TYSUF – Chapter 45 Love Is Not Betrayal (5)

Laughter drifted up from downstairs.

Someone shouted toward the upper floor, heckling playfully, “Tongwen? When are you coming down? We’re all starving!”

“Just give us a straight answer. We’re all reasonable people here. If it’s going to be an hour, have Qingxiang cook something up first. If it’s two hours, we’ll head to Changsan’s place and talk tomorrow.”

Fu Tongwen was known for being gentle and considerate with women, but had any of them ever seen him walk off in the middle of serious business like this? Going upstairs, leaving a house full of grown men downstairs in the dead of night? These were men who were used to making mischief, their usual shamelessness laid bare at the table, all grinning and pushing him to come out.

“You better go quickly,” Shen Xi urged him.

He didn’t want to humor them. “Now that they’ve yelled like that, I really don’t feel like going down.”

“If you don’t go down, they’ll tear the house apart,” she said anxiously. “Aren’t they all over thirty? How can they have no sense of boundaries?”

“Are you getting annoyed with your Third Brother?” he asked in a low voice.

He was deliberately twisting her meaning.

Shen Xi stayed silent, brooding.

But he was addicted to teasing her. “Our lot has never been proper men. Are you just realizing that today, Yangyang? Or were you just pretending not to see it before?”

“…I can’t win with you.”

She tried to get up, but he pressed her back down with one hand. “Are you angry?”

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, startling Shen Xi. “They’re coming up…”

“What are you afraid of? The door’s locked.” He chuckled.

Shen Xi had no idea what kind of mischief this gang got up to outside in the past. She sat on edge, listening to the scattered footsteps, worried they might come knocking any moment.

“If you’re hungry, you should have told me. What’s the point of going to Fu Tongwen? Our Third Young Master doesn’t even know how to peel garlic,” came Tan Qingxiang’s voice.

Shen Xi breathed a sigh of relief—Mr. Tan always knew how to handle things.

But then came the next line: “Tongwen, I’ll stall them for as long as I can. One hour, no more. Western time—not a full Chinese shichen—you’d better keep track.”

They weren’t really going to knock; they were just fooling around. Since Tan Qingxiang had offered them an out, they let it go and obediently went back to wait for their midnight snack. They had all been summoned by Fu Tongwen’s phone call at 10 p.m.—normally when they went out drinking, there would be late-night food around this time, so when they said they were hungry, they meant it.

The kitchen and the first floor buzzed with noise, but none of it had anything to do with the two of them anymore.

He turned on the radio atop the low cabinet. It crackled to life, tuning into a nonstop opera broadcast. The lyrics were barely distinguishable in the high-pitched singing, but people are strange—sometimes, the less clear something is, the more it pulls your attention.

Shen Xi was drawn in, straining to catch the melody and make out the lyrics.

“I didn’t turn this on for you to listen to,” he teased her.

Yet after saying that, he himself got absorbed in it.

Shen Xi’s thoughts wandered. “Third Brother?”

“What is it?” he nestled her closer on the sofa.

Their bodies were pressed together—legs against legs, shoulders against shoulders.

“When did you start liking this kind of thing?” She knew so little about his past.

In the deep stillness of night, a sorrow welled up within her—I was born too late, and you’ve already grown old.

He thought back. “I can’t say for sure. When I was young, I hated it.”

“Why did you hate it?”

“Back then, I had to sit properly while listening with elders, or with important guests, and a couple of times even in the palace. We had to sit upright and still—it was naturally unpleasant. Not just for kids—even the adults couldn’t stand it. Most of the court officials were addicted to opium, couldn’t sit still, and couldn’t fidget in front of Cixi either. So they ended up bribing the eunuchs with huge amounts of silver just to sneak a puff and keep themselves alive.”

Shen Xi imagined it, amused. She wondered what he must have looked like as a child sitting upright watching an opera.

Fu Tongwen rested both hands behind his head and sighed. “When we were in the capital, I never got a chance to take you to see the Eight Great Lanes.”

“What’s there to see there?” Brothels?

Shen Xi was pushed into a corner by him, nowhere to lie down. She ended up sprawled on him instead, though she was worried she might crush his frail, delicate body. So she kept shifting around, trying to find a spot to support herself.

“The theater troupes. There’s an old saying in Beijing—a man never minds the road, a tiger never minds the mountain.” Fu Tongwen paused, slipped an arm around her waist, and chuckled softly. “Sprawling on me and still squirming—what are you doing?”

“I’m worried I’ll hurt you…”

“How heavy could a girl like you be?” he asked. “Do you really think your Third Brother’s made of clay?”

“Mm…” she whispered. “Whenever I think of you, all I can remember is you being sick. Might as well be made of clay…”

He tugged at his shirt collar with two fingers. “This year’s been a lot better. I’ve only fallen ill a few times since the beginning of the year.”

“It’s only spring now, and you’re already saying that? I haven’t even had a cold since last year.”

“Then Third Brother’s not as good as you,” he said with feeling. “You’re still young.”

“…You’re not old either,” she protested.

Fu Tongwen laughed.

From the radio came the opera “Fourth Son Visits His Mother”—at the line: “I’m like a goose struck down, scattered from the flock; I’m like a tiger from the mountains, fallen into the plains… Thinking of my mother breaks my heart…”

His emotions aligned perfectly with the lyrics, and he naturally became engrossed in the play.

Just a couple of days ago, Fu Tongwen had visited his father in the hospital. His mother, too, had been in tears, sobbing with falling pearls of sorrow. From her perspective, their great family had scattered, her two sons had turned on each other, and her rightful husband was about to pass away. When she grasped his hand, she couldn’t utter more than tearful repetitions of one phrase: “Tongwen ah…”

Of all the Fu family, only he still held power. He had settled matters for all his half-siblings, but toward his eldest brother, he had shown no mercy—cornering and striking without holding back.

“Tongwen ah… Mother wants to see your brother one last time…”

The old mother’s words pierced his heart like a sharp awl.

Fu Tongwen gradually felt breathless and tugged at his collar.

He noticed Shen Xi watching him.

He asked, “What is it?”

She replied, “You didn’t finish what you were saying earlier.”

“Oh, that line,” he came back to himself. “A man doesn’t abandon his path, a tiger doesn’t leave its mountain. Opera singers don’t stray from Baishun or Hanjia Pond. These days, most famous performers come from the Eight Great Hutongs—like Master Mei and Master Tan.”

There was such a lineage? Shen Xi felt like they were from two completely different worlds, especially when it came to food, drink, and pleasure. But in Shanghai, theaters often invited renowned performers, and her patients frequently mentioned them.

She asked, “I heard Master Tan’s appearance fee is very high—eight thousand for eight days? Is that true?”

“That was two or three years ago,” he chuckled. “It’s even higher now.”

A thousand a day was already outdated?

“Master Tan is a true master. That price is fair,” he explained. “Very few can make it to that level. It’s only natural their fees are sky-high.”

She felt a twinge of emotion. She was a surgeon, yet she didn’t earn nearly as much as a performer.

“I’ve been talking with some backers of the masters, hoping to bring this art to the U.S. and U.K.—let Master Mei and Master Tan perform on international stages.”

She was intrigued. “Opera for foreigners?”

“It’s also a form of diplomacy. We Chinese have too few chances to be heard abroad.”

Too few? It was almost impossible.

When Fu Tongwen was being unserious, she worried she couldn’t argue with him. But when he got serious, she feared he was overburdening himself.

“It’s so late. Let’s talk about something lighter.”

At least for tonight—no talk of nation or future. Today was special.

“Alright, let’s talk about us,” he agreed readily. He didn’t want to talk about those heavy topics with her anyway.

He talked about them with others every day, and it drained him.

She asked, “What’s there to talk about?”

“Us? It’s nothing more than—” he deliberately emphasized, “flowers in bloom and moonlight, the joy of love between a man and a woman.”

Here we go again…

Shen Xi purposely didn’t take the bait.

Resting her head on his arm, she murmured, “I woke up halfway just now, felt very uncomfortable.”

She was drenched in sweat and didn’t even know when she had fallen asleep.

“Where exactly felt uncomfortable?” he feigned ignorance.

She blushed at the question. “… I was sweating.”

“Oh, so it was just sweat.”

He laughed.

His nose slowly traced down from her forehead. Then her chin, lips—gliding downward, his breath warm against her skin, brushing over her face and neck.

Shen Xi’s throat bobbed slightly.

Suddenly, he bit gently at her collarbone. Shen Xi shuddered, feeling like even her bones had turned to jelly…

She heard him laugh.

Fu Tongwen lifted his head. “I won’t tease you anymore. I have to head down.”

Their eyes met, gazes tangled.

He said in a low voice, “Guests are downstairs. If I stay any longer, it’ll be improper.”

Leaving all the rich and idle young men downstairs to eat leftovers while he snuck upstairs to be with his lover—it really wasn’t honorable.

He said he’d go, but didn’t move an inch.

Fu Tongwen had come upstairs with her because he had something to say—an apology.

It wasn’t supposed to be tonight. He had planned to do it at a more fitting time and place, with the right words—a memory that could stay with her forever. Not on such an ordinary day, rushing to fetch her from the hospital, a hasty Western meal, barely a word of romance, then bundled into a car back to the apartment where things happened so quickly.

He had drunk cold tea by the window, trying to douse his inner fire, but the moment he got into bed, all sense was lost.

When he later saw the blood on his leg, he came back to his senses—then saw how much pain she was in. He left in a hurry, wiped her down, held and comforted her, feeling waves of guilt. Thankfully, she was a physician used to grueling shifts in the quarantine ward. She lay tired in his arms and fell asleep after a few words.

As for him? He felt miserable, like he’d been possessed—ruining what could have been a beautiful moment.

So he’d called up all his brothers one by one, thinking that would help him get a grip. But then she woke in the middle of the night and effortlessly reeled his heart back in. It was just like the teasing joke from years ago:

He was the fish that had swallowed the hook, and she was the irresistible bait.

“Actually, your third brother—” he laughed, unable to finish the sentence.

Actually what? That he wasn’t the kind of man to take things lightly? Was he trying to put a noble spin on it?

No wonder all the famous operas were about love and hate. In the past, he used to think they were petty. Now he realized it was because he hadn’t fallen in love. Always hesitant, stumbling over his words.

Shen Xi couldn’t make sense of it. She assumed he was afraid she’d be mad: “Go on down, I’m not upset.”

Fu Tongwen flicked her forehead with a finger. “I’m going.”

Shen Xi lay on the couch, resting her head on her arm, watching him leave, listening to his footsteps go downstairs, fading into the distance.

Soon, someone came running up.

“Miss Shen,” it was Wan An calling, “Third Master asked me to get hot water ready for you. Please wait about ten minutes.”

Shen Xi acknowledged, still lying on the sofa with her head on her arm.

She noticed a bit of white wall dust on the hem of her skirt. Probably brushed it while walking downstairs earlier. She curled a finger and flicked it off bit by bit. The black wool skirt didn’t clean easily, but it passed the time.

She changed position and turned up the radio volume.

The opera melodies twined and wound around her heart.

Shen Xi’s lips curled into a smile. She was actually enjoying this opera about a heartbreaking parting between mother and son, a sorrowful farewell between husband and wife. Her mind drifted back to the bed just hours ago. She reflected on how overreactive she’d been, which made him so flustered.

Her face burned. She sat up, patted her cheeks, and felt thankful she’d been prepared—she’d used one of his clean shirts underneath. Otherwise, when Wan An cleaned up tomorrow, it would’ve been the height of awkwardness.

“Miss Shen, the water’s ready,” Wan An called.

“Okay, I’m coming,” Shen Xi replied and left the room.

Downstairs was still lively. From above, she looked down and caught a glimpse of Fu Tongwen’s profile in the lamplight. He happened to turn and smile at her. Shen Xi pointed toward the bathroom, indicating she was going to bathe, then disappeared.

Downstairs, every man—regardless of wealth—held a bowl of yellow croaker noodle soup, offering tribute to their hungry bellies. Some leaned against walls, some sat on the stairs. One of them saw the way Fu Tongwen and Shen Xi had exchanged glances and sighed repeatedly: “I mean, Tongwen, seriously now. Who here doesn’t have a few mistresses? But you? You’ve really got a woman, huh? So attached—I can’t even watch.”

Someone laughed, “Look at our Third Young Master of the Fu family, gazing up like that—seems the old tree’s blooming again.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Tan Qingxiang, holding the soup pot, topped off the bowls for the now-unrestrained gentlemen. “Keep it down, will you? The neighbors are decent folk. Don’t treat this like a long san tangzi (brothel house), alright?”

The man with glasses glanced at Fu Tongwen and, for once, asked a serious question: “Tongwen, tell us—how did Miss Shen manage to tame you?”

Fu Tongwen took a bowl and chopsticks from Tan Qingxiang.

“Well? Say something already,” urged one of the more impatient ones.

Everyone was waiting, but he remained composed, maintaining his airs.

He used his chopsticks to stir the noodles in the broth before finally smiling and saying:

“When the nation is in chaos, a loyal minister is revealed. In a man’s low moments, true affection shines through. Miss Shen, to me, is that true affection.”