Song Yuzhang: Chapter 137 - Joy and Sorrow
Chapter 137: Joy and Sorrow
Yu Feiyu was kissing Song Yuzhang.
Song Yuzhang seemed very reluctant to part with him. Of course, he was also reluctant to part with Song Yuzhang. This time, he would be away for at least half a year—half a year was simply too long. Yu Feiyu felt like a poor boy who had suddenly struck it rich; before he’d had time to savor much of the good life, he was about to fall back into utter poverty overnight.
Oh—no, not overnight. If Song Yuzhang didn’t get tired of him, he’d at least have two more nights.
Naturally, Song Yuzhang was not tired of him.
If it had been a few years earlier, someone like Yu Feiyu would hardly have been worth mentioning to Song Yuzhang. He could get such a man easily, and once bored, he could just switch to someone new.
But times had changed. With his current status and position, it was no longer appropriate to behave as recklessly as he once had.
If he liked women, it would still be manageable. When he met one he liked, he could marry her as a concubine. Even if feelings faded later, as long as he was willing to raise her with care, it wouldn’t really be unfair to her.
But unfortunately, Song Yuzhang liked men. He used to like pretty boys; now his tastes had shifted to preferring big, grown men. And that was even more troublesome—big men had more temper than pretty boys, and almost none would be willing to become a concubine.
Yet Yu Feiyu truly seemed willing. His easygoing nature was admirable even to Song Yuzhang. While kissing him, Song Yuzhang joked, “When the railway is finished, you’ll stay here with me and keep me company.”
“Sure,” Yu Feiyu said without hesitation. He sucked lightly on Song Yuzhang’s lip and added, “As long as by then you still like me.”
Song Yuzhang thought Yu Feiyu truly lived up to the name of genius—able to think what he thought, feel what he felt. He had already been quite fond of him earlier; now he genuinely liked him. He touched Yu Feiyu’s chin and suddenly asked, “What did you mean when you said ‘ winter will pass’?”
Yu Feiyu’s mind worked quickly; he understood at once. Grinning, he recalled the events from a few months ago with cheerful ease. “It just means it will pass.” He paused. “It’s the law of nature.”
Song Yuzhang lay back with his head resting on Yu Feiyu’s thigh, gazing up from his broad chest to his sharply defined jaw. “You’re right,” he said, spreading his arms. “Carry me up.”
—
In the office of the cotton mill, the small director was sweating like rain, handkerchief clenched as he wiped his forehead. He carefully described everything he had witnessed that morning to Meng Tingjing—including how Song Yuzhang had been in disheveled sleepwear and how Yu Feiyu hadn’t looked much better. He didn’t know whether those details mattered; he was simply stalling for time and showing how diligent he had been, how attentively he had observed, and that he wasn’t being perfunctory.
“He won’t let him go?”
“Yes. Fifth Young Master Song refuses to release him, saying he wants Mr. Yu to keep him company. Mr. Yu also refused to return. I’m just one man—I really couldn’t do anything.”
Meng Tingjing smiled faintly. “Then how about I give you a few more people, a few guns, and you go snatch him back for me?”
The small director normally handled personnel matters—abduction was not his line of work. But he had heard the big boss was notoriously ruthless. Exactly how ruthless, he had no idea. His plain handkerchief was almost soaked with sweat. Since the big boss had spoken, he steeled himself and said, “Alright!”
Meng Tingjing’s mild smile suddenly vanished. He grabbed the paperweight on the desk and hurled it.
“I’ll your ‘alright’!”
The paperweight was white marble. The small director covered his head and scurried away. The paperweight didn’t crack open his skull—it shattered the glass behind him. The crash was deafening. Wanting to stay alive, the small director bolted for the door.
The workers outside didn’t dare openly listen for sounds, but all of them were paying secret attention. The moment the small director dashed out, several people grabbed him. “What happened? What’s going on? Why are you running?”
The small director was completely disoriented. “The big boss is angry.”
That alone needed no elaboration. Everyone shuddered and immediately let go of him, letting him flee for his life.
A few minutes later, there was another loud bang from inside, followed by more crashing. Then the furious big boss came out.
Meng Tingjing’s face was iron-blue. Anyone could see his rage in the way he walked, the hand clasped behind his back, even in the rhythm of his breathing.
And the reason for his fury was that Mr. Yu wasn’t at the factory.
That reason alone wasn’t enough to convince anyone, and it piqued their curiosity. So after he left, everyone quietly returned to the office to look. They saw a giant hole in the office window, the glass on the door shattered and fallen away, the whole room open to the wind. The lock on the door was half-detached.
They stared at each other for a long time without understanding anything. In the end, they reached only one conclusion: the big boss was truly angry.
—
Meng Tingjing got into the car. When he slammed the door, he nearly shattered the window too.
He tried to start the car, but his hands were shaking—shaking uncontrollably. There was a narrow bandage wrapped around his left hand. Meng Tingjing stared at it, and after a moment, he tore it off like a madman.
In his palm was a bright red, raw wound—round in shape—left by a scalding tear.
Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Weary. As if he had somehow lived himself into a state even he no longer understood.
Maybe… he should just forget it?
The moment the words “forget it” surfaced in his mind, he felt as if his whole heart no longer belonged to him. The burning tear in his palm seemed to trail all the way to his chest, setting his entire insides ablaze—painful beyond words.
No.
He couldn’t do it.
Meng Tingjing lowered his head, letting his forehead rest against the cool leather of the steering wheel. The chill calmed the heat in his face.
Unnoticed, his hands had stopped shaking. He couldn’t be bothered to rewrap them. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he regained a strange, eerie calm.
He started driving, drifting without direction. Wherever he ended up was fine. Haizhou was large and lively, and as soon as the weather warmed, scenery appeared everywhere.
Some young master or young miss had gone out to fly a kite. Colors floated romantically in the sky. Meng Tingjing slowed to a stop and looked through the windshield at the big pink butterfly kite drifting not far away.
Images flickered through his mind. He was hardly thinking at all; all his thoughts fluttered like kites drifting aimlessly, their tails tangling, the strings twisting together—tighter and tighter, hopelessly knotted.
Knock knock.
Someone tapped the car door twice. Meng Tingjing turned his head.
A young White Russian man stood outside, peering into the car. When Meng Tingjing lowered the window, the young man spoke in clumsy Chinese: “Mister, you eating here? If not, please move along.”
Meng Tingjing looked at the young man’s freckled face and said in Russian, “I know you.”
The young White Russian man jumped in surprise. After studying Meng Tingjing’s face carefully, he grew both delighted and startled—he recognized him too. “It’s you!”
Meng Tingjing handed him a hundred yuan.
The youth remembered him vividly—because Meng Tingjing had been fierce, and because he had a very handsome companion. In truth, the youth mostly remembered that handsome companion.
“Where’s your friend?” the youth asked cheerfully now that he had money in hand, forgetting entirely that he had once thought Meng Tingjing fierce.
Meng Tingjing paused a moment. “He has a new friend now.”
The young man froze. From this cold-faced man, he suddenly sensed a heavy, gloomy aura. So he said, “That sounds really sad.”
Meng Tingjing trembled all over, as if only now realizing there was sadness in him at all.
He had always felt displeasure, resentment, fury. As for sadness—sadness was for the weak. He had never been sad.
But he didn’t get out of the car, didn’t lash out in anger. Instead, he handed the youth another hundred yuan and said calmly, “You’re right. I feel sad.”
The young White Russian man had been in China for a long time, but he had never made such easy money—two hundred yuan just from chatting.
Since conversation itself brought income, he crouched down so his face was level with the car window, no longer trying to drive away the vehicle parked in front of the restaurant, and settled in for a long chat. Curious, he asked, “Did he abandon you?”
Meng Tingjing thought a moment. “No. I abandoned him.”
That was true. He had been the one to lift the blade and sever their fragile, cicada-wing-thin bond. So it counted as him abandoning Song Yuzhang—not the other way around.
“Ah, if that’s the case, then why are you still so sad?”
“……”
Seeing that he remained silent, the young man bluntly said, “I know—you regret it.”
“No. I don’t regret it.”
Meng Tingjing rebuffed him almost instantly.
The youth said, “If you don’t regret it, then cheer up. You can make new friends too.”
Meng Tingjing shot him a look. The youth keenly sensed this man was about to turn vicious again.
But in the end, he didn’t. Meng Tingjing’s expression merely cooled. He handed him another hundred yuan. “The food here is terrible.” Then he drove off.
The youth stood on the street holding his three hundred yuan for quite a while before wandering back inside. He walked into the kitchen and said to the chef preparing lunch, “Hey, someone said your cooking is awful.”
—
Song Yuzhang and Yu Feiyu spent most of the day together.
Knowing that Yu Feiyu would leave soon, Song Yuzhang became especially affectionate. Yu Feiyu, thinking only of enjoying today because he didn’t know whether Song Yuzhang would cherish him like this the next time they met, treasured every moment.
There was a piano in the Song residence. Song Yuzhang wasn’t good at playing it, but Yu Feiyu was. The notes he played were clear and lovely. Song Yuzhang, holding wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, listened with narrowed eyes and praised, “With this skill, you could make a living.”
Yu Feiyu was surprised—not because of the compliment, but because he didn’t expect Song Yuzhang to bring up “making a living.”
He looked carefree, but in truth, his mind was meticulous. He didn’t comment on it, only said smoothly, “Thank you. But with my level, I could probably only play in a dance hall.”
“What’s wrong with playing in a dance hall?” Song Yuzhang raised one foot and set it on Yu Feiyu’s thigh, smiling faintly. “I’ll be a regular customer.”
Their conversation drifted into laughter again, the atmosphere warm. Song Yuzhang felt very comfortable with Yu Feiyu. Yu Feiyu knew how to make people happy—not with flattery or obsequiousness, but with a natural charm that coaxed a genuine smile.
Song Yuzhang felt a bit regretful—regretful that he had not taken Yu Feiyu seriously earlier.
And as someone entirely inexperienced, Yu Feiyu was surprisingly good in bed.
Song Yuzhang was pleased.
But as dusk approached, Yu Feiyu grew uneasy. “I should go back to the factory to check. If something really did happen…”
“I understand,” Song Yuzhang said. “I’ll take you.”
“No need. You rest.” Yu Feiyu cast him a shy, bashful glance. “If everything’s fine, I’ll come back. Yes?”
His voice was so gentle and pleasing that Song Yuzhang immediately smiled. “I approve.”
He walked Yu Feiyu to the door, wearing an overcoat over his robe. Yu Feiyu felt a warmth like being sent off by family, and at the doorway, he couldn’t help kissing him again.
Moonlight had risen quietly. Looking at Song Yuzhang’s striking face, the light in his eyes, Yu Feiyu whispered in English, “You are the four seasons.”
Then he left. Song Yuzhang watched him until he disappeared into the night. He felt a special kind of pleasure—a light, spring-breeze-like, trickling feeling. Comfortable, but not stirring anything deeper.
Hands in his coat pockets, he turned slightly—and suddenly noticed a pitch-black car parked across the street. From it stepped an equally black-clad Meng Tingjing.
----------
If you like my translation, please support me by buying me a coffee:
0 comments: