TYSUF – Chapter 35 Flowing Like Water Eastward (2)

Shen Xi felt his palm pressing gently against her cheek, his thumb sweeping left and right under her eyes, wiping away her tears.

“Crying like this during the New Year isn’t auspicious,” he said.

In the quiet of the room, even their breathing seemed loud.

Shen Xi had left in a hurry and hadn’t taken much care of her braid. Fu Tongwen looked at her messy, lopsided braid and began to untie it. Her soft hair cascaded down her shoulders. He tried to rebraid it for her. After two failed attempts, he gave up.

“Still can’t manage it,” he said with a laugh.

Fu Tongwen called Wan’an in. “Did you not hear the sound of firecrackers yesterday?” With Shen Xi present, Wan’an didn’t dare admit that he’d fallen asleep. How could a servant from the Flower Pavilion dare to set off firecrackers? He muttered a reply, “There were some, perhaps Master forgot.”

“Go fetch some,” Fu Tongwen instructed.

Wan’an left.

Shen Xi’s emotions surged as she watched Fu Tongwen reach for a wool suit jacket. He turned his back to her, took the coat from the rack, and gave it a shake in his hands.

“Let’s go,” he said, putting on the coat and stepping outside.

The morning sunlight of winter fell across his face. After not staying here for several days, breathing in the frigid air was invigorating—it cleared the lungs and made the mind alert. Tan Qingxiang had been waiting in the west wing, and when he saw Fu Tongwen emerge, he pulled aside the curtain and stepped out as well. Wan’an handed Fu Tongwen a box of unopened Bai Zi Xiang firecrackers and another large box of San Bai Xiang. The festive red packaging featured the God of Longevity, a plum blossom deer, and a child in a dudou making a bow of respect.

Tan Qingxiang, knowing Fu Tongwen was about to light the firecrackers, pulled out a box of matches from his coat and handed it to him.

“Go help Third Master,” Su Qing instructed one of the servants. “Wan’an’s not used to this.”

The servant stepped forward and bowed. “Third Master?”

“I’ll do it myself,” Fu Tongwen replied.

He had put on his coat just to keep his arms free to move.

He opened the box and chose the San Bai Xiang. The servant attentively swept the snow off the area in front of the house.

Fu Tongwen bent down patiently, laying out the firecrackers.

He took out a match, crouched low, and turned his head slightly as he struck it against his palm. While doing so, he looked at Shen Xi one more time—lingering. It was as if these firecrackers were to send her off, bidding farewell to the past and welcoming the new, a reminder not to look back.

At last, he looked away and lit the fuse. The firecrackers exploded like thunder, shaking snow loose from the eaves and sending it tumbling onto her head and shoulders.

The blasts echoed against the walls as white smoke billowed into the air.

The overnight guests were all startled awake. Some emerged in their robes, supported by the ladies, to see what was happening. Among them were old acquaintances, laughing and teasing Third Master for being in such a festive mood.

Shen Xi stood just inside the threshold of the east wing, covering her ears, watching through the swirling white smoke and falling snow. Beyond the smoke, she saw him. Since crouching to light the firecrackers, Fu Tongwen hadn’t stood up. The hem of the coat draped over his shoulders brushed the steps behind him, gathering snow.

The golden morning light gilded the falling snow under the eaves. He crouched there, as if surrounded by a flurry of golden dust, smiling at her.

This was the last token he left her in Rouge Lane.

Once the firecrackers had burned out and the smoke hadn’t yet dispersed, Fu Tongwen handed her a letter.

It had been prepared in advance. He originally intended for Tan Qingxiang to deliver it before she left for the train station.

He folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her coat. “The money Yangyang sent out has already reached the front lines.”

A wave of warmth washed over her. This was the only good news of the day.

Tan Qingxiang had a car waiting outside. He carried Shen Xi’s suitcase out to the covered gate, standing ready.

“Third Brother…” she began, but the words failed her. She didn’t know how to say goodbye.

“Let me teach you something,” he said, seeing through her hesitation. “Don’t say everything you think. That way, the path in your heart won’t be fully walked.”

Shen Xi nodded.

Tan Qingxiang accompanied her to the door. He wanted to take her to the station himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Fu Tongwen alone at the Flower Pavilion. So he loaded the luggage into the car and instructed Wan’an to personally escort Miss Shen onto the train, and only then return to report back.

When he came back, he found Fu Tongwen already seated on the steps.

In the icy, snowy courtyard, he sat perfectly still, hands clasped beneath his nose, staring at the mess of firecracker paper on the ground, lost in thought.

Tan Qingxiang had only seen Fu Tongwen like this once before—on the night his brother Fu Tongchuan took his own life.

Having known him so long, Tan Qingxiang rarely paused to think about the past. But now he did.

He first met Fu Tongwen at the Hotel des Six Nations on Dongjiaominxiang, the tallest building in Beijing at the time. It was a joint venture by Britain, France, the United States, Germany, Japan, and Russia. Many military and political elites, especially those already out of office, sought refuge there. That day, Fu Tongchuan picked him up at the train station and drove straight to the hotel. Fu Tongchuan had been his classmate, more talented than he, yet had given up further studies to return to China early. Since then, he had written many times, urging Tan Qingxiang to return and help save the country.

In England, he had many chances to meet Fu Tongwen, but he had missed them all.

That night, in the Western dining hall of the Hotel des Six Nations, he and Fu Tongchuan arrived first and waited at the table. Suddenly, someone reached a hand between them and grabbed the menu: “Let me see what we can use today to welcome our new friend.”

Fu Tongchuan laughed. “Third Brother, did you come in through the back door?”

Fu Tongwen closed the menu disinterestedly and tossed it in front of Fu Tongchuan. “The man I just met is extremely cautious. Afraid someone might leak his whereabouts and attempt an assassination, so I took the back door.”

Tan Qingxiang was just about to stand up when Fu Tongwen pressed him down with a hand. “Sit. Take it easy.”

That day, Fu Tongwen was standing at the peak of his life. Fu Tongchuan was still alive. The two brothers, together with him — an outsider — drank and talked joyfully.

The restaurant was full of elite figures, some in Western suits, others in traditional long gowns. Men like Fu Tongwen, who had long since cut their hair short, were often derided as “fake foreign devils.” Their Western appearances and cultured manners were completely out of place in late Qing Beijing. Outsiders assumed they were chasing fame and fortune, vying for power, part of the Western faction. But in truth, they were just a group of idealistic fools. And in Beijing, in all parts of China, and even overseas — there was no shortage of such fools.

That year… already felt like another lifetime.

This was still the same Beijing, the same Shi Hua Pavilion. But now Tongchuan was gone. Shen Xi was gone too.

Indeed — “Year after year, the flowers stay the same; year after year, the people change.”

By the time Shen Xi came back to herself, she was already on her journey south.

On a Yangtze River cruise ship near Nanjing, many cabin passengers were military officers and their families, all rushing from Beijing to Sichuan — people from the Beiyang Army. Their conversations were filled with war news. General Cai E was spoken of like a god of war, who, with barely a tenth of the Beiyang Army’s strength, had managed to hold off the attackers…

When the topic turned to the battlefield, Shen Xi couldn’t help but listen intently. But soon the talk turned somber, with someone speaking of a family member who had died in combat. Many of the women, long burdened by worry, began to cry softly in unison.

Shen Xi rested her head on the window frame. Having not slept the previous night, she shut her eyes and felt the world spinning — eventually drifting into a deep sleep amidst the sound of weeping.

In her dream, the sky was ablaze with war, soaked in the blood of her countrymen.

“Yangyang.”

A sudden thunderclap exploded by her ear. She was wrenched out of her dream and looked around in confusion. Strange place. Strangers.

The weeping women from earlier were now quiet, eyes closed, conserving energy while waiting to disembark. One of them was feeding her child a stuffed bun. No one had called her — other than the ship’s horn on the river, there was nothing else.

She awoke abruptly. Her gaze wandered, her heart as unsteady as the lights flickering on the river. She reached into her coat pocket and touched a letter — folded twice, placed there carefully. Since leaving Beijing, she had wanted to open it several times, but hadn’t managed to…

Shen Xi took out the envelope. Its outer side was clean — not a single word written on it.

What could he have written? The letter wasn’t sealed. She could open it right away.

The first letter inside was in unfamiliar handwriting.

It was a letter from Tan Qingxiang to one of his old classmates, asking them to recommend Shen Xi for a job at a hospital in Shanghai.

The second letter was also in Tan Qingxiang’s handwriting, entirely in English.

It was a letter to one of his former university professors, asking the professor to help her get into a British university.

There was no third letter.

He had planned her future path — yet hadn’t used his own connections, for fear of bringing her trouble. Instead, he had used Tan Qingxiang as a proxy. Back at Renji Hospital, everyone had been surprised to see a woman working there. In that society, women who had jobs were rare as phoenix feathers. Even the daughters of wealthy, foreign-educated families were mostly expected to marry and live in comfort. He knew her path would be difficult. But he also knew her ambitions and thoughts.

She forced herself to breathe calmly, her fingers stiff as she refolded the letters and slipped them back into the envelope. Then she flipped it over — and saw, inside the flap, a line of tiny characters: “Yangyang, your kindness — Tongwen will never forget. May you soar ten thousand miles and achieve great things.”

A wave of hot tears surged up. All her strength, shattered in an instant, dissolved into dust and wind.

He remembered everything — every word she had said in New York. The money he had given her would have lasted her a lifetime. But he had still prepared these letters — because he remembered why she returned to China in the first place.

It was also the first time he had referred to himself by name: Tongwen.

She could no longer hold back the tears she had fought for a full day and night. Covering her mouth with her right hand, she desperately turned her gaze toward the river. On the water’s surface shimmered moonlight, lamplight, and the swaying reflections of river steamers…

Third Brother, Third Brother. Tongwen…

Tongwen.

She booked a room at a grand hotel in Shanghai and bought a ticket for a ship to England.

The whole world was at war. The ship’s departure was uncertain.

Shen Xi waited in the hotel, watching the endless stream of people — especially the women.  There was a young married woman dining alone, newlywed and already separated from her husband who had gone to America for business. There were progressive female students, passionately debating democracy and freedom. There were runaway women dragged back to the countryside, who escaped again and now mingled at the hotel, flirting and surviving through nightly arrangements.

Every morning, she waited for news of the ship’s departure — yet feared that once the news came, there would be no turning back.

One morning in March, a young man in a suit suddenly burst into the breakfast hall holding a thick stack of newspapers: “Yuan Shikai has abdicated!”

The room erupted. Every table scrambled to grab a copy.

Such news came almost daily, like a drowning man crying for help. Cry out long enough, and fewer people will believe you.

But this time — it was in print.

After handing out the last paper, the young man noticed an empty seat beside Shen Xi. He nodded warmly at her and sat down: “He abdicated. He really abdicated.”

In the hotel lobby, someone took the lead in cheering and clapping. The once lifeless guests now had an outlet for their emotions and were swept up in the moment.

1916.

She sat in Shanghai’s Peace Hotel, holding a ticket to England in her hand — preparing for another journey abroad. The departure date was unknown. The road ahead, uncertain. But at least on the plate before her, there was still bread.

To borrow a line from his beloved Macbeth:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and yet another tomorrow… Step by petty step, the trek continues — until the final second of time.