Zong Hang had thought that besides meeting Jing Xiu, this day would pass as uneventfully and ordinarily as any other.
Unexpectedly, after 10 PM, a surprise arrived: the door was being pounded loudly, and as soon as he opened it, Apa rushed in waving his phone.
Shouting: “Young Master, I found her!”
After days of hard work, finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, Apa was triumphant and babbled on endlessly.
“Her hairstyle is a bit like little Matilda, and that ‘go die’ on her ankle – I managed to see it too, it’s her, no doubt about it.”
“No wonder we couldn’t find her all these days – turns out she doesn’t live in Siem Reap. I heard she lives in the Tonle Sap area and only comes to the city for a few days every month or two.”
“The tuk-tuk bar is indeed hers, but she doesn’t manage it – she leases it out to others and collects monthly rent. People say she not only leases out tuk-tuks but also a small tour boat.”
Zong Hang lowered his head, sliding through the photos Apa had taken one by one.
So this is what she looks like.
Quite young, probably around his age, wearing a loose white T-shirt with letters on it. The neckline was too big, with one side sliding down her shoulder, revealing the black camisole underneath. The camisole’s straps were asymmetrical – one thin, the other wide – contrasting sharply in black and white against the outer shirt, her skin, and the old market’s lights.
Her hairstyle wasn’t exactly Matilda either – she had no bangs, just a casual messy part, but because her facial features were so well-proportioned – her brow bone, nose bridge, and jawline naturally harmonious – the messiness didn’t look bad at all, instead creating a comfortable kind of dishevelment.
People are drawn to certain faces – just like with equally beautiful female celebrities, you might inexplicably like one, be indifferent to another, and dislike a third.
This girl somehow perfectly matched his aesthetic preferences, to the extent that what little anger he had left diluted even further.
Zong Hang finished browsing through once, then slowly went back through them again, saying: “She’s quite pretty.”
Apa said: “Yeah, really attracts the foreigners.”
True enough, you could see in the photos: the tuk-tuk bar’s location today was very lively, unlike the quiet from that day. The bar held four or five young, energetic Western faces, sleeves rolled up to their shoulders, laughing heartily, having a great time.
More importantly, she was smiling too – her lips curved up, her eyes somewhat alluring yet pure, creating an approachable combination. She was completely a sweet girl.
How could someone like this have used such a stepmother-like tone to say “Ten Dollars” that day?
She must have been in a bad mood then.
Zong Hang asked: “What’s her name?”
Apa was proud – he’d found that out too: “I heard those foreigners call her Isa, I-sa…”
When he pronounced it, he dragged out both syllables, making it sound like a doorbell.
Ding… dong…
Zong Hang kept his head down, saying: “That’s quite a nice name.”
What’s nice about it? It’s just a common Western girl’s name, Apa thought it was no different from Mary, Lucy, or Lisa.
He continued showing off his achievements: “I told Brother Long as soon as I got back. He’s already gone to the old market area. Young Master, you’ll be able to get your revenge soon…”
Zong Hang suddenly interrupted: “This guy, why does he keep staring at her?”
What guy? Apa leaned in confused.
Then he saw it – there were several long-distance shots where you could see a tall man standing between the fried insect and fresh juice stalls, not far from the tuk-tuk bar. He wore a black short-sleeved T-shirt with sunglasses tucked into the collar. At first glance, he looked like a tourist, but comparing several photos, you could tell he was watching Isa.
Apa didn’t think it was strange. Besides, he’d worked so hard to get photos of this woman for Zong Hang to see, so why focus on some irrelevant passerby?: “It’s normal for men to look at women – if she’s pretty, they look.”
Is that so? Zong Hang furrowed his brow, looking at the photos sideways.
Based on his intuition from watching so many crime shows, this man seemed suspicious.
Zong Hang and Apa watched TV while waiting for Long Song to return.
The hotel had its channel called Recommended Films. Cambodia’s own artistic productions weren’t particularly abundant, so they mostly showed foreign films, but they all had some connection to Cambodia. With Apa’s explanation, Zong Hang learned that “In the Mood for Love,” the most clicked film, had its ending filmed at Angkor Wat – the same Angkor Wat he’d barely toured for half an hour before leaving.
And “Tomb Raider,” the highest-rated film, featured Angelina Jolie frequently in that mysterious ruin where giant snake-like tree roots intertwined through massive stones reaching skyward – it was filmed at Ta Prohm Temple.
Yes, the Ta Prohm that Jing Xiu had mentioned.
Speaking of Jing Xiu, Zong Hang noticed that her Hukou client didn’t seem to have returned yet, as she kept wandering on the balcony, coughing, playing music out loud, and at one point even calling him out to chat.
Zong Hang turned up the TV volume, pretending not to hear.
How to put it… he and she were from different walks of life, so… better to have less contact.
Finally, after 11:30, Long Song returned.
No need to ask – his defeated expression spoke volumes.
It turned out her name was Yi Sa – the foreigners probably called her Isa for easier pronunciation. The tones in Chinese pinyin were truly magical – the first tone sounded thoroughly Western, while the fourth tone was purely Chinese.
Long Song said it wasn’t difficult to start a conversation with Yi Sa at first. Even after he revealed his intentions, she didn’t show obvious displeasure, just dismissively saying she was busy and didn’t remember.
When Long Song persisted, she was direct: “I don’t want to bother.”
Businesspeople value harmonious relations and avoid trouble. Long Song was a businessman too, so he understood.
That’s why he brought out the “can pay you” card.
This touched Yi Sa’s raw nerve. She took a sip from her glass – shaped like a transparent hand grenade.
Then she asked him: “Do I look that desperate for money?”
Her gaze was contemptuous, her tone was contemptuous, and even her messy hairstyle exuded a disheveled contempt.
Long Song, being in the hotel business and dealing with countless people daily, knew that when a conversation reached this kind of tone and look, it was best not to push further.
Be gentle, retreat – only by retreating might there be a chance to advance again.
So he returned defeated, planning to try again tomorrow, though internally he didn’t harbor much ill feeling toward this Yi Sa. Perhaps due to his work experience, having seen many troublesome characters, he felt she wasn’t difficult to communicate with – even if unwilling to help, it was understandable.
Apa, however, was full of complaints. They were businesspeople, not all-powerful government officials – how hard had it been just to find this person, and now she wouldn’t cooperate? What to do next? Would the Young Master’s beating go unavenged? This woman was truly selfish, cold, dark, hypocritical, psychologically twisted, and antisocial.
Zong Hang tried to mediate: “Let it go, I can understand. Those two Cambodians started hitting people right away, they must be local toughs. She’s just running a small business, she wouldn’t dare offend people like that. Better to avoid trouble, it’s normal.”
Apa got excited: “What’s normal about it? When she sold you out then, she even took ten dollars – is that normal too?”
Zong Hang said: “Actually… it wasn’t selling me out. She never agreed to help me – I just barged into the bar without anyone’s permission. Besides, having a Chinese face doesn’t automatically make someone good. What if I was a bad person? That Cambodian was injured then, chasing after me with a bloody arm – even you wouldn’t have been able to tell…”
Apa nearly coughed up blood at his words: “Young Master, who got beaten up – me or you? Whose side are you on?”
Zong Hang said: “I just think, as people, we should be more broad-minded. Where we can let things go, we shouldn’t fuss so much.”
Unexpectedly, this won Long Song’s high praise: “Zong Hang has a good personality, open-minded. Let me tell you, those people who nitpick everything, holding grudges for years over small things – they don’t live long. People like Zong Hang will have long lives.”
Being suddenly praised made Zong Hang feel quite pleased. Then he thought about how “Buddhist-style” was trending in mainland China now – Buddhist-style fans, Buddhist-style consumers – he supposed he’d be a Buddhist-style victim.
But Apa didn’t see it that way. After leaving the room, while accompanying Long Song down the stairs, he said: “Our Young Master seems a bit simple-minded.”
Long Song glared at him, while simultaneously stepping aside to let a guest who was coming up the stairs pass.
The hotel stairs were wide enough – there was no need to make way at all, but service industry personnel, after working long enough, developed the awareness to step aside when meeting guests, stand to the side in elevators to help press floor buttons, and so on.
This was a male guest, young and tall, wearing a black short-sleeved T-shirt, straight-leg jeans, and white sneakers.
Long Song felt he looked familiar like he’d just seen him in the old market area.
He turned his head, watching as the man walked to a guest room door and went in.
What a coincidence – he lived next door to Zong Hang.
Jing Xiu heard the door and couldn’t help but smile.
She felt like she was falling in love.
She often fell in love with her clients, allowing herself to indulge in one-sided joy and sweetness. In her view, she only did business with clients she liked – this was romance, just brief each time. She was willing to board every ship that had carried her, but they weren’t willing, sailing away and leaving her alone on the tidal flats.
She knew many sisters laughed at her behind her back, calling her stupid, confused, delusional, asking if she was drunk – but so what? In this world, who isn’t confused and drunk at times? The clear-headed ones are all monks and Buddhas; it’s the confused ones who enter the mortal realm.
This man who just came in, called Ding Qi, was her current love.
His name character was truly obscure – “qi” – she couldn’t even pronounce it. The passport showed “QI” but without the tone mark. She looked it up during the day and learned it was the fourth tone. The search results said there was an ancient town called Qikou on the Yellow River bank in the Lüliang Mountains of Shanxi, using this same “qi” character.
She developed countless associations with him – his name sharing a character with an ancient town by the Yellow River, his hometown near the Hukou Waterfall on the Yellow River – impossible to separate from that mighty muddy river. Love extends to all things connected – before, she had loved the Mekong River most, because it was close, within reach.
Starting today, she would love the Yellow River instead.
Ding Qi went to shower first. Jing Xiu walked to the half-open door and asked over the sound of running water: “Would you like a massage?”
Ding Qi made an affirmative sound.
Jing Xiu went to prepare, closing the glass door, drawing the white gauze curtains, dimming the lights, changing into her massage therapist uniform, and lighting aromatherapy candles.
These candles contained frankincense essential oil – ever since learning that this oil was particularly favored by various religions, Jing Xiu had made it her standard for massages. She loved the atmosphere, ritual, and mystery of religious places, as well as their scents.
A good massage should be the same, allowing the body to soften, the spirit to relax, glimpsing divine comfort in a semi-intoxicated state.
Ding Qi finished showering and came out toweling his hair, wearing only black boxer briefs, water drops still glistening on his taut muscles.
He lay face down on the bed and said: “You’re quite professional.”
Jing Xiu smiled – of course, she was professional. Her fingers could tell whether a muscle was relaxed, tense, or overworked just by touch.
Following the sequence, she started from the feet – finger pressure, palm pressure, elbow pressure, foot pressure – pushing, pinching, kneading, pressing, manipulating. In the industry, Thai massage was called “passive yoga,” requiring physical contact between two people, borrowing and applying force. With each borrowed force, she could feel up close the resilience of his body and the strength in his sinews and bones.
Zong Hang really should exercise. Tomorrow if she had the chance, she’d tell him: your body is initially a gift to you, but later it becomes your gift to it. Don’t think you can rely on youth forever. When you get older, if you don’t shape and forge it, it will eventually return to you a pile of decaying bones and soft flesh.
As the massage progressed smoothly, Jing Xiu asked softly: “What were you busy with today?”
A massage therapist needs to grasp the right balance, talk with clients at appropriate times, and not be afraid of disturbing them: if they’re tired, a few words will help them sleep; if not tired, it will help them relax.
Ding Qi seemed to laugh – his face was buried in the bed, making the laugh somewhat unclear – then he reached for his phone by the bed and showed her some photos.
Jing Xiu wiped her hands, oily from massage balm, on her clothes at her waist before taking it.
She recognized the old market area at a glance. In the photo was a young woman with a semi-fluffy bob cut, smiling beautifully with pure eyes – probably the sweet type that most men would like.