Chapter 464: Don't Look at the Third Page

October 2nd, ten in the morning, half the shops on Zhongshan Road were shut. The wooden sign at the noodle house had been flipped over, "Closed" chalked across it, but the door sat ajar, swinging open at the slightest push.

The stools in the dining room were all upended on the tables, legs in the air. The table at the back hadn't been touched, but one chair was pulled out. He Xiufen sat there, page after page of manuscript paper stacked and pressed down under the vinegar cruet. The stove was cold; a kettle sat on the burner, steam curling from the spout, rising to the beams and dissolving.

In her hands she held a tin box, a patch of paint chipped off the lid.

"Director He."

"Mm."

"Leftover mooncakes from home. Zhi'an said they'd go bad if they sat any longer." She set the tin on the counter.

"Leave them there."

He Xiufen didn't look up. Her pen moved across the paper, paused after each line, went back and struck out a word, then continued downward. The strokes were light, barely deeper than the paper itself.

Shen Zhixia pulled over a chair and sat diagonally across from her. He Xiufen reached out and pushed the stack of manuscript paper inward, wedging it tighter under the cruet.

"Don't look at the third page."

"I won't."

"Don't even let your eyes land over there."

She fixed her gaze on the door. Outside, someone pushed a cart past, the metal bed rattling twice; at the mouth of the alley someone was on the phone, voice rising and falling, words impossible to make out.

After a while the door pushed open half a foot. A young man in a delivery rider's uniform poked his head in, helmet dangling from his arm.

"Director He, any noodles left?"

"No. The stove's not on."

"Then—"

"After the holiday."

"Oh." He pulled his head back, then stuck it in again. "Then I'll come back after the holiday."

"Come back after the holiday."

The door closed. He Xiufen tapped the tip of her pen against the edge of the paper. "Holiday, and everyone still comes here."

"Not many places on the street are open."

"Even the ones that are open don't want to be." She pulled a page out from under the vinegar cruet, glanced at it, flipped it over. "These seven days are enough for me to finish writing it."

"How far have you gotten?"

"Second section." He Xiufen said, "The first section is the facts, what these two eyes of mine saw. The second is the evidence, what each piece lines up with. The third—"

"What's the third section about?"

"The third section, I won't tell you."

She didn't ask again.

He Xiufen set the pen down, rubbed her wrist, picked up the mooncake from the corner of the table and broke off half, pushing the rest back into the tin.

"Eat."

"You eat. My teeth are bad. Too sweet, can't handle it."

She ate the remaining half herself. The mooncake had sat for half a month; the crust was dry and crumbly. The crumbs fell at the edge of the manuscript paper, and she picked them up one by one.

"On the afternoon of the 30th I went to the court." He Xiufen said. "The window accepted it. Age, what stretch of road he lives on, all written down. His legs are slow, so I added a line: needs help on the slope coming down."

"What did the window say?"

"They said it'll be noted in the file and reported when they assign transport." He Xiufen pushed her sleeves up. "You don't need to worry about any of that. You just take care of yourself, and don't rush what's ahead."

"I'm not rushing."

"The appraisal office is on holiday too." He Xiufen said. "The court's doors are locked, and the appraisal office's doors are locked too. These few days, no one can hurry anything along."

She nodded.

"I've been writing complaints for people for over twenty years." He Xiufen suddenly said. "This is the first time I've written one for a man who's already dead."

"What's so hard about it?"

"In other cases, what I write is who owes whom. In this one, I have to write whether a man did something or didn't." She looked up at her. "Did or didn't, once it's on paper it's only a few lines. Write it too heavy, and it's not him. Write it too light, and it's not enough."

"What happens if it's too heavy?"

"If it's too heavy, then it becomes me speaking for him." He Xiufen picked up her pen again. "His whole life, the thing he most refused was letting people speak for him. Those three years he copied materials for me, stroke by stroke. When he got it wrong he'd strike through it and copy it again. I know his sentences."

The kettle on the stove began to hiss. Shen Zhixia lifted it off, poured half into the thermos, and topped up He Xiufen's cup.

"Want me to make a fair copy for you?"

"No." He Xiufen waved her off. "This can't be copied by anyone else."

"What's on the third page?" she asked.

"Not statutes."

"Evidence?"

"Not that either." He Xiufen flipped the top page over, covering everything. "It's about me and your father."

She said nothing.

"I wrote it down, but it doesn't have to be read. Whether it's read or not is for the court to decide." He Xiufen said. "That page I'm keeping. When the day comes to give it to you, I'll tell you."

She stood up and instinctively reached to move the vinegar cruet, thinking to refill it. He Xiufen's hand came down on the lid first.

"Don't touch it."

"It's empty."

"Empty." He Xiufen said. "It's holding down paper."

She withdrew her hand. He Xiufen lowered her head and kept writing. The pen made a fine sound, stroke after stroke, falling on the paper, falling in the unlit dining room.

When she left she pulled the door shut, leaving a crack. Outside, the daylight slipped through and fell on the lid of the tin box on the counter.

October 5th, 3 p.m., Tang Guo came.

She carried a bag of tangerines, kicked her shoes off by the door, dropped onto the sofa, and set the tangerines on her knees. Zhi'an came out of his room, grabbed two, and went back in, leaving the door not quite shut.

"Zhixia, there's something I want to ask you."

"Go ahead."

"Under the Qingshi Village video, people have been asking questions recently." Tang Guo flipped her phone over, screen up, stopped on the direct messages page. "They're not asking about the ditch. They're asking about the hearing."

"Asking what?"

"Asking if they can go and sit in." She said, "One asked: her husband won't let her, says it's not their family's business. Another asked how many hours the bus takes from the village to the courthouse."

"What did you answer?"

"I haven't answered a single word." Tang Guo set her phone face-down on her lap. "If I answer that kind of question wrong, it becomes me rallying people on my account."

"No need to rally." She said. "The trial day is a public hearing. Anyone who wants to go brings their ID and registers at the courthouse."

"Just go like that?"

"Just go like that. Once the date is set, they'll post the cause of action, time, and location at the courthouse entrance."

"What about me? Do I say something on my account?"

"Don't."

"Why?"

"The moment you say something, the people who come won't be coming to listen." She said. "They'll be coming to watch."

Tang Guo peeled the white strings off a tangerine segment one by one, peeled it completely clean, then didn't eat it, just set it on the coffee table.

"What if I run into someone asking?"

"Answer them one by one. Just that one line: public hearing, bring your ID, register in person."

"Got it." Tang Guo said. "I'll go by myself that day. I'll push my evening livestream to after ten."

Zhi'an came out of his room and stood in the middle of the living room, still holding half a tangerine.

"Jie, where do I sit that day?"

"Public gallery."

"You sit in front."

"I sit in front."

"Alone?"

"Alone." She said. "Director He will be at the defense bench. When the presiding judge asks if the family has anything to say, I'll stand up and answer."

"Answer what?"

"I'll think of it that day myself."

Zhi'an shoved the tangerine into his mouth and mumbled, "I'll sit somewhere I can see you."

"Sit anywhere. Once you're inside, keep your mouth shut."

"When have I ever talked?"

Tang Guo burst out laughing. Zhi'an glared at her, and she laughed even louder.

When she left, Tang Guo packed the tangerine peels into the bag, carried it in her hand, and turned back at the door.

"What about him? Is he going?"

"He's a witness."

"Where do witnesses sit?"

"Witness room."

"Oh." Tang Guo responded, switching the bag to her other hand. "I'll wear something plain that day." Then she went downstairs.

The later days of the holiday passed slowly.

On the night of October 6th it rained. Zhi'an brought in the two potted plants from the windowsill, set newspaper under the pots, but the floor was still damp the next morning.

On October 8th the noodle house reopened. The first day at noon only four tables filled up. He Xiufen stood at the stove all morning; in the afternoon she untied her apron and went back to that table at the rear.

On October 9th, He Xiufen pulled the manuscript pages out from under the vinegar cruet, arranged them page by page in order, and put them away in the tin box under the counter. The mooncakes inside were long gone, the bottom lined with old newspaper. The vinegar cruet still sat on the table, still empty, pressing down a new page.

October 10th, 9 p.m., second floor.

Li Huilan had called in the afternoon saying the draft mediation agreement on her desk was needed first thing tomorrow morning, and asked her to bring it up on her way. She ate a bowl of noodles at the shop and waited until nine before carrying her bag upstairs. At that hour the building was empty; she could go in without speaking to anyone.

The second-floor door was unlocked and swung open at a push. The outer room was dark. A strip of white light showed under the door to the inner office, falling on the concrete floor of the hall.

She found her way to her desk and turned the lamp to its lowest setting. Light rose, illuminating her corner of the desk and a patch of the window glass too.

Li Huilan's desk was toward the back of the outer room. The draft was under a stack of photocopies, second layer down. When she pulled it out, another sheet of paper came with it and drifted to the floor. She bent down, picked it up, glanced at it, put it back, and aligned the edges.

The inner door opened a crack. He stood in the doorway, a cup in one hand, a finger-width of water left at the bottom.

"Lawyer Shen."

"Lawyer Lu." She rolled the draft into a cylinder. "Lawyer Li needs this. I'll take it and go."

He stepped half a pace aside, clearing the doorframe. The light was behind him; half his face was in shadow.

"Late."

"It's needed first thing tomorrow." She slipped the rolled paper into her bag and zipped it shut.

To reach the door she had to pass the half-open door to the inner office. Her eyes drifted in for half a second: three pages spread on the desk, a pen resting at the edge. The corners of the paper were worn soft, as though they'd been turned many times. On the first page, two faint lines ran horizontally across the middle of the text.

"Those three pages from July 6th." He said.

"Copies."

"The originals are at the Procuratorate."

"I know."

He reached out and nudged the three pages an inch back into the desk, then stopped. The index finger of that hand extended. There was a thin white line beside the knuckle, long healed, shallow, running crosswise.

"The part that was struck through—you can still see it in the copies." He said.

"I saw it."

"I meant to make it unreadable." He withdrew his hand. "The two lines pressed too lightly."

She said nothing. The sound-activated light at the far end of the corridor flicked off once, then on again.

"I'm going first." She said.

"Mm."

At the top of the stairs she turned back. "Turn the lights off before you leave."

"All right."

The staircase was narrow, and she kept one hand on the railing going down. The second-floor door closed behind her. At the half-landing she glanced up: that strip of white still pressed under the door crack, stretching all the way to the step.

Outside, she remembered the appraisal office had said ten working days. The weeklong National Day holiday fell in between. Those seven days the court's doors were locked, and the appraisal office's doors were locked too.

She didn't bother counting forward.