Chapter 477: Han So-and-so

At four o'clock in the afternoon on November 10th, the north-facing window on the second floor was open halfway. Wind blew up from the stairwell, lifting the corner of a stack of intake forms on Li Huilan's desk. She pressed the papers down with one hand and slid her phone over with the other.

"Take a look at this."

There was a crack running from the edge of the screen protector, and the crack lay right across the words. Someone in the industry group had forwarded a message: The one from Hengzheng was taken away this morning.

Nobody had replied underneath.

She picked up the phone and read it from beginning to end. No name, no details, and the person who forwarded it hadn't added anything further. She finished reading and set the phone back beside Li Huilan's hand.

"'The one' — who's that."

"The person didn't say." Li Huilan said, "Over a hundred people in that group, all of them in the field. I asked, 'Who?'"

"Anyone answer?"

"No. After a while, the person forwarded the exact same message again, still no name. My question — it was gone later." She paused. "I didn't delete it."

"Who forwarded it?"

"Someone who left Tongsheng around the same time as me, does admin work at another firm now. Someone I can still talk to." Li Huilan turned the phone face-down on the desk. "I saw it at three-thirty. I didn't show you right away."

"Worried I'd be upset."

"Worried you'd get your hopes up for nothing." Li Huilan said, "'Taken away' can mean a hundred different things in a day. It's words from someone's mouth, not a single character on paper."

"What time was he taken away this morning?"

"It says morning. That's all. Who took him, where from, where to — not a word."

She pulled the stack of work-day sheets toward herself and set a paperweight on top. The door to the back office was shut, a thin line of light showing beneath it, dust drifting in the glow.

"In court that day, what did he say." Li Huilan asked.

"Two 'no's." She said, "He said he didn't know the person who received the samples, and he'd never seen the handover form."

"That's all."

"That's all."

Li Huilan tapped a finger lightly on the desk: "Then the second time he's asked this year, he'll have no third answer to give."

She didn't respond to that. She turned to the second page of the work-day sheets. At the spot circled in red, the date the labor contractor had signed didn't match the recorded work days. She added a small note beside it with a pen, writing down what the mason had told her this morning.

Li Huilan's voice dropped: "Should we say something to him?"

"He can hear."

"The second floor is small. Of course he can hear. But hearing and having someone actually say it to you — not the same."

"Let me finish checking this first."

"Check." Li Huilan stood, carried her cup to the windowsill, and said with her back turned, "If I hadn't shown you, you wouldn't have slept tonight."

"I wouldn't have slept. Nothing to do with this."

At six, the door to the back office opened.

When he came out, his sleeves were rolled down. He walked to the window and stopped, hands in his pockets. Down in the alley, the scrap collector's tricycle was turning in at the corner, a bundle of cardboard roped to the back so tight the edges curled up. Someone below was spreading scallions out to dry, laying them one by one. The blackboard outside the noodle shop had been nudged aside to clear a path.

He watched for a while. The wind pushed the hair back from his forehead, and he didn't raise a hand to smooth it.

She closed the folder and capped her pen. The drawer slid shut with a metallic click.

He didn't turn around.

Footsteps on the stairs. He Xiufen came up, stood in the doorway, a damp patch still on her apron: "Noodles are ready. How many eating tonight?"

"Two." She said.

He Xiufen glanced toward the window, asked nothing, turned and went down first, the wooden stairs creaking step by step. He pushed the window back to half-closed, wedged it, and picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. She went ahead, he followed.

The noodle shop was thick with steam. He Xiufen brought out two bowls, one after the other. His had no chili.

She sat at the table near the wall, he sat at the one near the door, one empty table between them. He went to the counter for vinegar, and on the way back passed her table, setting the bottle on the empty table between them, within reach of both. He said nothing, sat down, and kept eating.

The exhaust fan hummed. The TV was talking about the winds these past two days. Two people came in and stood waiting for a seat; He Xiufen waved them off: "Give it a minute — wait outside."

He finished first, laid his chopsticks across the bowl, and stood. At the foot of the stairs, he paused.

"Shen Lushi."

She looked up.

"That message today. I saw it." He said.

"I saw it too."

"No name on it." He finished, then went upstairs.

He Xiufen came to clear the bowls, stacking his empty one on her forearm: "He spoke to you."

"One sentence."

"One sentence is still speaking." She pushed the rag across an oil stain between the two tables and wiped twice. "I won't ask you anything today."

At nine o'clock on November 11th, she was alone on the second floor. Li Huilan had gone down for noodles; He Xiufen was at the stove. She entered yesterday's work-day sheet into the computer, keystrokes slow, checking line by line. When she reached the field for the labor contractor's signature, she glanced down toward the ground floor.

Her phone pinged.

Tang Guo had sent a screenshot. It was a police bulletin from the branch bureau, the branch's name in the header, a paragraph below, no flourish at the end.

Han So-and-so (male), on suspicion of perjury, aiding in the destruction and fabrication of evidence, and obstructing witness testimony, has been lawfully placed in criminal detention. The case is under further investigation.

Below it, Tang Guo added: "I'm not posting this."

Then another message: "Someone under my last post asked if it's that person. I didn't reply."

She wrote back: "Don't."

"I won't." Tang Guo said, "And I won't ask around. If I ask, everyone will know I've spotted it."

"The screenshot?"

"Saved to my computer, not my photo album."

"For tonight's livestream, turn off comments for two days."

"That's what I was thinking." Tang Guo replied. "Turned off. I won't say a word about it."

She read the paragraph again. Three charges, separated by enumeration marks, one after another. She had written something once — four pages, each page dated.

The "no's" in court on October 26th — that became one charge.

The box of seal tags in the village committee archive room in the early hours of February 25th — one charge.

The car that night of August 10th, the twenty thousand yuan — one charge.

All three were on it.

From the back of her notebook she pulled out the case receipt dated November 1st and laid it beside the phone. The paper edges had gone soft, the fold lines fuzzy with wear. The receipt was dated November 1st — the page she'd handed in was still crisp when she submitted it.

From that day to this one: ten days.

She folded the receipt back along its old crease, matching the fold exactly.

That night nine years ago — it wasn't on there. Of the four pages she'd submitted, that item had been written separately, with a note at the end asking them to review it as well. It wasn't on there.

She took out her notebook and turned to the November page. The entries for November 8th and 9th were already there. Below them she wrote: November 10th — the one from Hengzheng taken away, no name written by anyone.

The next line: November 11th, 9 a.m. — bulletin. All three are on it.

When she got to "Han So-and-so," the pen hesitated, then she copied the "so-and-so" out to match.

At noon she went downstairs. The noodle shop was busy; He Xiufen stood at the stove, one hand on the pot, the other on the spatula, calling over her shoulder: "Sit. I saved you noodles."

She sat at the inside table and set her phone on the corner. He Xiufen brought the noodles over, wiped her hands on her apron twice, and sat down: "The thing Tang Guo sent you? Read it to me. These eyes — I can't make out small print on a phone anymore."

She slid the phone over. He Xiufen fished her reading glasses out of her apron pocket, put them on, pushed the screen out to arm's length, and read it word by word. When she reached "obstructing witness testimony," she stopped.

Stopped for a while.

"That one." She tapped a finger on the screen, leaving a faint smudge. "In your father's case, the charge named in the indictment. Now it's landed on his head."

"That matter — the indictment spent only one sentence on it." She pulled off the glasses and held them between her fingers. "This time it's different. This time they'll write it out point by point. Only the charges that hold will stay."

"The perjury charge," she said, "that's the sentences he spoke himself in court."

"He said them himself. No one said them for him." He Xiufen said, "That charge is for witnesses. This year, he was a witness. After all the times in his life he did the talking for others, in the end it was him standing up there talking."

"His two 'no's."

"Two 'no's." He Xiufen set the phone on the table. "When he said 'no,' that page was already sitting in the procuratorate's file. Nine years. He thought no one would ever turn to it, and that meant it never happened."

She pulled her bowl toward herself, didn't pick up the chopsticks.

"That last line — 'the case is under further investigation.'" He Xiufen said, "That line is for the outside. The paperwork inside is thicker than this paragraph. You just wait. Don't go asking."

"I won't ask."

"And that night nine years ago." He Xiufen asked.

"It's not on there."

"Not on there doesn't mean they haven't asked."

"I know."

"If you know, then look at your phone less." She pushed the phone back. "Don't print this one. You've seen it. That's enough."

"I haven't printed it."

"Those four pages — you wrote them clean." He Xiufen said, "Clean things work slowly."

She stood, then turned back: "If he doesn't bring it up, don't you say a word."

"I haven't said a word."

"The two of you — mouths shut tighter than doors." She carried the pot back to the stove, her voice coming through the steam. "Tight isn't bad. It's just slow."

She finished her noodles and drank a bit of the broth. The notebook sat closed, the chopsticks resting on it.

Some days she remembered in fragments; some needed no remembering. That phone call on the afternoon of July 26th — the number had been copied into her notebook back in April, no name saved. She'd set her pen down before picking up. On the other end, just one sentence: People from the intermediate court came to Hengzheng. You move faster than your father did.

She'd copied that sentence into her notebook that day, adding nothing after it.

Fast. What she'd thought then was: father walked slowly. Walked so slowly he never reached the end.

The chopsticks tapped against the rim of the bowl. She finished the last few bites, stood, and carried the bowl to the sink.