Part One: 2014, River Talk

From home to the canal, it’s 2,124 steps. From the canal to the studio, it’s 2,536 steps. If the step count is off, it must be the shoes. I have walked this route every day, for five months now, without fail. Today, I took more steps than usual. From home to the canal, and from the canal to the studio, each segment had at least 200 extra steps. I must have lost my way. If my footprints were visible in the bright sunlight, you’d see them stagger and zigzag. But that’s not the worst part—you’d also notice my footprints look odd as if I’m walking backward, with my shoes on the wrong feet. Assistant Xiao Wang told me when I arrived at the studio.

“Mr. Xie, you drank too much. Should we handle some things before the meeting?”

I appreciate his sharpness and directness, qualities that led me to hire him from the TV station for his precision and insight. I then asked if he had explored other sections of the canal besides Tongzhou’s. Can you guess what he said? “Mr. Xie, I grew up in the northwest, where you can’t even find a decent ditch. So, I dream of water the most. I haven’t seen other parts of the canal, but I know the veins in my body.

The Grand Canal runs through China from north to south, just like arteries run through my body.” I began to like him but still reminded him that being an assistant isn’t easy. He said, “Mr. Xie, it depends on who’s doing it; some make it a menial job, others make it a vice-president’s role.” I slapped the table and said, “You’re coming with me.” The practice has proven we were both right. In my studio, there’s no vice president. When I’m not around, everyone listens to Assistant Wang.

“Too much drink,” I hiccupped. “Some problems can’t be solved no matter how hard you try. Gather everyone, let’s start the meeting.”

I was drunk, done in by myself. My legs wouldn’t listen, which is why my steps were so off. Whether the shoes fit or not wasn’t the issue. The meeting had to go on, and the project had to continue. They didn’t need to know how much trouble “The Grand River Talks” was facing. I washed my face in the restroom, Xiao Wang made me a cup of coffee, and I downed it in one go. Drinking isn’t like this; when I drink alone, I always take my time to knock myself out slowly. The canal outside, shaded by green trees, flows endlessly.

Every day, I spend an hour or two by the window, mindlessly gazing at this great river. I often imagine its grandeur over a hundred years ago, with sails and masts rising, boats docking, the riverbanks bustling with ten thousand households, shops teeming with merchants, and peddlers shouting in the ancient streets. Back then, people wore long robes and broad sleeves, caps, and gowns, while boatmen and sailors were brisk in their short attire, and gangs of porters worked shirtless, their bronze bodies glistening with sweat.

There was hardship and prosperity, a bustling riverside life like a living “Riverside Scene at Qingming Festival.” I love this vibrant life; it makes me feel alive. Everyone is there with you, how wonderful. I did a dozen chest expansions facing the canal, feeling myself inch back to who I was before the drink. Alright, time for the meeting.

When we have meetings, they sit while I stand. The studio isn’t that big. I told the eight young people, “Sorry, I had a bit to drink at lunch. It’s because we received good news: another benefactor has arrived, and we secured a substantial new investment.” Eight young voices erupted in cheers, “Oh yeah!” They believe easily, not because of their lack of experience, where they’d fall into any pit you dig, but because they have the capital of youth. This capital is so abundant that they can boldly hold steadfast hope for anything. They don’t know failure. Even if they fail, it doesn’t count as failure.

I told them, “Now ‘The Grand River Talks’ is our studio’s top priority. Besides routine projects, everyone should focus on this program. ‘The Grand River Talks’ has reached a critical stage.” What does a critical stage mean? To them, it means the project is at its peak, and they need to push further, roll up their sleeves, and add more speed to the momentum. To me, a critical stage is truly critical, like besieging a fortress that’s impregnable, a 1.78-meter hope facing a 2.26-meter despair.

The benefactor didn’t come; the existing investment was cut off. This happened just this morning. A friend at the TV station informed me over the phone, “Buddy, sorry, the leadership is unhappy. The senior staff have no confidence in this project, and without confidence, they have no interest.”

“But it was him who encouraged me to do it in the first place.”

“He also used to send three roses to Ms. Li every day, but they still ended up divorced, didn’t they?”

“Leadership” refers to our boss, the one we all worked under before I resigned. Ms. Li was his ex-wife, a real beauty back in the day, both on and off-screen, a flower wherever she went. Our boss pursued her with a relentless determination, completely disregarding any sense of dignity. My informant and I used to assist him in his pursuits. We had just graduated back then and hadn’t yet learned how to date. One of us was always buying flowers for him, and the other was on lookout duty, alerting him whenever Ms. Li appeared, giving him precious time to adjust his suit and his meticulously styled hair.

Ms. Li had a cleanliness obsession. The boss once told us, “Compared to Ms. Li, all the women in the world are just women.” I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but it sounded profound, so I enthusiastically kept running to the flower shop. I was familiar with the owners of every flower shop around the TV station. The owner of “Destiny Flowers” was in her thirties and weighed over 200 pounds. One day, she shyly said to me, “Xiao Xie, it’s rare to find a devoted young man like you. If I were ten years younger, I’d go all out to win you over.” I was so scared that I didn’t dare to buy flowers from her shop for over two months.

Ms. Li was eventually won over. Twenty years later, she was divorced. Our boss had fallen for a newcomer at the station, Xiao Wu, who was twenty years younger than Ms. Li. Before I resigned, the boss told us sincerely, “Compared to Xiao Wu, all the women in the world are just women.”

I should’ve known better than to trust a man who constantly elevates one woman above all others. After resigning, I went independent. I didn’t like the culture at the station—spending more than half the year doing things you don’t like and half the day doing things you don’t want to do. So, I decided to quit and free myself from that nonsense. I stuck to my old profession, making programs, selling them to TV stations, or getting investments and projects from the station and working on them in a small, independent manner. Essentially, it’s a collaboration, but I get to do what I love. At least, when I produce something good, I can proudly put my name on it. “The Grand River Talks” is one such project I’m collaborating on with the station.

One day, the three of us were chatting, and the conversation drifted to the idea of returning to one’s roots. I mentioned that my father had been expressing a strong desire to visit our ancestral graves lately. When his arm hurts, he considers burning spirit money for ancestors; if his heart skips, he thinks of sending money. Lingering smog suggests ancestral displeasure. The problem is, my father can’t travel anymore, so I would have to go for him. Worse yet, he left his hometown when he was young and rarely returned. Both my grandparents happened to pass away in Beijing, so they were buried here. He has no clear memory of where his grandparents and great-grandparents are buried in our hometown. He vaguely remembers taking a ferry with my grandfather from the north bank to the south bank to visit the graves. The ancestors were buried by the canal.

The canal runs through my hometown for at least several dozen kilometers. More than half a century has passed, and even if the canal hasn’t changed its course, the world has undergone countless changes due to the fervent construction of socialism. Where would I even start looking? The boss asked:

“Your hometown’s canal? Which canal?”

“Of course, the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal.”

“You have to take on this task,” the boss said, slapping his thigh with a bang. I could practically hear the sound of coins hitting the floor. “The Grand Canal is currently being considered for World Heritage status. The higher-ups want us to produce a complementary high-profile program. You’re the one to do it.”

“How should I do it?” I asked.

“If I knew how, would I need to tell you?”

Fair enough. The boss’s job is to give orders; it’s up to the subordinates to figure out the details. “Is it… lucrative?” I rubbed my thumb and index finger together, implying money.

There’s no need to hide it; they all know I need money. I got divorced. But unlike the boss, who divorced Ms. Li, I was the one left. Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its way. My unique trait: is being left. My child lives with my ex-wife, and I pay a substantial amount of child support. Why is the amount two and a half times what the court ordered? According to my ex-wife, “To ensure our son becomes a top-tier talent, and you begrudge this little money?

You could pay just five bucks a month, and I’d raise him on that.” She sent this message via text. In her texts, Chinese characters reveal their full pictorial nature, each one baring a sinister expression and emitting a mocking tone. For years, I couldn’t understand why we Chinese become mortal enemies after a divorce as if we can’t coexist. This confusion spanned many years, even before the divorce. My wife and I had earnestly discussed the issue, thinking we could remain friends after the divorce, understanding each other. She fully agreed, but as soon as we divorced, she turned hostile. We couldn’t even be casual friends; she gave me no chance.

Because our son needed to study, I gave the house and car to my ex-wife, along with four-fifths of our assets. I moved from Chaoyang to Xishangyuan in Tongzhou, where housing is cheaper. This wasn’t enough, though. Besides child support, my son constantly asks for money. If I want to see him, I need to bring at least a thousand or two each visit. Without that, I can’t get near him. I called my ex-wife and said, “Even as an ex-husband, you don’t have to go to such extremes.”

She snorted, “Ex-husband or not, what do I care? I only know you’re the father of the child.”

Alright, I’m the kid’s dad, and I’ll endure it. But enduring isn’t a matter of morals, emotions, or attitude; it’s an economic issue. I need to make money.

The boss said, “A task from the higher-ups—do you think they’ll shortchange you?”

I slapped my thigh with a sound like money falling to the ground. “Deal.”

In reality, I don’t know much about the Grand Canal. Of course, I know a bit about the Tongzhou section because I moved here by chance. I often take evening walks by the river, from Xinhua East Road to Dongguan Bridge. After the bridge, there’s a wide wooden walkway along the North Canal, perfect for post-dinner strolls. When I was looking for a house, the real estate agent kept persuading me: “The wise find joy in water.

A river-view house, Mr. Xie! You can see the canal from your apartment. To the north, there’s the famous Burning Lamp Tower, a landmark from the Northern Zhou Dynasty. Back in the day, cargo boats would feel at ease upon seeing this tower, knowing they had reached the end of the Grand Canal and their journey was complete.” Once I moved in, I realized you couldn’t see the canal at all; the trees along the river were blocked by the two buildings in front. The real estate agent had said, “You can see the canal from the building,” but he meant from the rooftop, for crying out loud.

After taking on this project, I suddenly felt that even if I couldn’t see the canal, it was still a river-view house. Knowing that the canal, 2,124 steps away, would bring me the sound of money made it worthwhile. We rented the top floor of a building on the roadside purely to save money, which turned out to be a wise decision. While I’m not well-versed in the Grand Canal, beyond the stories from my father and grandparents about the canal in our hometown, I don’t know any more than the average Chinese person.

But things have changed. After all the twists and turns, I’ve almost become a half-expert on the canal.

At first, I just wanted to make some money from this project. Before the project was officially approved, I went through the motions of convening several expert meetings, consulting the old masters from every angle on how to dig into and showcase the history of the Grand Canal, and how we should approach it today. After hearing their advice, the studio developed a feasible plan based on the program’s viewing characteristics and our situation. We’re a small workshop with just a few weapons; we can’t fight battles that require deploying an army. We can only engage in guerrilla warfare. So, the presentation had to be impeccable, and we had to be able to move a ton with just a few pounds.

After careful consideration, we settled on storytelling as the main approach, interspersed with video and image data displays, and named the program “The Grand River Talks.”

“The Grand River” refers to the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal, and “Talks” signify in-depth discussions. Before resigning, I had hosted two chat shows at the station. Although my voice seemed somewhat professional and my appearance hadn’t reached the point of being unbearable, with the encouragement of the younger generation, I bought a few cheap Tang suits and stepped into the rented studio. Stepping in wasn’t troublesome, and neither was speaking. The real trouble lay in collecting enough stories and materials beforehand.

We planned to produce ten episodes, each featuring a different story, covering every aspect of the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal’s history, present, and future—politics, economy, culture, daily life, and more. The eight young people and I split up to investigate, searching for clues, stories, and information. We consulted experts, and then we all, including the relevant experts, sat together to deliberate and integrate our findings, conducting scriptwriting, interviews, and on-site shooting simultaneously. Although we called it guerrilla warfare, once we got into it, it became a protracted trench warfare.

Progress was going well, but I knew I was only putting in about sixty to seventy percent of my effort. For me, it was just a project—once it was initiated, received initial investment, and smoothly progressed, it was done. But halfway through, I unexpectedly developed an emotional attachment to this project, beyond my control. This was undoubtedly related to my father’s nagging in my ear. He always talked about his hometown, which he left at the age of nineteen, with the canal running through it.

He often dreamed of his childhood canal: how clear the water was, with people on both banks washing rice and vegetables in the river; how brave the bamboo rafters were, battling whirlpools with their oars during heavy rain; he even dreamed of the white-clad woman he used to see every morning practicing Zhou Xinfang’s singing on the Water Gate Bridge on his way to school, and she hadn’t aged a bit over the years. They say people have premonitions of death, and as life nears its end, they often dream of childhood.

The thing is, my father can devour thirty dumplings in one sitting, matching my entire day’s intake, and he’s still young at heart, slipping away from my mother’s watchful eye to dance with middle-aged women in the neighborhood square. He loves life so much that the day his oil runs dry and his lamp goes out won’t be any closer than Beijing to his hometown. My mother blames me for this, saying it’s because I’m always talking about the canal that the old man got restless.

After spending decades in the research institute, my father developed a formidable professional habit. Whenever he became interested in something, he approached it as if it were a scientific research project—whether it was dancing with middle-aged women in the square (according to my mother, his market wasn’t as good among them), or discussing the Grand Canal. If someone keeps grumbling about someone or something all day long, even if that person is the kindest soul on earth, after hearing it for a while, you’ll start to find it intolerable. It’s like my ex-wife constantly brainwashing our son, talking about how unbearable his father is. My son believed her and every time he saw me, he would distance himself, looking at me with the eyes of someone observing a released convict.

If someone is constantly nagging you about something, no matter how dull it may seem, over time, you’ll inexplicably develop feelings for it. My father talked about the Grand Canal incessantly, and slowly but surely, he even started calling me “the grandson of the Grand Canal,” considering himself as “the son of the Grand Canal.” Anyway, the Grand Canal became our ancestor, both for my father and me.

However, there’s another more significant reason—I’ve genuinely come to understand the Grand Canal more and more. That’s the thing about it. Or perhaps, because I’ve been gaining a deeper understanding, I’ve started to grasp it a bit. I don’t understand it from a theoretical perspective; instead, I understand it through stories, details, through the vibrant daily life along the canal. We interviewed a Grand Canal expert who, instead of discussing grand theories, talked about his seventy-nine years entwined with the canal.

Through words, pictures, sounds, and videos—his own, as well as those of his family and friends—it was a multimedia presentation, a forty-five-minute joint autobiography with the canal. At the end, there was a slow-motion video of the old man walking alone by the canal. It was overcast during filming, but just as we were about to wrap up, the clouds parted, and the sun rose. The western sky lit up with vibrant colors, and his long, slender shadow stretched across the canal, spanning half its width in an instant.

I was there during the shoot, and I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the power of nature and the metaphor it presented. When we finally recorded that episode of “Tales of the Grand Canal” in the studio, a seamless narrative that lasted over an hour, I found myself in tears when the old man’s shadow suddenly spread across the water. I, known for my control over emotional scenes, was suddenly unable to contain myself. I’ve never been so extravagant with my words, as if I were holding a dictionary of positivity in my arms:

“This shot reminds me of dedication, loyalty, and dependence, it reminds me of staying true to oneself, it reminds me of destiny, radiance, and the eternal flow of rivers.”

I even managed to move the catering crew to tears.

We’ve collected plenty of stories like this. Boat runners, fishermen, those who’ve run shops along the canal for decades, shipbuilders with years of experience, long-distance runners who stick to the canal year-round, civil servants and law enforcement officers who manage the canal, master chefs specializing in canal-fresh cuisine, archaeologists excavating along the canal, rope pullers, ferry operators, mud trappers… Anyone with even a slight connection, the kids from the studio reached out to them. Being the protagonist is great if possible, but even if not, they’re kept as supplementary material, who knows which issue or which sentence might be used later. I didn’t pay much attention to the initial three issues, but from the fourth issue onwards, I immersed myself. Starting to look back, I found plenty of stories and details to rescue us when the time was critical, then they became like firefighters.

I started to take it seriously. This profession requires seriousness, yet it’s also afraid of it; taking it seriously means possibly making good films, but it also means increasing investment, and taking time to do things meticulously. I decided to turn “The Great River Saga” into a masterpiece. I’ve already exhausted the early investment, and I’ve poured all the money I can scrape together into it. Full of passion, awaiting the next round of funding, the folks from the TV station poured cold water on me, saying the follow-up investment might fall through.

It wasn’t a good sign when my phone rang in the morning. Just as I hung up on my ex-wife’s call, my son wanted to join an English summer camp, and the related expenses plus living costs in the UK would amount to another forty thousand. I asked, “Do you need that much?” My ex-wife said, “If you don’t believe it, have your son bring back the invoices for reimbursement. I’ll remind him not to forget to ask for receipts even when using paid public toilets.” Divorce brings such significant changes to a person; my ex-wife, who used to ask for my help even to write an annual work summary, has now become a language expert, and every word she uses feels chilly. Luckily, she left me. If it were the other way around, I might have ended up becoming a great writer.

After hanging up the phone, I slouched onto the couch, feeling like it wasn’t just my wallet my ex-wife had emptied but my bones too. My mother emerged from the bathroom, carrying my black jacket. It had just been tossed into the laundry basket before I showered last night. My mother said:

“I discussed it with your dad. We’ve decided to rent out our old house. When will someone help you take care of this place? Once we find a tenant, we’ll move back.”

“Mom, didn’t we agree to leave it empty? Renting it out would ruin it. We don’t need that extra money.”

“Every penny counts. You’re not exactly rolling in cash these days.”

“Who says that? Are we running out of money? Here, take it.”

“Alright, don’t pretend. You can’t hide anything from your mother.” My mother turned the jacket inside out, patting the pockets on the chest. “It’s been a while since I found any money in your pockets. It wasn’t like this before. You used to be so careless. How many times did I find three or five hundred yuan before doing the laundry?”

Upon closer reflection, I realized she was right. It had been two months since I last gave my mother any living expenses. Still, that didn’t stop me from being stubborn. “I’ve just started using a wallet lately.”

Then the guys from the TV station called. As soon as I heard the ringtone of “Stairway to Heaven,” I had a sinking feeling. And true enough, the first words from the phone were:

“Bro, I know you’ve got nerves of steel.”

“If it’s good news, spill it now; if it’s bad, save it for tonight, so I don’t lose sleep over it.”

“Better now. Delaying might make your losses even worse.”

I could practically feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. To avoid my father, who was sitting in the rattan chair reading the newspaper, I walked out onto the balcony.

“No go, the higher-ups aren’t interested anymore.”

“Why?”

“Lack of confidence. They think the chances of the Grand Canal getting listed as a World Heritage site are close to zero. Word is, even the bigwigs at headquarters feel the same way. First, the Grand Canal south of Jining is still operational and thriving, so it’s not considered heritage; second, they went on business trips to Dezhou and Cangzhou, where parts of the canal have turned into sewage ditches, some places don’t even have a visible riverbed. If something disappears, where’s the ‘heritage’ in it? So, it’s a no-go.”

“The operational part is considered ‘Living Linear Cultural Heritage.’ That’s still cultural, right? It was crystal clear when we first proposed it, every word was transparent. We can clean up the sewage ditches, and as for places where the riverbed is invisible, it’s not like it vanished into thin air, a few shovels can uncover it.”

“Don’t get me started on serious academic issues; it gives me a headache. I’m just passing on a message. Even if you manage to secure follow-up funding, it’ll probably be just a gesture of goodwill. Of course, goodwill is still money. Brother, I can only wish you good luck. Goodbye.”

After hanging up, I swung my phone in a wide loop and then tucked it back into my pocket. I wanted to slam it into the leader’s face. When it rains, it pours, and that perfectly describes my screwed-up morning. I went into the study, sat down, tore a piece of A4 paper into quarters, and wrote “Continue” on two of them and “Terminate” on the other two. I folded them into small squares and placed them in an empty bamboo pen holder. After shaking it a couple of times, I stopped and grabbed a third piece of paper, wrote “Continue” again, crumpled it up, and tossed it in.

As I prepared to overturn the pen holder onto the desk, I still wasn’t satisfied. I wrote “Continue” on the fourth piece of paper, crumpled it, and added it to the holder. Shaking and rattling it, I finally overturned it onto the desk, facing the stack of Grand Canal materials beside the computer, I said:

“I’ve done my best, brother.”

I picked up the pen holder, closed my eyes, and pinched one of the four crumpled papers. I unfolded it: “Continue.” This paper stayed in the holder, and I discarded the others. I rearranged the pens – fountain, pencil, brush, ballpoint – back into the holder. Your call. Then I fetched the bottle of Maotai that had been sitting in the cupboard for ten years and brought it to the dining table.

Father was clearing the table, glancing at me. “Changed your luck?”

“It’s the Wanghe Calendar,” I corrected him.

“Ah the Wanghe Calendar. Changed?”

My studio is called “Wanghe Film and Television Studio.” To expand publicity, the kids came up with a creative idea: the “Wanghe Calendar.” Before New Year’s, they prepare a calendar for the next year, indicating which lunar day it is, what’s favorable and unfavorable to do that day, and significant historical events that happened on that date. There’s a paper version and an electronic version for online posting. I brought back a paper copy, and Mother hung it behind the door; the old couple would check it every day before leaving the house. Today’s entry read: “Favorable for travel; avoid alcohol, avoid decision-making.” I couldn’t quite figure out the rationale behind each day’s “favorable” and “avoidance,” and I didn’t bother to ask. Young people always find a way.

“I’ve got a major decision to make, so it’s time to celebrate.”

“Changed,” Father said, peering into the kitchen from behind his reading glasses. “I’ll consult your mother later to see if this liquor is drinkable.”

The old lady always likes to think of major decisions in a positive light and celebrate with Maotai. It must be something significant. She walked behind the door, tore off the top sheet of the “Wanghe Calendar,” and said, “Today has passed.”

Father and I indulged ourselves, finishing off a bottle of Maotai. To savor the last half glass, we even removed the bottleneck and retrieved those two glass beads. Mother also symbolically attended, sipping a three-qi glass. By the time we finished the meal, it was already afternoon. I staggered back to the studio, wearing shoes backward.

Eight young faces were brimming with energy. I said, “With new funding about to come in, are you confident in the future editing and planning of ‘The Great River Saga’?”

“Yes—”

They stretched their voices as long as the 1,797-kilometer Grand Canal. They had confidence, so I had confidence. At forty, I often feel that strength doesn’t come from careful deliberation but from passion. Without passion, no matter how clear your thoughts, they’re futile. Resting your chin on your hand, you might unwittingly waste a lifetime.

“If you have it, Wanghe Studio has it, and ‘The Great River Saga’ has it. So, tell me, what discoveries or good ideas do you have?”

The design lead, Xiao Zhong, said she found a photography exhibition from two years ago online, titled “Time and Rivers,” and the photos were exceptionally well done. Xiao Zhong graduated from the Central Academy of Fine Arts, specializing in photography. With her discerning eye, if she said something was good, it must be extraordinary. She connected her notebook to the projector and opened the downloaded photos as a slideshow. Despite some pixelation and light distortion on the white wall, everyone still found them incredibly beautiful.

Especially striking was the strong storytelling in the photos; some of the kids even clapped in appreciation, saying, “This is what we’re looking for.” And they were right. What we want is detail and narrative, and these photos have already prepared them for us. Even just a close-up of a person’s face makes you feel like there are countless stories hidden behind their expression, enough to talk about for hours. More photos capture fleeting moments of life, with landscapes and people. In the photographer’s lens, every scene isn’t static but in motion, with a visible past and future. There’s a series of wedding photos onboard a boat, each one remarkable.

I asked Xiao Zhong if they were staged. According to the photographer’s preface in the exhibition, all the photos were candid shots. Based on the information, she also verified that most of the exhibited photos were indeed from the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal. There were also several shots of cracked riverbeds, resembling old trees or wounds, filled with deep emotions, deeply unsettling. If these scenes also came from the Grand Canal, it might be from a section north of Jining, where the leaders lost confidence. Even these distressing scenes were tailor-made for us.

“Do we have any information about the author?”

“I’ve checked. Sun Yanlin, female, thirty-two years old, associate professor at a certain university’s School of Fine Arts in Huai’an. Tried calling the landline provided by the curatorial team several times, but no one answered.” Xiao Zhong pressed a button, and a photo of a young woman with her head down appeared on the screen. She had glossy black short hair, a well-shaped head, and you could only faintly see a rounded chin. “This is the author. It’s already the most revealing photo we have of her.”

It’s a promising subject, but we need to be prepared for a tough battle. For most people, organizing a large photography exhibition is a prestigious event, and they eagerly hang their photos across half the gallery. But she’s barely showing her chin; I have a feeling she might be difficult to deal with. After the meeting, I called Xiao Zhong and another guy who’s good at writing scripts to my office. First, we need to continue trying to contact the author; second, we need to keep gathering relevant materials because if we’re going to pursue this subject, we need to be prepared.

Let’s prepare two plans: if we manage to contact the author and she’s willing to cooperate in recording this episode, that would be the best scenario. But if we can’t find her or if she refuses to cooperate, then we’ll use “Searching for the Photographer” as the theme for this episode—that’s our second plan. I instructed them to keep their minds open during the preparation process. Before leaving, I asked Xiao Zhong to send me her PowerPoint presentation so I could have a look at it.

Sun Yanlin was indeed difficult to deal with. Xiao Zhong got her email address from the art school where she teaches and sent her an email. After two days, she replied with just eight words: “In the Netherlands, contact me upon my return.” According to the course schedule provided by the school, she had classes three days later. On the fourth day, Xiao Zhong sent another email, explaining our intentions in detail and with sincere language. This time, the response was swift; she replied that same evening: “Too busy, not interested. Feel free to use the photos online if they suit your needs, no copyright concerns.” Xiao Zhong forwarded the email to me, asking what to do next.

I’m not sure what to do. I sat at my desk, flipping through Sun Yanlin’s photography works and her pictures on the computer repeatedly. They were well taken. There was a black and white photo: the shore resembled a stone wall, the water like moonlight, a fisherman just having paddled his bamboo raft to the bank, trousers rolled up high, one leg higher than the other, his lean upper body bare, carrying a dripping fishing net, abruptly turned his head and spotted her camera.

The unevenly burned cigarette dangled from the lips of the rugged fisherman; a piece of ash fell onto his elbow just as he turned, caught perfectly by the camera. The ash drew a line, the drops of water drew many lines, and the ripples drew more, twisting and turning, pulling out lines that formed half of the image, while the lines drawn from the fisherman’s gaze covered the entire photo. The photo was titled “Elegy.” The fisherman had toiled all day, yet the metal bucket at his feet remained empty, not even half a fish caught. It pained me to see, and I absentmindedly lit a cigarette. Just as my father walked in, I took the third drag.

“What are you busy with?” the old man said. “Your mother ordered us to eat.”

“Looking at photos of the canal,” I said as I pressed the down arrow key.

My father nodded towards the computer screen with his chin. Only Sun Yanlin’s chin was visible.

“Oh, I was looking for this photographer,” he said.

“Then go look for her, why sit around? Action speaks louder than words,” the old man chuckled.

YeAh why not go look for her? It suddenly occurred to me that this Sun Yanlin was from Huai’an, the old hometown that my father had always cherished. I flipped through the photos and showed them to my father.

My father leaned in, flipping through each photo, occasionally pausing, hesitant to make a judgment. “It’s our hometown!” he exclaimed, then hesitated, “Looks like it. But is it?” Finally, he sighed, “Ah getting old is troublesome, even your memory doesn’t listen to you anymore.” My father was a master of beating around the bush, so when he said that, I knew he was hinting that it was time for me to make a trip back to our old home. But I played dumb. My mother was issuing ultimatums in the living room, threatening to throw away the food if we didn’t come to eat. So, my father and I headed to the dining room. As we sat down at the table, my father leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Son, I think that girl looks pretty. You should take some time to go to our hometown and look for her.”

“But she might not even be in our hometown.”

“If you don’t go look, how would you know she’s not there?”

My mother tapped her chopsticks impatiently. “Eating is more important than talking about grave matters.”

“We’ll stop talking about it during this meal,” my father declared, glancing at the clock. “Starting from now, at six sixteen in the evening, we won’t say another word during dinner. Let’s eat.”

The sudden shift from talking about pretty girls to grave matters almost choked me on my rice porridge. I wondered how my old man managed his logic throughout his life. Nevertheless, it was a good suggestion, hitting two birds with one stone. So why not?

The next day, I went to the studio, busy all day getting everything in order. The following morning, I caught a flight to Huai’an, departing just after six in the morning.

My father gave me the names and addresses of my paternal uncles, who were the sons of my grandfather’s elder brother. One uncle worked as a laborer at the Qingjiang Tractor Factory, while the other was a performer at the Huaihai Drama Troupe, although he should have retired years ago. I looked them up online. The Huaihai Drama Troupe still existed, but the Qingjiang Tractor Factory, once on par with the Shanghai Tractor-Automobile Joint Venture Factory and the Tianjin Tractor Manufacturing Factory, had ceased production. In this vast sea of people, finding these two older brothers might be just as challenging as locating Sun Yanlin. I found a hotel near the university and checked in.

Sun Yanlin didn’t have classes these days, and since she didn’t have classes, she wouldn’t be at school. The classroom was the best place to find her. I decided to spend these two days exploring this section of the canal in Huai’an carefully; it would give me something to talk to Teacher Sun about. When I met my paternal uncles, I didn’t feel out of place either.

I could tell them that over these years, my father and I had been in Beijing, but our hearts remained tied to our hometown, always keeping an eye on the goings-on along the canal. In this city, aside from GDP, the canal was undoubtedly the most significant. Flowing through the city for a millennium, it was its lifeline and the source of its culture. I called a travel agency and arranged for a knowledgeable guide for a two-day private tour focused on canal culture.

The guide was a young man named Hu. I could call him Xiaohu or Guide Hu. He wasn’t just any guide; this lad knew his stuff. He had been involved in drafting materials for the city’s cultural and broadcasting bureau regarding the Great Canal’s bid for UNESCO heritage status. When it came to the canal, he had a wealth of knowledge. From King Fuchai of Wu digging the Han Canal to the current UNESCO bid, he knew every twist and turn like the back of his hand. He even saved me the trouble of hiring a driver; over the next two days, he drove me around every inch of the sixty-eight-kilometer section of the Grand Canal in Huai’an.

The “water interchange” where the Grand Canal intersects with the Huai River’s estuary. Li Canal. The newly opened Grand Canal after straightening and diverting. The Huai’an Ship Lock. The Grand Canal Inspectorate. The Canal Transport Museum. Zhenhuai Tower. Wentong Pagoda. Rivertown Ancient Town. Ban Sluice. Dazha Gate. Laobakou. Qingjiangpu Tower. The Imperial Dock. Ruo Fei Bridge. The Monument of South Ships and North Horses. Shuimen Bridge. Beimen Bridge. Du Tian Temple. Ciyun Temple. Shi Dock. Huajie Street. Confucius Temple. Dawang Temple. Fengji Granary. West Chang Street Water Dragon Bureau. Qingyan Garden. Abandoned Yellow River. Matou Town. Hongze Lake Embankment. The Five Virtues of Benevolence, Righteousness, Propriety, Wisdom, and Trust…

Because of working on “The Tales of the Grand River,” I had sporadic knowledge about the Huai’an section of the canal. Walking along the canal, I realized the limitations of armchair analysis: my thoughts were always a step behind, lagging. I told Xiaohu that as I got older, my memory was starting to lag. He, being a local like me, understood that this was just a cover-up excuse, but he just smiled and didn’t call me out on it. Xiaohu had grown up by the canal, he’d seen every blade of grass along its banks change over thirty times, so he always had something to say. He understood it so well; it was as if the river flowed right before his eyes. I joked with him, saying maybe we’d need him to make an appearance on the show sometime, and the young lad flashed me a V-sign.

“Absolutely,” he said, “Even though it’s just a stinking ditch, flowing at your doorstep for over a thousand years, it’s still become our mother river.”

Among the registered and auditing students in the classroom, I was the oldest. As the saying goes, “In a flock of sheep, there’s always one that stands out”; I sat at the back, mostly keeping my head down. Sun Yanlin taught using PowerPoint slides and also utilized the blackboard and chalk. She was lecturing on “A Study of Lang Jing Mountain’s Photography Collection,” an elective course.

Whenever she clicked on the PowerPoint to display Lang Jing Mountain’s photographs or traditional Chinese ink wash paintings or turned to the blackboard to analyze the composition of landscapes and figures, I would lift my head and watch this young teacher, eight years my junior. She looked even better in person than in the photos, especially her eyes and lips. With double eyelids and large eyes, and lips with a perfect shape, many women wouldn’t achieve the full and clear lip lines she had without makeup.

In this class, she was discussing the concept of “non-temporality” in Lang Jing Mountain’s photography collection. This concept originated from the French writer André Malraux’s art historical treatise, “The Voices of Silence,” so she started from there. She emphasized that truly vivid art shouldn’t be viewed as simple objects; it possesses the ability to “de-temporalize” moments, making them into non-subjective time. This was a concept of artistic metaphysics, not an eternal category; or rather, it’s resisting time in a way that’s “anti-fate,” as time is the enemy of all art.

It’s a bit convoluted. I’m not sure if this lofty discourse was directly from Professor Malraux himself, or if it was Teacher Sun’s interpretation, or perhaps the discourse of other researchers. Of course, it’s possible that I just couldn’t fully comprehend it. I noticed many students smiling knowingly, which made me, the old student, feel even more embarrassed. I’ve read several books by Malraux, such as “Man’s Fate,” “The Royal Way,” and “Anti-Memoirs.” Additionally, I’ve admired Lang Jing Mountain’s photographs, instructing Xiaozhong to organize those related to water. For example, “Dawning on the Clear River,” “Tranquility Amidst Wind and Rain,” “Autumn Waters in the Marsh,” “Fishing Alone in the Cold River,” “The Cool Autumn Breeze Among the Tree Shadows on the Lake,” “Mooring at Dusk on the Smoky River,” “Returning Home at Women,” and so on.

“Lang Jing Mountain’s ‘montage photography,’ which overlays different film negatives, juxtaposing and inserting different scenes, and multiple exposures, has provided a lot of inspiration for later photographers,” Sun Yanlin said. She was wearing a black thin leather jacket and a blue-and-white star-patterned crepe scarf. “At least, it has had a significant impact on me. When I was young, the mysterious Lang family courtyard sparked my curiosity about photography; now, the method of ‘montage photography’ has led me to new reflections on the art of painting and photography.”

The Lang family courtyard! I almost raised my hand. I quickly searched on my phone: Lang Jing Mountain, born in the 18th year of the Qing Emperor Guangxu’s reign (1892) in Qingjiangpu, Qinghe, Jiangsu Province (now Huai’an City), native of Lang Village in Youbu Town, Lanxi, Zhejiang Province. After living in Qingjiangpu for twelve years, Lang Jing Mountain went to study at the Nanyang Middle School in Shanghai. Later, I asked Sun Yanlin if Lang Jing Mountain’s influence on her was truly that significant. Sun Yanlin gave me a sidelong glance, as if to say, “Need I even say it? Your family’s just a couple of hundred steps away from the legendary home of the master photographer. How could you not feel it?” I thought about it and realized she was probably right.

But that day, Sun Yanlin didn’t even give me a chance to exchange glances. Two classes in a row, with only a ten-minute break in between for students to fetch water and use the restroom. Seeing no one at the front of the classroom, I cautiously approached and respectfully called out, “Teacher Sun, I’m Xie Wanghe. I’ve come from Beijing for ‘The Tales of the Grand River,’ specifically to meet you.” Sun Yanlin didn’t even lift her eyelids; she was staring at a book titled “Master Photographer Lang Jing Mountain,” published by the China Photography Publishing House in July 2003, with a page displaying Lang Jing Mountain’s photograph “Scholar under the Pine Shade” created in 1963. She spoke to the figure of a scholar portrayed by Zhang Daqian:

“There was a girl surnamed Zhong from your studio who contacted me. Sorry, I’m not interested.”

“I apologize for the interruption. If it’s convenient, could I perhaps seek your guidance after class for just half an hour?”

“Let’s talk after class,” she still didn’t look up.

The bell for class rang. I returned to my seat and listened to Sun Yanlin talk about Lang Jing Mountain, but my mind wandered, pondering how to seamlessly integrate Lang Jing Mountain into this episode of the program. Although I hadn’t conducted any specialized research, I naively believed that Lang Jing Mountain, who spent his childhood in Qingjiangpu, must have been influenced by the canal, as evidenced by many of his works related to water. Sun Yanlin conducted a detailed comparative study of Lang Jing Mountain’s photographic works with classical Chinese literature and painting. Using modern media, she demonstrated the handling of the abstract and the concrete, the transformation from abstraction to concreteness, the fusion of photographic and painting aesthetics, and the reconciliation between tradition and modernity, elucidating Lang Jing Mountain in an accessible manner that even a layman like me felt I had grasped the essence of the master.

Fifty minutes flew by. In between, I sent two text messages to Sun Yanlin’s assistant, Xiao Wang. I sketched a portrait of Sun Yanlin in my shorthand notebook, which didn’t quite capture her likeness but focused on her hair, eyes, and mouth. When the bell signaling the end of class rang, I quickly positioned myself at the front door to prevent her from slipping away. This was unnecessary, as a throng of students crowded around the podium to discuss with her. I leaned against the door frame, waiting. It had been many years since I had sat down attentively for two classes in a row, and I was exhausted.

This posture of leaning against the door probably seemed rather frivolous to Sun Yanlin, not something a middle-aged man in his forties should be doing. That day, as she addressed students’ queries, she shot me a few stern glances, finding the tall and burly man annoying. Hence, she had no desire to acknowledge me. So, when I noticed there were still four students waiting in line for her to answer questions and decided to quickly visit the restroom, then swiftly returned to the classroom door, she took the opportunity to slip away early. She apologized to the four students, claiming she had an urgent matter to attend to, and promised to continue the discussion at the same time next week.

I’m also quite upset about her behavior. As an associate professor, she should set a good example for others. Being knowledgeable is one thing, but being morally upright is equally important. At the very least, she should keep her promises. So, I went straight to the Office of Academic Affairs at the Art Academy, not to complain, but to inquire about her phone number. The administrative staff there were kind elderly ladies. One of them told me that Sun Xiaoxiao had just instructed them that anyone asking for her contact information should be strictly refused.

“It’s not just a polite refusal,” the lady added. “Sun Xiaoxiao’s instructions were to firmly decline.” Then she lowered her voice and leaned in close to my ear. “Young man, patience is a virtue,” she said as if I were asking for her hand in marriage.

“Alright,” I said. “Thank you, ma’am. If I find it, I’ll be sure to treat you to some sweets.”

The lady cheered, “Oh yeah! You better bring me double the treats then. No chocolates, just the old-fashioned Bai Rabbit candies from Shanghai.”

I echoed her excitement with an “Oh yeah” of my own. What a situation.

You can’t escape your obligations forever. Even if Sun Xiaoxiao has a banquet the day after tomorrow and class, I refuse to believe I won’t catch her. As I left the university, I flagged down a taxi. The driver asked where I wanted to go, and I told him either the Qingjiang Tractor Factory or the Huai Opera Troupe, whichever was closer. He dropped me off at 4 Plum Blossom Road. As I entered the gate of the Huai Opera Troupe, an employee held out her arm to stop me.

“I’m looking for Xie Yangzhi,” I said.

“Xie Yangzhi? Who’s that?” She used the same dialect as my grandparents.

“A retired actor.”

“If he’s retired, I wouldn’t know.”

“He performed in ‘Fan Lihue’s Recruitment’ and ‘The Four Proposals of Pi Xiuying.'”

“I know those plays too.”

“Don’t your retired staff have contact information?”

A middle-aged man who looked like a leader emerged from the hall and informed me that the office staff were in a meeting and suggested I come back later. He said the contact information for retired personnel was kept in the office. When he heard I was looking for Xie Yangzhi, he said, “Ah old Xie. Try going to Zhou Xinfang’s former residence by Guhongqiao. That old fellow has switched to singing Qi-style opera. It’s right next to Tiantemple Street.”

I hailed a taxi to Zhou Xinfang’s former residence. Memories of my grandparents in Beijing flooded back. They would sit in front of the radio after dinner, listening to Zhou Xinfang without fail. Mr. Zhou’s robust and slightly hoarse voice filled the room, captivating my grandparents. It started with a phonograph, then a tape recorder, and later a VCR. They wished they could listen to him twenty-four hours a day on repeat. “Xu Ce Escapes from the City,” “Xiao He Pursues Han Xin Under the Moon,” and “The Banquet at Hongmen,” I could sing them all from hearing them so often. In fifth grade, I made a bet with my classmates.

On summer nights, we sneaked into Peking University and swam from one end of Weiming Lake to the other, past the Fish Tail Shi. Whoever caught the fish’s tail first would win, and the loser had to perform at the party. I lost and had to sing the classic section from “Pursuing Han Xin,” from “My lord rose in rebellion in Mangdang” to “Lifting my robe and carrying the golden tablet.” I was nervous singing, as I had only ever listened before and never tried it myself. Surprisingly, I managed to sing it without too many mistakes. To mimic Mr. Zhou’s effect, I roughened my voice and spoke only after singing, making my voice sound more like his.

Zhou Xinfang’s former residence sat by the riverbank. After crossing a small bridge, I arrived at a quaint and elegant courtyard. Above the gate hung a plaque with the inscription “Zhou Xinfang Former Residence Exhibition Hall.” Zhou Xinfang was born here on January 14, 1895. He left at the age of six, accompanying his father, Zhou Weitang, a Qingyi opera singer, to Hangzhou, where he trained under Chen Changxing to learn martial arts and opera. The residence held few artifacts, primarily relying on photographic materials, with simple furnishings.

The lush banana and ivy plants in the front and back yard gave the place a vibrant atmosphere. Nowadays, it serves as a gathering place for Peking opera enthusiasts and a venue for daily vocal exercises. As evening approached, the scent of dinner wafted from the nearby streets, while the courtyard echoed with the sound of Erhu and Banhu alternating between renditions of “The Drunken Concubine,” “Borrowing the East Wind,” and “Silang Visits His Mother.” Where there were singers, there were listeners, and occasional bursts of applause could be heard.

I asked an elderly bystander, who said Xie Yangzhi had just left but would return after dinner. It seemed they came here daily, treating it like a job, albeit with varying schedules. The old man told me that my uncle, who came by every afternoon, listened for a while, then returned home for dinner, took a stroll afterward, and then returned, staying until the courtyard closed. My uncle was quite a talent; he had spent his life singing Huaihai opera before retiring and switching to Peking opera, specializing in the Qi style. No wonder the theater leaders referred to him with such mixed feelings as “Old Xie.” He had been a fixture in the Huaihai Opera Troupe for decades. I found a stool and settled in, waiting.

One wait turned into another, and still no sign of Xie Yangzhi. I asked the old man again, and he assured me that he should be arriving soon. I didn’t dare leave; I was afraid that if I left, my uncle would show up right after. My hunger was making me jittery; it had been dark for hours by then. I was planning to ask the old man for the fourth time when I realized he had already gone home.

There were only four people left in the courtyard: one singer, one Erhu player, and two spectators. I couldn’t even count myself as a spectator; I was just someone looking for someone else. Xie Yangzhi might have already fallen asleep by now. I left the courtyard, heading toward wherever there were lights. When I saw a small restaurant, I went in without hesitation: a bowl of Chang fish noodles, two bottles of beer, and half a catty of braised pork.

After a satisfying meal, I felt as content listening to Qi-style Peking opera as I did eating. I walked out of the restaurant with a full stomach, feeling comfortable, and lit up a cigarette as I found a rock to sit on by the roadside.

This city holds the legacy of my ancestors. My father told me that our first-generation ancestor who settled in Huai’an was named Xie Pingyao. He worked as a translator in the Office of the Grand Canal Governor, equivalent to a civil servant today. Later, Pingyao Gong went to the Qingjiang Shipyard, a place that is now just a memory. He didn’t stay at the shipyard for long; he resigned from his official position and traveled north along the canal to the capital city.

Even there, he didn’t stay for an extended period. He joined a group of scholars and aspiring scholars following the reforms initiated by Kang Youwei and Liang Qichao. Subsequently, he supported the revolutionary party and opposed Yuan Shikai. During his time in Beijing, before Yuan Shikai declared himself emperor, he was targeted for elimination. Pingyao Gong’s status and reputation were probably average at best; I’ve never come across the name “Xie Pingyao” in relevant historical records. However, Xie Pingyao was proficient in English and reportedly self-taught in Italian, French, and German, enough to handle daily interactions like eating, drinking, and conversing.

This was a rare talent a century ago. At that time, the Qing government and Yuan Shikai weren’t afraid of the Chinese; they were afraid of foreigners, fearful of what they might say. My ancestor Pingyao Gong could translate the criticisms of foreigners into Chinese for the Chinese to hear, which made them resent him and consider him quite important. They even put a bounty on his head. All this is what my grandfather told me. He was immensely proud to say that his grandfather’s head was worth a lot of money.

However, in the end, Pingyao Gong returned to Qingjiangpu. As for the reasons, my grandfather was somewhat vague. Sometimes he said it was to save his life; there was a bounty on his head, and he couldn’t make it in Beijing anymore. Other times, he mentioned some sort of shock or disillusionment, leading him to return to his wife and children to live out his old age. What exactly caused this shock, he couldn’t quite explain.

But there was one thing my grandfather was certain of: Pingyao Gong wrote many articles about the Grand Canal, using Xuan paper and a brush, writing vertically from right to left. My grandfather saw it with his own eyes when he was young. I find this quite credible. Firstly, there was an eyewitness—my grandfather. Secondly, during the years he lived in Beijing, Pingyao Gong made frequent trips back to Qingjiangpu. He must have made at least ten or twenty trips up and down the river, spending consecutive days on the boat.

When he got tired of reading, he could only stare at the water, so it’s not far-fetched to think he became an expert on the subject. The number of times he visited his family in Huai Province is evidence of this, as is the fact that my grandfather remembered his grandmother giving birth to twelve children, although only a few survived. Even if the land was fertile, someone had to do the planting, right?

The problem is, that there’s still no concrete evidence to prove that Pingyao Gong was an expert on the Grand Canal. My grandfather grew old, and one day while watching a recording of Zhou Xinfang on television during the resistance against Japan, Mr. Zhou was raising funds for the war effort and performed in Beijing, accompanied by an Italian journalist who was conducting interviews along the way. Suddenly, my grandfather said:

“Oh, my grandfather once accompanied an Italian to Beijing! He was an expert on the Grand Canal!”

So what? Accompanying an Italian expert on the Grand Canal to Beijing doesn’t necessarily mean he was an expert himself.

“True,” my grandfather rubbed his bald head vigorously, “but then where did your great-grandfather’s articles go?” He said this to my father.

At that time, my father was a research backbone in the institute and had yet to develop an interest in dancing with young women. When he returned home, he would be scribbling strange equations on scraps of paper. “Maybe they were confiscated during the Cultural Revolution,” my father said.

“At that time, our family lived in a remote area by the river, surrounded by vast wilderness,” my grandfather pondered again, “but nothing was confiscated. They didn’t want to bother with the distance. Your great-grandfather was eighty years old then, sitting under the sun every day, guarding two stone tablets. People would come to him for calligraphy, and he would trace a copy for them. He was like a benevolent Maitreya Buddha, extremely popular.”

“Why did he trace the stone tablets?” I asked.

“Your great-grandfather had excellent handwriting. Neighbors would often come to request a piece of calligraphy, which they would then frame and hang in their homes or give as gifts. The old man never turned anyone away. When he couldn’t write anymore at eighty, he copied two poems by Gong Zizhen and an article and had them engraved on stone tablets. Whenever someone asked for calligraphy, he would trace a copy to give away.”

“For free?”

“Of course. Strangely, after the stone tablets were engraved, fewer people came asking for calligraphy. He would often sit under the sun for two or three days and still not give away a single piece of calligraphy.”

“What happened to the stone tablets?”

“Who knows? Someone must have smashed them. And there’s another reason why people stopped asking for calligraphy—times changed, and there were movements and chaos. Who had the mood to appreciate calligraphy?”

“What happened to my great-grandfather afterward?”

“He passed away. At noon, I went to call him for lunch. He was sitting in his wicker chair under the sun, his head tilted to the right on his shoulder, lifeless. The doctor said there was phlegm in his throat, blocking his airway. He couldn’t breathe. Next to him were the two stone tablets engraved with Gong Zizhen’s poetry and prose.”

My parents and I remained silent. When an ancestor dies, we feel it’s appropriate to observe a moment of silence in remembrance. My grandfather seemed surprised by our quietness and asked what was wrong.

“Great-grandfather passed away.”

“Well, he died. Who doesn’t die?” Grandfather said. “Let me tell you, Wanghe, you know what the happiest moment of my life was?”

We all looked at him. We knew he was about to reveal the answer. Answering his questions had become the primary way he communicated in his old age.

“It was when—your father, just like your great-grandfather, also came to Beijing!”

Sitting on the streets of Huai’an, I can still recall the expression my grandfather had when he said this, his eyes suddenly brighter than his shiny bald head. It was as if his son coming to Beijing wasn’t just about education and work but about building a whole new Beijing from scratch with a group of people.

It’s been years since my grandfather passed away. If he were still here and knew I was working on “River Tales,” becoming a half-baked expert on paper about the Grand Canal, it might have become his “second happiest moment.” In his eyes, agreeing with my great-grandfather on issues related to the canal would have been a monumental event, almost as if the canal was dug out by our Xie family.

Sitting in the city of my ancestors, I didn’t feel unfamiliar, but I also didn’t feel entirely familiar. I had been here when I was very young, held in the arms of adults, my black eyes darting around, but I hadn’t remembered anything. I lit up two more cigarettes and decided to visit the Qingjiang Tractor Factory tomorrow.

The next day, I woke up naturally, dialed 114 for information, searched online, and confirmed that Qing Tractor had shrunk to a small enterprise and relocated to the southeast development zone. Having lived in Beijing for so long, I didn’t feel like any city was too far away to take a taxi. I watched the meter as it climbed, stopping when it reached 38 yuan. Once a behemoth in China’s tractor manufacturing industry, now reduced to a tiny storefront. I had to smoke a cigarette before going in. In my grandfather and father’s descriptions, Qing Tractor was so grand, big enough to be its empire. You could spend 365 days in the factory without ever leaving, and you wouldn’t miss out on the wonderful socialist life. It took a cigarette to bridge this psychological gap.

The staff at the reception were also smoking. Around fifty years old, with a week’s worth of unshaven stubble, the smoke drifting through the stubble gave me a sense of chaos and disorder. He seemed intoxicated with every puff of his cigarette, sucking in forcefully as if it were the last breath of oxygen on Earth; when he exhaled, his mouth opened wide, revealing every single one of his bad teeth. He sat on a wooden chair and asked me to write down my cousin’s name.

“Xie Yangchun.”

He pursed his lips, shaking his head apologetically, no recollection.

“Retired.”

“Oh, retired, that explains it.” He seemed relieved, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, as if not recognizing someone after retirement wasn’t a dereliction of duty.

I handed him a Su cigarette. You have to smoke hometown cigarettes when you’re in Jiangsu.

“I’ll check for you,” he said, getting up to rummage through a cabinet behind him. After a moment, he said, “I remembered, I remembered. Xie Yangchun, the one who got run over by a truck.”

My mind buzzed. “Are you talking about that Xie Yangchun?”

“We only have one Xie Yangchun in Qing Tractor’s history.” He sat back down, perhaps sensing I needed some comfort after the news of my cousin’s death. He asked if I wanted to come around the window and sit in the room, but I said standing there was fine. I just wanted to hear the details of my cousin’s death. “So it was him who passed away,” he said, lighting the Su cigarette I gave him. I handed him another one. “I heard about it many years ago.

Your cousin wasn’t retirement age yet, right? He was run over by a truck on his way home from work. Isn’t it strange how these things happen in the world? Just stepping out and meeting one’s fate. A truck was running on the road, revving its engine in fourth gear. One of the wheels came loose. The truck kept going on one side while the wheel rolled off to the other side, bouncing and rolling along. When it hit a bump, it bounced even higher, then came crashing down, hitting your cousin who was riding a bicycle. His head got smashed flat, brains splattered everywhere.”

I quickly handed him another cigarette. There was no need to say more. Turning, I stepped onto the street, forgetting to say thank you. Xie Yangchun, my cousin whom I’d never met, left me unsettled, craving another cigarette. A person who made wheels, ended up being crushed by one.

Walking aimlessly along the wide roads of the development zone, I suddenly felt a profound sense of aimlessness. Idle to the point of panic. In Beijing, I was always busy, constantly bombarded with calls, WeChat messages, texts, emails – notifications incessantly chiming, as if I were some indispensable figure urgently needed by the world. But here, my phone had fallen silent, as if everyone had collectively agreed to give me space. The coveted blankness was finally within reach, yet I didn’t know what to do with it. Was this what they called the “unbearable lightness of being”? I wandered like a vagabond on the land of my ancestors, feeling empty both physically and mentally. Suddenly, the phone rang, and I eagerly answered, as if it were my salvation.

It turned out to be a spam call, but I decided to engage with the caller as if it were a serious conversation.

Assistant Xiao Wang called. The Swedish guy known as “Ruipaike” online has been found. His name is Simon Granvall, 26 years old, from Gothenburg. He studied Chinese for several years in Suzhou, then after graduation, he found a job as a freelance writer for European newspapers and magazines and decided to stay in Suzhou. In his spare time, he likes to wander around, taking photos and videos. He uploads the ones he finds interesting online and goes by the name “Ruipaike”. Among his short videos is a series about the Grand Canal, from south to north, “A Foreigner’s View of Waterside China”.

Some kids from the studio stumbled upon it online and found it intriguing. They mentioned it to me a few days ago, and I agreed to follow up on it. Xiao Wang said they found him. Simon Granvall just married a Chinese girl and became a son-in-law in Suzhou. He’s quite interested in our program and is willing to appear if needed. However, he wants to take his wife back to his hometown for a while to visit his parents and see Sweden. We need to give him a definite time, or else we’ll have to wait until he returns. Xiao Wang is worried that if we wait, the opportunity might slip away. He asked me what to do. I said we should make a decision now. Tell them to send over the materials they have on hand, and I’ll review them at the hotel. I’ll give them a definite answer by this afternoon.

It feels damn good to have something to do. I flagged down a taxi and headed straight to the hotel. Once in the room, I turned on my computer, and Xiao Wang had already sent over the relevant materials. After watching the thirty-nine selected videos and reviewing the proposal drafted by the kids, I found it feasible. Simon Granville in the videos left a good impression on me; sincerity shone in his eyes as he faced the canal. This is crucial; he genuinely loves this mighty river.

That guy is playful; he often goofed around while filming the lives of canal dwellers, making efforts to chat with locals in different dialects, which everyone enjoyed, actively cooperating with his shooting. In one video, he pointed at a lively carp with a wide-open mouth and said, “I dare not eat this fish.” When people asked why, he solemnly replied, “It’s alive, I’m afraid it might bite me.” The toothless old fish seller burst into laughter at his antics.

After watching the videos, I organized my thoughts, refined the proposal, and sent it over; it was already three in the afternoon. I grabbed a bowl of noodles at a nearby time-honored noodle shop, then went to a gift shop to buy some presents before taking another taxi to Zhou Xinfang’s former residence.

At half-past four in the afternoon, Zhou Xinfang’s former residence was bustling with activity. The afternoon nap had ended, and dinner was still a long way off, so all the retirees who weren’t working had gathered. Groups of people dotted the entire courtyard, chatting and laughing incessantly. There were performers of all types – singing old male roles, young female roles, dan roles, lao dan roles, and human roles. The courtyard gate was wide open, and as I glanced at the nearest group, I hoped to recognize the familiar expression of the Xie family on someone’s face. Moving to the second group, the elderly man from last night spotted me and waved. He was among a crowd gathered under a pavilion, still just an audience member. I approached them. He said to an elderly man sitting with his legs crossed on a reclining chair:

“Laoshei, someone’s here to see you.”

Laoshei turned his head. I was certain this was my uncle, Xie Yangzhi. His wariness and hesitation towards strangers were probably inherited from the Xie family, but in that split second when our eyes met, I saw the expression of my grandfather on his face. He was my grandfather’s nephew. Among this group of people, my uncle was the standout figure.

This was his domain, even though he used to perform Huaihai opera before retiring. His professional identity and status, his demeanor and sense of superiority developed over many years of performing, and even his well-maintained skin and figure accumulated over the years, all gave him an absolute advantage among the elderly crowd. He was the only one reclining in a chair – a reclining chair at that.

Others sat on wooden chairs, or benches, brought their small stools, or stood. Xie Yangzhi was dressed all in black, with a mandarin-collared jacket and square-toed Beijing cloth shoes, simple, understated, deep, and luxurious. He gave me a hard look but didn’t say anything, using his eyes to ask me who I was referring to.

“Hello, uncle,” I managed to walk up to him and bowed, “I’m Wanghe, my father is Xie Yangshan, your brother.”

Xie Yangzhi still didn’t speak. But I could see his chest rising and falling; he was controlling himself.

“This time I came to Huai’an for business, and my parents instructed me to come and see you, old man.”

“Are you Xie Yangshan’s son?” my uncle finally spoke, slowly and deliberately.

“Absolutely. We’ve even done a paternity test.”

“How many whirls does Xie Yangshan have on his head?”

This question caught me off guard; I hadn’t encountered this kind of ancestry inquiry before. “He doesn’t have any.”

“Nonsense. No one without whirls.”

“I’m sorry, uncle, I don’t know how many whirls my dad has on his head. He’s been bald for so long that he doesn’t even have a single hair where whirls would grow.”

“Let’s hold off on the ‘uncle’ for now,” he said, still half reclining in his chair with his legs crossed.

The performance in the pavilion stopped, and everyone was watching us, grandfather and grandson. This familial recognition scene was more thrilling than any in the opera.

“This is my ID card.” I took out my ID from my wallet and handed it to him.

“This can only prove you’re you, not that you’re Xie Yangshan’s son.”

I did remember some embarrassing stories about Xie Yangzhi that my father and grandfather used to tell me, but recounting those mischievous acts from his youth in front of everyone felt like publicly pulling down my uncle’s pants, so I decided against it. The group in the hall was singing “Xu Cepao Cheng.” I came up with a plan; I’ll perform a part of “Xu Cepao Cheng” as well. I chose a segment and sang it with my grandfather’s blend of the Qingjiangpu dialect:

Old Xu Cepao standing on the city tower,

“My ears are deaf again, my eyes are blurry again. Both my ears and eyes are afflicted.”

Can’t see which lad is kneeling at the city gate.

I ask you: which prefecture, which province, which county are you from?

Which village has your family’s door?

“What’s your father’s surname? What’s your mother’s surname? Also, what’s your birth order among your siblings?”

Speak, make it clear,

Lower the drawbridge, open the city gate, and let you into the city.

If you can’t speak clearly if you’re unclear,

The city gates will never open for you.

Report your name.

When I got to “Speak, make it clear,” my uncle waved his hand, “No need to continue singing. Even if you’re not Xie Yangshan’s son, you must be my uncle’s grandson.”

“So, uncle, do you acknowledge me as your nephew now?”

My uncle stood up, turned, and walked away. “It’s precisely because you’re Xie Yangshan’s son that I’m even less inclined to acknowledge you.”

The whole group was dumbfounded. Just seconds ago, they were as happy as I was, searching for family from afar—what a wonderful thing, and it had come true. They had just applauded me and were even hoping I would continue singing. They found it unique to hear Zhou Xinfang sung with a Beijing accent mixed with Huai’an dialect. The elderly man who called me overstretched his hand out desperately and hurriedly said:

“Laoshei, Laoshei, don’t leave, Laoshei!”

Xie Yangzhi had already left through the courtyard gate.

“That Laoshei!” they exclaimed, taking a moment to react, “Chase after him, young man, go after him.”

I grabbed the gifts and ran outside. The smile I had shown my uncle moments ago was frozen on my face, and the embarrassment had stiffened my expression; it took considerable effort to smooth out my face.

There were several paths in front of the former residence. I stood on a nearby bridge, but I couldn’t see Xie Yangzhi on any of the roads. My father had mentioned that my uncle’s family used to live near Flower Street. Based on my impression from strolling around Flower Street a couple of days ago, I headed in the northwest direction. The winding alleys occasionally had streams running through them; many old houses were being demolished, with beams leaning on broken walls, and piles of ruins occasionally blocking the way. The terrain leading to Flower Street became extremely complex. Under the overcast sky, there was a gloomy atmosphere spreading in the air past five in the afternoon. I held the gift box, keeping an eye on the distant path while watching my step.

As I passed by a ruin, the door frame on both sides, with the roof removed, had rows of stones inserted from top to bottom, and hand-written cursive couplets were engraved on the stones: “The moon floods the earth with water, clouds rise over the mountain for a day.” I had seen this couplet elsewhere, but it was the first time I encountered it carved into the side of an ordinary house, making it quite impressive. The couplet was beautiful and somewhat profound, with excellent calligraphy and carving work.

I lingered over it for a moment, even considering how to pry them off and take them with me. Lost in thought for a moment, I stumbled over a half-brick on the ground. The gift flew out far away, and I found myself falling, catching myself with both elbows and palms hitting the ground simultaneously. The cement-grouted stone path ensured a solid fall, and it took me a while to get back up. When I finally stood up straight, I felt pain in my elbows and palms. The palms were scraped, with beads of blood oozing out, and there was a bruise on one elbow. I found a stone to sit on, examined my palms and elbow, wiped off the blood with a tissue, and cursed under my breath. Then I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and kicked the broken bricks on the road a couple of times. Damn it, let me suffer for a while first.

After smoking half of the cigarette, a pair of feet in cloth shoes and the hems of jeans came into my view. I slowly looked up from the feet to the face, seeing Sun Yanlin looking at me coldly, holding the gift box I had thrown.

“Seen enough?” Sun Yanlin said.

“I’m sorry,” I raised my right hand as I stood up, “If I had known it was Teacher Sun, I wouldn’t have dared to look like that.”

“Here’s your stuff.” She took a couple of steps forward. “Oh, you’re bleeding. You should see a doctor.”

“Did you go to the Dahuatang you photographed?” She had a picture of a clinic by the canal called “Dahuatang.”

“It’s closed. Dr. Chu and his family moved away.” She placed the gift bag on the ground.

“What are you doing here?”

She pointed to a bridge about twenty meters away. There was an easel on the bridge, and she was sketching. She must have witnessed my entire embarrassing fall.

“Sketching here?”

“My family lives here.”

I glanced around. The ruin was just a small part; most houses were still intact and people were living their normal lives. “Which family?”

“Not close by. Nearby.”

It dawned on me, near Lang Jingshan’s former residence.

“Is it Tianmiao Front Street?”

“That’s where my parents live. I’ve been mainly staying at my studio these past two years.” She gestured southeastward with her hand.

She paused at “studio,” probably to distinguish it from mine. Nowadays, it seems almost embarrassing to call yourself an artist if you don’t have a studio. It’s just a place for writing and drawing, different from a study in that it’s larger and messier. Sun Yanlin’s main business is painting, so she needs a big space.

“If it’s convenient, could I have the opportunity to visit Teacher Sun’s studio?”

“You need to take care of your wound first.”

“It’s no big deal, just a superficial scratch. I can rinse it under a faucet.” The wound could wait; what mattered most was striking up a conversation. I refuse to believe I can’t win you over. I’m quite confident about this episode of “River Tales.”

She acquiesced. “Three rules: Even if the room is a mess, you can’t mention it.”

“I don’t believe there’s anyone messier than me. What about the other two rules?”

“I’ll let you know when I think of them.”

Sun Yanlin helped me carry the gift box and her art supplies. I held her easel with my left arm and raised it with my right hand, feeling like a surrendering soldier, following her southeastward. Sun Yanlin asked me to keep my distance from her to avoid having to explain to every acquaintance we bumped into who I was. Fair enough, I maintained a pure distance of twenty meters between us.

I found that this seemingly pure distance was the most provocative; I could see her silhouette, every subtle movement of her buttocks wrapped in jeans, the slight changes in her calf muscles as she walked, and forgive me, even the shape of her upper body as it moved beneath her jacket. A well-proportioned, sturdy body that met certain aesthetic standards. Of course, this was because of my good eyesight. For a busy, stumbling divorced man in his forties, who had been seeing his nearsightedness as a defect for years, discovering that it could be a unique asset was quite a revelation.

We stopped in front of a warehouse-like building. Sun Yanlin set down the bag and opened the double-layered security door. Turning on the lights, the interior space was much larger than it appeared from the outside, with no problem fitting eight or nine trucks side by side. This space didn’t even include a bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom that were partitioned off on the west side. The studio was lined with oil paintings and watercolor paintings of various sizes against the walls. Four or five different-sized easels were scattered throughout the room, with pens and oil colors placed in front of them. The cement floor was covered with paint splatters. Not as messy as expected.

“So this is the legendary art palace?” I complimented.

Sun Yanlin wasn’t buying it. She instructed me to place the easel in the southeast corner of the space. “These are the old factory buildings of the knitting factory. The district transformed them into a cultural and creative base, somewhat like your Beijing 798. I rented one. Wash the area around your wound, and I’ll go find some iodine disinfectant.”

“You can disinfect here, and yet you told me to see a doctor.”

“You’re quite annoying, you know? This is my private territory, not a hospital. I’m not obliged to take care of you.”

“I’m sorry, Teacher Sun, my mistake. May I use your bathroom?”

“Annoying!”

I washed my hands and came out of the bathroom just as Sun Yanlin found the iodine and cotton swabs. I was about to peek into her bedroom when she slammed the door shut.

“Private domain, no entry without permission,” I said. “I understand. Just curious.”

“No need to be curious. The bed’s not made.”

Sun Yanlin instructed me to sit on a chair, then dabbed the iodine on the cotton swab and circled it around the wound. The large room felt a bit chilly. The iodine seeped into the wound, hurting more than when it was scraped, making my stomach shake.

“If it’s unbearable, just say so.”

“No, that won’t do. Even if you break a tooth, you still have to swallow it. That’s what being a man is all about.”

“Wow, so brave,” she snorted, picking up a new cotton swab dipped in iodine and pretending to press it forcefully onto the wound. I quickly pulled my hand back with a shout. Sun Yanlin scoffed, “Feeling insecure?”

“Don’t label me like that. It’s you, Teacher Sun, who lacks security.” I extended my hand, letting her do as she pleased. She became more careful with the application. “Is it so hard to put up with me? Art should serve the people, and artists should serve the people too.”

“If you mention this again, don’t blame me for kicking you out.”

“Alright,” I said, “It’s not easy to sit here quietly just to stay a little longer.”

After treating the wound, I earnestly admired Sun Yanlin’s paintings. There weren’t many depicting the canal in this batch. Instead, most focused on figures and their relationship with the environment. Several medium-sized paintings were reinterpretations of Lang Jingshan’s iconic photographs, presenting a fresh perspective. At first glance, they seemed like oil painting versions of Lang’s photos, but upon closer inspection, it became apparent that she only borrowed Lang’s imagery and composition. She departed from Lang’s static, distant, and otherworldly characteristics, infusing dynamic tension between the figures and the landscape, creating a sense of power on the verge of eruption throughout the entire scene.

“In ‘Drawing Water at Dawn’ by Lang Jingshan, the water carrier has his head bowed, with most of his face obscured by the straw hat, making it impossible to see the expression,” I explained, pointing at Sun Yanlin’s reinterpretation of the piece. “But in Sun Yanlin’s version, ‘Drawing Water at Dawn,’ the water carrier lifts his head. Even under the shadow of the straw hat, you can see his conflicted expression and gaze. Because of his expression and gaze, the entire composition and style of the painting transformed, becoming a completely new creation. In ‘Scholars Beneath the Pine Trees,’ Sun Yanlin magnified Zhang Daqian, having him turn his head to the left, with half of his face echoing the expression of the ancient pine tree, creating a ripple effect throughout the scene as if there were faint thunder in the air.”

These paintings truly captivated me. I pulled a chair over, sat in front of the paintings, and retrieved Lang Jingshan’s original artwork from my phone, comparing every detail meticulously. Sun Yanlin brought me Lang’s photography collection for reference. “Are you interested?” she asked.

“Are they for sale?”

“Not for sale.”

“Just for personal enjoyment?”

“I haven’t perfected them to my satisfaction yet.”

“What would make them satisfactory?”

“You should know, I would have already painted them.”

After examining the original works once again, I stood up. “I strongly hope that the master would honor me with the chance to treat him to a meal,” I said. It was already dark outside.

“Master Lang passed away nineteen years ago.”

“Then today, I invite Master Sun.”

Sun Yanlin shot me a sideways glance. “Keep talking nonsense, and I’ll kick you out.”

Dinner was on me, at a nearby restaurant called “Huaiyang Mansion.” Sun Yanlin mentioned that their Huaiyang cuisine was quite authentic. Taking Sun Yanlin’s advice to heart, I ordered crab meat lion’s head, braised shredded pork with soy sauce, crispy eel from Liangxi, tofu with minced pork sauce, stir-fried pea shoots with shrimp, and shredded bean curd with chicken, along with tea buns and Huangqiao sesame cakes for the main course. It was a heartwarming meal. This was the taste of my grandmother’s kitchen. I hadn’t thought deeply about my grandparents for a while. I told Sun Yanlin that this meal made me feel like a true native of Huai’an. The stomach never lies; it knows better than you where your hometown and ancestors are.

“Is your hometown here?”

“Not fitting?”

“In that smooth and slick tone, you don’t seem like you’re from our big Qing River.”

“You women are hard to please. If we don’t speak, you call us mute. If we do, you complain about the slick tone. Can’t seem to get it right.”

“I’m not wrong about you. Whether your father or your grandfather is from here?”

“Both my father and grandfather are from here.”

“I knew you wouldn’t tell the truth. Yesterday you said it was a special visit, turns out it’s about tracing roots and finding someone on the side.”

“You’re misunderstanding me. I might be half a filial son, promised my dad long ago to come and pay respects to our ancestors, but this time I genuinely came to find Master Sun, with some family matters to attend to on the side. But judging by the current situation, both plans seem to be falling through.” I explained everything I had done in Huai over the past four days to Sun Yanlin. I raised my right hand, indicating the gift. “My uncle, Xie Yangzhi, oh, inexplicably, where did I offend him?”

“I deeply sympathize with you,” Sun Yanlin said, raising a glass of freshly squeezed corn juice to toast with me. “Considering how the first attempt went sour, I suggest you give it another shot tomorrow with Teacher Xie. Who knows, it might still work out. When I was young, I heard him sing ‘The Four Announcements of Pi Xiu Ying.'”

“I’m skeptical. Someone has already snubbed you without even putting down their chopsticks; my uncle turned on his heels before the third sentence was finished. This is going to be even more challenging.”

“Can we talk about something else? Our family is also from out of town.”

“Where from?”

“Gao You. My great-grandfather was a boatman who sailed along the canal to get here. It’s been over a hundred years. Back then, this area was still called Qingjiangpu.”

“Gao You are a good place.”

“There are plenty of good places. I heard my great-grandfather decided to move here because of his older brother. The problem was his brother had already passed away by then. He knew his brother had died, yet he still uprooted his family and settled in the place where his brother was buried. My grandparents say that my great-grandfather’s hometown was in Liangshan, Shandong Province. It’s all a bit confusing.”

“Generations past are always a blur. My grandfather used to say that my great-grandfather spoke four foreign languages and Yuan Shikai was willing to pay a fortune for his head. He must have been a significant figure, but I’ve never come across our ancestor’s name in any relevant historical records. It sounds like we’re talking about someone else’s family affairs.”

Finally, we found something to talk about, and we continued chatting until we were at the last table of guests at ‘Huaiyang Mansion.’ Sun Yanlin agreed to let me walk her back to her studio, not because of the night, but because we could keep on talking while walking.

Her great-grandfather was also a legend. He was known for his expertise in “elastic leg martial arts,” with formidable fighting skills. Even a dozen strong men couldn’t get close to him bare-handed. It is said that he once escorted important figures along the canal to Beijing. Who these important figures were, Sun Yanlin’s grandparents couldn’t say for sure. But they recounted the journey vividly: her great-grandfather Sun Process encountered river bandits, resisted government soldiers, and fought against the Boxers, engaging in countless battles with villains, always emerging victorious. Sun Yanlin grew up hearing stories about her great-grandfather and felt that he should have been named Sun Wukong, as only the Monkey King possessed such prowess. Ancestors of the Sun family once ran martial arts schools in Qingjiangpu, and those who excelled in martial arts by the canal were likely descendants trained in the “Sun Family Martial Arts” for generations.

Ironically, none of the descendants of the Sun family in later generations seemed to inherit the martial arts tradition of their ancestor, Sun Process. Sun Yanlin had never heard of any ancestors before the third generation with exceptional skills, nor had she seen anyone in her family lineage who had bold blood flowing through their veins. Instead, they seemed to excel in artistic endeavors. Of course, success in the arts came with its own set of challenges. Her great-uncle, her grandfather’s younger brother, like Sun Yanlin herself, was also a photographer. But his venture into photography, particularly his nude art photography, led to him being branded as a hooligan and sent to prison at a young age.

“Is your interest in art related to your great-uncle?” I asked Sun Yanlin.

Sun Yanlin stopped under the streetlight, pondering for a moment. “Sort of. It’s because of my great-uncle’s experience that my family forbade me from studying photography. So, I ended up pursuing painting instead.”

“Why did you want to study photography in the first place?”

“Because I liked it.”

“I mean, how does a high school student decide that photography is their calling? Back then, photography must have been quite niche. Just because Lang Jingshan’s former residence is a two-minute walk away?”

“About three-fifths of it comes from Mr. Lang.”

“What about the other two-fifths?”

We arrived at her studio door, a dark and looming structure. “It’s a long story. We’ll talk about it some other time,” Sun Yanlin said, retrieving her keys from her bag. “Thanks for the ride back, and the nice dinner. It’s late, so I won’t invite you in. Goodbye.”

“Can I attend your class tomorrow?”

“Nothing is interesting to hear, just me rambling.”

“Ms. Sun, you’re being modest. Even if we can’t meet people, we can still learn something. Otherwise, what’s the point of coming?”

“All right then. Goodnight,” the door opened, light spilled out, then slammed shut. I stood in front of the door, fishing out a cigarette. Just as I was about to light it, the door opened again, and a narrow beam of light lay like a wound at my feet. Sun Yanlin peeked out from behind the door and said, “The main road is a five-minute walk west, it’s easy to catch a taxi there. Goodbye.” Her head retreated, and the door closed again, this time less forcefully.

Back at the hotel, it wasn’t too late. With my father’s nocturnal habits ingrained over many years, it wouldn’t be a problem to take a call at this hour. I asked my father, “What’s up with your cousin? I, as a junior, brought a gift and ended up facing a cold reception.” My father replied, “Your cousin is overthinking things. He hasn’t let go of the past all these years. He thinks that when I was recommended for university, I stole his opportunity.

But your grandfather and I aren’t like that. The Revolutionary Committee sought the school’s opinion and decided to recommend me. They mistakenly wrote my name as ‘Xie Yanzhi,’ and by the time it was corrected, rumors had already spread. Your cousin heard the rumors and believed that your grandfather had tampered with things to secure his future at the expense of your cousin’s. Your grandfather was deeply concerned about this matter at the time; he hoped I could make something big happen in Beijing like your great-grandfather.

But your grandfather didn’t do anything wrong. Son, I guarantee it with the ‘Xie’ in my name. You know what kind of person your grandfather was, and he chose your name. After your mother and I had you, your grandfather and grandmother continued living in Beijing. Why? Your grandfather was a good person. He knew that your cousin couldn’t let it go, so he simply avoided him to avoid any discomfort. I also rarely go back for the same reason. Some things are better left unexplained. I thought your cousin, being retired, would have let go of this by now, but I guess it’s still weighing on him.

It’s like a thorn in his heart.” I interjected, “Dad, it’s more like a kidney stone.” “Yes, a kidney stone,” my father agreed. “As you get older, you don’t want to bother with it. Otherwise, I’d consider going back to talk to your cousin again. But what good would it do? We’re both pushing seventy and if we start arguing again, it’ll be a lifelong scandal.”

“Dad, save your breath; long-distance calls are expensive. Just give me the essential instructions, and I’ll handle the rest. When away from home, I’ll follow orders.”

Here are my father’s instructions: Under no circumstances should I embarrass my cousin or provoke his anger. If I can explain clearly, I will; if not, I’ll accept whatever he says without argument. It’s not shameful; how many years do we have left anyway? Play to our strengths and avoid our weaknesses, go for things that bring joy. If I can’t find our ancestors’ graves, I should find a secluded spot by the canal and burn a few more paper offerings; if I burn enough, some of the smoke will surely reach our ancestors, and smoke is like money.

I should also burn a couple for Uncle Yangchun; don’t forget to say a prayer while burning, mentioning that unfilial descendant Xie Yangshan always thinks of them and kowtows to our ancestors. If either my cousin’s or uncle’s family faces difficulties, offer three to five thousand in support, and I can later seek reimbursement from him.

I agreed and made a mental note of it all. “Just don’t overdo it with the square dancing; consider my mom’s feelings.”

“Don’t worry, son,” my father said. “Your dad’s just there to dance. Get some rest.”

The next morning, I entered Sun Yanlin’s classroom five minutes early. As soon as I sat down, she walked in. I can guarantee she glanced toward the back row. For the next two classes, she didn’t look my way again. That much, I can assure you. The course was “Appreciation of Famous Paintings,” analyzing the characteristics and artistic value of both Chinese and Western masterpieces. I couldn’t understand most of it, especially when it delved into the intricacies like Van Gogh’s ear or Picasso’s revolving door of lovers. But the segment on Lang Jingshan’s “Scenery of Lake and Mountains,” discussing how he incorporated traditional Chinese painting techniques into his photographic compositions, was crystal clear to me. She taught it well.

During the break, I didn’t disturb her. After the two classes ended, I waited by the front gate again, skipping the restroom this time. After she finished answering students’ questions and came out of the classroom, I said, “Ready to go?” She didn’t respond but followed me out of the second teaching building. We walked out of the school gates before she finally asked:

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you out for lunch.”

“No free lunch.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t let you eat for nothing.”

Sun Yanlin mentioned pizza out of the blue when we talked about “Scenery of Lake and Mountains.” I agreed, so we headed for pizza. After pizza, we stopped by Starbucks for two lattes to perk up. I was concerned that an artist’s free-spirited lifestyle might require a nap every day. Then we went to Dazhakou to take a boat ride and experience this section of the Huai’an Canal. I asked Sun Yanlin to play tour guide for a bit.

Dazhakou was once the vital passage for canal transportation, but it’s now blocked off. Ships couldn’t pass through the lock due to the fierce water flow, so they had to use “winch locks” most of the time. Only skilled sailors dared to disembark downstream. The winch locks were fixed on high slopes on both banks, made of hardwood, and used to wind the ship’s ropes. Large ships used four winch locks, while smaller ones used two.

The other end of the rope was tied to the ship’s bollard. During the passage, the lock workers exerted force according to the rhythm of the gongs on the lock, vigorously winding the winches with each beat. Today, the water flow at Dazhakou is gentle, and few ships pass through. In 1959, the South Canal was excavated to the south of the city, diverting traffic outside the city, and this section of the old river channel through the city became the Inner Canal. It has been developed into a canal scenic area, and pleasure boats now ply the route, making navigation a form of entertainment.

There were only the two of us on the boat. We rented a small pleasure boat, modernized with a cabin where we could drink tea and chat. If it weren’t for Sun Yanlin’s insightful commentary while we moved along, I might have mistaken it for just another leisurely boat ride in any park. As a true teacher, she delved into the architecture and scenery on both banks, succinctly summarizing the significance of the canal to the city of Huai’an, akin to linking the entire history of art through a series of masterpieces.

Like many cities along the canal, the fate of this city was closely tied to this waterway. The once bustling Ten-Mile Long Street gradually declined after the cessation of canal transportation, signifying the end of an era. The pre-modern inland waterway transport, after the rise of highways, railways, and air travel, became akin to elderly ancestors basking in the sun by the wall, unable to lead the new direction of productivity.

Meanwhile, areas once thriving with waterways were collectively overlooked by roads, railways, and air travel. To prosper, one must first build roads; these places became blind spots in the modern era of “roads.” In other words, the once bustling “coastal areas” with their forest of masts and bustling boats unquestionably became the “inland” of the modern era. Hence, for many years, this city was labeled as “underdeveloped.”

“I’m not interested in GDP,” Sun Yanlin said. “Is it really that important? I hope that one day, when we discover there are so many indicators more important than GDP, we can still regret it, and there will still be a way back.”

“Such as?”

“This river.” Her hand gestured beyond the bow of the boat, pointing to the bend in the Inner Canal. The stone-lined walls on both sides were neat and orderly. The landscaping trees along the banks also adhered to a uniform style in terms of thickness, height, and the size of their canopies, as if they all sprouted from the same seed, grew from the same sapling, and matured from the same tree. In the afternoon sun, people were jogging and strolling along the pedestrian walkways on the banks. “Can GDP let you see an ever-flowing river every day? Of course, if you have enough money, you can dig up the Grand Canyon of Colorado, but can you dig up the history of a river? Can you unearth its influence and shaping of Chinese people and culture over thousands of years?”

“Can your Grand Canyon of Colorado produce a devoted son of the canal like Miss Sun?”

“Come on! Let’s be serious.”

“So, what I’m saying isn’t serious?”

Sun Yanlin realized she had fallen into my trap and ignored me, lifting her cup to drink tea, and taking a long time to take a sip.

The pleasure boat returned to the dock. As we disembarked from the stone pier and walked through the flower-lined streets, I asked the shop owners on both sides if there was an old man named Xie Yangzhi living nearby. They shook their heads. Sun Yanlin added that he was skilled in singing opera, both Huaihai opera and Peking opera. Still, they shook their heads. It seemed that my cousin’s family had moved away many years ago.

With some time left until four o’clock, Sun Yanlin took me through the streets and alleys. I wanted to see Lang Jingshan’s former residence.

The alleys were narrow and winding. From Hongqiao Lane to Wufu Lane, then into Cai Lane, passing by Zhang Xian Tower and Hua Gate Tower—just the names alone were bursting with vitality. In the past, the old residential areas mainly accommodated horse riders, sedan carriers, and pedestrians, so there was no need for excessively wide lanes. Nowadays, with crowded living spaces, clothes hung out to dry by each household fluttered in the wind with a riot of colors.

Dutian Temple Street was probably a Feng Shui treasure trove back then, with the Wen Hui An, Pi Lu An, Guang Yin An, and Dutian Temple all nearby, constantly bustling with incense and the uninterrupted chanting of Buddhist scriptures. The old residence of the Lang family was built by Lang Jingtang’s father, Lang Jintang, a devout Buddhist. It’s understandable why such a person would choose to build his home here. To be able to build a house in this area, one must certainly be exceptional.

Lang Jintang had served as the Left Camp General and the General of Two Towns under the Governor of the Grand Canal, Chen Kuilong. Later, he became the supervisor of the late Qing Dynasty’s canal projects, stationed in Qingjiangpu, making him a prominent figure. His son, Lang Jingshan, must have drawn inspiration from this environment for his profound and serene photography. If Sun Yanlin’s ancestor, Procession Master Sun, could settle in Dutian Temple Street, the martial arts academy back then must have been quite impressive, or else he wouldn’t have been able to afford to buy property here.

Unfortunately, Lang Jingshan’s former residence was not open that afternoon, with its newly built vermilion gates tightly shut. After knocking for a while without a response, we entered the nearby Dutian Temple and offered incense to the Dutian God. I suggested visiting the Sun family mansion, but Sun Yanlin rolled her eyes at me: “Not happening.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t embarrass you in front of your parents.”

“I’m worried about embarrassing my parents in front of you.”

“Sun Teacher, you should be mindful of setting a good example.”

“Seriously, you have no idea. Whenever my parents see me with a guy, as long as he doesn’t look over sixty, they light up like Christmas trees.”

“Worried about their daughter’s future?”

“Pushing me to get married! ‘Men should marry when they’re older, women should marry when they’re older,’ they say every day. I’d rather stay in my studio, where it’s peaceful.”

“Well, that works out perfectly. I’ll just play the part. Let the old folks rest easy.”

“You? You’d better find somewhere else to cool off.”

“Hurting my pride here. ‘Men should marry when they’re older, women should marry when they’re older.’ Look, I’m single, and you’re unmarried. This drama could work.”

“Don’t. It’s you who’s divorced, not me.”

“How did you know I’m divorced?”

“You said you’re single. And the photo in your wallet, that’s your son, right?”

There was indeed a photo of my son in my wallet. She must have seen it when I was paying the bill.

“How did you know it’s my son?”

“Whose child could have inherited those distinctive ears of yours?”

Alright, you win. After bantering back and forth for a while, we didn’t end up visiting Sun Yanlin’s home. It was time for me to visit the Zhou Xinfang Memorial instead. We parted ways at the bridge, she headed back to her studio.

Xie Yangzhi reclined halfway in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, holding a Yuxi brand cigarette with disdain as he lazily opened half an eye. Nearby, someone was singing “The Drunken Concubine,” and the audience’s attention was focused on the singers and musicians, with only my uncle’s chair turned away from them. He was waiting for me. But as I approached, the half-opened eye closed again.

I bent down as if bowing. “Hello, Uncle.”

My uncle opened his eyes briefly and then shut them again.

“I’ve come to see you, Uncle.”

My uncle coughed once, his voice sharp and clear. After singing opera for most of his life, he hadn’t developed a throat condition surprisingly.

“Last night I had a long conversation with my father, and he asked me to convey his regards. In the Xie family, you’re the only elder brother my father has. Please forgive any offense.”

My uncle suddenly uncrossed his legs and stood up abruptly, more agile than me. He turned and walked away. I didn’t understand what he meant, feeling somewhat dismissed. Watching him leave the courtyard, I remained rooted to the spot. In an instant, I made a decision: it was time to stop. Tomorrow, I’d buy half a cart of joss paper and burn it by the river, finding several spots closer to the ancestors of the Xie family. Surely, my loud voice would reach them. Suddenly, half a body appeared at the courtyard gate, my uncle motioning angrily for me to come. Was he asking me to leave? This was getting interesting. I trotted over eagerly. “In the Rules for Students,” it says: “When parents call, one should not delay; When parents give orders, one should not be lazy.”

“What does your father want to say?” My uncle sat on the railing of the stone bridge, speaking with his back to me.

“My father said that when it came to my university recommendation, my grandfather didn’t do anything underhanded. He wasn’t capable of it.”

“Stop! After over forty years, your father sent you back to say that?”

Uncle’s lips gradually turned purple and then black. Despite his strong legs, age wasn’t forgiving, and his heart, that engine, had aged. I sat down next to him and handed him a cigarette, lighting it for him. I needed to ease the tension; his health was the priority.

“Uncle, I have no right or desire to intervene in the grievances of the previous generation, but I do have some personal feelings I’d like to share with you. My grandfather’s passion for Beijing is indeed puzzling to me—I can’t understand it. But I’m certain my grandfather was a good person, so soft-hearted that he would shed tears watching a Zhou Xinfang play. I heard you sing Huaihai opera, and apart from Zhou Xinfang, the person you watched most on TV was Huaihai opera. In the years before his death, my grandfather often wanted to return to the canal, but in the end, he refrained because he felt that returning would only provoke you further. He wanted time to solve the problem. But you see, as great as time may be, sometimes it’s just passive.”

“Easy for you to say! Do you know how important such opportunities are for a person in that environment? Why do I sing opera? In a small place like this, only opera can liberate you from a mediocre life and let you live another kind of life. You think I don’t want to go to Beijing? Do you think the people here don’t want to go to Beijing? Not because they want to live there, but because living by the river, they’ve always known that this river flows to Beijing—it’s the endpoint. Everyone wants to see what it’s like at the end, where the water flowing through Qingjiangpu ends up, what it ultimately becomes.”

“It’s still water.”

“Water is not the same as water. Who said that? You can’t step into the same river twice.” Uncle finished speaking, and suddenly his pupils dilated, surprising himself with his own words; even the hand holding the cigarette trembled.

“Heraclitus,” I replied. I could sense that Uncle was truly distressed. And in that moment, I realized that over the years, his reasons for not letting go of this matter had changed. While the opportunity for college recommendation was indeed precious and the anger at being impersonated was intense, time would eventually smooth over those external rough edges. What time couldn’t erase was the curiosity and longing in one’s heart. Not only was it impossible to eliminate, but time also acted as an accomplice, like a pearl formed from an irritant in an oyster, growing larger and more irremovable over time. Perhaps over many years, Uncle himself hadn’t realized that things had quietly changed.

I remember my father telling me that Uncle Yeong was a skilled swimmer; in their youth, they used to race in the canal, starting from the Grand Canal’s locks. Uncle Yeong always reached Shuimen Bridge first.

“Uncle, I sincerely invite you to come to Beijing. If you’re willing to meet my parents, that’s great; if not, let’s just take a good look at the canal section in Tongzhou. It’s right near my home. I can accompany you from one end to the other.”

My Uncle stared at me, his eyes beginning to gleam as if water droplets were gathering to produce light. He sucked on the cigarette loudly, the sound nasal, and his lips began to tremble. “I’ll… consider it,” he said, standing up and walking unsteadily southward. The courtyard echoed with the rough and vigorous singing of “Xiao He Chases Han Xin Under the Moon”:

My master raised a rebellion in Mangdang, drew his sword, slew the snake, and established his supremacy. King Huai once sent orders to surrender; we split our forces and marched to Xianyang. First to Xianyang, for the Emperor; later to Xianyang, to uphold the court’s authority. My master’s fortune was broad; along the way, he met Lu Jia, Li Sheng, and Zhang Liang. Throughout the journey, our military might be unchallenged, and I once made a three-chapter agreement. Xiang Yu disregarded King Huai’s agreement and instead demoted my master to King of Han.

I didn’t know if I would see him again after this departure. I shouted from behind, “Uncle, can you tell me where our Xie family’s ancestral tomb is?”

“I’ll call you later,” Uncle didn’t turn back, “Tell me the name of the hotel.”

I loudly stated the hotel’s name and room number. I wasn’t sure if Uncle heard me; he had already walked far away.

“Sorry, I have nowhere else to go.”

I knocked on the anti-theft door of the factory building. After three knocks, the door opened as if she had been waiting behind it.

“Come in,” she said, “The tea is ready.”

“Thank you. Makes me feel like I’m quite popular.”

“Vain! It’s just adding another cup.”

茶具 was in her room. She entered first, and I stopped at the doorway, taking a deep breath of the warm fragrance of a girl’s boudoir, along with the scent of Jin Jun Mei tea. The room wasn’t large, but it wasn’t small either; it was just right for one person. There was a double bed; a bookshelf against the wall reaching up to the ceiling; a wooden wardrobe with two doors; a desk with a computer, pencil holder, and two stacks of books on top; a natural-colored rattan chair; and a glass-fronted chest of drawers containing various odds and ends like cameras.

Besides that was the tea set on the root-carved tea table in front of the bookshelf, with a cup emitting fragrance on the tea tray, and another empty cup. I instinctively glanced at the bed a few more times, noticing the simple and elegant three-piece bedding, neatly arranged and cozy.

“Come in.”

“Do we need to move the tea set to the living room?”

“Sure, go ahead and move it,” her face suddenly reddened, and her tone cooled down.

I realized I had gone too far with my joke. I quickly stepped forward to the tea table and sat down to pour tea for myself. The cups had already been washed. “Finally permitted to come in, I’m not leaving no matter what.”

“I told you, you’re so annoying with your smooth talk!” She seemed genuinely upset.

I hurriedly tried to make amends, launching into a melodramatic story about how I had gone to see Uncle, feeling rejected once again. She softened up after hearing my tale and started preparing the tea. I remarked that I could almost understand why Uncle hadn’t been able to let go all these years.

“You’re so dense,” she said, rolling her eyes at me, “You should’ve realized it earlier. Your brain has been clogged by the vulgar utilitarian theory.”

I shrugged; there was no helping it. Professor Sun had always refused to tailor her teachings to suit me.

“But I can’t blame you either,” she said, her tea-pouring technique graceful, indicating she must have delved into this art. “You don’t live by the riverbank. Only those of us who wake up every day to the sight of the river yearn to find its source and end. For your uncle, the canal isn’t just a thoroughfare; it’s a path stretching hundreds of miles in both directions. It’s also a compass, pointing towards the world’s directions.

It leads the vanguard of your understanding of the world, representing you and venturing into a broader world on your behalf. It even signifies your lifetime. Where the ripples you encountered as a child will flow when you’re twenty, thirty, forty, and even when your uncle, almost seventy now, wonders where they’ve reached. Walking by the river every day, you’d itch to know. Your uncle mourns the lost chance to reach the end of the canal. He knows he’ll never have that opportunity again.”

Her delivery was passionate, her eyes aflame with a purity I’d never seen in business negotiations or at any drinking table. It was a stirring light, illuminating her entire being like a lantern. It seemed to emit from her head as if conjured from thin air.

“What are you looking at?” She lifted her teacup and waved it in front of my eyes.

“Has anyone ever told you how captivating your lectures are?”

“Here we go again,” she covered her face, her neck flushing. “Can’t you be serious for once?”

“I solemnly swear in the name of ‘Tales of the Great River’ that I’m utterly serious.”

“Three sentences and you’re already back to ‘Tales of the Great River.'”

“We’re doing the same thing. I just want to tell stories like yours, even those of my uncle’s, on the show.”

“Can we not talk about your ‘Tales of the Great River’?”

“Okay, fair enough. Let’s switch gears. Now, let’s talk about your ‘Tales of the Great River.’ There’s still that remaining ‘two-fifths’ left.”

The Sun family and photography were intertwined. Fate is a funny thing; it comes whether you beckon it or not. This connection began with their ancestor, Sun Guocheng. Sun Yanlin had only heard stories. It was said that after Sun Guocheng escorted that important figure, he received a keepsake—a camera. Sun Guocheng escorted the person via waterways north in 1901, and in that year, they used a portable box camera. She hadn’t seen this type of camera herself, but her parents, grandparents, and even her great-grandfather, Sun Lixin, had. Sun Lixin had a significant impact due to the antique camera in the family collection. Growing up near the Lang family, he became familiar with cameras, naturally gravitating towards them. However, Sun Lixin couldn’t quite figure out the exact model of that antique.

The inscription on the camera box had long been worn away, making it illegible. However, based on the descriptions from the elders, Sun Yanlin consulted relevant materials and determined it was likely the Brownie No. 1. In 1900, Frank A. Brownell designed a compact box camera for Kodak, known as the Brownie No. 1. This camera used 117 films, with a protective paper that allowed for loading and unloading during the day, capable of capturing six images sized 57mm × 57mm each time, making it quite user-friendly.

When Sun Lixin’s generation saw the Brownie No. 1, it was just an empty shell. Over half a century, nobody knew who had dismantled the camera’s internals. But having the exterior was enough, even having a legend about the camera was sufficient to establish a secretive connection with it. Anyway, the first time Sun Lixin saw a “Moscow-5” camera at a friend’s place, he started fiddling with it and surprisingly got the hang of it. His friend nervously held a big basket underneath, afraid it might drop. The friend’s concern was that Sun Lixin might damage the camera, but he instinctively understood this fiddling as a risk of dropping it.

It was this particular Soviet-era camera that enlightened Sun Lixin. The “Moscow series” began production with the “Type 1” in 1946, and by the time the “Moscow-5” was introduced in 1960, it had become a professional camera. Among the replicas of the Zeiss folding chamber cameras, the “Moscow” was perhaps the most successful. By the time of the “Moscow-5,” it had become a professional tool, using 120 films to capture 6×9 large format images, suitable for landscapes and group portraits. Sun Lixin wasn’t particularly interested in landscapes or group photos; instead, he aimed it at individuals, producing a series of excellent character portraits.

It was these character portraits that got him into trouble.

In the 1970s, Sun Yanlin’s great-grandfather was still a worker at the knitting factory. Previously, the former residence of Lang Jingshan had been seized and turned into a factory building, now repurposed as dormitories for the workers. It was right at their doorstep, and Sun Lixin often stayed there too because of a group of art-loving friends. In their twenties and thirties, about a dozen young people shut themselves away from the chaotic world outside, paying no heed to political struggles or public demonstrations. Instead, they indulged in their hobbies inside—drawing, playing musical instruments, photography, singing, practicing dance—creating their sanctuary.

Beyond the knitting factory, young art enthusiasts from other sectors gradually joined in, forming an underground art circle. Within this circle, Sun Lixin gained renown for his portrait photography. At that time, he used a “Shanghai 58-2” camera. Produced in Shanghai, it was a replica of the high-end German Leica camera, producing such excellent results that it garnered attention from the entire global camera manufacturing industry. There was no doubt about its prowess in artistic nude photography. So, people sought him out for dating photos, wedding photos, family gatherings, and of course, artistic portraits. And then trouble struck.

One friend, who painted oil secretly, was clandestinely painting nude figures, to be precise, naked women. This young painter had no girlfriend, and even if he did, she might not consent to being undressed for his scrutiny. In those days, that was a post-wedding affair. He could only draw from books or his reflection in the mirror, but soon grew weary of the limited resources for imitation. Someone introduced him to another friend who also painted secretly, a female artist. The two resource-deprived artists of opposite genders decided to paint each other.

Not face-to-face, but by looking at photographs. This required taking nude photos of each other, under the guise of art, artistically. They planned various “artistic” poses in advance and then invited Sun Lixin. Only he could capture the effects they desired. Sun Lixin hesitated for a while; he wasn’t afraid to photograph men’s bodies, but photographing women made him uneasy. Nevertheless, he wanted to photograph. For a photography artist, this was called “creating.” He needed to create. To ensure they wouldn’t cause trouble for each other, they agreed to wear masks imprinted with a five-pointed star during the shoot. Without a doubt, this was socialist art.

The female artist was fine; it was just a man posing naked for a painting. But when a male artist painted a female nude, things got complicated in everyone’s imagination: How could a woman casually agree to be undressed and painted? It seemed clear that her clothes were forcibly removed, which bordered on violence. Then, with such voluptuousness and allure, posing in such seductive positions, accentuating every curve and contour, it was pornography disguised as art, at the very least, including (but not limited to) pornography. In short, painting a naked woman was downright thuggish behavior; and putting a mask with a five-pointed star on a naked woman, what did that mean? Was it an expression of political dissatisfaction or some kind of metaphor?

The male artist was caught. And following the thread, Sun Lixin was also exposed. His crime was even greater; while the male artist simply painted from a photograph, Sun Lixin personally photographed a living, breathing woman naked, making him even more of a rogue. Both were sentenced to five years in prison for the crime of thuggery. The “Shanghai 58-2” camera was seized as evidence. Those who knew the truth understood that they had become criminals because of art, but those who didn’t simply saw them as criminals.

This charge ruined Sun Lixin’s life. When he came out after serving his full term, he looked like an old man, his hair all white. He did odd jobs sporadically, stopped taking photos, never married, and couldn’t find a wife even if he wanted to. Murderers found spouses, but not thugs; old ladies would even avoid him when they saw him. Sun Lixin lived out his days alone, in a small hut, writing and painting. Many years later, when Sun Yanlin finished high school, he finally began to recover. He started tutoring Sun Yanlin in painting. It was only then that his family realized he had been studying Lang Jingshan’s work and had written two books related to Lang Jingshan. In fact, for many years, very few people had truly cared about what he was doing.

Sun Yanlin’s first camera was bought for her by her great-grandfather using the royalties from two books. Remaining single to this day, she was also influenced by her great-grandfather. Since being understood by others was so difficult, she found solitary living rather appealing. Cooking was hassle-free, and she could eat her fill without worrying about anyone else going hungry.

She cooked in the kitchen while I stood by the door, ready to assist at a moment’s notice because she didn’t know how much extra food to prepare for an additional person. As she talked, the evening crept in. Seeing that I was a good student, she decided to cook tonight herself. She prepared dishes in the style of Huaiyang cuisine, three dishes and a soup. It wasn’t about how delicious they were but about the thoughtfulness behind them. You could roam the world, but your stomach had its roots, and when you found the right place, it would let you know promptly.

Even more thoughtful than the meal was the person. I told her frankly that women were most beautiful in the kitchen. She thought this viewpoint bordered on gender discrimination and was very patriarchal. I told her she overestimated men; when praising a woman in the kitchen, men don’t think with their heads, only with their hearts; reason doesn’t come into play. I didn’t delve into the details of what I meant by “beautiful” because it involved sensuality, and saying it aloud would be asking for trouble.

There was the sensuality of the homely atmosphere and the sensuality of the body: she wore loose home clothes, tied an apron around her waist, creating a generous curve; when she bent over, her buttocks were partly concealed by the home pants, and as I stood behind her, her apron hugged her upper body, accentuating her bosom; looking at the fabric, I thought the home clothes must feel nice. She turned her face, a strand of hair falling into her eyes, her fluffy hair a bit messy. There was a sharp pain in a certain part of my body.

“What’s with the foolishness?” she asked. “Do you want chili?”

“It’s you,” I said, “yes.”

“Go!” She glared at me. “Set the table.”

I moved the dining table to the center of the studio, surrounded by various paintings of different sizes. If you took an overhead shot from the ceiling beams, you’d probably capture the effect of an island: the small table, along with the two of us, seemed like an island besieged by art. She said when eating alone, the table was always tucked into a corner of the studio; otherwise, it felt too open. Perhaps she wanted to say “lonely.” I told her, it was just her alone before, now it’s the two of us, and even if it’s more spacious, it’s still manageable. She looked straight at me as she held the bowl.

I put down my chopsticks, reached out, and touched her face. Her eyes slowly reddened, tears gathering and growing larger, and then she buried her head and started eating, the chopsticks clinking against the bowl.

“Eat,” she said.

She didn’t pay me any more attention before putting down her bowl and chopsticks.

Sun Yanlin’s interest in photography was purely coincidental. It had nothing to do with the camera passed down from her ancestor, Sun Guocheng; by the time she was sensible, the empty shell of a camera had long disappeared. It wasn’t related to playing with photography with her great-grandfather either. After Sun Lixin came out of prison, “camera” and “photography” had become sensitive words in the Sun family for five years, successfully filtered out from their daily lives.

In her first year of junior high, she went to play at a classmate’s house. The classmate proudly showed off a Canon camera brought from Japan by their relative. It was the EOS 700, an automatic autofocus 35mm single-lens reflex camera aimed at amateur photographers. As an updated version of the EOS 850, this model had focus prediction functionality and various exposure modes. She just wanted to touch it. But the classmate blocked her reaching hand, allowing her only to look, saying they couldn’t afford to compensate if it got damaged.

She was a good student, with grades so high that teachers and classmates rarely refused her requests. She felt embarrassed and blurted out, “Who cares! My neighbor is Lang Jingshan, the photography master.” Lang Jingshan went to Taiwan in 1949, and for many years, he was relatively unknown in mainland China. In this small town, most people had never heard of him. Even the neighbors on Tianbu Temple Street would have a hard time immediately linking him to the dilapidated courtyard next door when you mentioned a photography master. The little classmates laughed at her, saying there was no photography master in their town. Sun Yanlin persisted stubbornly: Of course there is, and he’s our neighbor, but she couldn’t provide any convincing evidence. She said it was getting late, she needed to go home for dinner, and she’d enlighten them tomorrow.

Back home, her parents were also vague. Luckily, her mother had boiled dumplings ready, and she asked her father to take a bowl to her great-grandfather. As her father left, he whispered to Sun Yanlin, “Take it over and ask the old man.” In Sun Lixin’s small hut, Sun Yanlin saw a stack of manuscripts. Six years later, this stack of manuscripts was published by a remote publishing house under the title “Silent Night, Empty Spring Mountains: Lang Jingshan and His Artistic World.” The text wasn’t a problem; occasionally her great-grandfather explained some things, and Sun Yanlin managed to read through it.

However, the image data was troublesome. Sun Lixin frequently visited various libraries; for Lang Jingshan’s photographic works, Sun Yanlin could only copy them with a pencil, often spending a day on a single photo, but even with such meticulous effort, the results were often unsatisfactory. Moreover, some of the image data was barely drawable, so Sun Lixin had to rely on textual explanations, leaving Sun Yanlin’s head spinning.

The rewards came swiftly. After reading through dozens of pages of manuscripts and copying several images, not only did she impress her classmates, but she was also regarded as an expert by them. The vanity of being called an “expert” compelled her to immerse herself in reading all of her great-grandfather’s manuscripts. After finishing a book, she felt she had developed a secret relationship with photography. She told her great-grandfather:

“I want to learn photography too.”

“That thing harms people,” Sun Lixin said. He had always been thin in his later years, even in the height of summer, he’d button his shirt to the top. After taking three puffs of his cigarette, he added, “It’s too expensive. If you like it, start with painting.”

“Is it that simple?” I asked her as we sat down for tea after dinner.

“Why complicate things?” she replied.

“For a lifelong pursuit, there should be some grandeur.”

“That’s for opera. In ordinary life, decisions about where to eat for a lifetime might be made in a moment, why would you need a divine revelation?”

“From freshman year until now,” I quickly calculated, “twenty years. Haven’t wavered?”

She shook her head. Did that count as wavering or not?

“We’ve shared many meals, what decisions have you made?”

“What decision do you want me to make?” she asked, pouring tea with her head down.

Her slender white neck extended to a small patch of bareback under the clothes. I had the urge to reach out and touch it, so I grabbed my right hand with my left. “It’s up to you.” The light wasn’t at its brightest, and a fuzzy orange hue peeked through the pale white. The timeless silence and tranquility.

“Wow, you’ve even learned to be subtle?” She laughed and poured me some tea again.

“Even thick-skinned people have their dignity, can’t you let me pretend?” At forty years old, I finally realized that you can’t discuss serious matters with a carefree attitude. Even if you don’t want to be serious, your facial features and muscles won’t cooperate.

“Don’t rush me. Once I’ve made a decision, I’ll give you a call.”

“Can’t I at least get a morning greeting every day?”

“Nope.” She said with her head down. Then she lifted her head and stared at me, suddenly emitting a glow that was only seen when she was on the podium. “You know, who was it that my ancestor Sun Guocheng escorted back then? I checked the information, and that camera seems to be from Kodak in 1900. Who dismantled it into an empty shell? And where did that empty shell camera end up?”

I spread my hands, waiting until I could time travel to say anything. I was also full of question marks. My great ancestor, Sun Guocheng, sounded somewhat legendary, but he didn’t even leave behind an empty shell camera. Time erodes everything. It’s only been a few decades. So, cherish the present. This cup of sixteen-year-old ripe Pu’er tea is twice the age difference between us. Let’s cherish this cup of tea. Here, cheers. If everything goes as planned, after burning a few pieces of paper by the river tomorrow, I’ll be heading back to Beijing. Here, cheers.

We lifted our teacups to the level of our eyebrows. Tears welled up in her eyes, adding weight to her gaze.

She escorted me to the security gate. Through the iron bars of the security gate, I asked again, “Can’t even say goodbye?”

“No, you can’t.”

Back at the hotel, the front desk informed me that an elderly gentleman had left a letter. Opening the envelope, I found half a sheet of paper with just five words: “Yongsi Garden Cemetery.”

The next morning, I bought a bunch of joss paper, fruits, and fresh flowers, carrying them in my hands, over my shoulders, and in my arms as I made my way to Yongsi Garden on Huaihai West Road. It was a garden-style cemetery, with pavilions, bridges, flowing water, and lush foliage. Despite the guidance of the staff, I still took many detours. Amidst the standardized graves, I found a row of graves belonging to the Xie family. Lined up in sequence, the leftmost was our ancestor Xie Pingyao, and the rightmost was Xie Yangchun.

Pingyao’s grave might not even qualify as a dignified mound, merely bearing his name. Over the decades of turmoil, the graves had been relocated numerous times, losing bones with each move, perhaps now almost emptied. But what did it matter? What mattered was that the three characters “Xie Pingyao” remained, signifying our roots and heritage. Undoubtedly, the relocation of Pingyao’s ancestors here was the merit of my cousin, Xie Yangzhi. This newfound respect for him prompted me to consider postponing my return to Beijing for a day, perhaps trying my luck at Zhou Xinfang’s former residence in the afternoon.

I placed the fresh flowers and fruits before each ancestor’s grave, evenly distributing the joss paper and igniting it. I repeated the words my grandfather and father would have wanted to say to our ancestors. We couldn’t come to burn paper offerings at your graves every holiday, but our respect and remembrance never waned. I truly wish the Grand Canal had never stopped flowing from Jining to the north, so we could always send our words to you, letting them drift downstream until they reached you.

Speaking as if I were hosting a television program, I rambled on to myself, with my ancestors as my most faithful audience. When I finished, I crouched down in front of Xie Pingyao’s grave, imagining the stout old man my grandfather described sitting in his wicker chair. Ancestors were a distant affair. I lit a cigarette in front of my distant ancestors, and as I stood up, I noticed someone nearby. Beyond the rows of graves, Uncle Xie Yangzhi stood with his hands behind his back.

“Uncle.”

He nodded to me and walked over, accepting the cigarette I offered him. He gestured with two fingers, so I gave him another. Lighting them both, he kept one and placed the other at the grave of my uncle, Xie Yangchun. “Your uncle was quite a smoker,” he remarked. He then pulled out a bottle of Yanghe liquor from his pocket, pouring some in front of each ancestor’s grave starting from Pingyao’s until he emptied it at Yangchun’s. “Good liquor for everyone.” Going to the graves also required experience; I hadn’t thought to bring two bottles of liquor for the ancestors.

The fact that he could tell me where our ancestors were buried and had come here himself indicated that he acknowledged our shared history. One can’t demand forgiveness for something held in their heart for a lifetime. I said, “Thank you, Uncle.”

He waved me off. “Let’s not dwell on that.” His voice was hoarse from a restless night’s sleep. Facing the graves of our ancestors, he spoke, “Ancestors above, Yangzhi and Wang have come to see you. Just like our ancestors from Pingyao journeyed along the Grand Canal to Beijing, today Wang and I have followed the canal back to Qingjiangpu. This is perhaps the most complete gathering of our Xie family in several generations. Yangzhi may not have many grand words to offer, so I’ll sing a verse of ‘Change,’ a song I wrote myself, as a toast to our ancestors.”

He started singing, startling me. It sounded exactly like Zhou Xinfang singing Huaihai opera. From Pingyao’s northward journey to my southward one, Uncle succinctly summarized the history of the Xie family in Qingjiangpu. Across generations, whether for career, passion, or livelihood, the Xie family’s experiences had never strayed far from the Grand Canal. I understood why Uncle hadn’t slept well last night; he stayed up until midnight, weaving me into his lyrics.

Apart from the staff, we were the only ones in Yongsi Garden. Uncle let his voice resonate freely, solemn, and expansive, echoing with a sense of vastness and eternity. Throughout the entire song, one could almost hear the surging waves and the roar of the tides. When he finished, Uncle pulled me down to kneel between the graves of our ancestors, performing the ritual of reverence.

As we walked away from the gravesite, Uncle brought up something he remembered from his childhood – several volumes of journals passed down through the family, all written in a foreign language, possibly in Pingyao’s handwriting. Before the Cultural Revolution, they had been donated to a local library by Pingyao’s wishes. When Uncle was conceptualizing “Changhe,” he went to that library to look for them, only to be told that they couldn’t find the documents.

The library had endured as many hardships over half a century as any individual, repeatedly opening and closing, being submerged by floods, ravaged by fires, pilfered by thieves, and relocated four times. The staff there responded to Uncle’s complaints, asking how they could be expected to treat donated items with such indifference. They replied, “If only we had been born a few decades earlier. I would have done everything in my power to protect the items your family donated, not only preserving those precious manuscripts but also safeguarding some of the rare editions. Unfortunately, I can’t turn back time. It’s truly regrettable.” The sarcastic tone of the staff member left Uncle fuming with indignation.

I sincerely invited Uncle to visit Beijing at his convenience, both as a guest and to have him participate in recording a segment of “Da He Tan” in the broadcasting studio. He didn’t give a definitive response, just a noncommittal “Mm-hmm.” Before parting ways at the crossroads, I withdrew the last ten thousand yuan from my account at the nearest bank. I gave Uncle and Aunt five thousand as a token of appreciation, and another five thousand for Uncle to pass on to Aunt Yangchun. It was a hurried exchange, without any gifts or the opportunity for a proper visit. Five thousand yuan seemed a small gesture of filial piety, but it was what my father wanted. Uncle vehemently refused to accept it, but in the end, he couldn’t argue me out of it and reluctantly pocketed the money.

Back in Beijing, my phone came alive, buzzing from morning until night. Business calls, dinner invitations, loan requests, debt collectors, misdials, and nuisance calls; my ex-wife and son also kept pressing, using my son as leverage, becoming my ex-wife’s daily dose of wake-up call. Of course, I used my phone to handle business, arrange dinner meetings, and even plead with anyone who could provide sponsorship. Damn it, life was tough. Overall, this modern communication tool brought me hardly any good news. The voices I longed to hear never seemed to come through, and the messages I hoped for were slow to arrive. Days turned into weeks, and I felt a faint sense of despair. In middle age, I had gained a sense of moderation in both the depths of my emotions and my despair. I still adhered to my promise of not seeking reassurance.

The first day of the fourth week arrived. The previous night, before going to bed, I drew another diagonal line in the “Wanghe Calendar,” marking the end of the third week. Returning from Huai’an, I began to emulate my mother, marking a new “Wanghe Calendar” at the bedside. Occasionally, I added a few keywords outside the diagonal lines; these served as diary entries for the day. On this particular day, I wrote: “Mortgage.” Unable to secure a loan, I had to mortgage the house first. Several new plans for “Da He Tan” surprisingly fell into place.

Simon Granville from “Rui Productions” had already agreed, and with a little more polish on the script, we could start shooting on location. Uncle Xie Yangzhi was also on board. I persuaded my old man to give him a call. After years of silence, they started reserved, with the conversation strained, but after three difficult minutes, the two old men were sobbing on the phone. Uncle said that if need be, he could swim from Dazhakou to Shuimen Bridge just to make it convenient for filming. I had it all figured out; Uncle’s part would start from his rendition of “Xiao He Chasing Han Xin under the Moon” from the Qi School to his performance of “Changhe” in the Huaihai opera.

Cash flow became an issue.

In the afternoon, Xiao Wang approached me, saying our accounts were running dry, and suggesting we slow down on upcoming projects. I refused, stating that we needed to strike while the iron was hot and that we couldn’t afford to lose momentum. He then proposed that we temporarily halt salaries and bonuses for the next two months. I firmly rejected the idea, emphasizing that our employees relied on their hard-earned wages to support their families, and such unfair measures couldn’t be taken. Despite his persistence, I waved him off, asserting that I had my reasons.

Once Xiao Wang left the office, I found myself doodling little sheep on a blank sheet of paper, realizing I didn’t have as many “reasons” as I claimed. I phoned my former boss, who surprisingly picked up himself, showing a bit of sentimentality. The situation with “Da He Tan” being on the verge of being scrapped wasn’t his doing; it was due to a lack of confidence from higher-ups. I knew it was a standard bureaucratic excuse, shifting blame to the higher-ups for any difficult decision.

Who these “higher-ups” were and whether they even existed didn’t matter; what mattered was that they could take the fall. After hanging up, I made a list of friends who could potentially become creditors. I lit a cigarette and crossed them out one by one, realizing I couldn’t bring myself to ask. In today’s world, borrowing money is even more shameful than borrowing someone’s wife. Only mortgaging the house remained. So be it, I thought, slamming my hand on the table, finally making a grim decision.

On the first day of the fourth week, at 7:45 in the morning, I thought my alarm had gone off, but the ringtone was different—it was a phone call. I groped for my phone with my eyes closed and answered, saying, “Hello.” The voice on the other end said, “It’s me.”

My eyes snapped open, instantly wide awake. It was Sun Yanlin. “Sun, are you providing wake-up calls now?”

“I have a question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“From Huai’an to Beijing, the Grand Canal is blocked. Is it still possible to take a boat all the way north?”

I was a bit confused, wide awake but my brain was still half asleep. What did she mean by that? I stuck to my principle of always looking on the bright side. “Of course. It must be possible.”

“For example?”

“Since it used to be navigable, there’s no reason it will stay blocked forever. When people come together, mountains can be moved. Please trust me, Sun, if we want it, sooner or later it will reconnect.”

“Alright, I’ll give you a pass.” A whooshing wind sound came through her phone. “I’m by the canal.”

“Which canal?”

“The one outside your building.”

I sat up abruptly, leaped out of bed, grabbed a coat, and dashed outside. My mother had just returned from grocery shopping and was preparing breakfast for me. She asked what was going on in such a hurry, but I couldn’t wait. I said we’d talk later, slipped on a pair of slippers and a coat over my pajamas, and rushed out the door.

I ran all the way. On the riverside road, I spotted Sun Yanlin standing by the canal. She wore a baseball cap, with the wind blowing some of her hair onto her face. Beside her was a rolling suitcase. She watched me run towards her like a whirlwind in my pajamas and slippers, and then she slowly smiled.

“You’re here?”

“I’m here.”

“How did you know I lived here?”

“I found your studio online. Isn’t it all in Xishangyuan?”

“Sun, you’re as clever as ever.”

“Again! How many steps from home to the river this time?”

“A thousand and sixty-two steps,” I said, hugging her tightly and leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Two steps in one.”

She pretended to push me away. “I just got off the train and took a taxi straight here. Haven’t even washed my face yet.”

“I don’t mind,” I said, a little sheepishly, already planting another kiss. “I haven’t washed mine either.”

We stood by the river hugging for ten minutes as people strolled past us. Sun Yanlin remarked, “Others are watching.”

Let them watch. When I used to guest host on TV, plenty of people recognized me on the streets. But now that I’ve quit and put on a few pounds, no one would notice me indoors even if I wore sunglasses. Here by the river, nobody knew Sun Yanlin. I held her even tighter, wrapping her half inside my coat.

Ten minutes later, I suggested we head back home; breakfast should be ready. She wanted to rest at my studio first. From deciding to book a ticket to Beijing, these past few days had been like riding a roller coaster at full speed. It felt like thirty-two years hadn’t gone by this quickly. She was feeling a bit dizzy, and understandably so; understanding time itself also takes time. Right now, the kids were still not at work. I dragged my suitcase along, accompanying her at a leisurely pace.

“From the river to the studio, how many steps this time?”

“Five thousand and seventy-two steps.”

“Because of the slippers?”

“Because of you.”