The fishing village woke early.

First came another goat out for a stroll, then smoke rose from cooking fires, voices grew layered and mixed — some people were mending nets, others were laying out seafood to dry on the coastal rocks. The sky had barely lightened, yet the day’s noisy rhythm of living had already begun.

The van was conspicuous, and strange enough to draw attention. A few children who had brought their goats down for a wash gathered around out of curiosity, chattering at Wei Lai, who spoke back to them. They all burst out laughing — they couldn’t understand a word — then talked over one another in a jumble of voices.

Wei Lai couldn’t understand them either.

He turned back to look at Cen Jin. She shook her head: “Some African countries don’t have a unified language — local tribal dialects number in the hundreds. But a fishing village that deals in overseas trade will certainly have someone who speaks English. Ask around.”

Wei Lai corralled the cluster of children scrambling every which way and shouted: “English! English!”

The children erupted in laughter, dragged their goats back toward the village, and returned after a while shepherding a middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion and a full head of curly hair. He answered Wei Lai in a high-pitched voice: “English!”

Wei Lai was baffled — couldn’t they have left the goats behind before going to fetch him? The children were quick on their feet, running far too fast; the little goats couldn’t keep up, and ended up sprawled on all fours being dragged along, wearing the expression of creatures who had lost all will to live.

The man’s name was Santos. He owned a speedboat and regularly took it out to the open sea to trade with Yemeni fishing vessels. The political situation in the surrounding countries was unstable, oversight was nearly nonexistent, petty smuggling and border-crossing were commonplace, and fishermen knew nothing of laws and regulations — in their minds, catching fish and selling fish was simply the natural order of things.

This place felt like a desolate world apart.

Santos said the little village was called Buku.

“No telephone here. If you want to make a call, drive north, about twenty-some li, there’s a bigger village with a township office — there’s a phone in there. There are also police, who come to the village once a week to handle disputes. Buku has none of that. The police don’t come. When something happens, everyone sorts it out themselves.”

Once a week — the police presence here was…

“Everyone fishes by the shore. I’m the only one with a boat; a few families can afford nets — our nets are cast in the open sea the day before, then we take the boat out the next day to haul in the catch…”

“Somewhere to stay? Go look around the village yourselves. Whichever house has no one in it, just stay there.”

“Are you with National Geographic?”

He actually knew what National Geographic was.

“Two years ago, an American came — said he was a National Geographic photographer, took a heap of photos and left. Last year, a Frenchman came — also said he was a National Geographic photographer, took a heap of photos and left. Where’s your equipment?”

Santos peered into the van.

Wei Lai pointed to the shattered window: “We ran into a sandstorm on the road. The camera got blown away.”

Santos nodded in understanding.

The shacks in the fishing village were truly… beyond description.

No wonder they all leaned — there was no technical complexity to them. One glance was enough to understand the construction: tree branches and sticks, crudely shaved and driven into the ground as stakes, bound together with straw and walled in. The gaps between the sticks varied — some wide, some narrow. Over the top was stretched a large sheet of plastic, and the more particular households would layer thatching over the plastic.

When the wind picked up, the shacks leaned a little. When it blew harder, they leaned more. Then the goats came to gnaw — the bindings were straw, and some goats, drawn by convenience, would come to chew at the grass. As they chewed, the shack leaned further.

When it leaned too far to be livable, they built another.

Was there any real cost to building one of these shacks? One could practically throw one up in the span of a conversation and a laugh — then comes the wind, then comes the goat, and down it goes.

Which house had no one living in it? The more crooked the shack, the more likely it was empty.

Wei Lai parked the van at the entrance, went inside to set up the tent. Once the sun was directly overhead, the heat would roll in waves — the shack, though lopsided, combined with the tent would give two layers of shade, making it more bearable for Cen Jin.

Thinking of Cen Jin, he glanced back.

She sat in the van waiting, no particular expression on her face, eyelids lowered, paying no mind to the curious villagers staring at her.

Since coming out of the swim in the sea, everything had felt off. Wei Lai sensed vaguely that last night, he might have done something wrong.

He couldn’t figure out what.

The tent was set up. He went to the van to get the luggage. Cen Jin moved to step out, and the world in front of her suddenly dimmed.

Wei Lai had stepped in front of her.

She looked up at him for a moment, then sat back down.

Wei Lai said: “Is it because I kissed you last night? You think I’m too loose?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re not loose enough.”

Wei Lai couldn’t make sense of that.

All the way here, just the two of them, not a soul in sight — had he lost control for even a moment, he could have done anything he wanted to her.

He hadn’t. He only let himself think about it, now and then, indulgently.

Last night, he could have been far more reckless. He wasn’t — he even found himself reluctant: sometimes when feelings are real, you can’t help but soften your voice, handle things gently, as if tending to a flower. He had never been one to snap a bloom from its stem. He’d rather cultivate it — sifting fine soil around the roots, building shade, blocking wind, shielding from rain.

What was the point of plucking a flower, only to have it perfume the bedside for a single night? He wanted more than possession.

Cen Jin smiled: “That day on the plane — it was me who made the first move. You told me to think it over, to make sure it wasn’t just an impulse, just seeking comfort.”

“It was. I was looking for comfort.”

“I thought you were the same — we happened to click, to see things the same way, and the journey was dull. If we were both willing, kissing, sleeping together, why not? After all, you haven’t married me and I haven’t married you — acting on an impulse isn’t going to harm anyone.”

“But then you got serious. You kissed my eyes, and I knew you cared.”

She tilted her head and looked at Wei Lai.

What man rushing toward desire would take the time and tenderness to kiss a woman’s eyes?

“That made things awkward. I’m playing around; you’re being sincere. How can that work? How unfair.”

“Though it’s not so bad — the negotiations are about to begin. Within three to five days, I can wrap up this ship matter. After that, we each go our separate ways. You should know this already: our contract runs until the negotiations are over. The moment Hu Sha nods, you’ll be free.”

She stepped out of the van again.

This time, Wei Lai moved aside.

Cen Jin walked past him, all the way into the shack, ducked her head beneath the tent flap, and crawled inside.

The ground sheet was spread flat. She sat down. The tent flap swayed, and as it moved, the clamor and white brightness of outside swayed in through the gap.

It was so hot.

In the small fishing village, two foreign faces and a van were a greater novelty than a beached shark on the coastal rocks. Wei Lai endured wave after wave of pointing and staring from the entire village — and still hadn’t collected an entrance fee.

The children were the most curious and enthusiastic, and being entirely idle, they simply wouldn’t leave him alone.

Santos felt it was his responsibility, as someone who spoke English, to stay and keep the foreign friend company — even without pay, it was a matter of honor and face.

With Santos as interpreter, Wei Lai quickly struck up a rapport with the children.

The chattering racket at the doorway gave Cen Jin a headache. She lifted the tent flap open a crack —

Wei Lai was sitting at the entrance of the shack. And there, beside him, was a grey donkey with water pouches on its back — even the donkey had come out for the spectacle?

Around him, children were climbing and leaping, and the smallest one — a tiny dark-skinned boy — had gripped Wei Lai’s shoulders with both hands and was using his back as a mountain to climb.

Don’t you know you have wounds on your back?

For a moment, she almost strode over, grabbed the child, and tossed him aside.

She clenched her jaw.

Not her concern. She’d let him be. If his back got trampled raw, he’d deserve it.

Wei Lai suddenly looked back.

She shut the tent flap quickly.

After a while, someone came in and tapped twice on the tent frame: “Cen Jin?”

“Mm.”

He lifted the flap and crouched halfway in: “I want to discuss something with you.”

“There’s no water well in this village. The nearest freshwater pool is about two kilometers out. When fishermen need water, they borrow a donkey from whoever has one and carry the pouches to fetch it.”

“Just now, a child came back from fetching water. I looked — the water was all murky.”

“I poured some of our water for them to drink. They were astounded — said they’d never seen water so clear.”

“I’ve been thinking — if we’re boarding the ship tomorrow, we still have quite a bit of water in the van. I’ll set aside enough for you to drink, and trade the rest for theirs.”

“Their water I can do a simple filtration on — it’ll be fine for you to wash with. Is that alright?”

Cen Jin didn’t look at him: “Up to you. The water Ke Ke Shu gave you — it’s not mine to begin with.”

Wei Lai felt a quiet wave of feeling.

“When I first poured it out for those children, they didn’t dare drink it. They said they’d never had water this clear — they were afraid it might kill them.”

Cen Jin said: “The world’s gaps feel huge, don’t they? Some people hold a handful of gold and still feel it isn’t enough. And there are people who might give their lives for a single mouthful of water.”

Wei Lai was quiet for a moment, then stood up.

Cen Jin thought he was leaving. But he didn’t.

She looked up at him.

Wei Lai smiled.

From the very first time they met, she had noticed how much he liked to smile: carefree smiles, perfunctory smiles, crafty smiles, smiles that concealed a blade.

He said: “Cen Jin — actually, if you don’t want anything to do with me, just say so. You don’t have to explain so much.”

“I like you. I said it because I felt it. Nothing more behind it. I just don’t like making people guess, and I don’t like hiding things.”

Just like that time when he’d sensed that Ai Lin was being serious — he had been very direct with her: “Ai Lin, there’s really no spark between us.”

Ai Lin had said: “A spark needs friction to form. You keep your distance from me all the time — no friction, no spark, how can anything light up?”

He’d felt a headache coming on: “I think you haven’t even sorted out your own feelings. Figure that out first, then come find me.”

Life was certainly full of bewildering questions — like how Ai Lin, somewhere along the way, had suddenly realized she was actually attracted to women.

…

Wei Lai continued.

“Now I understand what you mean. I’ll rein myself in — I won’t make you uncomfortable. There are only a few days left before negotiations end. I’d rather not see you going around with that stern face the whole time. Can we just get along? I prefer seeing you smile.”

“And also…”

He crouched down.

“Don’t say you’re just playing around. Playing around doesn’t look like this. Someone who’s genuinely just playing around wouldn’t care whether I’m being serious, wouldn’t care which part of you I kiss — and wouldn’t care about getting Jiang Min back. A player has no heart. You do.”

He knew she did — from the moment she covered the bowl lid in front of Bai Pao, he knew.

Cen Jin’s lips moved, barely perceptibly.

It was stifling in the shack.

She slowly closed her eyes and said: “You really do go on and on. I didn’t sleep well last night — I’m tired. Let me rest a while.”

She lay down, turned on her side, and pressed her cheek through the ground sheet onto the warm sand beneath.

Wei Lai watched her.

Why close your eyes?

He had done the same thing once — because he hadn’t wanted anyone to see the truth in his gaze, the redness in his eyes.

He smiled.

She was just like a young girl.

Author’s note:

1. There are still devoted souls asking whether there are demons and monsters in this story. I’m a straightforward person — look at the title. If there were, I’d have called it “April Ghosts.”

2. Some readers have asked whether the plot is moving slowly. Look at the title — this story only chronicles what happened in this April. The pirate negotiations will not be any more important than the male lead eating melon. As of now, at least ten days of April have passed…

3. Some readers have asked if there’s too much romance. Look at the genre — I’ve filed this as a romance novel. Writing a romance novel without romance is something I’m simply unable to do.

4. There was another reader question I’ve forgotten. I’ll add it when I remember.