheng Qing,” Lin Tang’s voice was not loud, but it carried the unquestionable weight of someone who had long held a position of power, “Since you claim to be a high school graduate, the daughter of a good family, and to understand propriety and shame, then you must also understand the principle of ‘do not listen to what is improper, do not speak what is improper.’”
Cheng Qing's expression froze instantly, the feigned timidity solidified in her eyes, and a trace of astonishment remained undisguised.
Lin Tang stepped forward. "I consider your youth and your adrift background. If I were to ask you, would you rather continue your studies at the girls' high school, or find a respectable job at a bank or newspaper?"
Cheng Qing was stunned. He never expected that his repeated provocations would not result in Lin Tang's suspicion and beatings, but rather that she wanted him to study and make a living. However, she simply shook her head.
Looking at her speechless and embarrassed state, Lin Tang's eyes were devoid of warmth, filled only with pity. "Since you've chosen this path, you should keep to your place. Gossiping and spreading rumors are the most despicable methods."
She slightly raised her chin, her gaze sweeping over the plate of delicate almond cookies. "Take the pastries back. I'm tired, you can leave."
Cheng Qing's figure disappeared behind the door, and the carved wooden door closed with a soft "click".
Lin Tang was left alone in the master bedroom, the warm yellow light casting a lonely halo on her plain-colored nightgown.
She did not move, remaining standing in front of the French windows. Outside, the night was so thick it seemed impossible to see through, and the faint glow of the neon lights from the distant concessions blurred and dappled across the glass.
Lin Tang abruptly closed her eyes, trying to dispel this absurd association, but Bai Mu's shadow, carrying the scent of the old sunshine, surged over her.
...
Lin Tang reminisced about the past once again.
Tongji University.
It was early autumn of 1922, and the golden leaves of the plane trees carpeted Avenue Joffre.
She hurried through the corridor, carrying the heavy copy of "Yingzao Fashi" (Treatise on Architectural Methods), nearly bumping into a young figure also clutching books. Books scattered on the floor.
He bent down to pick it up, and when he looked up, his eyes behind the glasses shone like stars that had been tempered by fire.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing on his faded blue long shirt.
...
On May 30, 1925, the sky over Jiangcheng was leaden gray.
The marchers were like an angry torrent, their slogans deafening.
Gunshots! They rang out without warning on the street corner! The crowd erupted in chaos—screams, cries, trampling…
In the chaos, she was violently pushed away by a huge force, staggered and fell to the ground. In the instant she looked up, she only saw Bai Mu, like a leaf torn by a gale, rushing towards the direction of the gunshot, his chest blooming with a glaring scarlet.
Hot blood splattered onto her cheeks.
The next second, cold handcuffs locked her wrists, and the world was plunged into complete darkness amidst the shrill whistles of police sirens.
The musty smell and bloody stench of prison still suffocate her to this day.
The moonlight outside the iron bars was fragmented.
Qiao Yuan arrived, dressed in a sharp suit, like a savior descended from heaven. He pulled strings and brought her out of that hell on earth.
She asked him, "Who asked you to save me?"
His eyes flickered, but his voice remained perfectly calm: "An... old friend."
That well-intentioned lie was like a piece of driftwood, allowing her to grasp a glimmer of light in the vast ocean of despair.
After her release from prison, the image of her father coughing up blood became a new nightmare for her.
tuberculosis.
The cold doors of the public hospital shut her out, and the nurses looked at her as if she were a pile of filth.
When they were desperate, it was Qiao Yuan again who sent a car to take his father to the top church hospital in the concession, where the most expensive penicillin was used to keep the extinguished oil lamp burning.
She stayed by her father's bedside for a year, watching him wither away little by little in the tug-of-war between medication and illness, until he finally breathed his last on a winter night.
She became a true lone goose.
What about Bai Mu?
She searched frantically, contacting newspapers, hometown associations, and even secretly asking underground comrades, but all she received was silence and a shake of the head.
My heart is growing colder and colder.
In the end, all she saw was the indistinct corpse at the police station.
When Qiao Yuan reappeared and handed her the gold-embossed letter of appointment, she looked at her pale, numb face in the mirror, her fingertips tracing the cold engravings on her father's tombstone, and finally nodded.
Gratitude? Disheartened? Perhaps both.
At that wedding, the church bells in the concession rang out deafeningly, guests thronged the venue, and toasts were exchanged. But all she felt was that the red of her wedding dress resembled congealed blood.
...
Everything was over, and she thought that was how her life would be. But when she saw that face again, her dead heart seemed to come back to life.
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