Chapter 371: Plain Ring

The storefronts on this stretch of Zhongshan Road were all narrow, door pressed against door, signboards crowded into a single row. The easternmost shop had a wooden sign so bleached by the sun that only the middle character—"Silver"—was still legible.

At ten in the morning on April tenth, the wooden door swung open and the small brass bell on the frame gave a single chime. He stepped in sideways.

The shop was a single room, less than four paces wide. A row of glass display cases lined the wall, the glass polished to such a shine it reflected the half-street outside the door. A sheet of old glass pressed down on the countertop, and beneath it lay a handwritten price list, its edges yellowed. On the wall hung a small mirror missing a thumbnail-sized chip from one corner. On a low cabinet against the back wall, an old radio murmured the afternoon weather, volume kept low.

The old man behind the counter wore blue cloth sleeve guards and was wiping the glass with a flannel cloth—one wipe, then a glance at the light.

"Browse all you like." The old man didn't look up.

Lu Jibai stood still. The red velvet held a display of pieces, thick and thin, and the light slanted in from the doorway, falling on that red and making it appear paler than its surroundings. He kept his hands in his pockets.

"Plain ring," he said.

The old man set down the cloth, came around, unclipped a ring of keys from his waist, unlocked the small lock at the side of the case, and drew out a rectangular tray. The red velvet in the tray was older than what lined the case, and it held seven or eight rings, yellow and white both.

"Plain ones, these are all I've got." The old man slid the tray across the glass. "Which one catches your eye?"

Lu Jibai bent down and examined them one by one.

He looked slowly. First the outer band, then flipped each over to study the inner band, reading the fine line of characters inside before returning it and picking up the next. One wide ring bore an engraved floral vine pattern on its outer face. He held it up to the light, examined it, and set it back—placing it straighter than he'd found it. The old man made a few attempts at commentary—"this one's fine quality," "that one's new work from this year"—but seeing that Lu Jibai only looked, he fell silent and tucked his hands into his sleeve guards.

When Lu Jibai reached out, his cuff slid back a little, revealing a faint pink mark across his forearm, not yet fully faded. The old man's eyes flicked to it but he asked nothing.

"This one." He pointed to the narrowest ring—plain gold, not a single line of ornamentation on its surface.

"That one's narrow." The old man picked it up and turned it half a rotation between his fingers. "A gift?"

"Yes."

"For a man?"

"He doesn't wear jewelry."

The old man said, "Ah," and weighed it in his palm. "Three grams and change. Shall I weigh it?"

"Weigh it."

The old man brought out the small scale from beneath the counter, laid a sheet of white paper on the pan, and set the ring down. The needle wobbled twice and held. He announced the number and returned the ring to the tray.

"Plain's come back in fashion these past couple years," the old man said. "Plain's hard to make, though. Decoration hides the pits and flaws. A plain ring—one glance and everything shows."

Lu Jibai straightened the chosen ring, running a fingertip along its surface.

"Plain is good."

"Plain is demanding on the wearer." The old man smiled. "Happy occasion?"

Lu Jibai didn't answer right away.

"I don't know."

The old man raised his eyes to him once, asked nothing further, and pulled the pencil from behind his ear. "Want it engraved? Engraving takes three days. Without it, you can take it today."

"No engraving."

"Not even a single character on the inside?"

"No."

"Without engraving, how's the person to know who it's from?"

Lu Jibai set the ring back down on the velvet and pressed his fingertip against its surface.

"The things that need saying, I'll say in person."

The old man's pen hand stopped midair. Finally he tapped the nib against the order slip. "Those words are worth more than any engraving."

Halfway through writing up the slip, the old man paused. "Ring size?"

Lu Jibai didn't answer.

"Never measured the hand?"

"No."

The old man let out a thin breath and fished out a stiff cardboard card from beneath the tray, punched with several round holes. He pushed it over. "If you don't know, take the middle size. If it doesn't fit, bring it back for resizing. Free within a month."

"Does resizing count as engraving?"

"It doesn't." The old man said, "Resizing reshapes the hand. Engraving renames it."

"Middle size, then."

He chose the middle hole. The old man checked the ring against it, nodded, and retrieved a small box from under the counter—dark red, its corners slightly worn white. He lifted the lid; thin tissue paper lined the interior. The ring went in, the paper folded over.

"Want a price sticker on the bottom?" The old man held a tiny white label between his fingers.

"No."

"Then that number exists only on the receipt now."

"Fine."

"Resizing requires the person themselves." The old man pressed the lid shut. "Someone else can come, but they'd need to give the ring size."

"The person will come."

The old man placed the box into a small paper bag and folded the top over twice.

"How are you paying?"

"Card."

The machine was an old model; it took two tries before it chirped. The receipt ran in duplicate, and the old man tore off the bottom copy, gave it a shake, and handed it over. "Receipt. Keep it. You'll need it if you resize."

Lu Jibai held it up to the light and read it through: date, purity, weight, size, price—each item studied in turn. He folded it twice, slipped it into the left inner pocket of his coat, and zipped the pocket shut. The paper bag he folded small, box and all, and tucked into the right pocket, pressing it to the very bottom and flattening it with his palm.

On the way out, the brass bell chimed once more. He looked back at the counter. The old man was already returning the tray to the case, locking it. A bare patch remained on the red velvet where the ring had rested, the light falling on it brighter than its surroundings.

At eleven, he caught the bus back to the Old Town District.

The bus wasn't crowded. He sat in the back row by the window. The sun was up now, and a thin layer of dust filmed the glass; light filtered through it and fell across his knees. He pressed both hands flat against his thighs, fingers spread wide.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out.

It was her: the appraisal fee invoice from Qinghe—the header is issued to the Center. Can it be reimbursed?

He replied: Yes. The header and payer just need to match. Invoice, payment receipt, and the judgment page—all three in agreement.

Half a minute later, she replied: Okay.

He turned the phone facedown on his knee, then picked it up again and opened the calendar, flipping forward. The box for the eighteenth was empty. He looked at it for a while, then pressed the screen dark.

Two stops along, a young man in a delivery uniform got on, one hand steadying a stack of boxes, the other carrying two bags. He stopped just inside the door without going farther in. Someone in the front row shifted over, and he moved his boxes to his feet with a "Thanks."

Lu Jibai's hand found its way into his right inner pocket; his fingers touched the corner of the box—hard, pressing against him. He pressed down on that corner, withdrew his hand, and turned it palm up. Empty. He flipped his hand over to look at it, then returned it to his knee.

A woman in the front row stood up, holding a child with one arm and reaching for the overhead strap with the other. She stretched twice and couldn't reach. He rose and gave up his seat, moving toward the door.

"Thank you," the woman said. The child, draped over her shoulder, turned its face toward him with unblinking eyes. He nodded once at the child and gripped the standing pole.

The bus rounded a corner, and the box in his pocket pressed against his hipbone. He didn't reach to touch it.

At 11:40, Old Town District. The noodle shop's kitchen was in full swing—the exhaust fan roaring, cooking fumes pouring from the doorway into the street. He Xiufen was inside cutting noodles and raised her chin as he passed the door. He didn't stop; he took the narrow staircase beside the shop up to the second floor.

The upstairs door stood open. Shen Zhixia sat at the far side of the table, the desk calendar flipped to April tenth. Beside it lay a sheet of paper with three lines written on it, the bottom-most line's lower edge marked with a red circle around a date. The Qinghe invoice lay spread before her; one hand held the paper flat while the other moved across her notebook.

"You're back," she said.

"Yeah." He pulled off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair.

"Where did you go this morning?"

"Ran a personal errand."

She said, "Oh," and her pen moved down one more line. "I thought you'd gone to the Intermediate Court. Any word from them?"

"No. The appeal period runs to the twenty-third. I'll ask then."

She ran her eyes over that space on the calendar, then lowered her head again. Beside the invoice was a sticky note with three items listed in three lines; the first two were checked off, the third still blank.

"Qinghe sent over the invoice and the transfer screenshot yesterday." She turned the note to face him. "The invoice header is the Center, and the money came out of the Center's account—those two match. But a screenshot doesn't count as proof. I've asked them to print the bank receipt itself—the paper version."

"Right. A bank receipt has the account name and the date. It holds up better than a screenshot."

She touched her pen tip to the third line but didn't write.

"There's one more thing to ask about." She straightened the invoice. "The judgment's operative part says the defendant bears the appraisal fee. But there's no date on that provision. The thirty-day rectification and the hundred-eighty-day restoration both have dates. This appraisal fee—when it's due, where it goes—not a single word."

He pulled over the photocopy of the judgment, flipped to the operative section, and read for a moment, pressing a finger to the paper.

No date written, so it runs from the date the judgment takes effect. We'll send a demand notice," he said. "Amount stated clearly, account stated clearly, deadline stated clearly. If they don't pay, it goes into the enforcement application as a separate line item—listed apart from the restoration costs, not lumped together in one cell."

"Listed separately."

"Separately."

"What about the certificate of effectiveness?" She looked up. "Should we go to the Intermediate Court first and ask?"

"It can only be issued after the judgment takes effect. Asking before the twenty-third gets you the same answer." He pushed the photocopy back to the middle of the table. "Ask on the twenty-third, all at once."

She wrote his instructions into her notebook: a new line reading "Qinghe—appraisal fee," below it "advanced by the Center," and below that "judgment: borne by defendant," with a space left at the end. That space sat empty; her pen tip hovered over it, dipped once, then lifted.

[Thud. The appraisal fee—on paper, but not on the books.]

She made no sound, only straightened the edge of that empty space.

"Once the bank receipt arrives, I'll fill in this space," she said.

"When you do, clip the three together. Don't leave them loose." He nudged the stack of papers on his side of the table inward. "Invoice, bank receipt, the judgment page—one bundle. Whoever asks, one flip is enough."

She acknowledged and slipped the note under the invoice. Downstairs the exhaust fan kicked on again, pulsing, rattling the floorboards.

She closed the notebook and looked up. "Lunch—noodles?"

"Sure."

"I'll go down and tell Director He. Two bowls." She stood, paused at the top of the stairs, and looked back. "That personal errand this morning—finished?"

"Finished."

"Good." She went downstairs, her footsteps descending step by step. Halfway down she said something to someone below, the words indistinct.

Lu Jibai sat at the table. He adjusted the coat on the chair back. The right pocket was heavy, pulling the fabric down, making the chair sway. He reached over and pressed the pocket opening flat, his hand resting on the cloth—the object inside pressing against it, showing the shape of a small square.

He hung the coat straight and opened the stack of papers on his desk.