Chapter 82#

Fu Jinchi was in no rush to introduce Yan Zishu to his acquaintances in Hong Kong. Perhaps the timing felt rushed, or perhaps it simply didn’t seem necessary yet.

Yan Zishu didn’t mind either way. He wanted to understand this man because he wanted to love him — but he saw no reason to rush toward a complete picture all at once.

He had always known that Fu Jinchi’s social world was complicated. His contact list contained people of genuine character worth knowing, like the Zeng siblings, and naturally also plenty of the entitled, pleasure-seeking variety whose company would not always be pleasant.

This was probably why Fu Jinchi had never let him near that world — but Yan Zishu had made his peace with that possibility long ago.

A certain equanimity in the face of whatever he encountered. That wasn’t so much to ask of himself.

On the last day before they returned to the island, Fu Jinchi did take him to visit an old acquaintance.

They called ahead. The car made its way to the peninsula, up the hillside, and arrived at a stand-alone garden villa.

The villa was in a quiet location, not particularly large — it reminded Yan Zishu somewhat of the two-story townhouse Fu Jinchi kept in the eastern district. But given Hong Kong’s famously prohibitive property prices, a private residence of this size and character was unquestionably high-end.

The owner had grey at both temples, a square and resolute face that still carried traces of a forceful youth, and lines around his eyes that spoke of a great deal of time.

Yan Zishu didn’t learn the man’s full name. He only heard Fu Jinchi address him, in a neutral tone, as Uncle Qiu.

Before coming, he had been told: this man had been a longtime subordinate of Fu Zhizhang’s, though with a decent enough heart. When Fu Jinchi was young and his mother was being treated harshly by everyone around her, too inarticulate and without enough standing to secure Fu Zhizhang’s protection, this man had sometimes offered discreet small assistance.

Not much. Never in contradiction of Fu Zhizhang’s wishes. Just enough to allow the mother and child to scrape by.

When Fu Jinchi’s mother died and Fu Zhizhang hadn’t even made an appearance, it was Uncle Qiu, as his most trusted deputy, who had come out to handle the funeral arrangements.

After that, however, Uncle Qiu had abruptly announced his resignation — refusing all attempts to be talked out of it — and left for Hong Kong to build a new life. According to what Yan Zishu had gathered from Fu Jinchi, he had married a local woman, quickly obtained permanent residency, and appeared to have settled here with no intention of returning to the mainland. He now ran a private equestrian facility.

When Fu Jinchi had been in Hong Kong, Uncle Qiu had extended some support, out of old feeling.

Though it had been, then as before, a measured and carefully proportioned amount.

More than that, and Fu Jinchi probably wouldn’t have accepted a debt he couldn’t repay.

In Uncle Qiu’s presence, Fu Jinchi’s manner was noticeably more composed than usual — no particularly flippant remarks, no air of studied indifference.

Though that was about as far as it went. Once they arrived and Yan Zishu started paying attention, he sensed a subtle quality between the two men — not hostility, not remotely, but a particular formality that never quite warmed into closeness. The older man was genuinely pleased to see Fu Jinchi and made every effort to express it, and Fu Jinchi was adequately polite in return, yet something thin and transparent seemed to persist between them, never quite dissolving. As a result, it was actually Yan Zishu — the newcomer — who found himself in easier conversation with Uncle Qiu.

The sitting room arrangement had become rather lopsided: Yan Zishu, visiting for the first time, was having the more natural conversation with Uncle Qiu, while Fu Jinchi sat beside him, draped against the sofa with deliberate ease, one arm loose around Yan Zishu’s waist, interjecting occasionally in an unhurried way.

Uncle Qiu had no children of his own. Over the course of the conversation, Yan Zishu learned that he and his long-separated wife had finally divorced recently.

In this villa now, the only inhabitants besides Uncle Qiu were a housekeeper, a driver, and a domestic helper from the Philippines. A quiet, somewhat empty feeling hung over the place.

They stayed a while and shared a meal, the conversation staying at the level of ordinary domestic things.

Uncle Qiu extended an open invitation for Yan Zishu to come and ride horses at the facility. Yan Zishu smiled.

On the wall of the sitting room, he noticed an oil painting. He’d taken it for a decorative piece at first, but on a second look, there was something faintly familiar about it.

When they took their leave and stepped out through the door, it came to him suddenly — the photograph of Fu Jinchi’s birth mother on the bookshelf at home.

She had been modest and traditional to the point of rigidity, and yet she had possessed an intensely beautiful face. That face had been inherited, in full, by Fu Jinchi.

Yan Zishu looked at that inherited face and understood.

The black Lincoln was waiting at the door. The driver had grown familiar with Yan Zishu over these days and gave him a nod.

Once they were in the car, the pieces settled into place: that man had, at some level, been in love with Fu Jinchi’s mother. Not intensely enough in her lifetime to break through everything and declare it openly. And after her death, unable to forget her — unable, perhaps, to face himself — he had fled far enough to put it behind him, while never quite managing to do so. The human heart was a strange thing.

And this, of course, explained Fu Jinchi’s manner. Yan Zishu had always sensed that Fu Jinchi wasn’t the type to grovel before anyone who’d shown him charity — push someone like that too far and he’d push back harder — so what was different about Uncle Qiu?

Now it made sense.

With Fu Jinchi’s particular quality of solitude, it was genuinely difficult to feel close to any of Fu Zhizhang’s former associates. And someone who had spent years in an irresolute middle ground made things harder, not easier. But Fu Jinchi still came by occasionally, without ceremony, for a conversation — perhaps because, whatever else could be said about him, this was a person who actually remembered his mother as she had been. That was probably worth something.

“Do you want to learn to ride?” Fu Jinchi asked. “Not right now — it’d be a bit risky, too easy to get hurt. Once you’re properly recovered. If you want, I can arrange lessons. Just to try it out. It doesn’t have to be at his place.”

Hearing this, Yan Zishu’s first thought was that he was already a grown adult still being enrolled in activities — then he reconsidered, and smiled. “All right — remind me later.” Something faintly feral was starting to stir.

“So you ride.” Yan Zishu tugged at Fu Jinchi. “Are there photos?”

There was a video. Fu Jinchi performing dressage: a swallow-tail coat, tall riding boots, sitting the horse with composed ease, holding the reins, a glance toward the camera that was both proud and unbothered before he turned back. Rider in formal dress, horse in collected movement — the black horse’s powerful muscles carrying a rhythmic force and beauty, entirely at Fu Jinchi’s command.

Yan Zishu looked up from the phone screen toward Fu Jinchi’s actual face. Held the look for two seconds. Looked back at the screen.

When he looked up again, his gaze had changed — the way Fu Jinchi liked to lean in close and murmur. Yan Zishu couldn’t replicate the quality of insinuation in Fu Jinchi’s voice. He just smiled, very slightly, and said: “Perform it for me alone sometime.”

After more delay than either of them had planned, they finally returned to Stone Drum Island.

Back at the sanatorium, the first thing Yan Zishu had to do was deal with a very large pile of new clothes.

The room was immaculate — cleaned daily, not a speck of dust, fresh flowers on the table. The new clothes had been handled by the staff who had received them — washed and pressed as appropriate. When you had money, everything could be made effortless.

He went through them slowly, hanging each item in the wardrobe. Nothing in particular was happening, and his mood was unreasonably calm and content.

Fu Jinchi stood beside him, running a critical eye over his older clothes.

According to Fu Jinchi, every single one of them should go directly in the bin. He was still making this case when a T-shirt with a sampan print appeared in front of him — the one he’d bought from the souvenir shop when he first tracked down the island, as an emergency change of clothes for Yan Zishu. “Keep this one or not?”

Yan Zishu had been teasing him.

When he saw Fu Jinchi go quiet over the T-shirt, sinking into thought for a moment, Yan Zishu felt a flicker of concern, and waved a hand in front of his face. “Hey — are you all right? It’s fine. I was joking. It’s all in the past.”

Fu Jinchi reached out and grabbed his fingers — and lifted him bodily off the ground.

Yan Zishu startled, grabbed for his neck, and by the time he’d worked out what was happening, he was on the bed.

The wardrobe organizing fell to Fu Jinchi after that.

In its own way, that T-shirt had become something worth keeping. Throwing it away was out of the question.

Afterward Fu Jinchi took the shirt away — apparently afraid it might get lost — and tucked it directly into the inner lining pocket of his own suitcase.

Back on the island, it took two days before Yan Zishu thought to notice that he hadn’t heard Ding Laoxiansheng’s distinctive carrying voice.

When he asked at the reception desk, he found the old man had checked out and gone home.

Of course — Ding Hongbo’s engagement ceremony was coming up imminently. An involved grandfather couldn’t possibly not be there.

Most older people held deeply embedded beliefs about continuing the family line and the blessing of a full house. You couldn’t change their thinking no matter how you tried. They’d scold the young for not listening, and at the same time ache with anticipation, insist they weren’t involved, and then spend every waking moment arranging and fussing behind the scenes.

The front desk had a box of specialty items from the mainland — Ding Laoxiansheng had left it for Yan Zishu when he’d been away. Sauces, hotpot spice packets, that kind of thing. Not expensive, but unavailable in Hong Kong. The old man had apparently been sent some by family or friends from the mainland, and had set aside a portion for Yan Zishu. A small gesture.

In the time it took Yan Zishu to send a thank-you message, every spicy item in the box had been confiscated by Fu Jinchi.

Yan Zishu suspected this was overreach, but without evidence, there was nothing to be done.

Ding Laoxiansheng’s suite had been cleared; whether he would return to the island, Yan Zishu didn’t bother to ask. Every gathering eventually had its dispersal — it was better to hold things loosely. He had felt a small hollow sensation when he first heard the news from the front desk, but with Fu Jinchi there wherever he went, there was truly nothing to feel lonely about. The feeling had moved through him and was already gone.

As for Fu Jinchi — having Ding Jiansheng move out was, if anything, a source of quiet satisfaction.

But one thing still snagged in Yan Zishu’s mind.

The old man had spent his life waiting to see his grandchildren married. That was something he’d witnessed directly. But what if you knew in advance that was simply never going to happen? Would you just watch?

Fu Jinchi had put the implications plainly enough before. Anyone who couldn’t see from the signs that Ding Hongbo’s orientation was something other than what was assumed was simply not looking.

Yan Zishu had been accidentally entangled with Ding Hongbo in a tabloid story. He couldn’t quite call himself uninvolved. It sat with him — like an unfinished task.

That afternoon, waking from a nap, he was reading by the floor-to-ceiling windows when his phone buzzed twice.

Fu Jinchi was sitting in the same room and had apparently just sent him a message. He opened it: an email address, no explanation.

Yan Zishu looked up at the living room: “What is this? Whose email?”

“Lisa Wong.” Fu Jinchi was sitting at the table, one leg crossed over the other, rustling a newspaper as though the message had nothing to do with him. “Send her an anonymous email. Tell her the Ding person is no good — something’s off about him. You know how to use a proxy IP, right?”

He gave Yan Zishu a brief glance, and looked back at the paper. “Actually, I know you know. No need to explain.”

Yan Zishu thought of the name on the engagement invitation — Lisa, family name Huang. Huang Lisha.

He paused for a moment, then couldn’t help a quiet burst of laughter. He closed his book, set it on the side table, and went over, wrapping his arms around Fu Jinchi’s neck from behind. “Why are you getting me to do something underhanded again?”

Fu Jinchi gave him a sideways look: “You’ve been dragging your feet. Sort it out so you can stop thinking about other men.”

Yan Zishu laughed even more at this, and pressed his face against Fu Jinchi’s hair: “What is the matter with you.”

Fu Jinchi, however, dodged the kiss, shook his head, sighed, pulled over a notepad from the edge of the table, picked up the pen, and wrote several lines in rapid, assured strokes: “Here. I’ve already drafted the email for you.”

Yan Zishu held the note between two fingers. Fu Jinchi capped the pen. “He’s only just getting engaged — whether he actually goes through with the wedding is still an open question, and here you are plotting away.”

Another sigh, more theatrical than the first: “Fine. As long as you’re still willing to stay by my side, it’s fine if you think about other men. Fine if you can’t forget Ding Hongbo. You can sit here and think about him — I’ll go to the supermarket and buy charcoal for the grill. Is there anything else you want while I’m out?”

He settled Yan Zishu firmly into the chair: “Tell me now, I’ll bring it back.”

Yan Zishu opened his mouth: “…”

At this point, Yan Zishu decided he did not dare to so much as think the character for Ding. He changed into his shoes and went out to buy things alongside Fu Jinchi.

The whole way, Yan Zishu walked with his head down, typing on his phone — not composing anonymous emails. With Fu Jinchi in full theatrical aggrievement mode, there was nothing to say except to go along with it — he was messaging Zeng Peirong to confirm a time, checking whether she and her friends were free to come.

Even though they’d spent an extra week on the main island, the BBQ that had been planned before was still going ahead.

And a self-catered barbecue was the kind of thing that needed people — the business of getting charcoal going and building up a fire was too much effort for two people to justify the result. So he’d invited not just Zeng Peirong but several others among her friends whom Yan Zishu had met.

In the end, a respectable number of people confirmed they were coming.

Fu Jinchi had no patience for the coarse approach of hot enough to eat — he wanted Yan Zishu to understand what proper preparation looked like. Over the previous two days, he had borrowed the sanatorium’s kitchen, made his own marinades from scratch, and left the meat to absorb properly. It was a whole production.

With that going on, Yan Zishu had said nothing and simply tied on an apron for the duration, keeping Fu Jinchi company even when there was nothing for him to actually do.

Nothing else, really — just making sure that whenever Fu Jinchi looked up, he would be there.

They booked the outdoor grill area by the beach again. Among those who came: Zeng Peirong and her friends, and two families with children who had made a trip out to the island. The noise level was no less than the Ding family had produced on Thanksgiving.

Fat dripped from meat onto glowing coals, filling the air with an irresistible sizzle. Every adult had a beer; the non-drinkers had iced herbal tea or juice. Children ran around kicking a beach ball, fizzing with energy.

Yan Zishu and Fu Jinchi sat together at one table, eating and talking, but in the company of friends they knew and cared about, they kept a polite distance — no obvious affection, no ignoring anyone else, they didn’t even hold hands.

One of the families had brought twin girls, who had not quite mastered fluent speech and spoke in an alternating pattern, as small children do in the most endearing period of their lives. Yan Zishu spent a good stretch of time playing with them, until eventually they ran off shyly. When he came back, his expression was still full of warmth, and he caught Fu Jinchi’s gaze across the table.

Fu Jinchi had also, inexplicably, been smiling. He said nothing, and passed Yan Zishu a skewer of freshly cooked meat.

Yan Zishu thanked him, was about to take it — and then felt his pocket buzz.

He reached for the phone a moment too slowly; the call had already ended. The missed-call display showed an unfamiliar number.

Whether because Fu Jinchi’s recent rascally behavior had overstimulated his nerves, or whether people truly did have a kind of intuition, when Yan Zishu looked at the string of red digits, a name surfaced unprompted in his mind:

Ding Hongbo.

This was, admittedly, a reasonable inference — apart from this person and the occasional spam call, Yan Zishu couldn’t think of who else would call the Hong Kong number he’d acquired recently. Unless it was Ding Laoxiansheng calling from a new number, or possibly Lisa.

He glanced at Fu Jinchi, still trying to work it out, when the phone buzzed insistently again.

The same number.