◎ A Grand Gift ◎

Gu Qiao drove to the hospital. As she passed a bank, her heartbeat kept pace with the accelerator, rising steadily. She suddenly felt that her earlier plan had been too conservative and too reactive — it had felt more like a crisis-management response than anything else.

Before heading to the inpatient ward, Gu Qiao stopped at the outpatient clinic first to register. She had developed a rash on her back — an itching that was driving her to distraction. The last time she’d had eczema was in 1992, during her trip to Shenzhen. The doctor had asked whether she was under excessive stress. Her rash seemed to be the kind caused by prolonged mental strain combined with inadequate rest. That doctor had taken her for a university student based on her age, and had offered well-meaning advice that she needn’t be quite so diligent with her studies — exam results, after all, were just numbers…

Gu Qiao hadn’t contradicted a single word of it. From childhood to now, she had never been the sort of person who placed great importance on exam results.

After registering, Gu Qiao didn’t bother waiting in the consultation room for her number to be called — waiting in line was an extravagance she couldn’t afford right now. She had other things to take care of in the meantime. She made her way briskly from the outpatient building toward the inpatient ward.

—

Xiao Tian, exercising the greatest patience she had ever mustered in her life, said to Mr. Zhang: “The loss of this file is a profound regret — not only for you, but for all of us readers who had been eagerly looking forward to your great work. But the situation is what it is now. Have you considered rewriting it? You poured your heart and soul into this work — surely your memory holds it all. You know it better than anyone.”

These words did nothing to lift Mr. Zhang’s spirits: “Rewrite it? Who could recreate something entirely from memory? Do you think literature is just about telling a story? What I write is not ordinary popular fiction where a rough outline is sufficient. In literary creation, the smallest deviation makes all the difference. The inspiration I waited years to find was obliterated — completely and entirely — because of you people. Don’t think you can compensate me with a handful of money. There is only one way to earn my forgiveness: restore every single one of my 300,000 characters. Otherwise, I will write article after article exposing you — manufacturer and distributor alike, I won’t spare any of you.”

No amount of compensation could match the power of human imagination. In Mr. Zhang’s mind, what he had lost was not a 300,000-character manuscript but hundreds of thousands in royalties, a cascade of honors arriving at his doorstep — none of which could be made up for by anything as trivial as five times the original value in compensation.

When Gu Qiao knocked and entered, Mr. Zhang was still lamenting his vanished masterpiece — and naturally extended no great welcome to her.

His expression gradually shifted as Gu Qiao spoke. When he heard that she planned to spend 50,000 yuan to place a public advertisement calling on experts to help recover his lost work, he immediately directed his son: “Quickly, bring Director Gu a chair.”

Gu Qiao sat down and continued outlining her plan. This reward advertisement would run not only in industry-specific publications but in major general-circulation newspapers with large readerships — in full-page format. She would do everything in her power to recover Mr. Zhang’s work.

Mr. Zhang now felt the full weight of Gu Qiao’s regard, alongside her genuine sincerity: “Young Director Gu is truly accomplished for her age.” No wonder she had achieved this level of success so young — her vision was exceptional. His entire previous royalty earnings hadn’t even totaled 50,000 yuan, let alone the substantial cost of taking out full-page spreads across so many papers simultaneously. Once the advertisement ran, all those snobbish people who had looked down on him would see exactly what his work was worth.

The editor at the publisher had been completely without discernment — actually asking him either to pre-purchase a portion of the print run himself or find a prominent figure to write a preface, otherwise they wouldn’t publish it. A former classmate now teaching at a teachers’ university had even mocked him: with the literary scene so lively these days, how was it that he was still stuck on the same cold bench as academics? That classmate had published an academic monograph through the university’s affiliated press with a first print run of one thousand copies, five hundred of which he’d had to pre-purchase himself — standard practice for anyone needing the publication for a promotion review. He’d accepted it with suppressed tears, and to this day those five hundred self-purchased copies hadn’t all been given away, with some having been commandeered by his wife to prop up a sofa leg.

On the matter of finding a prominent figure to write a preface, Mr. Zhang had actually made an attempt. At a symposium, he had approached Zhou Zan and given him his manuscript, asking whether he might have time to write a preface. He had been politely declined. He could accept being turned down by Zhou Zan — but when Zhou Zan turned around and wrote a lengthy preface for a former leader’s collection of modern poetry, that had been impossible to swallow. The modern poetry was complete nonsense, and how Zhou Zan had managed to praise it with a straight face was beyond comprehension. That was how the grudge between Mr. Zhang and Zhou Zan had been born.

From that point on, every time Zhou Zan published something, Mr. Zhang read every word with close attention. To date, he had publicly identified over a dozen instances of Zhou Zan’s misuse of classical allusions in print, and had also written a lengthy essay arguing that Zhou Zan’s conduct was inconsistent with his teachings — telling young people every day not to be obsessed with fame and wealth, while clearly being deeply obsessed with both himself. He criticized Zhou Zan in this manner, yet when a publisher approached him about editing a collection of critical essays on Zhou Zan’s work, he declined emphatically. Criticizing Zhou Zan was one thing; publishing a book based on those criticisms was entirely another. He looked down on Zhou Zan, but he also looked down on anyone who, having failed to secure a publishing deal with Zhou Zan, turned instead to publishing a collection of critiques about him. Zhou Zan wasn’t worth writing a whole book about — that would be giving him far too much credit.

Let all those snobbish people take a good look! There were still those who could truly recognize his talent.

At this thought, Mr. Zhang glanced at the jar of honey someone had brought as a get-well gift, and directed his son again: “Go make a cup of honey water for Director Gu. You’ve also worked hard on my behalf today.”

It was rare to find a teenager who still looked up to his father. Young Zhang privately thought this bright-eyed, pretty young woman must have water on the brain — even accounting for the rain outside, surely no one’s head could hold this much of it. That his father’s 300,000 characters were worth spending 50,000 yuan to recover? That 50,000 yuan could buy two high-spec computers. Just a few nights ago, he had dreamed of owning a computer with 500 megabytes of memory, and had woken up still glowing with happiness. If even half that money were used to compensate him so he could buy a computer, that would also be perfectly acceptable.

The thought of those 50,000 yuan vanishing into thin air — even when the money wasn’t his — made young Zhang sigh.

“Thank you.”

Caught under that particular pair of large eyes, young Zhang said somewhat shyly: “You’re welcome.”

Gu Qiao held the glass in both hands but didn’t drink the honey water: “Tomorrow we have an event to help people distinguish genuine from pirated products. Would you be willing to come and speak about the harm piracy caused you? I imagine you wouldn’t want anyone else to suffer the same losses you’ve experienced.”

“Of course — it’s the least I can do. My wife is a journalist. If you need any assistance, feel free to contact me anytime.”

Xiao Tian looked at Mr. Zhang again — this man no longer showed a single trace of illness. He looked frankly healthier than she did.

Xiao Tian followed Gu Qiao out. Still half-convinced the walls had ears, she lowered her voice: “Are you really going to spend that much money just to recover his 300,000 characters? I still feel it isn’t worth it. Let me think a bit more and see if there’s another way.” The full-page spreads across so many major papers would cost well over the advertised 50,000 yuan reward.

“Do you think this serves only one purpose?”

Xiao Tian immediately brightened: “You’re doing this to combat piracy — but this isn’t just our problem. The software manufacturers should at least split the reward cost. Actually, it’s entirely reasonable to ask them to cover the whole thing. If everyone is selling pirated copies, they can’t make money either.”

“There’s no rush. Think further.” If this were only about promoting sales of one game title’s genuine version, Gu Qiao would never have been willing to spend this much. She wasn’t after sales of a single software product — she was after every legitimate software manufacturer coming to her.

Xiao Tian had assumed Gu Qiao would head straight for the car after leaving the inpatient ward, but Gu Qiao still had to stop at the outpatient clinic.

Xiao Tian asked with some concern: “What’s wrong?”

“The humidity here has given me a bit of a rash.”

The doctor, however, after going through Gu Qiao’s medical history and ruling out family hereditary factors one by one, worked through each potential cause systematically.

“Have you been under a great deal of stress lately?”

“Not particularly.” Gu Qiao’s large, bright eyes fixed steadily on the doctor, and she smiled: “Do I look like I’m under a great deal of stress to you?”

—

Luo Peiyin had booked the tickets too late. Fortunately, there were still two seats available in economy class.

However, the only remaining seats were in the very last row — seats that couldn’t be reclined. The passenger in front of them had pushed his seatback all the way down, leaving the space crushingly narrow.

Qin Feng considered himself marginally luckier than Luo Peiyin. He had the aisle seat, and the passenger ahead of him had at least shown some consideration, reclining only partway — leaving him just enough room to arrange his legs. Luo Peiyin, in the middle seat, had no such luck. The passenger directly in front of him had reclined his seatback to its maximum extent and was snoring soundly.

In such a confined space, Luo Peiyin managed to settle his legs into a bearable position. Qin Feng found himself almost impressed.

With the snoring ahead too loud for quiet conversation, Luo Peiyin had no intention of letting whatever he needed to say carry across the entire plane. He typed what he wanted to communicate into his laptop, and the two of them conducted their conversation through the screen.

Qin Feng had his own concerns. Seizing this moment was certainly an opportunity to promote his antivirus software and challenge the dominance of anti-virus hardware cards — but the computer in question wasn’t right in front of him, and he had no idea what they were actually dealing with.

The keyboard clattered away, though every sound was buried beneath the snoring.

It wasn’t until the plane was approaching its descent that the passenger in front finally stirred and returned his seatback to its upright position. Luo Peiyin closed the laptop and took advantage of the last few minutes to rest his eyes.

“Do you have a sister?” Qin Feng had been reminded of a former classmate the moment he heard the surname Luo.

“Hmm?”

“There’s a female host on television called Luo Sijing. You two look slightly alike.”

Qin Feng and Luo Sijing had been university classmates. He’d heard through the grapevine — he no longer remembered from whom — that someone had been harassing Luo Sijing and her younger brother had dealt with it personally.

Qin Feng and Luo Sijing had known each other for many years. Back then, Luo Sijing was in the journalism department and had, presumably out of boredom over the New Year holiday, gone around interviewing students who hadn’t gone home for the festival. She had interviewed him. She asked why he hadn’t gone home. He asked why one should go home for New Year. His tone was sharp, which seemed to catch Luo Sijing off guard — she had apparently misunderstood and assumed he had nowhere to go. In fact, it was the opposite: he had not only a home but two homes — one with his adoptive parents, another with his biological parents. Either one, he was free to return to whenever he wished. No one was stopping him.

The interview was a failure. Yet it was how Qin Feng and Luo Sijing came to know each other.

The following New Year, he again didn’t go home. Luo Sijing brought him a pile of holiday food — including rice cake and some fruits native to his hometown. Since starting university in the north, he hadn’t seen lychees at New Year. His hometown didn’t eat rice cake for the festival either. He hadn’t eaten any of it at the time, and soon the rice cake had hardened to brick-like consistency. When he finally tried to eat it, biting into that brick nearly shattered his teeth.

They gradually grew closer, their conversations ranging further. Even so, what they talked about had little to do with practical matters — neither even knew how many people were in the other’s family. Yet sometimes their conversations went quite deep. Their generation probably believed more firmly than any in the preceding decades that love was the foundation of marriage. One of his dormitory-mates had owned a complete collection of Qiong Yao novels, which Qin Feng found baffling — though also, somehow, remarkable.

Luo Sijing was entirely unmoved by this cultural current. She held that love was something that faded easily, and that a marriage should be sustained by things less prone to fading. Compatibility of background and circumstances — that was simpler, and spared one from a great deal of exhausting effort only to arrive at the same outcome regardless.

Luo Peiyin glanced at Qin Feng with a look that carried a certain sharpness. Qin Feng felt inexplicably guilty, as though he actually harbored improper feelings toward a married woman. He ended up not asking a single word about how Luo Sijing was getting on. What use would asking do?

Now that the snoring had ceased, Qin Feng changed the subject to something unrelated: “I didn’t expect you to endure that for so long without complaint.” The seat in front couldn’t be blocked, yet the passenger ahead had reclined it to the maximum. And Luo Peiyin’s legs were longer than average. Even in the aisle seat, Qin Feng had found it nearly impossible to place his own legs comfortably.

“Once your mind is occupied by other things, it doesn’t matter.” Something else had claimed all his mental space — there was no room left to think about the cramped quarters. This wasn’t even the first time Luo Peiyin had endured such confinement. The last time had been three years ago — after celebrating Gu Qiao’s birthday, he’d taken a flight to Los Angeles: over ten hours of travel. By the time he finally arrived at his destination, both legs had felt borrowed from someone else. Coming out of the airport, the sunlight told him it was early morning; yet his watch still read deep into the night — still on UTC+8. At that hour, Gu Qiao was surely asleep.

Before the breakup, he had kept a clock in his Los Angeles bedroom set to Beijing time.

Now the two of them lived in the same time zone.

Before even leaving the airport, Gu Qiao’s call came through. Her first words were: “It’s raining outside. Do you have an umbrella?”

After receiving a yes, Gu Qiao got straight to the point, and smiled as she said: “You don’t need Qin Feng’s help today — let him get some proper rest. I’ll have a gift ready for him tomorrow morning.” If his abilities were equal to receiving that gift, she was willing to offer it as a token of goodwill at the start of their partnership. Gu Qiao hadn’t yet left the newspaper offices — she had specifically requested that the reward advertisement display the figure “50,000 yuan” in the most conspicuous possible way.

—