Luo Ren put the phone away in silence. So he and Ba Mei had made up again. Some couples showed love by tugging hair and clawing faces—and still somehow stuck it out forever.
He looked at Mu Dai, then up at the sixth-floor window glowing in the dark. “Ma Tuwen may bring more news. Let’s wait. Want me to grab you something to eat?”
She studied him. “You never contact Wan Fenghuo directly.”
True—he always went through Ma Tuwen.
“So what?” Luo Ren smiled.
“Why not?”
“I haven’t flown since coming back to China. Don’t take trains. Rarely ride in cars. Wherever I go, I drive myself.
“That house in Lijiang? The lease was signed under Uncle Zheng’s name. Same with Phoenix Tower. I’m the boss, but all the paperwork is his. Nothing has my name on it.”
He held her gaze. “Why do you think that is?”
“You don’t want to be found,” Mu Dai answered.
He exhaled. “Exactly. In this age, no one who shows their face regularly can truly disappear. Being found is unavoidable. But there are still precautions to take…”
Like keeping distance from all-seeing networks like Wan Fenghuo’s.
“Is it your enemies in the Philippines?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer.
Night settled in. From open windows drifted the smells of stir-fry, the hiss of oil hitting hot pans.
A memory rose—dark-skinned Uris, short and wiry, gun slung across his shoulders like a pole, squinting into a smoking wok.
“Ro, you people really eat like this?” he’d coughed, eyes streaming. Then grumbled, “And why does Aoki like everything raw? You’re both Asian, aren’t you?”
Another flash—Uris sprawled on a bed, bandages stained red circling his chest. Luo Ren teased him that in the dark, he looked like nothing but a glowing white ring.
Uris had cursed, pounding his chest. Asian women! I’ll never trust them again. Not Malay women, not any of them! I’ll tell my sons and grandsons, and the neighbors’ sons and grandsons!”
The others had roared with laughter.
“Was your enemy strong?” Mu Dai whispered.
Still no answer.
Instead, another memory—silver beach, clear sea, Luo Ren diving down to pluck a bright blue starfish from the rocks. Surfacing to find Uris thrashing in a life vest.
“Ro! Ro! Help me, I’m upside down!”
He looked like a turtle flipped on its back.
Luo Ren didn’t help—just shoved the starfish down Uris’s collar.
“Cold! It’s moving!” Uris shrieked.
“Today,” Luo Ren told him, “you’ll either learn to swim or die in the water.”
Uris did learn, eventually. Splashed clumsily but happily in the sea, declaring, “Ro, I’m a blackfish! In China, blackfish are precious, right?”
“Yes,” Luo Ren said. “A fish worthy of respect.”
Later, Uris floated facedown in a mansion pool, blood clouding the blue water.
Jaw clenched, Luo Ren closed his eyes.
Mu Dai pressed her cool cheek against his, whispering in his ear, “Luo Xiaodao, be good. I won’t ask anymore.”
When he opened his eyes again, the haze and bloodlust were gone, replaced by calm clarity.
“What do you want to eat?” he asked.
“Soup dumplings. With a touch of sweet vinegar. You slurp and there’s broth inside.”
They lined up at a busy stall—Jiangnan-style soup dumplings were surprisingly popular here.
Just then, Luo Ren’s phone rang.
Ma Tuwen: “That Ding Guohua quit being a doctor ages ago—about twenty years. Just left the hospital.”
“Strange,” Luo Ren muttered. “Back then, medicine was a golden job. And he just walked away?”
“Divorced too. People say he’s odd, can’t explain how. Barely goes out, doesn’t see anyone. Later, when the hospital tried to rehire him, he refused to even open the door.”
So shutting out visitors was normal for Ding Guohua.
Ma Tuwen sighed. “Once a chief physician. A highly knowledgeable man. And now? Just poorer and poorer…”
…
Something clicked for Luo Ren.
Twenty years ago, so much happened around then. Mu Dai’s mother is said to have contracted AIDS. Mu Dai abandoned. Ding Guohua suddenly quit medicine. Even that the Tengma pavilion was built twenty years back…
There had to be connections. The fog just hadn’t lifted yet.
Mu Dai sat on the garden steps, glancing down the path, then up toward the sixth floor.
Some windows had gone dark. Small towns went to bed early. The whole complex was still.
A thought struck her.
You won’t open the door? That won’t stop me from climbing in.
She moved to the wall, took a deep breath, spread her arms, pressed her body flat.
Her master had said: Don’t think of it as a wall. Think of it as ground. If you slip, you’re only falling back to the ground.
Her toes pushed off. Hands, feet, abdomen—five points of force. She shot upward.
People called it “gecko climbing,” but that was just talk. She wasn’t as fluid as a lizard. Still, the old rough wall gave her plenty of holds.
Soon, she was level with the sixth floor.
She gripped the window ledge, twisted, and braced her feet against the neighbor’s AC unit. Balanced easily.
Peered in.
Ding Guohua lay in bed under dim light, reading. Pages turned slowly, unhurried.
Thick book, by the looks of it.
Her elbows ached. Looking down, she saw Luo Ren watching from the stairs. Too dark to see his face, but no man liked seeing his girlfriend scaling walls for fun—especially six stories up.
She felt guilty, but turned back. Ding Guohua set the book aside and shuffled to the bathroom.
His gait dragged, stiff.
He came back with a basin of hot water, sat down, and peeled off his right shoe and sock. His bony foot sank into the steam. He sighed, relieved.
One foot at a time? Odd habit.
Her arms trembled from the strain. She looked down—Luo Ren had sat on the steps.
What would she tell him later? That Ding Guohua… washed his feet?
Pointless.
She shifted, ready to climb down, when Ding Guohua moved again.
He toweled off his right foot, set the basin aside, and limped back to the bathroom.
The sound of water being poured out.
So that was it.
The old man, Ding Guohua—he only washed one foot.
Sam Williams On TYMIMA Chapter 152