Chapter 375: Tomorrow Evening Is Free

The conference room on Qinghe's third floor had a window facing the back alley, and after four o'clock no sun came through. One end of the ceiling light tube flickered. Cai Qingru dragged her chair to the side away from the flicker and slid a sheet of paper into the middle of the table.

"I don't want him writing 'basically complete.'" She said, "I want him to write: how many replanted at this location, whether they survived; how deep the playground plot was dug, where the soil was hauled off to."

The form was one she had drawn herself. Dates down the left column, locations down the middle, and on the right a large blank space, headed by a line of text: Sign here, the person observing.

Shen Zhixia pulled the form over and checked it against the judgment's operative part: "Thirty days to rectify, one hundred eighty days to restore. Two separate items. Both start counting from the date the judgment takes effect. When the rectification deadline arrives, I'll go inspect; for restoration, I'll inspect by milestones."

"Milestones can't be quarterly." Cai Qingru laid her pen sideways, pointing at the blank space. "The first year matters most. For the first year, check once every two months. Each time, write down the date, the hour, sunny or rainy. The day after a rain, add an extra check—where the water flows, where the soil runs. That's when you can actually see it."

"Who does the writing?"

"I do." She answered fast, then paused and added, "I can write. I'm just slow. Slow is fine. Writing slow, you see clearly."

Lu Jibai sat by the window, taking notes line by line. He had checked his watch twice today—once after five, once just now. She had noticed. She didn't ask.

"What if they appeal?" Cai Qingru asked.

"The appeal period runs to the twenty-third." He set down his pen. "If they file, this whole process starts over: second instance finishes, the judgment takes effect, then the clock starts. If they don't file, it takes effect on the twenty-fourth, and we go to the Intermediate Court for a certificate of effectiveness, then move forward."

"What do I do for these two weeks?"

"Photograph." He said. "The ditch is still there. The playground is still there. Shoot the baseline before restoration starts, so later there's something to compare against."

"And if thirty days pass and he doesn't act?" Cai Qingru capped her pen.

"Then we apply for compulsory enforcement." Shen Zhixia said. "The money's in the judgment. If the man won't move, make the money move."

Cai Qingru nodded, folded the form in half, and tucked it into the plastic bag in her electric scooter's basket: "Tomorrow I'll go up there, bring someone to stand at the ditch, let anyone watching know where this ditch runs from and to." She stood, pressing a hand against the table edge. "Two lawyers, one form for me, one for you. When the time comes, whoever inspects, write your name. Don't write 'the Center.'"

At eight sharp, the third-floor lights went out. In the alley, an electric scooter beeped once, then faded into the distance.

On the way to the intersection, she said she'd head down the east street. He said he was going back to the firm; there were two more pages he needed to look at.

"Seven days left in the appeal period."

"Yeah." He paused. "Don't look at your phone while walking."

She got home at 8:40. The lights were on. Zhi'an was writing at the table; noodles were keeping warm in the pot. He'd made them himself, a little too salty.

"Sis, the school form." He pushed it over. The last box was empty, with "Guardian" printed beside it.

She washed her hands, picked up a pen, signed her name, and wrote the date: April 16.

"Have you eaten?"

"Eaten."

"Too salty?"

"Salty."

"I'll use half a spoon less next time." He said, then tucked the form into the innermost pocket of his backpack.

The stack of notebooks at the corner of the desk was neat. Nine volumes in one pile, the first still wrapped in those two sheets of old newspaper, the seventh pressed at the very bottom. The spines faced inward; from her chair she couldn't see the words. On that volume's spine was written: December 2016 – March 2017. She didn't need to look to know.

On the night of April 7, the day before the verdict, at the stairwell in the firm, she had turned back and said to him: After the judgment comes down, I'll open the seventh volume. He had said okay.

A week had passed. On the ninth, Chai Guizhi came; in the afternoon, He Lan came to top up the agency fee. On the tenth, in the morning, he said he had a private matter; when he returned he only answered, "Done." On the thirteenth, the noodle delivery tricycle came. On the fifteenth, Tang Guo sat half the afternoon with three pages. Today, with Cai Qingru, it ran to eight. Every day something came up. Every day, someone else's business.

She pulled her own notebook from her bag and added a few words after the line for the sixteenth: Qinghe forms, three copies. Observers to fill in only after effective date. She closed the notebook without glancing toward the pile.

At ten o'clock, she laid her hand on the cover of the bottom volume.

[Thud. Old Case Retrial. Three items. Original True Sample, Sample Delivery Record, and a person who dares tell the truth. One item still missing.]

She pushed the notebook flush, pressed her palm on the cover for a moment, then drew her hand back.

"Sis, you're still up." Zhi'an poked half his body out from the inner room.

"Going to bed."

"The top notebook in that pile—I flipped through two pages." He said. "There are indentations on the back of the paper. The strokes press through. You can feel them."

"Don't go rummaging."

"I didn't rummage. I just looked." He ducked back in. "Wanted to see how Dad wrote."

On the morning of the seventeenth, Li Huilan arrived earlier than anyone. She spread an arbitration award on the old wooden table by the window and tapped the last page with her fingernail.

"Old Kan's case. The award arrived on January eighth. Eleven months' wages, full amount. The factory hasn't paid a cent to this day."

"The factory didn't sue?"

"No. Fifteen days long past; the award took effect long ago." Li Huilan looked up at her.

"Then they've accepted it."

"Accepting it isn't paying it." Li Huilan pushed the paper over. "I'm going to the filing window this afternoon to apply for enforcement. Should the application request asset tracing and freezing?"

"Yes. Investigate first; don't just wait." She pulled out a pen. "How many days do you need?"

"I know that window well. I'll do the legwork; you handle the hearing." Li Huilan pulled her chair back. "You write, I run. The two of us in this office get things done."

When she finished writing, Li Huilan took it and read line by line. At the signature she had her fill in the date, folded the paper in thirds, tucked it into the inner pocket of her coat, and headed downstairs.

At noon she went down for noodles. He Xiufen had splashed water at the doorway and was sweeping the loose dust off the three stone steps one by one. At the bottom step she crouched and used her fingertip to pick out a small clod of mud from the corner. The bucket sat by her feet, water still beading on the rim.

"Director He, you swept these steps yesterday."

"Dust collects." He Xiufen answered. "Three passes and it's still not clean."

"Guests tomorrow?"

He Xiufen leaned the broom against the wall and straightened up. "Guests or no guests, the steps are the steps."

The noodles arrived; she ate half a bowl. He Xiufen, over by the stove, said suddenly, "The one upstairs—hasn't come down at noon these past two days."

"He says he'll be down later."

"Later, it's cold."

In the afternoon she made a clean copy of the Qinghe form: one for the Center, one for the file, one left on the desk. Copying the "Observer" column, she transcribed only the header and left the whole column below it blank—nothing would be filled in before the effective date.

Toward Lu Jibai's side of the room, she lifted her eyes twice.

The first time, he opened the steel cabinet and took out the three kraft envelopes inside, one by one, read the labels on the front, then put them back one by one, facing the same direction as before.

The second time, he pulled open a drawer and pushed it shut. As he pushed, his hand paused on the desk edge.

Then he stood at the window for a long time, looking down. Below were those three stone steps, swept by He Xiufen, the water dried, the broom marks still showing.

Today he hadn't checked his watch once.

A little after three, Li Huilan came back, said the window had accepted it and they'd wait for notification. She left after five. The exhaust fan downstairs started up, then stopped.

It was still light out. April nights came late. She put the last form into a folder and pressed it twice.

He stood by the window, pushed it halfway open, then pushed it nearly shut, leaving only a crack.

"Zhixia."

She looked up.

"Tomorrow evening is free."

The folder stopped in her hands. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow evening." He said. "That paper I mentioned on December eighteenth. Tomorrow I'll read it to you."

She set the folder down and capped her pen. "What time?"

"Seven. Don't rush."

"Where will you read it?"

"Downstairs." He tilted his chin toward the three stone steps below the window. "At the entrance."

"That paper." She asked. "You have it on you?"

"No." He said. "The paper is in someone else's hands. The words on it—I remember them."

"How much do you remember?"

"Everything that needs remembering."

All week she'd been finding explanations for him. Tang Guo said he walked with his eyes on the ground; she said it was the appeal period. He asked Tang Guo the time at the stone steps; she said it was waiting for Qinghe's reply. He asked Tang Guo whether to film the entrance; she said it was worry about the other side using the doorway footage. Now she didn't need explanations. What he'd been counting down to was this day.

Last year, December eighteenth, on those same three stone steps, she had said: The day you read it, I'll ask everything. If you can't answer, I'll write it down.

"What I said that day still stands." She said.

"Which part?"

"You read, and I ask it all."

"It stands." He latched the window and pressed the bolt down.

She went to the sink to wash her cup. When she came back, she stood the folder upright in her bag and put the pens into the holder one by one.

Downstairs, the noodle shop lights were on. He Xiufen was collecting bowls by the stove.

"Heading home?"

"Heading home."

"Come eat noodles tomorrow evening."

"I will."

"I'll save you two bowls." He Xiufen took a paper bag from beside the stove and pressed it into her hand. "Steamed buns. Just heat them up when you get back."

She stood on the three stone steps at the entrance, on the middle one.

The broom marks from the day were still there. The tin lampshade over the door had been wiped too—not a speck of dust. On the bottom step's edge was a patch of cement repair, lighter than the rest. Last winter she'd stood here for forty-five minutes, the light falling from overhead, and she'd turned his hand over and seen the old scar on his knuckle. He'd said, "Cut it moving boxes nine years ago." "Cardboard boxes." She'd said, "Tell me about it sometime."

Four months had passed.

She carried the paper bag down the street. At the alley's mouth, she glanced back.

The window on the second floor was still lit.

She stopped at the corner and laid out tomorrow evening in her mind: seven o'clock, downstairs, the entrance, the three stone steps.

Rehearsing it, a thought came to her—the paper he was going to read, she'd never seen it. Her father's nine volumes, she'd only read up to the sixth. The seventh still sat at the bottom of the pile.

She switched the bag to her left hand and walked home.

Before he read, she needed to hear what her father had said first.