Chapter 499: Two Bowls of Noodles, Served

The photocopier's light swept across the wall, then swept back. Li Huilan pulled the paper out—two sheets, warm, corners curling.

"Decision letter." She walked to the inner office doorway and knocked twice on the frame. "I'm making a copy for the file."

Lu Jibai pulled the paper from his inner pocket and handed it over, then sat back down and kept writing. Li Huilan finished copying, slipped one sheet into the case jacket and set the other back on the corner of his desk, a pen cap resting on top of it.

"The copy for the Justice Bureau—are they delivering it?"

"They're delivering it."

"Then my file is complete." She slid the case jacket into the second shelf of the metal cabinet, pushed it all the way back, and returned to her desk to pack her bag, zipping it all the way to the top. "I'm heading out first. Tomorrow morning I need to go to the Legal Aid Center—that form's still sitting on their counter. It's been four days."

"Take care on the road." He Xiufen spoke from under the window. She stood, pushed the old wooden chair half a foot closer to the desk, wiped the tabletop with her rag, then walked to her own desk and bent down to look at a box in the register.

"Empty?"

"Still empty."

"Fill it in. If it happened today, write it today." Footsteps descended the stairs. The roll-up shutter was pushed up, the exhaust fan hummed to life, and the smell of scallion oil seeped up through the floorboards. Someone downstairs called out: "One beef noodles, wide."

Upstairs, what remained were three desks, one metal cabinet, and a wooden chair pushed under the window. The desk calendar still sat on the January 10 page, untouched for two days. She flipped forward—the 10th and 11th were blank. She turned to the 12th; that page had no writing either. The pencil had been lying in front of the calendar the whole time, its tip having pressed a faint groove into the paper. She drew a line through the 12th and returned to her desk.

She opened the notebook and found yesterday's page. The header read "January 11, Bar Association Review"; the box after it she had left blank yesterday, waiting for it to fill itself. She dipped the pen and wrote the date first—"January 12"—then continued: the paper Guan Min read said no disciplinary action.

"Decision of No Disciplinary Action, served." After writing, she tilted her head to look at it. The characters were smaller than the line above. She added nothing more.

She turned one page further to Sun Guilan's matter. The receipt was copied on the left side; below it were nine trips, three yuan each way, six per round trip, counted one by one. The middle column was empty—she still didn't have Boss Fan's number. On the right was the note from January 4: "The other side says it's settled, but the receipt doesn't show it."

She picked up her phone and dialed the number she'd saved over half a month ago.

"Sun Ayi, it's me, Lawyer Shen."

There was a clatter on the other end first, like someone lifting a landline receiver off the table and setting it down again. "Lawyer Shen, go ahead."

"That young man loading trucks in the autumn—do you still remember what he wore?"

"Blue. Short sleeves. On his hands he wore—" The old woman thought for a moment. "Covers, with the fingers sticking out."

"What was his name?"

"Don't know. Early twenties. He called Boss Fan 'our boss.'"

"That ledger—who was writing on the paper that day?"

"Boss Fan doesn't write things himself. He has someone write. The pen was in someone else's hand; whatever I said, that's what they wrote."

She wrote each sentence down word by word, below the "Three Questions to Ask."

"Lawyer Shen," the old woman spoke again, "that money—"

"I'll go after the New Year."

"You don't rest even over the New Year?"

"We do."

"Good that you rest. Rest gives you the strength to run." The other end paused. "That paper of mine—don't lose it."

"I won't. It's with me."

After hanging up, she set the phone face-down on the desk. He Xiufen had said not to go out to the city outskirts alone before the New Year. That line couldn't be written onto any page.

The phone buzzed again—a voice message in the group chat. Ma Jianjun's voice came through muffled under the exhaust fan's hum: he had a delivery run to the outskirts that afternoon; empty crates were stacked at the purchasing point entrance, two layers high, the bottom layer already growing moss. No trucks had come out all winter. She listened to the message to the end and replied: Noted.

The light in the inner office stayed on. Paper turned, pen set down; sometimes it paused, sometimes it moved again. Cars passed on Zhongshan Road, headlights sweeping across the curtains—one stripe, then another.

At 7:20, the sounds inside stopped.

She pressed the cap onto her pen—click—looked up toward the inner office door.

"Lu Jibai."

He looked up. The desk lamp lit the left side of his face; the right was in shadow. The pen in his hand still pressed against the paper, the nib bleeding a small dot.

"That sentence from April 27—I take it back."

The dot didn't grow. He set the pen down flat, rested his hands on the edge of the desk, and only spoke after a few seconds.

"Alright."

"The firm's affairs—"

"I'll do as you say."

"I'll also do as you say."

She reached for the pen cap and pressed it, only then realizing she'd already pressed it a moment ago.

He stood from behind the desk and walked to the doorway, not stepping back any further. The desk lamp lit his trouser cuffs; the outer room's lamp lit the desk surface. Between the two pools of light hung the shadow of the door frame.

She closed the notebook and opened it again, ran her fingertip along the desk edge, then remembered she had meant to keep writing.

"That paper—I read it from start to finish this afternoon," he said.

"Looking for what?"

"Looking for a third clause."

"There isn't one."

"I counted twice."

"Twice and still none." She slid the pen into the pen holder; the barrel clinked against the bottom. "The copy for the Justice Bureau is in their hands. They didn't leave us a loose end."

"Good."

"The two truckloads from the outskirts," he continued, "we're not going before the New Year."

"Director He said the same thing."

"After the New Year, I'll go with you on the first trip."

"They didn't tell her a single word." She pressed her hand flat on the notebook. "Nine trips."

"Whether we get answers is their business. Whether we go is ours."

She didn't answer. She flipped the notebook to the last two blank pages, wrote "January 12" at the top, and below it: "City outskirts. After New Year. First trip, he's coming with me." Then she closed the notebook and clicked the pen cap on.

He Xiufen's voice drifted up from the stairwell, neither loud nor soft: "Noodles are down—two bowls."

She stuffed the notebook into her canvas bag, cleared her desk, turned off the outer office light, and walked to the inner office door. He was switching off the desk lamp. She pulled the breaker for the floor, and the two of them went downstairs one after the other, her in the back pulling the door shut, the key turning twice in the lock.

The noodle shop's lights glared white. At the table against the wall sat two men in work uniforms, a hard hat on the table and a phone propped sideways beside the vinegar bottle playing a show. At the table by the door, two bowls of noodles sat together, steam rising. One had a poached egg nestled on top; the other didn't.

He Xiufen stood at the stove, back to them, hands working noodles into the pot, not asking a thing.

The two of them sat down. He pulled two pairs of chopsticks from the holder and passed one across.

The broth was scallion oil. She took a sip—hot—and turned the bowl around. The two workers at the next table were settling the day's wages: one said "by the meter," the other said "by the meter it never works out," and halfway through their calculation one said the year was closing out and you couldn't trust a labor contractor's word. The exhaust fan swallowed half their voices.

He picked up the vinegar bottle, shook two drops into his own bowl, then paused it over hers and didn't tip it.

"I don't want any," she said.

He set the bottle back where it had been.

She bit into the poached egg, then lifted the remaining half with her chopsticks and set it on the rim of his bowl. He said nothing; he ate it.

He Xiufen turned and added a ladle of broth, saying only, "If it's not enough, help yourself." Then she turned back. The water on the stove was boiling; the lid rattled. She lifted it and tossed in a handful of greens. The steam flipped up a corner of the wall calendar.

The two workers got up to leave. One called out, "Boss, put it on the tab."

"No tabs." He Xiufen didn't turn around.

"Then tomorrow."

"Bring money tomorrow."

They left; the door curtain swayed twice. He Xiufen went over with her rag to wipe down their table, looping around behind them, not saying a word.

She ate quickly, scraping the scallions at the bottom of her bowl into one pile. He ate halfway, then pushed his bowl forward slightly.

"I'll be here at eight tomorrow morning."

"I'll be here at seven forty."

"Then seven forty."

"You don't have to change it." She pulled out a tissue and dried her hands. "Your schedule is yours."

"If I change it, it's still my schedule." He moved her bowl half an inch to the side to clear a patch of table. "Seven forty. I'll wait for you downstairs."

She stacked the two bowls and carried them to the stove. He Xiufen didn't turn around; she just raised a hand and pointed to the side. "Leave them there."

No one mentioned the bill. She shouldered her bag. He held the door curtain up for her at the doorway, pressing down the hem of his coat with one hand. He Xiufen, rag already draped over her shoulder, tossed out a line without looking back: "Watch for cars on your way."

The wind at the mouth of the lane was harder than it had been at noon. The bus stop sign stood under a streetlamp; a patch of paint had chipped off the pole, exposing the iron underneath. A woman with a bag of oranges was tapping at her phone under the sign, two oranges peeking out of the plastic bag.

"I'll see you home."

"Seven stops. I'll take the bus."

"I'll see you home on the bus."

The two of them walked toward the stop. When no cars were on the road, the wind cut straight across from the opposite street. He stepped half a pace to the side, walking on the outside; she pulled her scarf up over her nose.

Headlights came from down the street and pulled up at the stop. She got on first, swiped her card—beep—then he followed, fumbling a card from his pocket and pressing it to the reader. His beep came right after hers, less than half a step apart.

The bus wasn't crowded; a row of cloth loops hung from the horizontal rail. She gripped the rail; he stood outside her, his body angled toward the door.

"Zhixia, move one step in," he said. "The door catches people."

She shifted half a step inward, her grip moving up the rail. The bus lurched forward, and the row of loops swung together. His hand landed on the rail just above hers, fingers curled, not touching.

"Seven forty tomorrow morning," she said.

"Seven forty."

At the next stop, three people got on: one carrying a plastic bag of vegetables, one hugging a backpack and dozing, one heading straight for the back to find a seat. Someone squeezed past behind them; he didn't retreat, just dropped his shoulder and blocked off a piece of the aisle. The stop announcements came down from overhead, and she didn't register a single name. He glanced up at the sign above the door, then lowered his eyes again.

The bus swayed.

Two hands touched.

Neither of them moved.