SES Chapter 235 Part 1

Chapter 235
Bonus Volume: Afterword to the Ancient City

It was said that a cold wave had swept across the entire country.

Even the usually warm Old Town got hit by the tail end of it. The sky was dark and gloomy, with a steady drizzle falling. As one sharp-tongued girl nearby put it: everyone had turned into turtles—necks and hands tucked in, wishing they could walk the streets wrapped in blankets.

At times like this, a warm bar filled with music and the occasional aroma of freshly ground coffee felt like the ultimate winner in life.

Brother Mao stood proudly on a stool, pulled a nail from between his teeth, and hammered it into the wall—bang, bang, bang. Then he carefully took a framed picture from around his neck and hung it up with great ceremony.

It was an enlarged photograph. In the distance were snow-covered mountains; in the foreground, a Land Cruiser was parked on a snowy field. Two people stood by the front of the vehicle: a woman in a thick black down jacket with long hair threaded with colorful braids, and a middle-aged man in a red monk’s robe, smiling with calm eyes, the edge of his robe lifted gently by the wind.

A customer behind him spoke up. “Hey, is this Yunnan too? Where exactly? Jade Dragon Snow Mountain doesn’t get snow like that, does it?”

“Sharp eye,” Brother Mao said. “Look at all that snow—this is northern Tibet.”

The customer came closer, hands behind his back, and gestured toward the monk-like figure. “That guy… not just any monk, right?”

“You bet. A living Buddha, in charge of a huge monastery.”

Brother Mao sounded proud. “They’re all my friends!”

That was an exaggeration. The person who took the photo and the one who stood with the monk were indeed his friends, but he himself had never met the monk in the picture.

He climbed carefully down from the stool.

In the corner, a college-aged girl looked up at the photo wall. “Northern Tibet here, southern Gansu there, even the Yadan Devil City… Brother Mao only likes the northern frontier. Why not hang up something from Suzhou’s gardens or Nanjing’s Ming Tombs?”

Brother Mao lifted his chin. “The south is delicate paper; the north is forged iron. Ever heard that? Iron—bang!—strong enough for snow and wind. That’s what I like!”

He was hardly young anymore, but still loved to argue. Laughter erupted through the bar, and someone joked, “Then why don’t you open a bar in northern Tibet?”

Brother Mao just smiled and said nothing.

After putting away his tools, he went to the backyard. Night was falling; the kitchen had started cooking, the sound of sizzling oil filling the air—a comforting sound.

—Open a bar in northern Tibet?

No way, he thought. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t have the strength anymore. Not with a family to support, and even alone his body couldn’t handle the wind, snow, and emotional ups and downs.

He sat on the steps, lit a cigarette, and as the smoke drifted upward, he hummed a Tibetan folk tune from southern Gansu.

He’d barely begun when Mao Wa ran over. “Dad, dinner’s ready.”

Brother Mao stood and dusted off his pants. “Did you call your Uncle Mystic?”

“Yeah. He said he’s on a hunger strike.”

Another hunger strike?

Fine, let him. It wasn’t the first time. Brother Mao walked toward the room Mystic was staying in—nicknamed the “culture room”—and shouted, “Go ahead! Anyone who quits halfway and sneaks out to buy cookies is a coward!”

In the kitchen, the food was already served. While they ate, Mrs. Mao said, “Mystic hasn’t eaten for two days.”

“Let him be,” Brother Mao replied. “He won’t starve. Might even save the country some grain.”

“Maybe just agree to it. We’d only lose a few nights’ rent.”

Brother Mao glared. “No. That’s not how this works.”

Mystic had come by recently; he visited several times a year, calling himself a free-spirited migratory bird. Brother Mao scoffed at his artsy attitude, saying he was more like a migratory bird with a hormonal imbalance—real birds only came once or twice a year, while he showed up constantly.

This time was different, though. Mystic had been hovering around Brother Mao, hesitating, clearly wanting to say something.

Brother Mao was blunt. “Spit it out.”

Mystic said, “So… I’ve got some good friends. A couple wants to get married, and I was hoping they could hold the ceremony here, stay in our ‘Fengtang Room’—share the room’s good fortune and add to it too.”

“Then they can book a room,” Brother Mao said.

“Oh come on, booking a room sounds so distant,” Mystic said with an overly enthusiastic smile.

Brother Mao caught on. “So you’re asking for sponsorship?”

“Yeah.”

“How many people?”

“Not sure… five or six… maybe seven or eight.”

“How many nights?”

Seeing Brother Mao looking agreeable, Mystic grew hopeful. “Wedding plus sightseeing… probably four or five nights.”

Brother Mao kept smiling. “Is this your business?”

Mystic lowered his head and said nothing.

Brother Mao glanced sideways at him. “You deal with too many strange things—you’ve forgotten how to handle real people. It’s my bar. Why should I give it away as a favor? Do you think I’m in love with you?”

“That’s why I’m discussing it with you,” Mystic said humbly.

“No discussion. It’s a matter of principle.”

“But we’re good friends.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m teaching you something—don’t promise things you can’t guarantee, especially not using someone else’s resources.”

“Just this once…”

“Even once is an exception. And I don’t make exceptions.”

“I already promised them… I’ll lose face…”

“Losing face is a good lesson.”

“They’re good people…”