Chapter 49 First Meal Together
6:20 PM, underground parking garage of the Huo's Building.
Just as Song Zhiyi opened the door of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs' black sedan, she heard footsteps behind her.
"Translator Song"
She turned around. Huo Yanli stood three steps away, his dark gray suit jacket draped over his arm, his tie slightly loose. He wasn't followed by any assistants or others, which made him appear less imposing than in the conference room, and more…something indefinable in its realism.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Huo?" she asked, her hand still on the car door.
“I should formally thank you for today.” Huo Yanli walked over, the cold white light of the garage casting a shadow on his shoulders. “Let’s have a meal together as a way of thanking you. There’s a nice restaurant nearby…”
"I'm sorry." Song Zhiyi glanced at her watch. "I need to get back to the department before 7:50 to return the equipment and prepare a briefing. I can only find a quick and easy solution nearby."
She paused, then added, "If Mr. Huo doesn't mind."
Huo Yanli hadn't expected her to agree—even if it came with conditions. He had prepared a polite refusal, but it caught in his throat, so he quickly changed his words: "I don't mind. There are light meals in the mall across the street."
"good."
She closed the car door, said something to the driver, and then walked towards the elevator. Huo Yanli followed, and as they stood side by side in the elevator, he noticed that she rubbed her right shoulder—a very subtle movement, almost imperceptible.
As the elevator ascended, he asked, "Have you handled similar cases before in today's negotiations?"
“I’ve come across similar texts before.” Song Zhiyi’s answer was like diplomatic language, precise but leaving room for interpretation.
"You stayed in Riyadh for six months?"
"Six months and ten days."
The numbers were so specific that they slightly surprised him. "Do you like it there?"
The elevator doors opened, and she stepped out first: "There's no such thing as liking or disliking a workplace, only whether it's suitable for you to do the work."
---
At this time, there weren't many customers in the light food restaurant on the fourth floor of the mall. Song Zhiyi chose a booth by the window, and after sitting down, she took out a brown paper folder from her briefcase and placed it beside her.
Huo Yanli pushed the menu over: "Take a look and see what you'd like to eat."
"A vegetable salad and a glass of warm water, please," she said to the waiter without opening the menu. Then she glanced at her watch.
Huo Yanli ordered a light meal, and after the waiter left, he looked at her and said, "Are you always in such a rush?"
“Foreign affairs work has strict timelines.” Song Zhiyi finally looked up from her watch and looked at him. “The fact that we were able to end the negotiations ahead of schedule today is the result of thorough preparations by both teams.”
She attributed the credit to everyone, which is typical diplomatic language.
The food was served quickly. Song Zhiyi ate quietly, her movements methodical and almost silent. Huo Yanli noticed a thin, pale white scar on the inside of her left wrist, about two centimeters long, located just below the watch strap—it would have been completely invisible if the strap hadn't slipped open when she raised her wrist.
“Your wrist…” he said instinctively.
Song Zhiyi glanced down and adjusted the watch strap back into place: "Old injury, it's nothing."
"Was it left behind while you were working abroad?"
She paused for half a second, holding the fork, before continuing to put the salad in her mouth, chewing, and swallowing, before answering, "Mr. Huo is very interested in the daily work of a translator?"
It wasn't a rhetorical question, but a genuine inquiry. The tone was calm, revealing no emotion.
Huo Yanli found himself unable to answer. Saying "yes" would seem abrupt; saying "no" would be too stiff. He found himself in a situation he had never been in before—facing a woman who was legally his wife, yet more difficult to understand than any business rival.
“I just feel,” he carefully chose his words, “that the work of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is probably more…complex than I imagined.”
Song Zhiyi put down her fork and took a sip of water. The neon lights outside the window shone through the glass, casting tiny specks of light in her eyes.
“Any work, once you delve into it, will reveal its complexity.” She paused. “Like the project that Mr. Huo is negotiating today, it appears to be an energy cooperation, but behind it lies the social structure of local tribes, religious customs, environmental assessment standards, and even the impact of international commodity price fluctuations on the financing plan.”
As she spoke, her gaze wasn't entirely focused on him, but rather slightly turned towards the window, as if she were organizing her thoughts.
She finished the last bite of her salad, wiped her mouth with a tissue, glanced at her watch, and said, "Sorry, I have to go. It's seven o'clock."
"I send you."
“No need, the department requires the equipment to be transported back by special vehicle.” She stood up, picked up her briefcase and folder, and said, “Thank you for the meal.”
Huo Yanli also stood up: "I should be thanking you. If it weren't for you today..."
“It’s my duty.” She interrupted him, nodded, and said, “Goodbye, Mr. Huo.”
She turned and left, her steps still steady and swift. Huo Yanli stood by the table, watching her figure disappear into the direction of the elevator as she walked through the restaurant.
When the waiter came to collect the tableware, he said softly, "Sir, your wife left her folder behind."
Huo Yanli looked down and saw the kraft paper folder inside the booth. He picked it up but didn't open it—it wasn't his—but through the translucent paper, he could see that it contained handwritten Arabic notes, the handwriting neat and clear, with numbers and symbols marked in red in the margins.
He quickly chased after him.
In front of the mall elevator, Song Zhiyi was waiting for the elevator. Hearing footsteps, she turned around and her gaze fell on the folder in his hand.
"Yours." Huo Yanli handed it over.
"Thank you." She took it and hugged it to her chest. This gesture made her look younger than her actual age, and... more real.
The elevator arrived, and the doors opened.
"Song Zhiyi," Huo Yanli said before she stepped into the elevator, "Is your wrist injury really alright?"
She stood inside the elevator and turned around. The metal doors slowly closed, separating them.
"It's nothing," she said, then added before the door closed completely, "It just gets numb occasionally, but I'm used to it."
The elevator is going down.
Huo Yanli stood still until the elevator numbers jumped to "B2" before turning around and walking back.
Back at the table, he ordered a coffee. After the waiter left, he subconsciously glanced at the spot where Song Zhiyi had just sat—there were faint watermarks left on the table from when she wiped it with a napkin, and a tiny, almost invisible piece of arugula clung to the edge of the salad bowl next to it.
He suddenly remembered that on the day they got their marriage certificate more than two years ago, she left cleanly and decisively, without leaving any trace.
But today is different.
Today she left behind that folder—though only temporarily forgotten; she left behind the secret of the scar on her wrist—though only unintentionally revealed; she left behind the statement, "It sometimes goes numb, but I'm used to it"—though only a farewell sentence.
Behind these "althoughs" lies a world that belonged to her, a world he had never known.
The coffee arrived. He took a sip, and the bitterness spread across his tongue.
Then he picked up his phone and sent a message to Lin Yang: "Check what might be causing the wrist nerve damage."
After sending it, he added, "Keep it confidential."
Huo Yanli finished the last sip of his coffee and got up to leave. As he passed through the mall's atrium, he saw a children's playground where several children were laughing and running around. A world map was pasted on the glass wall, and a little girl was pointing to the Arabian Peninsula on tiptoe.
"Mom, is this all desert?"
"Not entirely, honey. There are people there too, cities there, people living just like us."
Huo Yanli stopped in his tracks.
He suddenly understood everything Song Zhiyi had done at the negotiating table that day: she wasn't translating languages, but translating the world—allowing people from different worlds to see each other's true existence.
And he, as her husband, didn't even know the origin of the scar on her wrist.
Lin Yang's phone vibrated again. He replied, "Mr. Huo, based on the initial consultation, possible causes of wrist nerve injury include: external cutting, prolonged compression, burns from certain chemicals, or... electric shock. More specific symptom descriptions are needed for a diagnosis."
Huo Yanli stared at the words "electric shock injury," his fingers tightening.
The elevator arrived, and he stepped inside. His face was reflected in the metal wall, expressionless, but something in his eyes was loosening and cracking.
As the elevator descended, he suddenly remembered something his grandfather had said last year: "That child, Zhiyi, carries the weight of mountains and rivers on her shoulders."
He didn't understand at the time.
Now, perhaps I'm starting to understand.
---
At the same time, the Translation Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
After returning the equipment, Song Zhiyi sat down at her desk to write a report. A familiar numbness returned to her right wrist, so she stopped typing and gently rubbed it with her left hand.
That scar was left four years ago in Syria. It wasn't an electric shock, but rather nerve damage caused by a brief electric shock when shrapnel grazed the metal and a nearby power line snapped. It's not serious; it just feels numb on rainy days or when I'm tired.
She didn't tell anyone.
It's not that I'm pretending to be strong, I just feel it's unnecessary. The pain is my own, and talking about it only makes others worry or pity me; it has no other purpose.
The briefing is finished and sent.
She turned off her computer and looked out the window. The night in Beijing overlapped with the nights of many cities in her memory: Damascus, Kabul, Tripoli... those places also had such quiet nights, however brief.
My phone lit up; it was a message from Huo Yanli: "Thank you for today. If your wrist is uncomfortable, you can contact Ji Yun; he knows a very good neurologist."
She looked at the message but did not reply immediately.
A few minutes later, she replied with two words: "Thank you."
I neither said "okay" nor "no need".
Just a "thank you".
Just as a traveler in the desert would not refuse any sip of water, she would not refuse a kind reminder—even though she knew she probably wouldn't actually make the contact.
As I was packing up to leave, a colleague peeked out from the next office: "Sister Song, I heard you went to Huo's to save the day? Is their heir particularly difficult to deal with?"
Song Zhiyi thought for a moment and said, "Mr. Huo is very professional."
That's it?
"Okay." She picked up her bag. "See you tomorrow."
Stepping out of the building, a cool night breeze blew. She stood on the steps and looked up at the night sky—stars are rarely visible in Beijing, but tonight there were one or two, very faint.
She remembered her mother saying, "Zhiyi, you must remember that the world is vast and there is much suffering, but there are always some moments that are worthwhile."
Does the smile that appeared on Abdul's serious face when the negotiations succeeded today count?
Perhaps.
She walked down the steps towards the subway station. The numbness in her wrist had lessened, but a slight lingering sensation remained, like a distant echo.
As the subway entered the tunnel, the windows turned into black mirrors, reflecting her face.
Calm, tired, but his eyes were still clear.
Just like the deserts she traversed, the war zones she crossed, and the negotiating tables she reached—everywhere left unseen traces, but every step was in the same direction.
The train accelerated, and the wind whistled outside the window.
She sat quietly, like a moving island.
It shines alone beneath the deep sea.
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