Ding Zhitong recalled Zweig’s famous quote—”All the gifts life has to offer come with a price tag attached in secret.”
As she exited the call screen, she noticed two missed calls from Feng Sheng.
“You called?” she returned the call, her voice almost back to normal.
“…Are you okay?” he asked abruptly, clearly having heard about the incident.
“How did you know?” Ding Zhitong was surprised. Reflecting on the day’s conversations, the most frequent reminder she’d heard was “don’t make personal comments” or “unauthorized statements,” yet the news had inevitably spread.
Sure enough, Feng Sheng told her the news had circulated among secondary market traders.
Whatever happened on the street always spread at light speed between the securities departments of various investment banks. All traders had their own Bloomberg terminals, and the instant messaging function was used not only to communicate trading positions with clients and peers but also as a tool for gossip within the circle.
“But how did you know it was me?” Ding Zhitong still found it puzzling.
“I heard about a first-year analyst, Chinese, female, who went to the hospital and was called in by compliance for a talk. How many Chinese girls are there in IBD?” Feng Sheng countered.
Ding Zhitong smiled wryly. There were plenty of Chinese international students on the street working as researchers or quantitative trading miners. She had always suspected that IBD hired her initially for political correctness, to showcase M Bank’s employee diversity. She was an international student, Asian, and female—a triple win.
“I’m fine. Thank you,” she said sincerely.
“Have you eaten?” Feng Sheng asked, adding without waiting for an answer, “Song Mingmei said she’d be coming over soon. Let’s have dinner together.”
“Alright,” Ding Zhitong agreed, consoling herself, “Once you’re full, all problems disappear.”
Gan Yang wouldn’t arrive for a few more hours, and at that moment, she dreaded being alone in an empty apartment, especially on such a gloomy evening.
So, they agreed to meet at a nearby Japanese restaurant, ordered a few dishes, and waited for Song Mingmei. The conversation at the table revolved around JV’s situation. Without Ding Zhitong breaking any rules, Feng Sheng knew even more than she did. For instance, the family had told reporters about the doctor’s suspicions that the deceased had been repeatedly catching colds and fevers for some time, and due to lack of rest, his weakened immune system had allowed the condition to develop into a fatal illness. Under these circumstances, M Bank, as the employer, would certainly defend itself. With the access control system and emails as proof of working hours, they would have to find reasons for the deceased’s physical condition.
“You mean…?” Ding Zhitong recalled the questions during the talk and the drug test before joining, guessing they were trying to steer toward substance abuse.
Feng Sheng nodded, adding, “Modafinil for overtime, fentanyl for insomnia—an open secret on the street.”
Ding Zhitong looked at him, momentarily speechless. Song Mingmei had told her something similar—don’t think these things are far from you. Recalling JV’s usual behavior, it seemed entirely possible.
Feng Sheng misunderstood her silence and quickly explained, “Don’t worry, I certainly don’t. No matter how hard I push myself, coffee is my limit.”
“Venti plus extra espresso shots?” Ding Zhitong joked, intuiting that they had arrived at the same place by different routes.
Feng Sheng laughed too, making a “four” gesture with his hand, saying, “Four shots, please.”
A quadruple shot Americano had become something of a norm.
After the laughter subsided, Feng Sheng thought of something else: “Some people are saying he hadn’t finished paying off his student loans…”
Ding Zhitong felt a jolt, relating even more.
Feng Sheng just quipped, “If it weren’t for being poor, who would do this job?”
“Then why are you doing it?” Ding Zhitong teased. After the graduation ceremony, she met his parents and could tell they came from a respectable family.
For a moment, Feng Sheng just smiled without speaking. Ding Zhitong thought she had overstepped and lowered her head, pushing food around her plate, trying to wait out the awkwardness.
But Feng Sheng began to speak, slowly and in fragments: “My family, four generations back, worked as compradors for foreign banks. They were quite notable figures then. In recent years, there’s been a trend of Republican-era stories, and writers and journalists often come to interview us. But apart from those few glorious deeds, all that’s left now is an old Western-style house on Fengyang Road.
Three generations, five families, twelve people in total all living in that house—not much better than the seventy-two tenant families in the old town. No one’s willing to pay for repairs, no one can afford to buy the whole building, and no one wants to move out. I have an uncle who’s forty-seven this year, single, still living there, always boasting about being from a noble family. I don’t know if anyone believes him. Since middle school, I’ve been afraid of ending up like him…”
Ding Zhitong listened, thinking silently: Indeed, everyone has their reasons.
“You won’t…” she assured him, genuinely believing he wouldn’t. Feng Sheng was such a smart and ambitious person.
“That’s why it’s tiring,” Feng Sheng sighed with a smile.
His tone reminded her of what his parents had said after the graduation ceremony—after sixty years, they finally had someone who could attend an Ivy League school. All their hopes were pinned on him.
“Do you know why I’m doing this?” she suddenly asked.
Feng Sheng remained silent, just looking at her, waiting for her to continue.
It was dinner time, and the restaurant was bustling with the hum of conversation, but around them, it felt like an isolated pocket of space, allowing her to calmly tell her story:
“My mom went abroad in the ’90s. The man she married later was much older than her, but quite well-off, with a house and car in New York. He even said he’d invest in a travel agency for her. When she remarried, she boasted that she’d be able to send me to study in America. Relatives and friends in Shanghai were all envious, waiting to see if she could do it. But she had a tough life. That man calculated every expense with her meticulously. After coming to America, she worked tirelessly leading tour groups, saving for several years, but still couldn’t save enough.
Middle school, college—she couldn’t bring me over. It wasn’t until my senior year that she couldn’t wait any longer. She told me she had the tuition and to just apply to schools. It wasn’t until I arrived here that I found out that money came from misappropriating the travel agency’s tax funds. Her husband still doesn’t know. My mom doesn’t even think it’s a big deal, saying she just needs to pay back the tax in a year. I’m the only one worried for her. Divorce would be one thing, but I’m afraid she’ll go bankrupt or even end up in prison for tax evasion. So, I absolutely must save enough money this year—eighty thousand dollars in total.”
At this point, she laughed softly, finally revealing her small goal. She even felt lucky because Feng Sheng hadn’t interrupted to ask why or make a fuss. Just then, Song Mingmei pushed open the door and walked in from outside.
With a strange unspoken agreement, neither she nor Feng Sheng mentioned their previous conversation, as if it had never happened.
Shortly after Song Mingmei sat down, Ding Zhitong received a call from Gan Yang, informing her of his estimated arrival time.
It was already dark, and Ding Zhitong knew he was on the highway, so she didn’t talk long, exchanging just a few words before hanging up.
Song Mingmei, listening nearby, teased with a smile, “Why do I feel like I’m a bit of a third wheel today?”
Ding Zhitong told her to stop joking.
Feng Sheng, however, had already waved the waiter over, paid for the entire table, and said he needed to return to the office, bidding farewell.
Ding Zhitong guessed he was avoiding any appearance of impropriety and felt increasingly grateful. Unable to ask him to stay, she and Song Mingmei thanked him for the meal and said goodbye.
Left with just the two women, the conversation took on a different style.
Also trying to comfort her, Song Mingmei was more skilled, not mentioning JV at all. Instead, she chattered about her affairs while eating, such as her summer plans to vacation in Panama with Mr. Bian, and how Mr. Deng’s website had seen a daily doubling of traffic after adopting her suggestions.
After finishing dinner, they hailed a taxi, and Song Mingmei accompanied Ding Zhitong back to the Upper West Side, continuing to talk the whole way.
By the time they reached the apartment, night had fallen, and city lights twinkled outside the living room window.
Ding Zhitong kicked off her shoes, poured herself some wine—the boxed California red she was accustomed to—and asked Song Mingmei if she wanted some.
Song Mingmei looked disdainful but nodded, accepting the mug.
Slightly tipsy, their conversation deepened.
Ding Zhitong looked at Song Mingmei and finally asked, “What’s your relationship with Mr. Deng now?”
Song Mingmei avoided the question, instead asking, “What about you and Gan Yang? He’s graduating this month and you’ll be officially living together soon. How does that feel?”
“It’s good…” Ding Zhitong took a sip of California red, feeling that the matter was hard to explain in a few words. Living together, and not just virtually.
Song Mingmei sensed something and probed gently, “Good how, exactly?”
Ding Zhitong tried to laugh it off, but Song Mingmei wasn’t in a hurry, just waiting for her answer.
Finally, Ding Zhitong gave in, saying, “I don’t know how it’ll be when we live together…”
“Where’s the disharmony?” Song Mingmei winked suggestively.
“There’s no disharmony,” Ding Zhitong defended, “It’s just… you know how much overtime there is in IBD…”
Her words were vague, but Song Mingmei immediately understood, promptly asking, “So what? I once read a book about some women being particularly cold in that aspect. The man would be busy on top, while she read the newspaper or knitted. You just need to lie there, it’s not like you need to be climbing up and down, right?”
Ding Zhitong hadn’t expected this topic to be discussed so bluntly. She almost spat out her mouthful of California red, barely managing to swallow it. She looked at Song Mingmei and nodded.
Yes, whether it was exams or job hunting, Gan Yang thought “good enough” was fine, but in this area, he had particularly high demands. He wanted her to look at him, to be fully engaged, to change positions, to climax. Just lying there passively wouldn’t do.
Song Mingmei covered her ears, pretending not to want to hear more, saying, “Alright, alright, please accept my blessings and shut up. Stop showing off in front of me.”
“You’re the one who asked!” Ding Zhitong protested.
Song Mingmei laughed heartily, half-jokingly agreeing, “This world is so unfair! If you were the man and he was the woman, there’d be no problem at all. Your busyness would be for your career, such a legitimate reason. No matter how bored or unsatisfied she was, she’d have to put up with it.”
“No, let’s not make this about gender. It’s not a gender issue. If he were a woman and I were a man, making me work overtime until midnight and then come home to battle in bed, I probably couldn’t even fulfill my ‘marital duties.’ My girlfriend would have left long ago,” Ding Zhitong raised a hand to stop her, suddenly understanding why Qin Chang was so dejected.
“Then what’s the issue?” Song Mingmei was waiting for this.
“Money,” Ding Zhitong concluded, as always.
“Why is it always about money?” Song Mingmei was tired of hearing this.
But Ding Zhitong countered, “What in this world isn’t about money?”
“Why are you like this?”
“This is just how I am, speaking the truth.”
“Do you think he’s wrong?” Song Mingmei suddenly asked.
Ding Zhitong shook her head without hesitation. Gan Yang wasn’t wrong; he was just worried about her and just wanted to live life seriously. Unfortunately, for her right now, living was also a luxury.
“Do you like him as a person?” Song Mingmei asked again.
Ding Zhitong nodded, again without hesitation, even mentally adding “very, very much,” but what she said aloud had a twist: “When I called him earlier, I wanted to see him, but now, I’m afraid he’ll come and try to persuade me to quit my job again…”
Song Mingmei looked at her and comforted, “If you like him, the differences are just temporary. Talk to him properly, and it will all pass.”
Ding Zhitong nodded again, suddenly feeling moved because Song Mingmei hadn’t said something callous like, “Then just quit. Your boyfriend’s situation is so good anyway.”
After all the nonsense, the atmosphere had lightened considerably, but when things quieted down, they found all the problems still in their original places.
Inexplicably, Ding Zhitong recalled Zweig’s famous quote—”All the gifts life has to offer come with a price tag attached in secret.”
This quote was often used in the context of young girls falling into prostitution, seemingly completely different from their situation. From studying to working, they had relied on themselves, working so hard! But thinking more deeply, it was all the same kind of selling oneself. Others became concubines; they became long-term laborers and henchmen.
Today, it was JV in the body bag and her being questioned, but the positions could easily have been reversed.
Fortunately, Song Mingmei understood her. She reached out and squeezed Ding Zhitong’s shoulder, saying, “Try to think positively about things. At least your job is secure now.”
Ding Zhitong was shocked once again. Though the words sounded cruel, they were true.
Since JV’s incident had spread on the street, M Bank would surely keep her until the heat died down to ensure her silence with the media.