Chapter 425: The Question Beside the Stove

At noon on July 5, the floor fan in the noodle shop was angled at the stove. The flame bent, then straightened again.

The pot was boiling. He Xiufen grabbed the noodles with one hand, chopsticks in the other—shake, drop, cover. The whole sequence without pause.

The door curtain swung open. A woman in her forties came in carrying an insulated food carrier. She set it on the counter and unscrewed the lid.

"Auntie He, two bowls. Extra broth—my mom can't handle it too firm."

"Soft." He Xiufen said. "Let it roll a couple extra turns."

"Rolled too long and it goes mushy."

"Mushy and I'll redo it for you."

The woman laughed and moved to the doorway to wait, flipping the lid over, then back.

Lu Jibai stood at the other end of the stove, holding a bowl, eating while he waited. Sleeves rolled to his forearms, top collar button undone. Half the noodles gone, broth still full.

The woman left with her carrier. He Xiufen wiped the counter with a rag.

"Director He."

"Mm."

"That matter on the mountain—how's it going."

She lifted the pot lid, stirred once with her chopsticks, didn't look up.

"The old woman saw. Ask her about the rest."

The doorway curtain opened again. A man came in, pants caked with dust at the knees. "One beef, wide noodles."

"Wide. Three minutes."

She dropped the noodles, added half a ladle of cold water, waited for it to boil again. Steam rose from the lid's edge, climbing all the way to the sheet metal of the range hood.

Lu Jibai finished his noodles at the other end. Left the broth.

"She won't let me ask."

He Xiufen put the lid back on, ran the rag along the edge of the stove—back and forth once—then draped it over the faucet.

"Nothing else happened on the mountain," she said. "That's all I know."

"That's good."

"Are you still going to ask her?"

"Asked once already."

He Xiufen turned the flame down a notch and looked back. "Zhixia said leave her a bowl—she's upstairs copying the form. I'll keep it until last."

"Mm."

"What have you been working on these two days."

"Filing volumes."

"Whose files."

"The two Qinghe volumes. Missing pages noted in the corner of the last page."

"When you file, you go page by page, reading closer than the person who wrote them." He Xiufen said. "If you write it down, someone has to answer."

There was a small pot sitting beside the burner, kept warm the whole time, lid never lifted. She reached over and took it off. A poached egg lay inside, pale and tender, nestled in the broth. The chopsticks went down, scooped it out—broth and all—and dropped it into his bowl. Broth splashed against the rim.

"No need."

"Already added."

He stood by the stove and ate the egg. The yolk was soft; halfway through it broke and ran into the broth.

"Lawyer Li's going to the center this afternoon. The old woman in her case is waiting," He Xiufen said.

"Going alone."

"She's handling it alone." He Xiufen replaced the lid. "Some things only get done when one person does them."

"Come down and eat."

"Leave the bowl."

He set the bowl at the far end of the cutting board and went up the stairs. The treads were wood, a dozen or so, the wall side worn shinier than the outer edge.

At 12:50 she came down to eat. He Xiufen fished out the reserved bowl, poached another egg on top. She sat on the little stool beside the stove and ate, talking about nothing but noodles: the broth was bland, chili was in the cabinet, buy two jin of fresh scallions tomorrow.

What Lu Jibai had asked—He Xiufen didn't mention a word of it.

Three in the afternoon, top of the stairs on the second floor.

That window's latch had been broken for years; it only opened a crack. The exhaust fan sat at the base of the stairwell. When it kicked on, a wave of hot air pushed up the steps. Two desks inside—one person writing, one organizing case files. Anything needed saying had to be said outside.

He stood at the window and pulled a small clipped corner of paper from his inner pocket. He'd looked up the number last night; when he copied it down, the characters "Chengnan District" went in too—he'd read the original trial file, and the paper noted which procuratorate had handled the public prosecution in that case. He'd walked that street many times. Gray building, two steps inside the door, a sign hanging at the top of the landing. He'd never gone in.

He held the phone to his ear, the other hand pinning the paper scrap to the windowsill.

"Chengnan District People's Procuratorate." A woman's voice, quick, like she said this sentence a hundred times a day.

"What time do you start receiving visitors."

"The service center: 9:00 to 11:30 in the morning, 1:30 to 4:30 in the afternoon. Someone's on duty at noon, but no new cases are accepted."

"What documents do I need."

"You'll need your ID. Are you a lawyer?"

"Yes."

"Lawyers bring their practice certificate. Agents also need a power of attorney."

"Do I need an appointment."

"No appointment. Take a number on the first floor; if it's busy, just wait."

"Do I need to write anything out."

"Bring what you've written. If you haven't, just come and talk—we'll take it down."

"The paper I've written—do I leave it with you, or take it back?"

"One copy stays with us for the file. If you want a record, make a photocopy to take with you. We have a copier on-site."

"Where on the first floor."

"Through the door, turn west. Glass door, sign on the outside."

He fished a pencil stub from his pants pocket and noted this all on the back of the scrap. The lead was blunt; the marks came out pale, visible only if he tilted the paper just so.

A pause on the other end.

"Your name, sir?"

"Lu."

"And which area of concern would you like to raise, Lawyer Lu? I can point you to the right window now."

"I'll tell them when I get there."

"Fine. When would you like to come in?"

"The morning after next."

"Doors open at 8:30 for numbers; discussions start at nine. Come early and you'll be first—no waiting."

"Thank you."

He tucked the pencil stub into the paper scrape.

The wind through the window crack was hot. Someone downstairs hollered—something about fresh tofu. At the repair stall across the street, a man turned an inner tube inside out, pressing it into a basin of water, hunting the leak.

The paper scrap was full of writing. Nothing on it said why.

He stood a while longer, folded the scrap in half, slid it back into his inner pocket, and went inside.

He'd moved the two Qinghe volumes onto his desk. Page by page, he went through them, noting missing page numbers in the corner of the final leaf—pencil, small hand.

At 2:40, she spread out the Qinghe remediation supervision form on her desk.

It was a photocopy, with several blanks still empty in the signature column. She held it flat with a ruler and copied the three sites to be inspected on July 7 into her notebook, character by character: the village primary school playground, now fenced off; the farmland along the ditch, the dredging stretch up above; the overflow pipe at No. 3 Pond. Below that, on a new line, she copied the form's rules: the inspector signs, with their unit written on the line beneath the name.

For the first box she copied Cai Qingru, and beneath that, Jiangzhou Qinghe Environmental Public Interest Service Center. The next box was He Xiufen—she'd said if her name went on it, she'd sign it herself. The form also had a column for "Replanting Quantity Confirmer," still blank, waiting on the seedlings.

She messaged Cai Qingru: Seventh, one in the afternoon, third floor—I'll bring the form. Sent it, put the phone face-down on the desk.

Midway through writing the character for "point," her pen stopped.

The door was half open. Someone at the top of the stairs, voice low; the exhaust fan spun past and swallowed the second half of the sentence.

Through that layer of noise, only two fragments came through clearly.

"What time."

"Documents."

She lifted the pen. That square of the notebook now held an ink dot, bigger than a character, slowly bleeding into the paper.

Only a few steps to the stairwell. If she asked "Who was that," he'd have to answer. Whether he answered was his business; whether she asked was hers.

Yesterday at noon, by the stove, she'd told He Xiufen one thing: He won't ask me. Today, what he'd asked was He Xiufen.

The words she'd said on this floor on the night of May 27 were still there, right where she'd left them: Don't pay my father's debt for him. My father's matter—I'll file it myself. If she was going to walk out and ask that question, she'd have to take those words back first.

She didn't.

She stood, walked to the door, pushed it shut. Halfway closed, she pushed it open half a panel again.

Back at the desk, she shifted the form half an inch to the side and started a new line. The ink dot stayed. She didn't cross it out.

She flipped to the blank pages at the back of the notebook and wrote the date and time: July 5, 15:00. A line below: stairwell, one phone call, only two phrases made out—what time, documents. Line below that: called where, unknown.

Qinghe's meeting minutes lay open to her left. She turned to a fresh page and wrote the points for the afternoon of the seventh: three sites; how signatures are done; the replanting confirmer column—no signature without seeing the seedlings. Finished, she flipped the page over.

At 4:20, Li Huilan came back in.

She hung the cloth bag on the back of her chair, poured herself a glass of water, drank two mouthfuls.

"I went to see Xing Shuqin," she said. "She asked about the passbook again."

"What did you tell her."

"That it's with her son. She couldn't remember the password, so she let him take it."

"She believed you."

"Believe or not, she's not asking a third time." Li Huilan set the glass down. "The case side says they'll have word within the month."

"Then we wait for the month."

"Director Cai asked yesterday—has that 460,000 arrived."

"Not yet."

"Should we push."

"The money goes through the court's account. Pushing won't change the route."

Li Huilan nodded, pulled out her chair, sat down. Her eyes didn't wander toward the stairwell.

"Qinghe's form—you're going on the seventh?"

"Director Cai and me."

"Who signs the replanting column."

"Not decided yet. Have to see the seedlings first."

At five, Li Huilan slung the cloth bag over her shoulder and paused at the top of the stairs. "I'm off."

"Buy a bottle of water on the way. It's hot."

The door clicked, footsteps ran all the way down to the noodle shop.

Only the two desks remained upstairs. On his side, the sound of case files turning, a volume closing, another opening. On her side, writing—pausing at the third line.

At 5:20, he closed the last volume, set it on top of the cabinet, put his phone back on the desk.

At 5:30, he opened the drawer.

Inside sat half a bottle of ink, blue-black, the neck ringed with dried crust. He unscrewed the cap, set it on a sheet of paper, and took a fountain pen from the holder. The nib went in; he squeezed the sac three times. On the third squeeze, ink rose, and the point gleamed black.

He lifted the pen, scraped it twice against the bottle's lip, wiped it on a scrap sheet, screwed the cap back on, returned the bottle to the drawer.

The pen went back into the holder, nib up.

[Thud. Someone has filled a pen.]

The stack of papers on the desk was pushed aside. He opened his bag, put in his wallet and keys, stood.

"I'm off."

"Mm."

The door opened, footsteps descended halfway down the stairs. From the noodle shop, He Xiufen called something out. He answered, the words mixed in with the exhaust fan, indistinct.

Four pens stood in the holder. Three were dry, a thin layer of dust on their points.

Only one was still wet at the tip.

She lowered her head. The signature box on the form was still blank.