Chapter 500: I Was Late

The door to the inner room opened, and the light in the outer room dimmed by half.

He came out with his coat already on, collar turned up. She was pressing a page in her notebook flat, and glanced toward the door—the light was off, no papers spread across the desk.

"Let's go down," he said.

At 17:40, Li Huilan left first. The form from the Legal Aid Center had been picked up on the thirteenth, and today she had it spread across the desk for He Xiufen to see, saying the appointment letter wouldn't come through before the new year.

"Then don't take on anything new before the new year," He Xiufen said by the window. "Get the case files cleared."

"I've got three files not archived yet," Li Huilan said, zipping up her bag. "Since the day laborer case closed, the phone hasn't rung once."

"The place upstairs closes early on the twenty-fifth," He Xiufen said. "Everyone come to Zhixia's that evening. I'll bring the filling."

"The twenty-fifth I'm going to my sister's," Li Huilan said. "When I get back, I'll come by for noodles."

"Noodles are here every day."

He Xiufen pushed the old wooden chair back half a foot, stood, slung the rag over her shoulder, and headed down. Feet sounded on the stairs for a while, then the roll-up door below was pushed up and the exhaust fan hummed to life.

She gathered the papers on the desk into a file, opened her notebook, and wrote the header: "January 18." The space below stayed blank; she'd fill it in tonight. The desk calendar was flipped to the eighteenth, that square still empty too.

She cleared the desk, tucked the notebook into her canvas bag, walked to the stairwell, cut the power to the floor, and followed him down. The stairway was narrow; they went single file. She passed the row of windows on the second floor, all dark.

At the bottom, the clock by the door read 18:20.

"18:20," he said.

"What."

"December 18, the year before last. The same time." He tilted his head slightly. "This step."

She didn't answer. The same three stone steps, the same light under the eaves. The edges of the steps had been worn smooth by twenty-odd years of feet; a chip was missing from the edge of the third step, dust collected in the notch. The firm's sign hung on the wall by the door, mounted high, black lettering, a small patch of paint peeled off one corner showing the white beneath.

April 18 had been here too, when she'd read him the two lines from Volume Seven, then closed the book and turned toward the lane without looking back. The wind had been like this that day too.

Wind sliced through the alley. The couplet stall at the street corner was packed up, two bamboo poles leaning against the utility pole, red paper wrapped around the tips, flapping when the wind came. The general store across the way had no lights on, two red sheets pasted on the glass, upside down.

An old woman carrying a plastic bag passed them and looked up. "Lawyer Shen, haven't eaten yet?"

"About to."

She took two steps, then turned back and looked at the two people standing on the stone steps before disappearing into the lane.

"That number out in the suburbs," she said, "I called again this afternoon."

"What did they say."

"A woman picked up. I mentioned Sun Guilan's case, and she paused, then said they hadn't taken any vegetables all winter, whoever hauled them settles up. I asked what Boss Fan's surname was; she said she didn't know and hung up."

"Everyone's pulling back before the new year."

"Stalls packing up, people heading home for the holidays." She switched her notebook to her left hand. "Master Ma said those two layers of empty crates by the door—moss growing on the bottom ones."

"After the new year, I'll go with you on the first trip."

"I've got it down." She patted the notebook in her hand. "Written in the book. Can't run away."

"You went out this afternoon. To Zhongshan Road."

"Mm."

"What for."

"To ask one question."

"Ask what."

"Ask what happens if a ring doesn't fit."

She glanced at her bare hand. "What did he say."

"Bring it in, he'll adjust it."

"Does it cost."

"After a month, it costs."

She laughed, breath coming through her nose. "It took you until today to ask."

"It took me until today to dare to ask."

"You ask, and it's already past a month."

"It's been over nine months," he said.

Her smile froze. Wind blew her hair over her eyes; she pushed it away, and the wind blew it right back.

From the deepest part of the inner right pocket of his coat, he drew something out.

The box was only palm-sized, deep blue velvet, one corner worn fuzzy, a small patch rubbed pale. He held it in his left palm, thumb of his right hand trying to pry the lid open—twice it didn't catch, the third time it did.

That ring of gold flashed once under the light, very thin, no pattern at all.

"Bought on April tenth."

"Which year."

"Last year."

She counted in her head: April, May, June… over nine months. The worn-pale side of the velvet was the side that had rested against his body. The box came out of his pocket still warm.

"The receipt."

He reached into the left inner pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, folded in thirds, the edges soft, and handed it to her. Printed lines with the date filled in as April 10; the ring-size field showed shop handwriting.

She read it, folded it back up, and returned it.

"Couldn't keep it in a pocket in summer," he said. "Kept it in a drawer. When it got cold, I put it back."

"When did you start carrying it again."

"In October, the day I started wearing the coat."

She lowered her head and studied the box for a while.

"Zhi'an said," he began, "ask her. If she says yes, it's yes."

"When did you ask him."

"April fourteenth. At the station."

"He got on the bus that day and stuck his head out the back window, said he wasn't going to tell me."

"What he shouted was that he wouldn't tell you," he said. "He never said I couldn't tell you myself."

She burst out laughing, breath white in the air. "You and my brother splitting hairs."

"His diction's not bad either."

Someone pushed a cart down the street, wheels rattling on the concrete, a bell ringing twice, then fading. The wind swayed the light; the circle of it shifted half an inch across the stone steps.

He raised the box slightly. "I'm asking you."

She looked down at the ring. Smooth, nothing engraved.

"Yes."

He didn't move, his eyes still on her face.

"Yes," she said again. "Want me to write it down too?"

"Yes."

"If I write it, don't complain my handwriting's ugly."

"I won't."

He pinched the ring out of the box between two fingers, very steady. His left hand reached for hers. Her hand was balled in her sleeve; he drew it out, fingertips cold. His fingers weren't warm either, the skin at the thumb web rough. The ring passed the knuckle and settled at the base of her finger.

She spread her fingers and flicked her hand; the ring spun around the knuckle.

"Too big," she said.

"It was measured."

"Which size did you pick."

"The middle one."

"No wonder it's loose." She raised her hand to her eye. "There's a seam on the inside. See?"

"Soldered."

"At least the seam's smooth." She turned it over. "So thin. One day it'll slip off and I won't even know."

"If it falls, tell me."

"And if it falls, you'll get another?"

"If it falls, we go back to the shop and ask if it can be found."

She flexed her fingers twice, but the ring wouldn't come back around at the base. It was very thin, yet it felt heavy on her hand.

"Hands are thinner in winter."

"It'll be snug in summer."

"Deal with summer when it comes."

He closed the empty box, the lid clicking shut gently, and slid it back into the inner pocket, which had other papers in it; he pressed down before the bottom of the box went all the way in.

"April eighteenth, that day," he said, "it was in my pocket."

She lifted her eyes to him.

"When I got to these three steps, I thought about taking it out."

"Even if you had, I couldn't have answered."

"I know. So I didn't."

Another gust came, lifting the hem of his coat.

"Last year, I read those two lines down here," she said, "then I left."

"I stood up there for a while."

"How long."

"Until you turned the corner."

The wind swayed the light again; the circle of it shifted, catching the chip in the third step. She lowered her head and studied her hand for a moment.

"The year before last, you said here," she said, "you'd meant to wait until that paper from nine years ago could be laid open."

"It's open now."

"Almost three months now."

"Mm." He said, "This part—I should have said it long ago."

"Why did you take it out today."

"Today's the eighteenth."

"I thought you'd just picked a random day."

"I don't do random."

She raised her hand to the light. "Tomorrow, when people downstairs see it, what are you going to say."

"Let them see."

"Director He—"

"She turned on that light under the eaves at four o'clock today."

"She knew?"

"The evening of April eighteenth, she left the downstairs light on for me."

She glanced back through the doorway. The light was on; the exhaust fan over the stove hadn't started yet.

The roll-up door rattled behind them. He Xiufen pushed it up from inside, the metal rolling up with a clatter, and a broad wash of white light spilled from the shop onto the stone steps.

"Come in. It's cold out."

At the table by the door, the surface was wiped clean, one corner propped with a paper folded twice. She took the inner seat. He pulled two pairs of chopsticks from the holder and handed her one. The fluorescent tube overhead was flickering at one end, then steadied.

She stretched her hand under the light; the ring turned half a circle on her knuckle.

The door curtain moved, and someone came in, ordering a bowl of plain noodles, no scallions. He Xiufen answered "plain," her hands never stopping.

She brought out two bowls of noodles, one set before her, one before him, a poached egg nestled in each. Setting them down, she glanced at the hand, asked nothing, and slung the rag over her shoulder.

When she carried the bowl of plain noodles out, He Xiufen passed behind them and patted her back without a word. The customer took the bowl, glanced at the two of them at the table, and lowered his head to eat.

"What are you doing with your hand out there," He Xiufen said only when she was back at the stove. "The noodles are going to clump."

"Just looking."

"What's there to look at." She lifted the pot lid to add water, walked a couple of steps, then looked back. "There's sun tomorrow."

The exhaust fan started, the smell of scallion oil pressing down from overhead. She nudged the poached egg aside and took a sip of the broth first—too hot—and turned the bowl around. He moved the vinegar bottle closer to her bowl without pouring.

The wall calendar was open to January, the square for the twenty-fifth circled in pencil, a neat circle.

"Director He," she said, "tomorrow at ten I'm going out for a bit."

"Go on." He Xiufen answered from the stove. "I'll watch things upstairs."

"Tonight, if he sees it, should I say anything." She didn't look up.

"He'll wait for you to bring it up yourself." He straightened his chopsticks.

Her notebook sat at the corner of the table, unopened.

He picked up his chopsticks, then set them down.

"Tomorrow, go get it resized."

"No rush."

"The shop said no charge within a month. I was late."