Chapter 474: One Level Up

November 3rd, 7 p.m. She was at home cooking noodles. The water boiled fast; she shook the dried noodles apart and dropped them in, white steam surging up against the range hood. Her phone buzzed on the table. The number on the screen was one she recognized—copied into her notebook, his son's phone.

"Lawyer Shen." Pang Chunlai exhaled first, like a man who'd taken two steps before finding his footing. "That manager at the plant—yesterday the police took him away."

She set her chopsticks on the rim of the pot. "How do you know this?"

"My son told me. Everybody at the plant's talking about it."

"Talking about what."

"Saying he was the one who ordered the trucks. Saying that twenty thousand was from him, too." He coughed twice, and only after the coughing passed did he go on. "My son got home late today. Walked in and said this first thing, then went quiet."

"Have the police come to the village?"

"No. No cars in the village." He paused; she could hear the stove ticking in his house. "These past two days nobody's been visiting. If a car stops in front of someone's gate, they just shut their door. I went out this morning to check the scallions, got as far as the lane corner and turned back."

"If anyone comes asking," she said, "tell them what you told me that day. Don't add a single word."

The line went quiet for a moment. "What I said, I won't change."

"I know."

"The old woman next door asked me yesterday—is that case of yours moving? I told her I didn't know. I didn't say one word."

"That's right. You didn't."

"I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing and messing it up." He coughed once. "I can't read many characters. Say one wrong sentence, and they'll hold me to it."

"If they ask you, just answer truthfully." She turned the flame down; foam was climbing to the rim of the pot. "What you said at the courthouse that day—don't change one word of it."

"Those two scallions in the yard, the neighbor's been watering them for me." He said, "I go out twice a day to look. There's nobody left in the fields. Just those two, still green."

"And your son?"

"Gone to work. The plant hasn't stopped." He paused. "Lawyer Shen—that manager, was it because of me?"

"I don't know who it's about." She said, "The investigators will ask. When they ask you, answer truthfully."

"I'll answer truthfully."

After she hung up, she fished out the noodles and tossed them with a little scallion oil. Zhi'an came out of the back room to get water and glanced at her bowl. "That's all you're eating."

"Want some?"

"Already ate." He held his water cup and didn't leave. "Who called just now?"

"That old man from Baixi Village."

"What happened?"

"A manager at their plant was taken away yesterday."

Zhi'an stood by the door without moving, the water in his cup rippling. "So it's almost over?"

"I don't know." She lifted a mouthful of noodles with her chopsticks. "They have to go through it piece by piece."

"Piece by piece until when?" He sat back down on the stool by the inner room door, drank half his water, then said, "Sis, your noodles are going to turn to paste."

"You work on your own stuff."

On the morning of the 4th, she spread the photocopy of Qinghe's remediation supervision form across her desk. In the replanting section, the confirmation column was still blank—the box clean, except for one pencil dot she'd made the last time she flipped through, no bigger than a grain of rice, which she'd tried twice to erase without success. She pressed her finger down on that box, as if to flatten it, then folded the paper in half and slipped it into a folder.

At ten, she wrote the past few days into her notebook. After the November 1st page she added two lines, her pen tip pausing twice before it touched down. When she finished, she flipped to the back and took out that case receipt, examined it. Around the round seal, the paper had developed a faint fuzz. She folded it back the way it had been and tucked it in again.

"Keep that receipt safe." He Xiufen said from under the window, without looking up. "If you lose it, you can't get another."

"I've got it."

"Any word from the branch bureau?"

"No."

"No call isn't necessarily a bad thing." He Xiufen flipped the paper in her hand over. "What gets handed in first lands in the mailroom cabinet, then gets assigned to someone. Only when it's assigned does anyone actually read it."

"I know."

"Good that you know." He Xiufen said, "Don't check your phone three times a day."

She went downstairs at 11:50. The noodle shop was already half full. Electric scooters lined the entrance, rain gear hanging from handlebars, a few helmets airing on chair backs in a row. At the table near the back, someone was talking into his phone: "Stop rushing, my order's about to be there, I'm out of the stairwell already." Water rolled in the pot; He Xiufen grabbed noodles with one hand and cracked the lid with the other.

A few minutes before noon, Song Qiming came in.

Dark gray suit jacket draped over one arm, tie loosened an inch, hair still neat. He stood under the price board by the door, looked up and studied it, only then moving deeper inside.

"A bowl of noodles," he said.

"Spicy or not," He Xiufen asked.

"Not."

He sat at the table near the door, folded his jacket once and hung it over the back of the chair, rested both hands on the edge of the table, watching the stove. When the noodles arrived, he tapped his chopsticks against the rim of the bowl once, then began to eat.

The shop was at its busiest now. A man had rolled his uniform sleeves to his elbows to eat; another ate while scrolling through orders on his phone. One rider stood up, helmet clamped under his arm, and called across two tables: "I'm off." He Xiufen answered from the back: "Ride safe."

Song Qiming said nothing. Halfway through, he picked up the bowl and drank a mouthful of soup, set it back down, ate two more bites. Ten minutes. Half a bowl of soup left, chopsticks laid across the rim. He took two bills from his trouser pocket, pressed them under the bowl, stood up, draped his jacket back over his arm, and walked toward her table.

When she looked up, he was already standing there.

"Lawyer Shen."

She set her chopsticks down.

"I was called in for questioning," he said, his voice low, just loud enough for her to hear. "One level up—I'll say the same thing."

There were faint shadows under his eyes. After he spoke, he just looked at her, waiting for her answer.

"I know," she said.

He gave one nod, turned, and walked out. The plastic door curtain swung twice behind him.

He Xiufen went over and put the two bills in the drawer. "That man eats without making a sound."

"He spent ten minutes on that bowl."

"Ten minutes, not a word." He Xiufen pushed the drawer shut. "On the day of the verdict in April, you told me—on the steps, he said the signature line on that seal tag wasn't his, and at the end he said, 'One level up, I'll say the same thing.' Today he came all the way here to say the exact same sentence."

"Who's he saying it for," she asked.

"For you." He Xiufen picked up a cloth and wiped the counter. "He knows exactly where he's willing to go with it."

At four in the afternoon Cai Qingru called. She was on the second floor. Wind outside, plastering the alley's advertising flyers against the wall and peeling them off again.

"Lawyer Shen. We counted seedlings this morning." There was wind on Cai Qingru's end too, her speech carrying the breathlessness of walking. "The third party sent two people. They counted from the head of the ditch to the tail, one plant at a time. Halfway through, a light rain started. They held umbrellas and kept counting—nobody said a word, just listening to the numbers."

"How many came out."

"I've got the sheet in my hand, first section and second section written separately. Of the ones we replanted, over eighty percent survived. A few clumps were knocked crooked by the water—they marked those with a red pen too."

"The confirmation column."

"Signed." Cai Qingru said, "Auntie Chai put her thumbprint down, and I wrote her name beside it. After she pressed it, she wiped her hand on her trouser leg and said: 'Pressing it here's better than drawing circles on the rice jar.'"

She laughed quietly. "What else did she say?"

"She asked if the writing was correct. I said yes. She said she can't read, she was just asking." Cai Qingru flipped a page. "For the acceptance inspection date, Judge Luo said their court will set it—sometime before month's end. Waiting for the notice."

"Good."

"Also, I heard something today," Cai Qingru said. "The people from the third party asked: since every item in the judgment is done, can the acceptance just be signed. I said that's not up to me, it's up to the court. He said then we'll wait for the court."

"He's right."

"That's what I thought." Cai Qingru paused. "Lawyer Shen, once this piece lands, that's it, isn't it."

"Not until the day they sign."

At 11 a.m. on the 5th, footsteps on the stairs. She looked up. Lu Jibai came up from the stairwell, jacket unchanged, a little dampness on his shoulders. His heel paused on the last step.

He walked into the outer office and stood beside Li Huilan's desk. He Xiufen sat in the old wooden chair by the window and set down the papers in her hands.

"The branch bureau called me in to talk about that year," he said. "I went. I told them everything."

He Xiufen looked at him. "All done?"

"All done."

Li Huilan asked, "Want some water?"

"No." He walked into the inner room, pushed the door halfway open, went in, and left the door ajar by a hand's width.

She sat at her desk, pen tip resting on the paper, a sentence half-written. When he passed her desk, his eyes swept over it, not stopping.

At noon, He Xiufen called from the stairwell: "Noodles are in."

The four of them went down. He walked last, and only when he reached the landing did he remember to button the bottom button of his jacket.

The noodle shop was just starting to fill. He walked to the table near the door and sat down alone. He Xiufen brought his bowl over without asking—no chili added.

She sat with He Xiufen and Li Huilan at the table against the wall. Li Huilan said someone had called that morning about unpaid wages, said he'd come by tomorrow, and she'd told him exactly what papers to bring. He Xiufen listened, adding vinegar to her bowl. Someone pushed the door open; wind lifted one corner of the curtain, then let it fall.

He finished his bowl even faster than Song Qiming had the day before. Chopsticks down, he stood. "Put the noodles on my tab."

"Already marked," He Xiufen said.

He turned and went upstairs. As she lowered her chopsticks into her bowl, she heard footsteps climbing the stairs one by one, stopping at the second floor, then the soft click of a door.

He Xiufen went to collect his bowl. One mouthful of soup left in it. She carried it to the sink, poured it out, and came back holding only the empty bowl, stopping by her table.

"Aren't you going to ask?" Li Huilan suddenly said, and as soon as the words were out she seemed to regret them, lowering her head to drink her soup.

"Ask what," she said.

"I talk too much." Li Huilan pushed the scallions in her bowl to one side.

"Zhixia."

She looked up.

"What he didn't say, don't ask." He Xiufen lifted the bowl slightly in her hands. "He's like you. He's a witness."