Bergamo. The Night Is Not Yet Over
James arrived the next morning.
He appeared at the entrance of the venue carrying a suitcase, and smiled like a child as soon as he saw Panqiu: "I was just wondering yesterday if you would get lost by yourself."
Panqiu rolled her eyes: "It's not like this is my first time going out."
The two naturally transitioned from "field partners" to "conference partners," inseparable as they moved between the various breakout sessions. She would occasionally glance back at the crowd, hoping to spot Ethan. Each time a familiar figure in a suit flashed by, her heart would skip a beat—but by the afternoon of the second day of the conference, she still hadn't seen him.
She wanted to tell him she had met Maggie, to tell him the story of "perfection being the enemy of good work," and to say that she finally understood the meaning of his words, "Just tell a story." But he wasn't there. The lobby was bustling with noise, the aroma of coffee mingling with the heat from the projector, yet she felt a strange emptiness.
Time was ticking away as her presentation time drew near. She sat in the front row of Session 5B, clutching her USB drive, her palms slightly sweaty. Although she had prepared thoroughly, this was her first time speaking at an international conference—facing a room full of unfamiliar faces, English in various accents, and the nervousness of potentially being asked questions.
James whispered, "Keep it up, you can do it. I'll take pictures and videos for you."
Pan Qiu forced a smile and took a deep breath.
Just then, she instinctively turned around—and there she saw him.
Ethan sat two or three rows behind, the lamplight casting a soft glow on the edges of his hair. He saw her too, and at that moment, he tilted his head slightly and smiled at her. That smile was quiet and serene, like a beam of light shining perfectly on one's heart.
Pan Qiu steadied herself almost instantly. The tension was still there, but it was soothed by a deeper sense of security.
The host called her name, and she stood up, her steps light yet steady. As she walked onto the stage, she looked up to find the audience—Ethan was there, his gaze focused, nodding slightly.
She remembered Maggie's words: When telling a story, don't nitpick over the words.
So she stopped reading from the script and started from the very beginning of her research: the first customer she saw in the supermarket that day, the hesitation in people's eyes when they switched languages, and how "security" could be perceived as easily as air. Her voice trembled slightly at first, but became steadyer as she spoke. The charts on the screen became more vivid with her gestures, and her tone became increasingly fluent.
When she concluded with the statement, "Language is not just a tool; it is the way we build our 'home'," the entire audience was silent for a few seconds before applause broke out.
Pan Qiu looked up and saw Ethan clapping, his gaze gentle yet proud. He looked at her, gave her a thumbs up, and mouthed, "Good story." In that instant, she smiled—the unspoken understanding between them, built up from the qualifying exam until now, was quietly ignited.
As the session ended, Maggie walked over, beaming with pride: "That was fantastic! Your report reminded me of Ethan back in the day."
Ethan chimed in, "She speaks better."
Maggie suggested a group photo: "Come on, let's take one of all four of us—we're a family."
As the shutter clicked, Panqiu suddenly felt that the photo resembled a wonderful family tree: her mentor, her academic grandmother, her academic brothers... and herself.
After the photo was taken, Maggie smiled and said, "Ethan and Qiu, let's take one more photo of each of you. This is a moment of passing on traditions, it's very important."
She stood side by side with Ethan, hearing her own soft, clear heartbeat. He moved slightly closer and smiled—the flash went off again. She suddenly realized: this was their first photo together; and that excitement and joy were tinged with—perhaps—a touch of sadness, and perhaps—a final one.
The evening banquet was held in a castle-like clubhouse in Bergamo's old town, about a 20-minute drive from the conference center (about an hour and a half walk uphill along a mountain road, passing through several narrow cobblestone streets). According to the driver, it was originally a 15th-century manor house, later converted into a cultural center, and is now one of the city's most famous banquet venues.
The car passed through the ancient city gate, and orange lights lit up one by one. The night breeze carried the aroma of olive leaves and wine, and lights twinkled in the distance below the mountain. The clubhouse courtyard was surrounded by corridors, with a small round stage at its center: beside a white piano, violins and cellos were playing a gentle waltz. Vines twined around stone pillars, and chandeliers cast dappled light onto wine glasses and silverware. Guests, dressed in formal attire, either gazed at the night from the terrace or swayed gently in the center of the space.
The menu on the table was a long list entirely in French.
She stared at the lines of unfamiliar words, then suddenly laughed—entrée, amuse-bouche, plat principal… The first time she spoke to Ethan, he had explained these names to her, jokingly saying, “These words sound nice, but they often mean—you’re not getting enough to eat.” She had laughed until her stomach hurt then. Now, seeing the same words again, her smile felt somewhat bittersweet. Memories can be deadly; she suddenly felt a sense of wistful longing, like the fleeting beauty of their first meeting.
Her gaze passed over the bouquet and she saw him.
Ethan sat at another table, next to a female scholar she didn't recognize. The woman wore a deep blue silk dress, her hair elegantly styled, her eyes calm and graceful. They spoke in hushed tones, Ethan leaning slightly forward, his expression focused and relaxed. The scene was so harmonious, so natural, and so heartbreaking. She suddenly felt a pang of sadness—not jealousy, but a growing awareness: so this was the world he belonged to. She felt too young, too naive, too insecure; that composed elegance was more like someone worthy of standing beside him.
"Are you alright?" James's voice rang out from beside me.
She laughed a little too quickly: "Yeah, it's good."
James glanced at the water in her hand, which had barely touched, and chuckled knowingly, "Want to go dancing?"
She initially wanted to refuse, but the words "Nobody knows us" moved her. So she nodded: "Go ahead."
The music changed to a waltz, and the lights dimmed slightly. She placed her hand in James's palm and twirled to the rhythm, hiding her bittersweetness in a smile. After the dance, they both laughed—not elegantly, but unexpectedly in sync. She and James went down to get their drinks, leaning against a stone pillar in the corridor, the champagne bubbles like stars in the wind.
Her first instinct was to look for Ethan—but he wasn't there. Her gaze swept around, and she saw the elegant lady sitting side-by-side with an older gentleman, their smiles natural. A sudden realization struck her: he wasn't at that table either. She then understood that she seemed to be constantly checking if he was there.
"Are you looking for someone?" James asked, leaning closer with a drink in hand, his eyes mischievous.
She quickly shook her head: "No, I was just... looking at the lights."
“Okay,” James raised an eyebrow and grinned mischievously, “but the way you were scanning the crowd just now didn’t look like you were looking at a light.”
Just as she was about to retort, a soft voice suddenly came from behind her:
"Will we be full?"
She turned around.
Ethan stood a few steps away, dressed in a sharp black suit; his white shirt gleamed softly under the light, his bow tie slightly loosened, making him both dignified and strikingly handsome. He held a glass of red wine in his hand, his posture calm, a hint of a smile hidden in his deep eyes in the night.
He said softly, "Want to go for a walk? To try some real Italian food?"
She paused for a moment, then nodded: "Okay."
James, standing next to him, made a funny face and said, "I'm not going. I have to go to the expansion workshop. Have fun, you guys!" After raising his glass in a toast, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
The music from the banquet was still playing.
Ethan waited quietly for her—his black suit blending seamlessly with the golden light, as if the night itself made way for him. They walked side-by-side through the corridor, their footsteps echoing on the stone slabs, the music and laughter fading behind them. Italian nightlife was just beginning. It was only a little past eight o'clock; the restaurants along the street were just starting to light up, the air filled with the aroma of toasted bread and tomatoes; people sat leisurely on terraces, drinking and chatting. That slowed pace made her feel slightly dazed.
Their story, too, quietly turned to the next page in the night of this ancient city.
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