TYSUF – Chapter 15 The Moon Rises with the Tide (5)

Fu Tongwen withdrew his tongue from hers and instead kissed her lips while keeping his hands buried beneath the layers of her skirt.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled, referring to the kiss.

Shen Xi murmured, “I… um, it’s fine.” Was she supposed to share her thoughts on this? Since when was that a rule?

“I think it’s quite nice,” he chuckled.

Shen Xi pressed her face against his shoulder, her heart racing, unsure how to respond.

Fu Tongwen let go of the fabric of her skirt that he had been holding and bent down to pick up his suit. Only then did Shen Xi notice that her left stocking had slipped down to her knee. She was momentarily stunned, her face turning red as she muttered, “Don’t turn around.”

Fu Tongwen grabbed his suit jacket without looking and casually pulled two books from the shelf, planning to take them out as a cover.

Shen Xi hurriedly reached under her skirt and pulled her stocking back up to her thigh. She wanted to say she was ready but couldn’t bring herself to speak. Instead, she grabbed a book, quickly sidestepped the bookshelf, and walked straight to the door.

Hearing her footsteps fade, Fu Tongwen placed the books back on the shelf. After straightening his shirt and tie and estimating that enough time had passed, he took his suit and book in hand and strolled out.

Back on the deck, he unexpectedly found Tan Qingxiang chatting with Shen Xi over afternoon tea, casually discussing Fu Tongwen’s past romantic reputation.

“Cigarettes are a small matter, not even worth mentioning,” Tan Qingxiang said animatedly. “Take Bashun Alley, for example. Back then, he casually gifted someone a poem: ‘How many lutes are played upstairs at night, the fragrance lingers on lovers’ quilts and white silk fans.’ To this day, that girl’s wall still bears his words, though he never went back.”

Shen Xi glanced at Fu Tongwen briefly.

“That was a drunken moment,” Fu Tongwen said, meeting her gaze. “Looking back on it sober, it’s quite improper.”

Though the story was meant to praise him, he showed no sign of appreciation.

Tan Qingxiang, amused, continued teasing, “Oh? If you don’t like that one, let’s talk about this. At a banquet, a lady from the Qingyin Opera Troupe admired Tongwen and wrote him a calligraphy piece—four characters: ‘Grace and charm in high society.'”

Shen Xi could almost picture the scene: a delicate Suzhou-Hangzhou beauty, dipping her brush in ink, her gaze lingering on him. She was demure and reserved, just like her writing, but her eyes and emotions were direct.

“Guess how he responded?” Tan Qingxiang asked her.

Shen Xi shook her head.

With two fingers mimicking a brush, Tan Qingxiang imitated Fu Tongwen’s calligraphy strokes: “He took the brush and wrote directly on the white wall—’Love at first sight.'”

Someone praised his grace and charm, and he replied with “Love at first sight.”

Love at first sight… Shen Xi stole another glance at him… pleasure at first sight.

Fu Tongwen took a cup of hot tea from the butler, lifted the lid, and toyed with it in his palm as if he were about to toss it.

Tan Qingxiang quickly raised his arms in defense, but instead of the lid flying at him, he was sprinkled with droplets of tea. “You always recycle the same stories to entertain people,” Fu Tongwen scolded with a laugh.

“Annoying,” he added with a smirk.

Shen Xi, knowing these were just social tales, kept quiet, yet she couldn’t help but feel a bit sour inside. It was as if Tan Qingxiang had force-fed her two extremely sour plums, making her expression uneasy.

Fu Tongwen’s gaze swept across her face.

She had a delicate, oval-shaped face with soft contours and a round chin. Her eyes were large and childlike, with more black than white, always carrying a sheen of moisture. This reflected in the space between her brows, making her look subtly alluring—though more naive than mature.

Her hair was braided now, but if it were loose, it would make her face look even smaller.

How small was her face? The curve of her lower jaw—he could hold it entirely in one hand.

“You all continue chatting. I’m going upstairs to meet a friend,” Fu Tongwen said, setting down his teacup and walking away.

Tan Qingxiang frowned. “What is he up to, coming and going like this?” Leaving was one thing, but coming back just to take half a sip of tea and then leaving again? He eyed the cup—was there something special about this tea?

“Who knows?” Shen Xi replied evasively.

“You mentioned going to the public deck earlier? Next time, let us accompany you. It’ll be safer,” Dr. Tan suggested.

“Mm, alright. I’ll remember that,” she mumbled while fiddling with her braid.

Tan Qingxiang’s girlfriend, who didn’t understand their conversation, watched him chatter animatedly with Shen Xi—sometimes teasing, sometimes gentle. Shen Xi’s eyes flickered as if filled with unspoken words. The sight made the girlfriend uncomfortable.

Just as Shen Xi was about to ask about Tan Qingxiang’s translation work, his girlfriend suddenly snuggled up to him, slipping both hands into his waistband and trailing them down along his pant legs. Tan Qingxiang inhaled sharply at the cold touch, “What, did you get drunk off tea?” He quickly grabbed her hands, warming them in his palms before kissing her lips.

Shen Xi could only bury herself in a book, hurriedly flipping through the pages.

Amitabha, see no evil.

Meanwhile, new passengers were boarding the ship, bringing fresh news with them.

He was in the first-class lounge, chatting with others about the war between Britain, France, and Germany, and how the United States was still maintaining neutrality. During the break, afternoon tea was served, and as he sipped it, he overheard two Japanese men discussing Shandong. His gaze swept over them, and upon realizing that Fu Tongwen understood Japanese, they mistook him for a fellow countryman and smiled, nodding in greeting.

“The people of Shanghai are boycotting Japanese goods,” one of them said. “I’m thinking about my business over there.”

“We have sent troops and fought in Shandong against the Germans, so naturally, German interests there should belong to us,” the other scoffed. “It’s pointless. Across the sea is Europe and America, but this side of the sea will all belong to us.”

Fu Tongwen listened but acted as if he hadn’t heard, continuing his quiet conversation with a Dupont Company shareholder beside him. That man understood some Japanese and roughly grasped that they were talking about Japan’s forceful occupation of Shandong. Switching to French, he told Fu Tongwen, “In the world of capital, one must not be restricted by nationality. Everything should be treated as business.”

Fu Tongwen smiled faintly. “We’ve leased out too much land.”

Shanghai, Tianjin, Hankou, Guangzhou, Qingdao, Dalian, Chongqing, Hangzhou, Suzhou, Xiamen, Zhenjiang, Jiujiang, Gulangyu… Hong Kong, Macau…

These war-profiteering capitalists would never understand the hearts of the Chinese people.

Concessions, or leases, were like a dull knife gouging at one’s heart—it wouldn’t kill outright. A sharp blade severing limbs wouldn’t kill instantly either.

Even if the nation was broken, the land remained, and so did the people.

But if the land itself was lost, where would the people go? Land—was something that must never be given up.

Cigars, wine, crystal glasses, capitalists, and noblewomen brimming with desire.

This was the other side of his life on the cruise ship.

Fu Tongwen was well-versed in sweet talk, fluent in English, French, and Russian. He had once told Tan Qingxiang that in the world of indulgence, where paper-thin luxury and drunken revelry reigned, one had to have something to offer—be it power, wealth, or charm—if one wanted people to approach.

From afternoon tea to dinner, he remained among these people. By around eight o’clock, feeling unwell, he excused himself and returned to the first-class cabin.

Tan Qingxiang’s girlfriend was taking a bath in their room, and the thick scent of perfume in the air only made him more uncomfortable. So, the two men headed to the public deck and sat in the open-air area.

For once, there were no rain clouds, and quite a few people were wandering about on deck.

Their spot, however, was a private section reserved for first-class passengers. At this hour, the men above deck were likely engaged in cigar-laden discussions and wouldn’t be here. Thus, it was just the two of them.

Over the past few days, Tan Qingxiang had also heard the news that Japan had used the pretext of war with Germany to invade and seize Shandong. “I just don’t understand,” he said. “Why aren’t we declaring war? If we declare war on Germany, then we can rightfully reclaim Shandong.”

“We did propose joining the war, but the international community rejected it,” Fu Tongwen said as he reached into Tan Qingxiang’s trouser pocket for a cigarette, pulling one out and striking a match from his own box. With a faint hiss, the match ignited. “We Chinese want to fight a war on our own land, yet we still have to seek the world’s permission.”

He rarely lit his own cigarettes and lacked experience, unaware that he should shield the flickering flame with his hand.

A gust of sea breeze passed, and the small flame was extinguished.

What remained was a charred matchstick, mocking him in his palm. “This isn’t a solution,” he said, breaking it in two and tossing it into the sea. “Qingxiang, it’s been over ten years. Tell me, when will it end?”

When will the homeland finally be at peace?

At this, Tan Qingxiang fell silent, no longer indulging in idle complaints.

“You should try to relax on this ship,” Tan Qingxiang said. “These past few days have been rare good ones.”

Fu Tongwen touched his chest, left shoulder, and left arm—none of it felt quite right. He shook his head, too weary to explain.

Seeing Tan Qingxiang about to nag, he lost interest in conversation. “Go find your girlfriend. I’m tired.” He, too, had someone to see.

At half past eight, Fu Tongwen returned to his room.

The surroundings were dark, save for the light from the bathroom. A faint silhouette flickered against the glass.

Shen Xi was washing her hair. When Fu Tongwen pushed open the bathroom door, she was so startled that she instinctively covered herself with her foam-covered hands. “Get out…” Her long hair was piled into a soapy mess, dripping wet. To avoid soaking her clothes, she had thrown a bathrobe over her dress, her stockings removed, leaving her bare-legged and barefoot.

She was, in short, a mess.

She never locked the door unless she was bathing, afraid that if he truly needed something, he wouldn’t be able to get in.

After living together these days, he had never entered when the bathroom light was on and the door was shut. She hadn’t expected it, nor had she anticipated it. Under the lather of foam, her flustered face turned bright red. She stammered, using her shoulder to push him out before pressing the door shut.

A bit of foam clung to the sleeve of Fu Tongwen’s shirt. Standing at the door, he rolled it between his fingers and smiled.

With a door between them, he pulled a chair over, sat outside, and stared at the door.

A hazy silhouette of a girl appeared before his eyes.

Inside, Shen Xi turned on the brass faucet, letting water fill the bathtub. She left it running for about ten minutes.

For those ten minutes, he listened to the splashing water, half-closing his eyes, watching her shadow shift on the glass—sometimes near, sometimes far.

“Say something.” She was probably worried.

“Waiting for you,” he answered lightly.

“You don’t look well,” her voice drifted out again.

“It’s nothing.” He wasn’t dying—yet.

Shen Xi wet a towel, slowly wiping the foam from her long hair. “I think you really are unwell. Should I call Dr. Tan?”

After a moment’s pause, he finally said, “Wait until you’re done.”

Saying that—was he admitting it?

Shen Xi, anxious now, quickly submerged her hair into the bathtub, making sure it was thoroughly rinsed before wrapping it in a towel to absorb the moisture. She didn’t want to go out looking a mess, so she hurriedly rubbed her hair dry. When she spread the towel open, she noticed more strands of fallen hair than usual, but she didn’t have time to care. She glanced at the mirror instead.

Her half-damp hair was braided and tied with a ribbon on top of her head—it should be hard to tell that it hadn’t fully dried.

She assumed he would be by the window, that ever-gentlemanly man, giving her space to tidy up. But when she opened the door, Fu Tongwen was still by the desk, a stack of papers at his side, a fountain pen resting diagonally atop them. He sat in his chair, directly facing the door, looking at her.

“You wash your hair—why shouldn’t I look?” he asked.

“It’s not that you can’t,” Shen Xi muttered like a little girl. “It’s just… not a good look.”

Under the bright lights, he was smiling.

“I’ll call Dr. Tan over. He should take a look at you—you’re his patient, after all.”

“I just came from his place,” he replied. “No need.”

No wonder he was back so late. Shen Xi walked over to the desk and sat down. Still uneasy, she glanced at him for permission before lightly grasping his wrist.

After spending a month together, she hadn’t learned much, but she had asked Tan Qingxiang about feeling a pulse. Of course, expecting her to diagnose internal ailments like a seasoned Chinese physician was impossible. But at the very least, she could count a heartbeat…

It was fast. But then again, so was hers.

Seeing that he had no intention of being persuaded, Shen Xi thought, fine. Tonight, she would stay more alert while he slept and keep an eye on him. She released his wrist and finally noticed the words written on the paper in front of him.

That casual poem Tan Qingxiang had joked about—one he claimed Fu Tongwen had gifted to a courtesan in a brothel.

The sour plums had returned.

Shen Xi rested her chin on her hand, looking at the words. “Are you sentimental? Thinking about someone from the past?”

He shook his head. “I can’t even remember where I wrote this—how could I be thinking of an old acquaintance?”

Sour plums, forcibly stuffed into one’s mouth, squeezed until their juices bled out, mixed with water and rock sugar to become a refreshing summer drink.

Shen Xi pressed her lips together, smiling.

Fu Tongwen lifted a page, about to crumple it, but she snatched it away. Without a word, she smoothed the paper flat against the desk and ran her palm over it, pressing out the creases. “I’ll keep this—it’ll make a nice bookmark.”

He watched her, twirling his fountain pen between his fingers, then uncapping it. “That was just scrap paper for testing the nib.” With a firm stroke, the pen glided across a fresh page, leaving behind elegant script. He tore the page out and slowly pushed it in front of her.

It read: “A single glance, and joy is born.”

Shen Xi tucked her damp hair behind her ear, folding the first piece of paper into thirds, fiddling with it before finally whispering, “Didn’t you write this for someone else?”

“They were all nobodies,” he said quietly. “Back then, there was no one before my eyes.”

If he hadn’t explained, she could have easily given herself an excuse, a reason to dismiss it. But now that he had said it—things felt different. Shen Xi pursed her lips, taking the new page from him and folding it again. He continued to write.

Again: “A single glance, and joy is born.”

“Why so many?” Her face grew even hotter.

He didn’t answer. First, because his chest, arm, and shoulder were all aching dully, and he wanted something to do to distract himself, lest she notice and disrupt this rare atmosphere. Second, because he simply wanted to watch her fold paper a little longer. So, he wrote more—just to keep her hands occupied.

Under his gaze, even such a simple act as folding paper made Shen Xi feel lightheaded, her heart beating unevenly.

But this time, what he handed her was already folded.

Shen Xi looked at him questioningly, then unfolded the paper under his watchful eyes.

This time, it read: “A single glance, and joy is born—until the end of time, until heaven and earth fade away.”