When Zong Hang got up in the morning and finished getting ready to go downstairs for breakfast, just as he was about to open the door, he suddenly noticed a note by the doorway.
Someone must have slipped it under the door.
Picking it up to read, it contained only two characters.
“Gone.”
Below was a string of phone numbers, signed “Jing Xiu.”
Gone?
Zong Hang’s heart skipped a beat, and he instinctively turned his head, though from this angle he could only see the balcony of his room.
She had mentioned earlier that she would be leaving and had given him a book. While he was still contemplating what gift to give in return, her guest had come back, so he thought there was plenty of time and returning the favor wasn’t urgent.
It was unexpectedly sudden.
He stared at the number.
It was a mobile number: Cambodia’s mobile phone penetration rate wasn’t very high yet, and most numbers were only nine digits long, with the first three digits being the carrier code, which was easy to remember.
Moreover, Jing Xiu’s number had a particularly pleasant rhythm when spoken.
Leaving this note probably meant she wanted to stay in touch.
Logically speaking, he shouldn’t maintain this contact, but since he hadn’t returned her gift yet, he didn’t like owing people things – it felt like taking advantage of someone, which made him uncomfortable.
Zong Hang took out his phone, wanting to call and exchange pleasantries. After pressing the first few numbers, he changed his mind.
Better wait a couple of days – calling so eagerly might make her misunderstand and think he had feelings for her.
The internship in the Administrative Department was equally perfunctory. Zong Hang was responsible for compiling statistics on hotel guests’ tourist vehicle usage – the lists were submitted by others, and he just needed to create an Excel summary table.
This kind of work could be handled by a middle school student. Zong Hang felt his talents were being wasted, so he went overboard with the spreadsheet formatting, adding all sorts of styles and colors, turning an ordinary electronic spreadsheet into something as gaudy as a Yangliuqing New Year’s painting – both ugly and eye-catching.
This scene was once again captured in a photo, sent via Long Song’s phone, and appeared almost in real-time in Zong Bishing’s WeChat messages.
The caption read: Zong Hang helping the Administrative Department design electronic spreadsheets to improve staff daily work efficiency.
Zong Bishing was greatly pleased: this son who had been such a headache when in front of him was proving effective when sent abroad, becoming increasingly pleasing to the eye.
So he made a phone call to Zong Hang, and this call was like giving a conference report.
First, he affirmed Zong Hang’s efforts and achievements over the past month or so.
Zong Hang responded submissively – he had basically spent the past month recovering from his injuries, consuming money and food. He still had his pride and didn’t dare to speak much about his achievements.
Second, regarding the internship, he told Zong Hang to stick with it for at least three months. When he returned home, having “overseas exchange experience” on his resume would be something to be proud of.
Zong Hang wasn’t sure about the pride part, but the experience would certainly be unique: after all, while there were plenty of people from China going to Europe and America to gild themselves, those who had been to Cambodia to bronze themselves were probably few.
Finally, he spoke earnestly, laying out Zong Hang’s life plan for the next few decades.
The gist was: When you come back, you’ll rotate through entry-level positions in the company for three years. Once you’re familiar with all departments, you’ll be promoted directly to manager, and get married along the way. Have children early – it’s easier when you’re young. By thirty-five, you should be mature enough, and I can hand over power to you. You don’t need to push yourself too hard. Retire at sixty, buy some land in a scenic area, and grow vegetables and flowers – growing green onions is best, they’re easy to maintain…
After hanging up, Zong Hang was dazed for quite a while. Looking at the busy people around him, he suddenly felt that for him, the concept of “striving” was rather ridiculous.
A clerk came over with a new handwritten list for him to tabulate.
Zong Hang mechanically added a new sheet to the spreadsheet and entered the destination.
Then he stared at that line of text.
The guests on this sheet were all going to the Water Village.
That day, he had seen Yi Sa again at the Water Village. He wondered where she had gone now, and where she would be in the future.
But his future – he knew it precisely and knew that at sixty, his vegetable garden might be full of green onions.
He didn’t like this life, but he might eventually live it anyway.
Because this world was only divided between two types of people: those with strong minds and those with strong drive for action.
He wasn’t either type.
Zong Hang knocked his head on the desk, his hand groping around on the table until he finally found his phone.
Then he dialed Jing Xiu’s number.
Jing Xiu’s mood didn’t seem very good either: “Hello?”
Zong Hang said: “It’s me.”
He listlessly invited Jing Xiu for afternoon tea.
He needed someone to confide in, and he felt there was no pressure talking with Jing Xiu – no matter how dejected or collapsed he was, she wouldn’t mock him.
Jing Xiu said: “What afternoon tea? Let’s drink. I didn’t sleep well last night and need to catch up on sleep during the day. Let’s meet in the evening at the Old Market.”
At noon, logically, he should have eaten at the staff cafeteria, but before mealtime, Long Song called Zong Hang, saying he would take him out to eat.
Bewildered, Zong Hang followed Long Song out of the hotel, across a street, around a corner, and into a Chinese restaurant. Right at the entrance was Master Guan’s shrine, a replica Terra-Cotta Warrior stood at the second-floor stairway, and Pleasant Goat stickers were pasted on the private room doors.
He thought Long Song was worried he might be homesick and wanted him to experience some Chinese atmosphere, but when they opened the private room door, people were already waiting inside.
Two of them, both Cambodians, tall and sturdy and even with awkward smiles on their faces, they could hardly be called friendly-looking.
Something clicked in Zong Hang’s mind, and he suddenly understood.
He looked at Long Song, stammering: “They… they…”
Long Song nodded: “I found their boss, talked several times, and finally got a result.”
The result was laid out before them: there were many gifts on the round table. Though the fruit baskets, cookies, and cakes weren’t high-end, they successfully created an atmosphere full of sincerity. Moreover, there was a conspicuous stack of RMB bound with red money straps, visibly amounting to eight or ten thousand.
Long Song looked, and the two men hurriedly came forward, repeatedly saying “Sorry” and “Duibuqi” to Zong Hang. Both their Chinese and English were poor, and they soon switched to babbling Khmer, their expressions full of remorse and their eyes brimming with sincerity.
Zong Hang felt somewhat overwhelmed.
Long Song said: “We’ve agreed that they’ll host a meal to apologize, apologize to you in person, buy gifts, and compensate eight thousand for medical expenses. Don’t think it’s too little – wages aren’t high here… Are you satisfied?”
Zong Hang was at a loss for words. What could he say? The incident was over, his injuries had mostly healed, and they had come to apologize and compensate, bought so many things, with smiles plastered on their faces, bowing at ninety degrees every time…
He couldn’t just beat them up to vent his anger – he had never been good at fighting since childhood.
Besides, one of them still had white bandages wrapped around his arm.
So, this was probably the only possible outcome.
But feeling somewhat stifled, he couldn’t help but grumble: “You should be more careful in the future, clear things up before taking action. Don’t just start hitting people – if something serious had happened to me, you’d have to go to jail too…”
Long Song kept smiling, presumably translating his words accurately, word by word.
In the evening, Zong Hang and Jing Xiu were drinking outside the Tuk-tuk Bar.
They couldn’t find Yi Sa’s place, so they randomly chose this one. It was smaller, and too crowded to sit inside, so they could only sit on the high stools outside.
Jing Xiu used Zong Hang’s beating incident as drinking material, laughing uproariously as she downed one drink after another.
A Pa came along as usual, but the two were chatting so enthusiastically that they seemed to find his presence an impediment to opening up – being tactful, he wandered within a small radius centered on the Tuk-tuk Bar, maintaining distance while fulfilling his duty.
Drinking typically goes through several stages: initially laughing and shouting, then crying and making a fuss.
Zong Hang and Jing Xiu were no different. When their tongues got thick and speech became slurred, even without actual sorrows, the melancholy entered their wine-filled guts.
Both rambled on, exuding an air of dejection, comforting each other.
Jing Xiu was dejected: “I thought he was different. He left, then came back – I thought we were destined, that heaven was giving us a chance…”
Zong Hang raised his glass, shaking like someone with Parkinson’s: “Kindred spirits are hard to find, hard to find anywhere in the world. Looking in this line of work makes it even harder…”
He mumbled again: “Am I really that useless? My father looks down on me, says I don’t even have the guts to talk back…”
Jing Xiu comforted him: “Then show some courage, argue with him next time, don’t give an inch, never admit defeat.”
Zong Hang thought for a long while, then shook his head dejectedly: “His name is Zong Bishing (Must Win). Since childhood, he’s never let me win – he must achieve victory. If I don’t admit defeat, he’ll just keep getting angry, keep getting angry… His health isn’t good, forget it… just let him win.”
Jing Xiu looked at him sympathetically, about to say something when a hiccup came up, and she forgot everything.
She only saw what seemed like a figure flashing in the darkness not far away.
She stared at that spot puzzled.
Zong Hang waved his hand in front of her face, and Jing Xiu swatted it away: “Zong Hang, I think someone’s watching us.”
“Who?” Zong Hang squinted, not knowing where to look. “Who? Who’s looking at me?”
“Don’t know, they disappeared in a flash.”
Zong Hang poured himself more drink: “Maybe they’re looking at me, I’m good-looking…”
Jing Xiu giggled.
Zong Hang said: “Really, let me tell you, this Old Market has many perverts. Last time there was this man who kept staring at Yi Sa…”
Jing Xiu interrupted him with slurred speech: “I know, there are many perverts now who specifically target men. Zong Hang, you need to be careful…”
She hiccuped again, and after a few seconds of confusion, only remembered they were drinking: “Come on, let’s finish the bottle.”
A Pa struggled to support Zong Hang as they walked toward the tuk-tuk.
The journey had been quite an ordeal.
Zong Hang’s face was as red as pig liver, and he would occasionally startle: suddenly clutching his belt tightly, shouting “Pervert, trying to pull down my pants,” then the next second looking around anxiously, urging him to find Jing Xiu –
“Lady first, we should send the lady home first, otherwise it’s not safe…”
A Pa was no stranger to drunken behavior, but seeing the young master, usually so refined, act like this when drunk was quite shocking.
He said irritably: “If you can’t drink, don’t drink. Miss Jing was taken home by her friend…”
Zong Hang snapped his heels together with a “pat” and raised his hand in salute: “Thank you!”
A Pa was worried – in Zong Hang’s current state, he wouldn’t be able to sit still in the vehicle, and might roll out halfway – he needed to help him throw up or drink something to sober up.
He looked around and saw a fresh juice stand across the street: “Don’t move, I’ll go buy you a watermelon juice.”
Zong Hang watched A Pa jog across the street, suddenly becoming animated: “Less sugar! No ice!”
A white van silently drove up at that moment, blocking his line of sight.
Zong Hang felt annoyed and tried to move aside: “I said less sugar, no…”
With a swoosh, the van’s door suddenly slid open.
Shadows moved in his vision, and before Zong Hang could finish saying “ice,” he was already grabbed by several strong, powerful hands, his body thrown like a cement bag into the van compartment.