Chapter 337: New Year's Eve, Four Tables

At 6:00 p.m. on February 5th, the roll-up shutter door of Zhengping Noodle House came all the way down, leaving only a sliver of light at the bottom. The four tables had been pushed together, their legs uneven. He Xiufen found a folded piece of cardboard and wedged it under the shortest leg, stepped back to look, then pressed down on it with her heel.

"Four tables, four people," she said. "Plenty of room."

"One table each. Could even lie down." Zhi'an set out the bowls one by one, stopping at the third. "Sis, should the bowls go sideways?"

"Set them straight."

The exhaust fan in the back kitchen whirred to life. Scallion oil hit the wok, the fragrance burst, and it slipped out under the door frame, colliding with the smell of braised meat from the house across the alley.

Shen Zhixia was splitting disposable chopsticks at the other end. She opened two pairs, then put them back and went to the cabinet for the four wooden sets instead. Lu Jibai sat in the chair by the door, a large bowl in front of him, a whole head of garlic inside. He broke it apart and peeled it clove by clove, collecting the thin skins in his palm instead of dropping them on the table.

"You peel garlic like you're solving a math problem," Zhi'an said.

"Just need to finish peeling."

He Xiufen brought out the first dish: pig skin aspic, cut into neat squares with a sprinkle of scallion on top. The second was cabbage with glass noodles. The third was a whole fish, scored along the body, sauce poured over, a rag folded under the plate.

She set the fish in front of Lu Jibai.

"Every year there's surplus," she said. "No cilantro in your bowl."

Lu Jibai looked up. "Thank you."

"How'd you know he doesn't eat cilantro?" Zhi'an asked.

"Three times. Three times I brought it over and that little pile of green was still sitting untouched on the rim of the bowl." He Xiufen slung the rag over her shoulder. "If you don't eat something, say so. Tell me once and I'll remember. Don't sit there picking things to the rim like you're committing a crime."

"Noted," Lu Jibai said.

"Keep the garlic." She turned back to the kitchen. "The garlic under the fish is the one you eat."

Zhi'an fished out a string of small firecrackers from under the cabinet, wrapped in red paper at the head, and crouched by the door, peering into the alley.

"Go set those off in the back alley," He Xiufen came out, wiping her hands on her apron. "Not at anyone's window. And sweep up the red paper when you're done."

"Everyone else is setting them off."

"I don't care about everyone else."

He ran out clutching the string, his shoes slapping twice against the alley. A few seconds later, a string of pops came from the back alley, crack-crack-crack, like someone running across sheet metal. It stopped, paused, then another short burst, and finally a single pop. Pop.

He came back, face red, holding a piece of fuse in his hand. "All done. The last one fell off by itself."

"Wash your hands," Shen Zhixia said. "Eat."

The dumplings arrived too. He Xiufen sat down last, dividing the dumplings into four bowls, giving herself the fewest. She tapped her cup against the table.

"I won't make a long speech," she said. "The noodles keep selling, the firm keeps operating, the people stay present."

"The people stay present," Zhi'an repeated after her, then lowered his head to eat.

"No case talk on New Year's Eve," He Xiufen added, her eyes not looking at anyone in particular.

Before long, Shen Zhixia's phone buzzed on the corner of the table. The screen showed a landline number, from the Qingshi Village area.

She stood and walked to the stairwell. "Auntie Chai."

"It's me." The wind was loud on her end, a TV on in the house. "Changlin bought a ticket for the first, he'll be home early morning on the second. He'll want to come upstairs the moment he arrives. When will you be in?"

"Tell him to come at ten on the morning of the second. Bring the child."

"Bring him." The old woman paused. "He sent a padded coat from Guangdong. I haven't worn it yet."

"Wear it on the second."

"Wear new clothes to talk about old matters, you stand straighter." She hung up.

Shen Zhixia returned to the table and set her phone face-down on the edge. He Xiufen asked nothing, only turned the fish slightly toward her.

"Ten a.m. on the second," Lu Jibai said.

"Ten a.m. on the second." She straightened her bowl. "The two blank sections on the power of attorney—I'll fill them in tonight."

"Mm." He pushed a small pile of peeled garlic toward her. "You eat too."

There was no TV in the front room, only the old radio in the back kitchen playing. After 11 p.m. it started airing songs people had requested. At 11:58, her phone lit up, the screen a wash of white.

"Zhixia!" Tang Guo's face flickered bright and dim between fireworks, the camera spinning wildly, her voice barely holding against the noise outside. "Happy New Year—Happy New Year—"

"Happy New Year." Shen Zhixia raised the phone a little. "Where are you?"

"Downstairs! Our alley got a little more lenient this year, everyone's setting them off." The camera spun another half-turn as a burst of white light exploded, the crackling pressing through the receiver. "I filmed thirty-some seconds, just one clip. Fireworks."

"Post it. Fireworks don't count as posting about a case."

"I'm not posting about cases. Tomorrow I'm not posting anything. Posting anything on New Year's Eve just feels like swearing at people." Tang Guo turned the camera back to her own face, hair blown wild by the wind. "Qingshi Village—does anyone look after them during the New Year?"

"After the New Year, someone will."

"After the New Year, someone will." Tang Guo repeated it, then suddenly leaned in close. "Who's that next to you?"

The edge of the frame caught the white bowl at the corner of the table, and a small dish of peeled garlic.

"Don't ask."

"I won't ask." She laughed, another long crackle in the background. "I'll be back on the eighth. Will the office be open on the eighth?"

"Open."

The video call ended in a muffled boom. He Xiufen was already washing dishes in the back kitchen, the sound of the water steady.

The second, February 7th, 10 a.m.

The noodle shop's shutter door was raised to half height. He Xiufen set the kettle on the stove, and the light leaking under the door spread a stripe across the table. She wiped her hands on her apron. "No business today. Family's coming."

Chai Guizhi arrived first, wearing a dark blue padded coat, the cuffs still stiff, her hair combed neater than usual. Ge Xiaoyu was at her side, one hand clutching her coat hem, the other holding a plastic bag.

Ge Changlin came in last, thirty-five or thirty-six, darker than in the photos, wearing a dark gray jacket. The moment he stepped inside he took off his cap and held it in his hands.

"Lawyer Shen." He spoke with a trace of an accent from the outside, biting the words slowly. "Traffic was bad. Ten minutes late."

"Not late." Shen Zhixia stood and spread out the items on the table. "Sit."

He sat on only half the chair, back rigid. The items on the table were laid out clearly: a power of attorney form, a full retainer agreement, arranged in sets, and one pen, tip pointing toward him.

"This page," she pushed the first sheet over, her finger on the name field. "The client writes the child's name. Below that, the legal guardian field—write your name, and after it, your relationship to him."

Ge Changlin picked up the pen, holding it over the paper. "My handwriting isn't good."

"As long as it's legible."

He wrote stroke by stroke, the pen tip pausing twice on the paper. When he finished, he turned the page straight and read over it once. "Ge—Xiao—yu." Then he wrote his own section, and when he was done, lifted his hand, afraid of smudging.

"This sentence is the scope of authorization." Shen Zhixia pointed to a passage beside it. "I've written it as full authorization. It means I can appear in court on your behalf and submit documents for you; but any mediation agreement or settlement—I have to read it to you first, and only with your approval can I sign."

"Can that sentence be written down?"

"It can." She flipped the retainer agreement over and wrote in a blank space: Mediation and settlement require the client's written consent. Then she turned the paper toward him.

Ge Changlin read it character by character. When he reached the section marked "waived," he looked up. "How much is this?"

"Waived."

He pulled a letter envelope folded in thirds from the inside pocket of his jacket and set it on the table, pressing his palm over it and pushing it toward her. "There's three thousand in here. I know you don't take money. This is for your travel, running back and forth. I keep it in my mind."

Shen Zhixia pushed the envelope back, but before she could speak, He Xiufen came over carrying three bowls of noodles, setting them down one by one.

"Put the money away." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Noodles I've got here. If you want to repay the favor, when the child's better, bring him downstairs and have a bowl. That bowl'll cost money—I'll charge full price."

Ge Changlin's hand pressed on the envelope once, then drew back and tucked it into his inner pocket, patting the outside of his chest when it was in.

"The authorization—still missing the grandmother's signature," he said.

"She doesn't sign this one," Shen Zhixia said.

Chai Guizhi had already sat down and placed her hands on her knees. "I won't sign. His father's back, so his father should sign. If I sign, later he'll say I made decisions for him."

"You don't need to sign," Shen Zhixia said. "From now on, whatever each page says—I'll read it to you."

Lu Jibai had been sitting in the chair by the door the whole time. Now he opened his notebook. "That call from the factory—what date did it come in?"

Ge Changlin took out his phone and scrolled to the call log. "January 30th, 2:14 p.m. I didn't have the number saved. They said they were from HR."

"What did they say?"

"Said come back, the job's still mine, six thousand, social insurance and housing fund all covered. Also said—" He gripped the phone tight for a moment. "Also asked if the test results for the child had come out. I asked him what the results had to do with him. He said he was just concerned."

Shen Zhixia's fingers stopped on the tabletop. January 30th, between 10 a.m. and 11:20. Third floor at Qinghe. That hand-drawn water system map. That water cup that had never once been lifted.

She said nothing.

"Don't delete the phone record," Lu Jibai said. "Screenshot that page and keep it. If he calls again, you answer with only one line: the child needs medical care, I don't understand anything else. Don't say anything more."

"What if family asks?"

"Use the same line. Whoever asks, same answer."

Ge Changlin nodded and laid his phone face-down on the table, pressing it down firmly.

"One more thing." Shen Zhixia handed him the pen. "The date under the client's name."

He wrote the date, then didn't set the pen down right away.

"I'm not going in," he said.

The room went quiet.

"That job at the factory—I didn't take it." He looked up at her, his eyes redder than when he'd walked in. "My son's blood isn't a three-thousand-yuan line item on some factory paper. If I went back for six thousand yuan, I couldn't face him for the rest of my life."

[Thud. The guardianship field—from today on, someone has signed it.]

"Would you like some water?" He Xiufen asked.

"No."

Ge Xiaoyu had been standing behind his grandmother's chair the whole time. Now he shuffled forward half a step and pointed at the page on the table. "My name's on it."

"It's on it." Shen Zhixia turned the paper toward him. "This page has to have your name. The court needs to verify the person."

"Will the village see it?"

"No. That's a separate file. Your name is covered there, written as 'Ge, given name withheld.'"

The child thought for a moment, then pulled his finger back and grabbed his grandmother's sleeve. "What about Grandma's name?"

"Your grandmother's name doesn't appear on any paper," Shen Zhixia said. "The only names on the paper are yours and your father's."

Chai Guizhi reached out and pressed lightly on the back of her grandson's head.

The three bowls of noodles steamed on the table. Halfway through, Ge Changlin stopped eating and asked, "When's the court date?"

"The morning of the eighteenth. First, a meeting at the court." Shen Zhixia said. "Not a trial yet. Appraisal, site inspection—those will all be discussed that day."

"Do I need to go?"

"You don't need to that day. For the days you do need to attend, I'll call a week in advance. Won't miss it."

He finished the rest of the noodles, drank the broth to the bottom, and set his chopsticks across the bowl, straightening them.

When they left, Chai Guizhi left the plastic bag on the table. Six eggs inside, and an unopened pair of cotton work gloves. He Xiufen chased after them to the door, but the old woman waved her off without looking back. "Give them to the two upstairs."

10 p.m., her place.

Volume Four lay open on the table, next to the index page tucked behind the flyleaf of Volume One. Four columns: volume, start and end, page count, and what was inside. She wrote in the last column: "One case: the fake pesticide for thirteen households, lost, then appealed."

When she finished, she closed Volume Four and leaned it against the corner of the desk, pressing her palm over it for a while. This volume was thicker than Volume Three, its paper less yellowed than the first two. That same handwriting ran down the margin in small characters, one line pointing to another spot, a little circle drawn at the end of each.

[Thud. Volume Four. Every dog-eared page—he always folded the corner on the back side.]

She opened it to the last page again.

On the back of the page, at the very edge, squeezed tight against the paper's border, was a small line of writing: A bicycle, two hundred and eighty — followed by three pause marks, two crossed out, plus the characters "Zhixia." Below it, a line even smaller: Take it out of this month's wages, don't tell her.

She pressed her hand over that line for a long time, lamplight seeping between her fingers. The inner room's door creaked. Zhi'an poked his head out halfway. "Sis, what are you reading?"

"Dad's notebook."

"Is it good?"

"It's not good." She closed the volume. "He wrote things down too carefully."

Zhi'an came over and stood by the desk, looking at the index page. He skipped over the characters he didn't recognize, and finally asked, "How many volumes are left?"

"Two," she said. "Five and Six."

And below those, the three volumes at the very bottom of the stack.