Reporter's Notes: Zhong Hua's new book, "The Beauty," has been published. The title page reads: "Some people teach you to love, some people teach you to be brave."
The lavender in Provence has just finished blooming; the purple waves on the field ridges have faded to light brown, yet a few scattered flower spikes still stand stubbornly in the wind. Zhong Hua sat at the oak table in the guesthouse, her fingertips tracing the cover of her new book, "Red Beauty"—on the deep purple cover, next to the gold-embossed title, were three overlapping fingerprints: hers, Ayu's, and Lin Wanqing's.
"What are you thinking about?" Ayu walked over with two cups of hot cocoa and pushed one of them towards her. The curve of the rim of the cup was specially made by him, so that it could fit the shape of their lips perfectly, just like the cup of mulled wine they had shared on the day of the first snow in Provence.
Zhong Hua looked up and smiled, then pushed the book towards him: "I'm thinking about how to read the first sentence to you."
Tomorrow is the book launch. The venue is an independent bookstore in Paris, not far from Montmartre—the very place where Ayu found her three years ago, photographing the sunset. The publisher originally wanted to make it a grand media event, but Zhong Hua declined. She said, "Let's find a place where we can see the sky, like when we used to whisper secrets."
Ayu picked up the book, her fingertips pausing on the title page. The sentence, "Some people teach you to love, some people teach you to be brave," was one Zhong Hua had revised five times before finalizing. The edges of the penmanship still bore faint traces of tears. He remembered the day she wrote those words; it was raining outside, and she had been crying for a long time, her face buried in her hands, clutching a postcard Lin Wanqing had sent from Africa—a photo of a giraffe walking past a tent, with the words written on the back: "Courage isn't the absence of fear, it's daring to move forward even when you're afraid."
"I'll go check my luggage." Ayu put the book back on the table, and as she turned around, the hem of her clothes brushed against the bookshelf, knocking down an old photo album. The page she opened to was taken three years ago when she was recovering in the snow mountain. Zhong Hua was tying a red rope in front of a prayer wheel, and Ayu secretly tied the same one next to him. In the distance, under the prayer flags, stood a blurry figure, which looked like Lin Wanqing.
Zhong Hua picked up the photo album, her fingertips tracing the silhouette of Lin Wanqing. She knew, in truth, that Lin Wanqing hadn't actually gone to the snow mountain that day. It was Ayu who, fearing she would be upset, had asked a local guide to take those empty shots, which were later photoshopped into the picture. Just like many chapters in the book at this moment, they all concealed such gentle lies.
The Parisian sun shone exceptionally brightly on the day of the press conference. Ivy climbed the glass walls of the bookstore, and Zhong Hua, wearing a beige dress, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window testing the microphone. Ayu helped her adjust her dress from below the stage, her fingertips touching the old scar on her knee—a mark from a mudslide years ago, now faded to a light pink.
"Are you nervous?" he asked in a low voice.
Zhong Hua shook her head, but gripped the book in her hand tightly. She was afraid to hear the words "President's wife," just like when she woke up in the ICU and saw the overwhelming news reports, her hands trembled so much that she couldn't even hold a water glass. It was Ayu who covered her eyes and said, "Now there's only the scent of lavender."
Readers began to enter. Most were young people, holding her old interview transcripts, the covers still bearing the words "Zhong Hua, Investigative Reporter." A girl with a ponytail held up a yellowed magazine with a photo of Zhong Hua attending the truth-revealing press conference despite her injuries—she stood under the spotlight, pale-faced, clutching a recording pen tightly in her hand, while Ayu in the audience held up the one she had lost, as if holding up the light of the whole world.
“Professor Zhong Hua,” the girl walked over timidly, “I’m a journalism student. I read your report exposing the Gu family’s shady dealings eight times.”
Zhong Hua took the book from her, her pen pausing slightly. Actually, she hadn't said it, but the reason she had mustered the courage to walk into the press conference that day was because she had received a text message from Lin Wanqing the night before. Lin Wanqing had just arrived in Paris then, and the message contained only one sentence: "When you're afraid, just think of the brightest light in your lens."
She laughed until tears streamed down her face while looking at her phone. The brightest light in her lens was Ayu's profile as she read her interview transcript outside the ICU, the truth hidden in Gu Yanting's suicide note, and the Paris map that Lin Wanqing handed her through the prison glass.
The host signaled the start of the press conference. Zhong Hua took a deep breath and turned to the first page of the book. The readers quieted down, the only sound the rustling of the pages, like the wind at the foot of the snow-capped mountains that year.
“The first chapter begins with the monitor in the ICU.” Her voice was steady. “That day, when Ayu read out the name of the person she was most grateful to, I was actually awake. When I heard him say, ‘In Zhonghua’s camera, there is something more important than the truth,’ I suddenly wanted to open my eyes and look at him.”
A soft chuckle came from the audience. Zhong Hua looked up and saw A Yu standing in the back row, holding her old camera—the very one that had shown him first in the frame when she turned around in Montmartre years ago. He was taking a picture of her, the curve of his lips exactly the same as three years ago.
“Later I learned,” Zhong Hua turned to page 20, her fingertip lingering on the three words “Lin Wanqing,” “that some people’s departure is not for farewell, but to make you more courageous to stay.”
She remembered the international plane ticket Lin Wanqing had sent her. She had spent three days hesitating on the streets of Paris, unsure whether to go find Ayu, who was waiting for her in the snow-capped mountains, or stay in Paris and wait for Lin Wanqing. It wasn't until she found the note tucked inside the ticket: "Go after the person who fills your phone's photo album," that she suddenly understood that a true confidante never leaves you torn between choices.
“After the Gu family case was over, I went to the prison.” Zhong Hua’s voice lowered. “Lin Wanqing said she didn’t want to see us, afraid that we would see her short hair. But she asked her lawyer to send her something—a recording pen from the arson scene, which contained her conversation with the real culprit.”
A murmur arose from the audience. A reporter raised his hand: "Professor Zhong Hua, the book says 'courage is not the absence of weaknesses,' what is your weakness?"
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