Farewell

Inside the private room on the third floor of Wangjiang Pavilion, two sets of bowls and chopsticks were placed upon the table.

When Lin Xingmian arrived, Rong Du was already sitting in the seat by the window.

His windbreaker was draped over the back of the chair, and the water in his teacup was half empty; it could be seen that he had already been there for a while.

It was the identical private room, the identical table, and the identical window seat from a week ago, with the river water outside rippling with fine light in the morning sunshine.

The unique difference was that the dishes on the table were fewer—a steamer of small soup buns, two bowls of porridge, and several small side dishes, simple enough to look like a breakfast stall.

“If we order too much, we won’t finish it,” Rong Du straightened the chopsticks. “You hated waste most when you were little.”

Lin Xingmian sat down opposite him.

A certain fragment within his memory was hooked up by this sentence—at five years old, he had stealthily dumped half a bowl of unfinished rice, only to be discovered by Rong Du, who failed to scold him but merely transferred the remaining portion from his bowl into his own bowl and finished eating it.

This person never lectured him, but merely performed actions for him silently in his own way.

“I remember.” Lin Xingmian picked up a small soup bun with his chopsticks. “You ate half a bowl for me.”

“It was the entire bowl. That bowl you dumped was the second bowl.” The corner of Rong Du’s mouth curved once—among every single person Lin Xingmian had met, Rong Du smiled least.

At this moment, this smile spread open without reservation, from the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his eyes, soaking that habitually stern face like tea steeped in warm water.

Lin Xingmian lowered his head to eat the small soup bun.

Biting open the thin skin, the soup rolled out, scalding the tip of his tongue for an instant.

He swallowed the bun while catching his breath, taking a sip of cold water.

“The case on the New York side is very urgent?”

“Not urgent, a cross-border M&A dispute that has dragged on for three months. The opposing lawyer is my law school classmate, who deliberately dragged it out until now for my return, just so I would owe him a drink.”

“Can you drink?”

“Stronger than Ji Beichen.”

Lin Xingmian choked once.

Neither of the two mentioned the matter of Ji Beichen entering the hospital, but Rong Du evidently knew.

He knew everything, but merely failed to mention it.

Halfway through drinking the porridge, Rong Du set down his spoon.

The spoon rested on the chopstick holder, emitting a light clinking sound.

“Calling you out today isn’t for a farewell.” He crossed his hands and rested them on the edge of the table, his body leaning forward slightly, his posture exactly identical to that day when discussing his background in the study—solemn, yet lacking oppression. “It is to tell you one matter. Regarding your father.”

Lin Xingmian’s hand halted.

The chopsticks held half a small soup bun suspended in midair, the soup dripping down to splash into a small ring of oil ripples inside the saucer.

“I have been checking all along. This week I activated several old relationships within the public security system, re-extracting all records from back then.” Rong Du extracted a brown paper envelope from the inner pocket of his windbreaker, placing it upon the table, his fingers pressing upon the envelope, failing to push it over immediately. “Your mother’s relics possessed no direct information regarding him at all, but possessed a diary.”

“A diary?”

“Written before she was hospitalized to await labor. The majority consists of daily routines—what pieces were practiced today, and which note Zhou Xiaoman sang off-key once more. But the final entry was written three days before your birth.” Rong Du pushed the envelope across the table surface, the paper sliding on the wooden table to emit a rustling sound. “A photograph was sandwiched inside the diary.”

Lin Xingmian opened the envelope.

His fingers paused for an instant when touching the paperwork inside—it wasn’t shaking, but taking a deep breath.

Inside the envelope was only a single photograph, and a piece of paper torn down from the diary notebook, the edges yellowed, the pencil handwriting rubbed somewhat blurry by the years.

Captured in the photograph was a young man sitting before a piano, a profile view, his fingers pressing upon the piano keys.

Because of the distant years, the photograph had already turned yellow, but those hands—long, thin, and with distinct joints—appeared exactly identical to Lin Xingmian’s hands.

The pencil characters were written very short, possessing only several lines:

[Today he came to the piano room once more. Watching for an entire afternoon across the glass, failing to enter. I played three notes wrong. When he left, he placed a box of mung bean cakes at the door, the exact shop I spoke of wanting to eat with Xiaoman last time. He should have heard. —To that person who never knocks on the door.]

“To that person who never knocks on the door.” Lin Xingmian read this sentence silently.

When his mom wrote down this sentence, she carried him inside her belly.

Across the glass, across the wall of the piano room, across the words that failed to be spoken out loud.

That person failed to knock on the door; was he fearing disturbing her, or fearing disturbing himself?

He would never know.

“This person, you found him?”

Rong Du extracted the final piece of paper from the envelope—a photocopied military file.

The paper appeared very new, but the content was in the format of decades ago.

“Meng Huaiyuan. A piano accompanist for the military district cultural troupe. Back then he conducted short-term exchange teaching at the music academy where your mother studied, and came to know Rong Jing. The two stayed together for approximately half a year. After his teaching ended and he returned to the military unit, your mother discovered herself to be pregnant. She failed to tell him.” Rong Du paused for an instant. “It wasn’t that she lacked the desire to tell, but it was too late. The car crash occurred two days before she decided to go search for him. She came out from the music store, holding that piano book, and was struck by an out-of-control truck on the way to the train station.”

Lin Xingmian stared at the photograph upon the file.

The young man sat before the piano wearing a military shirt, the profile lines sharp, yet a type of melancholy inconsistent with a soldier’s temperament existed between his brows and eyes.

He recalled Lu Shiyan had spoken—when Rong Jing was hospitalized awaiting labor, she always sat by the window alone, and when the nurse in the same ward asked her when the child’s father was coming, she spoke that he promised to come fetch her.

That person promised, but failed to arrive.

It wasn’t that he failed to come, but that she failed to wait until then.

“Did he know afterward?” Lin Xingmian asked. His voice was very light, but it held stable.

“The file displays that he remains unmarried to this day, possessing no record of children. After retiring from the military, he returned to his old home to act as a music teacher at a middle school, and is currently retired.” Rong Du watched Lin Xingmian. “He is waiting for you.”

Lin Xingmian froze.

“He knows about you. There is a remark upon the file—he actively applied to consult Rong Jing’s death record, and the signature date on the informed consent form was twenty years ago, possessing his signature. When he found her, she was already no longer around. But he checked and found the fact of your birth, and also knew you were adopted by the Lin family. He failed to come acknowledge you, probably because he felt the Lin family could give you a better life than a retired poor teacher.”

Lin Xingmian turned the photograph over.

Upon the back was a line of pencil characters, the handwriting identical to that in the diary, but more scribbled, as if written in a rush:

[Huaiyuan, I will go to the train station to fetch you tomorrow. —Jing]

This sentence failed to be sent out in time.

She wrote it on the back of the photograph, planning to give the photograph to him, or planning to tell him upon reaching the train station—that she carried his child, and she decided to go search for him.

Then a truck rushed through the intersection.

Lin Xingmian placed the photograph and the diary paper back inside the envelope, his movements very slow.

Then he folded the envelope in half, placing it into the shirt pocket at his chest.

Outside the envelope, the phone inside his pocket ground against it, vibrating once—it was Gu Hanzhou’s daily routine inquiry, possessing only three characters: [Where?]

He replied with a message: [Wangjiang Pavilion, with Rong Du. He is speaking with me about my dad’s matter.]

After finishing sending, he adjusted his phone onto mute, turning it screen-downwards to button onto the table.

“Does he know you have been searching all along these years?” he asked Rong Du.

“He doesn’t know. This person Meng Huaiyuan is very low-profile, almost failing to contact the outside world after retirement. It took me a week to find his residential address.” Rong Du extracted a business card from his windbreaker pocket, pushing it over.

Written in the name column of the business card was “Meng Huaiyuan,” and the title was “West City Middle School Music Teacher (Retired).”

The address was inside an alley in the old city district.

Lin Xingmian looked at that address—it was separated by only two streets from the Quiet and Good Flower Shop.

Nineteen years; he and his father lived inside two districts of a single city, yet no one knew about the other.

“Whether you go, and when you go, you decide yourself,” Rong Du said. “I won’t urge you. But I want to let you know, you don’t possess only a vanished father and a deceased mother. Your father is alive, all along inside this city.”

Lin Xingmian stored the business card into his pocket.

His fingers retracted from the edge of his pocket, his fingertips turning slightly red—it was the mark left behind from pressing hard against the paper surface.

He lowered his head to look at the unfinished half a bowl of porridge before him, a thin skin formed upon the porridge surface.

“You waited for thirteen years before coming to search for me,” he said, “and he waited for nineteen years without coming to search for me either. Are you people who act as elders all exceptionally capable of waiting?”

“It isn’t being capable of waiting.” Rong Du leaned back against the backrest of the chair, his voice lowering by half an inch. “It is fear. Fearing you won’t want to meet, fearing disturbing your current life, and fearing you will hate him. Meng Huaiyuan probably also feels that having missed your mom, he possesses no qualification to appear before your face again. You must know, people who can wait aren’t necessarily brave. Some people merely do not know how to face it.”

Lin Xingmian stayed silent for a long time.

Outside the window, the river water flowed soundlessly, and the traffic flow upon the cross-river bridge turned into moving light points within the daylight.

Rong Du stood up, picking up his windbreaker from the back of the chair to drape over his arm.

“My flight is in the afternoon. I will send you a message upon reaching New York.” He walked to Lin Xingmian’s side, halting.

He placed his hand upon Lin Xingmian’s shoulder once—not a pat, but placing it for a full three seconds before removing it.

Lin Xingmian failed to stand up, but when that hand fell down, he raised his hand to cover the back of Rong Du’s hand.

The movement was extremely brief, possessing only two seconds; Rong Du’s fingers tightened upon his shoulder crest once, as if scalded by something.

“Winter in New York is very cold. If you come, I will prepare a large coat for you.” Rong Du retracted his hand, his tone recovering to daily routine.

“Wait until I accumulate enough ticket money.”

Rong Du took a glance at him, failing to smile, yet his eyes were smiling.

Then turning around he walked toward the door direction, the hem of his windbreaker bringing up a tiny burst of airflow.

“Rong Du.” Lin Xingmian called to stop him.

Rong Du turned his head.

“Thanks for checking these for me. Thanks for waiting for me,” Lin Xingmian said. “But don’t wait in the future anymore. Go live your own life.”

Rong Du watched him for a moment, then nodded his head slightly, pushing the door to leave.

His leather shoes stepped on the hallway wooden floor, the footstep sounds stable as past times.

He failed to speak “Good,” and failed to speak “Not good” either, merely accepting this request, like accepting a verdict with no expiration date specified.

Lin Xingmian sat inside the private room alone, extracting the envelope inside his pocket anew.

Spreading flat the photograph, he watched that man playing the piano in profile.

Father.

This term rotated once inside his throat, failing to be shouted out.

His mom waited for so long, yet failed to wait until it arrived.

Currently it was that person’s turn to wait.

He lacked the desire to let his father wait for too long, yet lacked the desire to rush over currently either.

He required a bit of time—not for the sake of considering whether to forgive or not, but for the sake of thinking clear how the first sentence should be spoken.

[Hello, I am the son of you and Rong Jing, and I still remember that piece you taught in the past.]

Or speaking nothing at all, just sitting down to listen to him play a piece.

The phone screen lit up.

Gu Hanzhou failed to ask him “Are you well,” and failed to ask “What do you plan to do” either, merely sending two characters: [Where?]

Lin Xingmian lowered his head to reply to the message.

Typing the characters then deleting them, deleting them then typing them again, he sent only four characters at last:

[I’ll find you.]

He stood up, placing the envelope back into his pocket.

When walking to the door he turned his head to take a glance once—the two sets of bowls and chopsticks upon the table had already cooled completely long ago, and the sunshine outside was currently shifting from the river surface onto the bridge.

This private room witnessed his and Rong Du’s first dinner, the first disclosure of his background, as well as the first appearance of his father.

Currently he was about to leave, to go to another place, to meet another person.

This time it was decided by himself.

Upon the cross-river bridge, Lin Xingmian hailed a taxi.

The river water outside the window was glittering with ripples beneath the afternoon sunshine, possessing no difference at all from all ordinary afternoons.

He pressed upon that photograph inside his chest pocket—the man before the piano looked at the piano keys in profile, unaware that the lens was capturing him.

His mom wrote in her diary that the person watched for an entire afternoon across the glass without entering.

Currently he was going to search for this person, knock open the door and walk inside, to ask him: Are you willing to teach me to play a piece of music or not.