TYSUF – Chapter 17 Concealing Yearning (2)

The meal arrived—it was lamb chops.

She had just been thinking of giving him some potatoes. She usually couldn’t finish them and often shared her food with him.

Shen Xi held a knife in one hand and a fork in the other, mimicking a stance but forgetting what to do next.

“Madam, would you like some black pepper? Or is there something wrong with the food?” the waiter asked cautiously.

Shen Xi shook her head and, after a moment of silence, replied with a nasal tone, “No, I just thought of my patient. Your food is excellent.”

She ate a little, then paused, then ate again.

She imagined switching places with Fu Tongwen. If last night had been the other way around—if she had acted that way and he had turned away and left—she would have cried. Looking at it from another perspective, she wouldn’t have been so reasonable.

A generous salad was placed beside her. She hadn’t ordered it.

“Sir said you haven’t rested all night—you need this,” the waiter said with a smile, leaving behind a folded letter. His expression all but declared: Who says Chinese people aren’t romantic? Look at how well he’s done.

Memories of last night resurfaced.

Shen Xi pressed the corner of the letter with her elbow and opened it. The words flowed freely across half the page, not confined to the grid lines.

Yangyang,

Let me tell you a story from Aesop’s Fables: Prometheus created mankind and hung two pouches around their necks—one containing the faults of others and the other their own. He placed the pouch with others’ faults in front and the one with their own behind. That’s why people always see others’ flaws so clearly but overlook their own.

I’m sorry for letting you see the pouch behind me. This man, full of shortcomings, was too eager—so eager to hide his flaws that he forgot to consider your feelings.

I hope your patient pulls through. And, of course, there’s also a patient waiting for you in the room.

Tongwen.

So he could write long letters too.

It felt as if he were sitting right beside her, very close.

Suddenly, the waiter pushed open the window, and the sheer curtains were drawn outward by the wind. He smiled at Shen Xi and said it was also something “Sir” had arranged. The glass reflected a faint light, catching her eyes. She looked away and, unexpectedly, found her appetite again.

She finished the salad, wiped her mouth, threw down the napkin, and hurried away.

First, she had to see her patient. Then, she would see him.

In the patient’s room, only two doctors from Renji Hospital were present.

When Shen Xi entered, an Englishman was talking about the Christmas truce football match on the front lines last year. He had been there himself. As he spoke, he pulled out a brass cigarette case with embossed designs. Inside, alongside neatly arranged cigarettes, was a photograph of a princess—a Christmas gift from the royal family to every frontline soldier.

Shen Xi leaned in for a look, and the man immediately offered it to her, leaving her flustered.

Seeing her reluctance, the Englishman pulled out another identical case and explained that he had three of them. Giving her one would be a keepsake. “If you ever visit Renji, use this as my business card,” he said.

Shen Xi smiled. He was quite persistent—he kept bringing up Renji.

And just like that, by the time she returned to the first-class deck, she had gained a battlefield memento from England.

On that deck, only Tan Qingxiang sat alone in the hallway. He held a cigarette between his fingers, taking quick drags, his movements urgent—he was clearly agitated.

As Shen Xi approached, he stopped and met her gaze.

She pointed toward the window at the end of the hallway.

Tan Qingxiang guessed that she wanted to talk in private. So, he propped a chair against the door and followed her to the other side.

Seeing the cigarette case in her hand, he smiled and said, “Let me have a look.”

That was his way of making peace first.

Shen Xi had originally planned to apologize, but his gesture stopped her. Mr. Tan was still an honest man—he wouldn’t allow a girl to lower her head first.

She handed him the brass cigarette case. “A battlefield souvenir from England.”

Opening it, Tan Qingxiang saw the photo of a princess and studied it with a smile. “She’s not particularly beautiful.”

“But she’s a princess.”

“We Chinese don’t put much stock in bloodlines. Are nobles and kings born from special stock?” He chuckled, closing the case and returning it to her. “The English, though, are different. They get teary-eyed whenever they see a prince or princess.”

After a brief pause, Tan Qingxiang got to the point. “His condition—when it doesn’t flare up, it’s fine. But when it does, it must be treated immediately. It’s fatal. Even my professor, who stands at the peak of cardiology, doesn’t have a cure.”

The word fatal was direct and unflinching.

“I’ll examine him every day from now on,” she swore.

“You’ll have your hands full on this ship, which means I get to take it easy for a couple of days,” Dr. Tan feigned a complaint. “Maybe even have a romantic moment or two. Following him around has completely ruined my love life.”

“Why did you agree to be his private doctor?” Shen Xi asked curiously.

A medical doctor educated in both America and Britain could easily pursue research. Even if he was patriotic and returned home, he could have secured a prestigious position at a hospital like the two Renji doctors. Becoming a private physician seemed more like being a servant to wealth.

Tan Qingxiang scoffed. “You think I wanted this?”

“…I think you seem quite willing,” Shen Xi admitted.

He laughed. “I didn’t follow him because he’s a rich young master, but because we share the same ideals and ambitions. Most importantly, he has the means and the Fu family’s resources. He can do far more than an ordinary man. That makes it worth sacrificing my personal aspirations.”

Then, Tan Qingxiang told her about a friend.

“Have you heard about Mr. Song’s assassination in New York?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“His name was Yang Dusheng. He and Mr. Song planned an uprising together. He was a genius—he could make his own bombs. Even Chen Duxiu and Cai Yuanpei learned explosives from him,” Tan Qingxiang said with a laugh. “He was always involved in assassinations. He even plotted to kill Empress Dowager Cixi and the Prince Regent. He once made a bold declaration: ‘Only the roar of bombs can startle their wandering souls from their dreamlike slumber. Only the glint of blades can strip away their deep-rooted greed.’”

For a moment, Shen Xi thought of that night—when Fu Tongwen wiped the sweat from her forehead and whispered two words: A lot.

Fu Tongwen had also killed many people.

“Was he born a killer? No, he was a scholar. But when the nation suffers, personal ambitions must be set aside,” Tan Qingxiang said, placing both hands on her shoulders. “Tongwen told me you want to save lives, which is why he brought you back to China. I once had that wish too. But I can’t anymore. I envy you, Shen Xi—you can still be yourself.”

She was indeed lucky.

Tan Qingxiang had stayed up all night watching over Fu Tongwen. Now, he said no more, leaving him in her care as he took an ashtray and exited.

As for Shen Xi’s situation, Fu Tongwen had made his stance clear that morning. He was still the same headstrong young master—once he decided on something, he allowed no room for debate. If he wouldn’t turn back, then Tan Qingxiang had no choice but to follow him forward.

He could only hope that the Shen family’s case would be buried alongside the fallen Qing dynasty, never to see the light of day again.

Shen Xi entered the room. The wall lamp was on, and he was asleep.

The curtains were pressed against the glass—the window here was open too. She thought about closing it, or maybe pulling a chair closer to sit by his bedside. But she was afraid of making noise…

In the end, she simply lifted her skirt slightly and sat down on the carpet beside the bed.

There were a few books on the carpet, left there by him. He had a habit of keeping books on the floor, as if worried they would block the light on the nightstand.

Shen Xi sat idly, staring at the cabinet in front of her. The wood had such a beautiful color.

“It’s teak,” a voice said above her head.

He was awake, resting his head on his arm, looking at the girl beneath his eyelids. The wall lamp cast light from above.

His face was in shadow. Hers was also in darkness. Light separated them.

It reminded her of a blackout in New York, when Wan Feng had arranged an entire row of candles for atmosphere. A line of tiny flames, flickering gracefully.

“The interior of this ship was modeled after Versailles Palace. Not bad, don’t you think?”

Shen Xi had no interest in discussing furniture. “Did I wake you?” She got up from the carpet and sat beside him on the bed.

Fu Tongwen smiled but didn’t answer.

Shen Xi noticed the fatigue in his eyes, guessing he was too tired to move, so she pulled the quilt up higher to cover him more. Just as the quilt reached his shoulders, he suddenly sat up.

“Third Brother has a few questions for you.”

He suddenly wanted to talk, so she could only nod along. “Alright, ask away.”

“That day, the person who died in the opium den—was he your father’s student?”

“He was the one who destroyed my family. I thought you knew.” Though they had never discussed it directly, how could he not be aware? Or was this just the introduction to something else he really wanted to ask?

Fu Tongwen remained silent for a moment before asking, “If he hadn’t died, what would you have done? Would you have sought revenge?”

Shen Xi hesitated.

If she didn’t seek revenge, what else could she do? In ancient times, at least one could travel to the capital to appeal for justice, but now that the dynasty had changed, where could she even file a complaint? There was no way to overturn the case, and no one would punish him. In such a situation, the only path left was to personally seek justice for her parents and family.

She nodded.

“You’re not afraid of killing anymore?” he asked again.

A shadow flashed before Shen Xi’s eyes—the man she had stabbed in the heart.

Though Tan Qingxiang had delivered the final, fatal blow, she could never forget the feeling of it.

“I don’t know… but if it had really come to that, there wouldn’t have been any other choice,” she said, eager to end the conversation. “Maybe my parents loved me too much. They must have been watching over me from above, taking care of everything for me. In New York, I often thought that it had to be them—making sure my enemy died before me, making sure the Qing Dynasty was gone forever, pushing everything to its rightful end.”

She laughed at her own childish thoughts. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Everything is clean now, completely wiped away. Nothing bad is left.”

Now, she could focus on learning how to save people and never have to think about taking a life again.

Before Fu Tongwen could say anything more, she smiled and said, “No more questions, okay?”

“Alright,” he agreed. “Just a casual conversation, that’s all.”

Except for professional discussions where they had to use English, they never spoke foreign languages with each other. This sudden use of an English phrase reminded her of the nights in her New York apartment when the Chinese students would gather for endless conversations.

She had come back in such a rush—she didn’t regret it, but she did feel a bit of loss. If she’d had a few more years, she would have wanted to complete her doctorate, like Dr. Tan and that Qian Yuan.

The thought brought another worry—without academic credentials, how was she going to find a job?

While Shen Xi was lost in her thoughts, Fu Tongwen seemed rather at ease. He reached out and touched the small silver hairpin in her hair. It looked old, worn out. Too simple. It made it seem as though he had been too strict about her expenses.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he said.

Another gift? Shen Xi chuckled. “You’re just like my second brother—scolding me one moment, then giving me candy the next. I’m not falling for it. Things don’t come that cheap.”

Fu Tongwen paused for a moment, then said, “Really? Then I won’t scold you again.”

She didn’t believe him. Even real siblings fought sometimes.

Fu Tongwen took her hand and got out of bed, leading her toward the bathroom. “Come.”

Shen Xi followed him inside. He turned on the faucet and started filling the bathtub.

Was he planning to take a bath? Shen Xi looked at him uncertainly.

A faint smile played on Fu Tongwen’s lips. He placed a deep red, four-legged wooden stool beside the tub and went to retrieve a bar of soap for washing hair.

Shen Xi’s face instantly turned red. She waved her hands. “No way…”

But Fu Tongwen said nothing. He pressed her down onto the stool and tested the water temperature.

He was a sick man, too weak to lift even a chicken, yet he had no trouble pushing her around. Eventually, she found herself seated on the stool.

That day, it had been behind frosted glass. Now, it was right in front of her.

Fu Tongwen pulled up a chair, draping an arm over the backrest, and looked at her. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

A living, breathing person sitting just two steps away—how was she supposed to pretend he wasn’t there? The towel in her hand was soaking wet, yet she hadn’t moved.

Fu Tongwen leaned forward, leaving his chair and moving behind her.

“Oh well,” he said with a smile. “Let your Third Brother serve you this once.”

Shen Xi hadn’t expected him to come so close. She instinctively scooted forward, giving him more space.

Fu Tongwen wrapped one arm around her while reaching into the water with the other to soak the towel. As he lifted it, his free hand brushed past her neck, gathering her long hair. His fingers glided down from the roots, sweeping past the curve of her ear.

“Bend forward,” he said.

Dazed, Shen Xi leaned down as he pulled her hair into the water.

Fu Tongwen was really washing her hair. He rinsed the towel several times and lathered up the soap.

She had only ever had her hair washed by servants at home. The old maid who used to do it always hummed tunes, never repeating the same song. A wooden basin, buckets of hot water, buckets of cold water—each bowlful poured onto the green stone floor sent up wisps of steam.

On colder days, the servants would even hand her a warm copper hand warmer before starting.

Now, all she could see was the steaming water in front of her, her hair floating in it, her whole body breaking out in a sweat.

“You have more hair than any girl I’ve ever seen,” he remarked.

“You’ve seen a lot of girls?”

“Just seen them, don’t let your thoughts wander.” He chuckled.

“Earlier, Dr. Tan mentioned your friend, Mr. Yang,” she recalled.

“Dusheng?” Fu Tongwen smiled.

“Yes,” she tilted her head and smiled, “He’s truly remarkable.”

Fu Tongwen, ever meticulous, rubbed her long hair, imitating a motion he wasn’t quite familiar with. After fumbling for a moment, he pressed down on her neck. “Alright, let’s start washing.”

He rinsed the foam from her hair, soaking a towel in water before wiping her hair clean.

“Before the Xinhai Revolution, he jumped into the sea in Liverpool,” he suddenly said.

What…?

“At the time, the Huanghuagang Uprising had failed. He couldn’t see a future and felt he had no way to serve the country, so he chose the desperate path,” he explained. “If he’d just held on for a few more months, things would have been different.”

Just a few months later, the Qing Dynasty would fall, and a new path would have opened.

But the dead could not return, and Mr. Yang never lived to see it.

Shen Xi realized she had inadvertently touched a sore spot for Fu Tongwen. She silently blamed herself and said nothing more.

“I think it’s clean now.” Fu Tongwen inspected his work.

Noticing a patch of white foam behind her neck, he wiped it off with his thumb before lowering his head and pressing a kiss there.

Shen Xi’s arm, braced against the edge of the bathtub, slipped. His arm reached around from behind, wrapping around her and pulling her close.

Now, he was truly holding her.

“Come here,” he murmured, lifting her up and settling her onto his lap.

The two of them squeezed into the small bathroom, steam filling the air. Water pooled on the tiled floor, soaking the hem of his trousers. Her half-damp hair draped down her back, reaching her waist.

“The moment you left last night, I thought to myself—this girl has such a hard heart. Truly incredible,” he murmured.

“Sorry,” she said, still feeling guilty.

He smiled and shook his head.

The bathroom door was open, and the outside was silent.

Fu Tongwen reached for the light switch. With a soft click, the lights went out. In the dimness, only a faint glow from the bedroom’s wall lamp illuminated them. His lips landed in her hair. Shen Xi breathed softly.

“Someday, Third Brother will buy a Western-style house and serve you just like this,” he said. “Let’s go to Shandong.”

That place had once been occupied by the Germans, and now it had fallen into Japanese hands. His words carried endless meaning.

A country. A home. A future.