TYSUF – Chapter 20 When Will I Return? (1)

Fu Tongwen watched as Shen Xi disembarked from the cruise ship. He returned to the open-air lounge on the public deck, leaning back as he slowly picked out bits of shredded tobacco from his pants pocket and flicked them into the golden ashtray.

One minute. Two minutes. By the third, he lost patience, stopped picking, and dusted the residue off his hands.

“Reluctant? Worried?” Tan Qingxiang approached.

He was a seasoned man of romance, always upfront with women about keeping things casual. Yet, it was always the women who moved on more effortlessly than he did. He often found himself remembering the scent of one woman’s hair, the lingering warmth of another’s fingers—unable to let go. Because of that, he believed he could read Fu Tongwen’s emotions.

“No,” Fu Tongwen smiled faintly. “She has the ability to fend for herself.”

After a moment, he added, “Finding a woman with a clean body and heart isn’t hard. But for a heart as tainted as mine to purely love someone… that’s difficult.”

Back in Beijing, he would once again be “Third Master Fu.” Never mind Shen Xi—he was already sick of himself.

Tan Qingxiang took off his glasses. “Are you cursing me too? If you’re filthy, then doesn’t that make me just a lackey?”

The two exchanged a glance and burst into laughter.

They disembarked soon after.

At the dock, travelers searched for loved ones, sailors unloaded supplies, and laborers carried cargo. A glance around showed polished leather shoes, cloth slippers, and the bare feet of mud-covered workers—a sea of people weaving through each other.

“I’ll find someone to carry our luggage—” Tan Qingxiang stopped abruptly.

Around them, a group of over ten men had gathered.

The leader of the group bowed slightly and spoke in a hushed tone. “We’ve been waiting here for six days, afraid to miss Third Master.”

Tan Qingxiang felt a chill run through him.

They had deliberately kept a low profile on their journey here. No arrangements had been made for anyone to pick them up.

Fu Tongwen’s smile disappeared. He looked at the man before him and asked, “Who’s so well-informed that they knew I’d return?”

“Someone in Guangzhou sent a telegram to the Master,” the man replied. “The Master didn’t believe it at first, thinking that Third Master, being filial, would have informed the family before returning—even if you didn’t make a grand entrance. But while the Master was skeptical, the Eldest Master took it seriously. He was worried about you. There’s been an ongoing boycott against Japanese goods in Shanghai for months, and revolutionaries have been taking advantage of the chaos. The Eldest Master feared you might get caught up in trouble, so he urgently ordered us to pick you up and escort you back to Beijing.”

“Oh?” Fu Tongwen noticed that the man’s hands remained hidden inside his sleeves. “That’s quite the coincidence—you just happened to be in Shanghai.”

“Indeed,” the man chuckled. “I was in Shanghai on an errand for the Eldest Master.”

Hidden inside his sleeve was a gun.

In truth, for the past two months, men had been stationed at docks across the country, waiting for Fu Tongwen.

Guangzhou had let him slip through. If Shanghai failed to “retrieve” him as well, none of them would escape punishment upon their return.

They had been keeping watch here for six days, fearing the ship would arrive early and Fu Tongwen would slip away again. The man only hoped Fu Tongwen would cooperate and go back without a fuss. Otherwise, if things turned violent—should he shoot? Or shouldn’t he?

The Eldest Master’s private orders were clear: if he resisted, take the opportunity to put a bullet in him.

But if Fu Tongwen died, none of them would survive either.

Even if the Fu family’s patriarch didn’t demand their lives as compensation, they would still have to die—either to conceal the Eldest Master’s sordid intentions or to prove their loyalty.

In times like these, what were things like loyalty and righteousness compared to the value of one’s own life?

He really, really didn’t want to pull the trigger.

Fu Tongwen started coughing. He reached into his suit and pulled out a white cotton handkerchief, pressing it to his nose and mouth.

His cough was low and muffled. After a moment, as if he had finally caught his breath, he asked, “How long have you been by Eldest Master’s side?”

The man answered respectfully, “A few years now, but I don’t have the seniority to enter the main house.”

“Oh?” Fu Tongwen chuckled. “And how exactly do you plan to escort me back?”

“Third Master jests,” the man replied, looking somewhat apprehensive. He bowed slightly and said, “Eldest Master has already reserved two train carriages for the journey. He instructed us to ensure your safe passage—he wouldn’t want you to suffer along the way.”

Fu Tongwen smirked with disdain. “How considerate.”

A torturous silence followed.

A second stretched as long as an hour, a day, a year…

At last, Fu Tongwen neatly folded his handkerchief and put it away. “Be careful with my luggage. It’s filled with porcelain. If anything breaks, not one of you will be left standing.”

That was his way of agreeing to return.

The man inwardly breathed a sigh of relief and immediately responded, “Rest assured, Third Master.”

Someone rushed out of the wooden gate to call for a car.

Before long, a black sedan passed through the gate and pulled up in front of them.

Fu Tongwen didn’t say another word and got into the car.

Back in New York, his father had already sent multiple telegrams urging him to return. Now that President Yuan was truly set on proclaiming himself emperor, the Fu family would undoubtedly lend their full support. Among the family members, he was the only one overseas with the capability to handle certain matters. His father feared he might jeopardize the Fu family’s future, which was why he had insisted on bringing him back before things escalated. His father wanted to keep him under control, while his older brother, with his eyes on the family fortune, would surely use this as an opportunity to deal with him.

He had no idea what kind of scheme was waiting for him at home.

Leaning back against the seat, his temples throbbed, and his vision swayed with flickering black shadows.

Faintly, he heard Tan Qingxiang get into the car and ask if he was feeling unwell.

He shook his head, unwilling to say another word—too exhausted to speak.

The moment Fu Tongwen had given her the apartment address, Shen Xi had glanced at it once and committed it to memory.

Outside the dock, when she told a rickshaw driver where she was going, she realized it was in the foreign concession.

She had disembarked at four o’clock, and by the time she arrived at the entrance of the alley, the sky had just turned dark.

Carrying her suitcase, Shen Xi walked through the narrow passageway. Two households were eating dinner outside their doors. A bare lightbulb hung from a pole, its glow attracting tiny mosquitoes. Yet the sight wasn’t off-putting—rather, it made the place feel lively and full of warmth.

She stopped in front of a door, checking the house number. This was it.

The doorknob… was covered in dust.

“Miss, is this your house?” A woman washing dishes nearby asked.

“Ah, yes.” She gave a vague reply.

“Never seen anyone live here before.”

How long had this place been unoccupied?

Shen Xi fished out the key.

Please let it open. If it didn’t… she might be mistaken for a thief.

The key slid into the lock, meeting some resistance at first, but soon turned smoothly. It had likely rusted from disuse. She twisted the key and pushed the door open, releasing a burst of musty air.

The older woman, as if expecting this moment, leaned in with a grin. “I told you—it’s been a long time. Did your family leave this place for you?”

“Mm, I just returned to the country. It’s my first time here.” She smiled, trying to play along.

The woman was naturally warm-hearted and immediately offered to heat water and help clean the place. Hearing the commotion, a few other idle neighbors came over to lend a hand.

Shen Xi was caught off guard by their enthusiasm. She stood there, frozen, watching them bustle around for a good while before realizing that she was supposed to be the “host” and should probably help as well.

So, she set her suitcase down in a corner near the door, grabbed a rag, and joined in, taking the opportunity to explore the apartment.

The first floor had a kitchen and a room filled with miscellaneous clutter.

The second floor had a bedroom with a double bed, a sofa, and furniture draped in protective cloths. There was also a small bathroom with a bathtub tucked into a corner.

The top floor had a terrace, which also seemed to be used for storage.

Although the apartment smelled musty, the drawers and wardrobes were completely empty, making the cleaning manageable.

With four or five women working together, they tidied up the place in just an hour.

Shen Xi set down her rag and immediately went to the alley entrance to buy some Western pastries. She returned and distributed them to the neighbors, bowing, thanking them profusely, exchanging pleasantries—handling their curiosity was even more exhausting than cleaning the apartment.

By the time she returned to her room, it was already deep into the night.

There was a bed inside, but without bedding or pillows, making it impossible to sleep on. It was too late to go out and buy anything, but fortunately, there was a sofa she could make do with.

Shen Xi opened her suitcase, pulled out a thick winter coat, and laid it over the sofa.

She turned off the light and lay down on her back.

The musty smell filled her nose.

Though she was in the most prosperous city in China, within the foreign concessions no less, the scent made her feel as if she were lying amidst desolate ruins, surrounded by crumbling walls and overgrown weeds. Tomorrow, she must drag the sofa to the window to air it out.

She thought about this, planned for it, and then, her thoughts drifted far away, landing on a single person.

Tongwen…

Her mind was muddled with exhaustion, and for a moment, she felt as though she were still aboard the ship.

Just this morning, Fu Tongwen had still been by her side.

After breakfast, he had taken her to the first-class passengers’ exclusive lounge. The space was empty, save for three waiters idly standing by the window, whispering to each other as they sipped their coffee.

When they entered, a middle-aged man with blue eyes was playing the piano. From his attire, he didn’t seem to be a musician—more like someone playing for his own enjoyment.

He greeted Fu Tongwen in French, his face lighting up with recognition.

Fu Tongwen leaned in slightly and whispered to Shen Xi, introducing him as a director from the DuPont Company. The name sounded familiar to her, and he quickly explained, “It’s the company the driver mentioned the night we left New York for the docks.”

Ah, that one—the company all the seamstresses were scrambling to work for because it produced ammunition.

After exchanging a few words with the man, Fu Tongwen glanced at her and then gestured toward the piano.

The man smiled knowingly and began playing another tune.

“Dreaming of Home and Mother,” Fu Tongwen murmured in Chinese. “I asked him to play it for me.”

He added, “I told him I’m parting with my girlfriend and wanted her to hear this.”

It was an American song, written during the Civil War.

Shen Xi had never heard it before today.

“A Mr. Li, who lived in Japan, once adapted this song and wrote new Chinese lyrics,” he continued. “I heard some new passengers mentioning it yesterday and memorized it for you.”

The Chinese version was called Farewell.

The melody was simple, easy to remember.

He taught, she learned.

It sang of parting: ‘When will you return, dear friend? Do not linger when you go.’

And of sorrow: ‘A jug of cloudy wine holds our last joy, but tonight, my dreams will be cold.’

Every line seemed to reflect them—her and him.

As she learned the song, he suddenly asked, without warning, “I have two residences in Shanghai. Which one would you like to wait for me in?”

Before she could answer, he changed his mind.

“No… go somewhere smaller. A place only I have ever been.”

Now, lying on the sofa, her thoughts tangled in the memories of that morning, Shen Xi turned onto her side, staring at the moonlight spilling across the floor.

Fu Tongwen had said that only he had ever come to this place.

So, the previous tenant—the one who had moved out—had been him.

This sofa, he had sat on.

This floor, he had walked upon.

And that bed… only he had ever slept in it.

Outside, the sound of cicadas grew louder.

Somewhere beyond the walls, voices were raised in an argument.

A man and a woman.

She wondered idly—was it a young couple quarrelling? Some passing strangers? Or someone else entirely?

Guessing as she listened, she drifted into sleep.

In her dream, she still heard the piano.

And his voice, teaching her: ‘When will you return, dear friend? Do not linger when you go.’

In her dream, hands adjusted the needle of a phonograph.

The melody shifted—from Farewell to Wenzhaoguan. The piano gave way to the sorrowful notes of a huqin.

The phonograph played, echoing his teasing words from Guangzhou, but the flirtation was gone now. The music returned to its original meaning—aching with sorrow, heavy with grief.

It reached the verse: ‘Thinking and thinking, my heart is torn apart—how can I endure till morning?’

Somehow, every line of Wenzhaoguan fit her mood perfectly.

And in her dream, she came to understand—

Those who become addicted to opera do so because the lyrics contain the words they wish to say, yet cannot fully express.

That night marked the beginning of her new life in this place.

The great housecleaning and the foreign pastries had quickly familiarized her with the neighbors. But she feared trouble and worried that the more she spoke, the more mistakes she would make. So she rarely left her apartment and kept conversations to a minimum.

Gradually, in the eyes of the neighbors, her identity became clear—

A wealthy young lady, freshly returned from abroad, who had eloped with her lover and was now in hiding, waiting for the storm to pass.

And so, nine days passed in peaceful quiet.

On the evening of the tenth day, there was a knock on her door. It was Mr. Zhu, who worked at Shen Bao, and his wife from next door.

Both were well-educated people with an elderly servant at home. Like her, they had the habit of keeping to themselves and rarely interacting with neighbors.

“Miss Shen, hello. My husband would like to have a word with you,” Mrs. Zhu seemed a little uneasy. “But since you’re not familiar with each other, he asked me to accompany him.”

Shen Xi nodded in confusion. “Alright, come in.”

She led them to the first floor.

Over the past few days, she had managed to clean up half of the house, making it suitable for receiving guests.

After they sat down, Mr. Zhu smiled and asked, “Miss Shen, you’ve just returned to the country. Have you heard of the ‘National Savings Movement’?”

She barely left her home—where would she have heard of it?

She shook her head politely. “Mr. Zhu, why don’t you tell me about it?”

“This is how it started.”

Mr. Zhu explained that a patriotic activist had initiated a fundraising campaign for national salvation through Shen Bao, donating a tenth of his own wealth. His initiative received an overwhelming response from society. At first, the business community took part, but soon, people from all walks of life began contributing.

He handed her a thick stack of newspapers. “The Bank of China received twenty-five thousand yuan in just five days.”

At a time when a few hundred yuan was enough for someone to study abroad, this was no small amount.

Mr. Zhu continued, recounting how a female silk factory worker had donated all her life savings, how children brought their piggy banks, and even orphanages cut down on their food expenses to contribute.

“In Xuzhou, there was even a retired soldier who, after donating everything he owned, publicly took his own life as a declaration of loyalty, calling on the people to unite and save the country,” Mr. Zhu removed his glasses, his eyes filled with emotion as he looked at Shen Xi.

She took the newspaper from him. The report was right there.

“Miss Shen, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Mrs. Zhu explained hesitantly. “My husband saw that you had just returned from overseas and own an apartment here in Shanghai. You know, we are all tenants, but you’re the only homeowner. So he wanted to tell you about this, hoping it might inspire you and your family to support the cause. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“It’s alright. I’m happy to learn about these things,” Shen Xi noticed Mrs. Zhu’s awkwardness and reassured her. “Overseas, Chinese students talk about these matters every day. I still have some savings. The Bank of China, right? I’ll go in a few days.”

Hearing her say this, Mr. Zhu was delighted. He nodded repeatedly, saying he had expected as much—those who studied abroad were often patriotic.

He continued chatting with Shen Xi for a while before taking his leave when dinnertime approached.

After seeing them off and closing the door, she leaned against it.

Now that the house was quiet again, her thoughts drifted back to Fu Tongwen.

In truth, Mr. Zhu had reminded her of something—her so-called savings were all the money Fu Tongwen had left her. Staying cooped up at home, waiting for him while spending his money… that didn’t feel right.

Even as his girlfriend, she couldn’t just rely on him so recklessly.

She should go out and find something to do, even if just to earn money and donate it. Anything would be better than waiting idly.

It wasn’t the waiting that scared her—it was remembering his words: “If Third Brother dies—”

Shen Xi pressed her forehead against the heavy wooden door, a tight ache rising in her chest.

If he really was dead… what would she…

Outside, she could faintly hear neighbors chatting, washing dishes, scrubbing pots.

The bustle of daily life burned against her heart.

She imagined—if not for the chaos of the times, how wonderful it would be if she and Fu Tongwen could be like that young couple she had just seen. They could love their country, do their part, and still live a peaceful life.

Her nose tingled, and a watery mist blurred her vision. She quickly tilted her head back, hoping the tears would evaporate or retreat… but they only wavered for a moment before spilling over.

Her soul snapped back to the present. She should cry—she had wanted to cry when she left. She had wanted to turn around for one last look.

There were too many things she had wanted to do that day. But it was as if someone had pushed her, hurried her along, tearing them apart too soon.

She had done nothing.

They hadn’t even touched hands.

_{Ohh, what’s going to happen with Tongwen?}