Song Yuzhang: Chapter 170 - Opportunity
Chapter 170: Opportunity
Fu Mian carried Song Yuzhang on his back as they returned.
Song Yuzhang could, of course, walk on his own—but Fu Mian wanted to carry him.
Song Yuzhang rested his head against Fu Mian’s shoulder. The flower crown had tilted askew, brushing Fu Mian’s cheek, the thin gold ornaments chiming softly with a rustling sound.
It was deep into the night. Qingxi City had fallen quiet as well, sinking into sleep. Stepping on the stone-paved streets produced a soft squelching sound as water seeped up between the slabs. Song Yuzhang let his gaze drift over the streetscape and realized that this place no longer bore any resemblance to the Qingxi he remembered—yet it was still peaceful.
Fu Mian carried him all the way from outside the city to within. He said nothing, and Song Yuzhang was equally silent. They walked a long distance like this. Song Yuzhang lay prone against Fu Mian’s back; neither could see the other’s face, nor know what expression or thoughts the other held.
Someone was guarding the gate of the residence. Hearing footsteps, they opened it. Fu Mian carried Song Yuzhang back to the small courtyard and only set him down once they were inside the room.
“Sit here. Don’t move.”
Fu Mian went out to fetch water, soaked a cloth, and wiped Song Yuzhang’s brow.
The spot where the gun barrel had pressed against his forehead had been scalded red—vivid and eye-catching, like rouge.
Fu Mian pressed it gently twice, then suddenly asked, “You guessed there were no bullets in my gun, didn’t you?”
Song Yuzhang blinked once. “Yes.”
Fu Mian lifted his gaze to him.
Song Yuzhang said, “I loved you once. And you loved me too. I knew those things wouldn’t disappear so easily.”
“Loved…” Fu Mian seized on the wording. “What about now?”
“Now,” Song Yuzhang said, “I can’t love you.”
Fu Mian set the cloth aside. “Explain. What do you mean, you can’t?”
“Too many sins have been committed,” Song Yuzhang replied. “How could I still love you?”
Fu Mian smiled faintly. “You think none of that sin is yours?”
Song Yuzhang nodded. “You’re right.”
Fu Mian cupped Song Yuzhang’s face, bringing it up to eye level. “The people who deserve to die—I’ll still kill them.”
“I’m someone you should kill too,” Song Yuzhang said.
“Didn’t I already say it?” Fu Mian kissed his brow lightly. “I can’t bear to.”
The women’s clothing was layered thickly. Once the bright red outer robe was removed, there was another red undergarment beneath. Song Yuzhang rarely wore red; he was already striking enough, and red made him look almost painfully vivid.
“What a pity about this flower crown,” Fu Mian said as he removed it. “It’s dirty now—stained with mud.”
Once the ties of the lower skirt were undone, the hem fell away, revealing red trousers beneath, tightly wrapping Song Yuzhang’s long legs. Fu Mian examined him: dressed head to toe in brilliant red, he truly looked like a bride. The red mark at his brow was beautiful as well.
Fu Mian took Song Yuzhang’s hands from within the red sleeves and held them together in his palms. He thought to himself: I’ve had my revenge. I’ve killed him.
The hatred remained—but it had boundaries now. No longer boundless, no longer endless. How deep was it? As deep as that grave I dug with my own hands.
Shovelful by shovelful, filling it in—like Jingwei filling the sea. Perhaps one day, he truly would stop hating.
—
Meng Tingjing began flying into rages without warning. In the chamber of commerce, he would overturn tables mid-conversation and storm out, appearing to be gradually losing his reason.
Meng Tingjing had never played the madman like this in his life. About half of the agitation was genuine. One day, as his subordinates were reporting, he suddenly grabbed a teacup and flung it.
The tea had just been poured—boiling hot. The moment it splashed out, someone cried out in pain.
Shen Chengduo, seated at the very end, was grazed by the splash. He wasn’t burned, but he was badly startled.
“Fuck his mother—”
He muttered under his breath, patting his chest.
Meng Tingjing swept his sleeves and left without a word.
The chamber erupted into chatter. The main chairman was dead; of the two vice chairmen, one had gone off to war, while the other was determined to turn the chamber itself into a battlefield. It was unbearable.
The next election was still far off, yet people were already losing patience.
Shen Chengduo absentmindedly brushed the water stains from his chest. He felt he, too, was running out of patience.
It had been two or three months already… Everything had been done flawlessly, yet the only tangible benefit he’d received was gaining entry into the chamber of commerce—and enduring Meng Tingjing’s temper. The promised division of banks, arms factories, railways… none of it had materialized.
After returning to his residence and pondering for a long while, Shen Chengduo picked up the telephone.
“Hello? Director Zhang? Ah, yes, yes—how have you been? Long time no see, hahaha. Miss you, miss you… a few boys here miss you too. Yes, yes—guaranteed to satisfy you, don’t worry. How could I not understand your tastes?”
After a stretch of obscene chatter, Shen Chengduo finally turned to business.
“What’s the rush?” Zhang Changshan said lightly. “What’s meant to be yours will be yours sooner or later.”
Shen Chengduo’s heart tightened. “I’m not rushing. I’m just afraid things might change if we wait too long. After all, the person is still there—and I can’t get in touch with Boss Fu.”
“No need to worry,” Zhang Changshan replied. “I’ll notify him.”
At that point, Shen Chengduo couldn’t push further. He hung up.
Only after hanging up did he mutter angrily, “Old bastard.”
He’d eaten, drunk, slept around—yet the man still wouldn’t loosen his grip on the meat. Shen Chengduo knew how politicians operated. He willingly allowed himself to be used by Zhang Changshan for a share of the spoils. Sometimes, though, it all felt pointless—no matter how you put it, he was still just someone’s dog. Then again, wasn’t Zhang Changshan also a dog to his superiors? Thinking it through, unless you were the Chairman himself, everyone was someone’s lapdog. And even the Chairman—didn’t he still have to bow to the Americans?
Shen Chengduo worked out a whole philosophy of being a dog and finally felt better about himself. Imagining the future, he would be second only to one, above ten thousand others in Haizhou. The prospect looked rather beautiful, and he smiled in self-satisfaction.
Buoyed by this good mood, Shen Chengduo paid a visit to the arms factory.
Before leaving, Song Yuzhang had made thorough arrangements, so construction was proceeding in an orderly fashion. It was expected to be completed by year’s end.
Looking at the factory taking shape, Shen Chengduo couldn’t help feeling smug—as if he were gazing at his unborn child.
Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west of the river. In the future, Haizhou would be his domain. Given his background, climbing to this position was nothing short of a miracle.
Shen Chengduo stayed only briefly before leaving. His visit was entirely reasonable—the Shen family had workers stationed there, so a casual inspection was nothing out of the ordinary.
But Meng Tingjing, now suspicious of everyone, questioned even ordinary behavior.
Shen Chengduo had been on his list of suspects for some time.
Ordinarily, Meng Tingjing wouldn’t have given someone so vulgar a second glance. But once he shifted his focus away from Song Yuzhang and examined the bigger picture—from banks to railways to the arms factory—Shen Chengduo’s presence appeared everywhere. Inconspicuous, yet undeniable.
Though suspicious, Meng Tingjing couldn’t move openly. One reason was to avoid alarming the enemy; another was that Song Yuzhang, in someone else’s hands, was like a hostage to him. He had to endure—and he had to turn up the heat, burn them until they couldn’t sit still and exposed their fox tails.
—
Song Yuzhang still had only limited freedom. Fu Mian found him a stack of books, but they were all serious, proper works. Song Yuzhang had no interest; after two pages, he’d be nodding off. When Fu Mian came to see him, nine times out of ten he would find Song Yuzhang dozing in a lounge chair beneath the osmanthus tree, a book covering his face, fast asleep.
Fu Mian lifted the dark-blue book. Song Yuzhang slept with features as lovely as a painting—peaceful and serene. Watching him, Fu Mian suddenly felt a strange irritation.
He couldn’t bear to kill Song Yuzhang, but seeing him live too comfortably also made him uncomfortable.
Fu Mian kicked the lounge chair. Song Yuzhang woke slowly, blinking twice, and said evenly, “You’re back.”
Fu Mian scooped him up, carried him inside, kicked the door shut, and tossed him onto the bed.
Only after a bout of roughness did Fu Mian feel somewhat relieved. Holding Song Yuzhang, he murmured, “You’re living quite peacefully now.”
Leaning lazily against his arm, Song Yuzhang replied, “All thanks to you.”
“So I brought you back just so you could enjoy yourself?”
“Isn’t that so?”
This attitude of Song Yuzhang’s—much like Song Yuzhang himself—made Fu Mian both loathe him and love him. What exactly did he like about Song Yuzhang? It was far more than just his looks. He was simply despicable that way—drawn, against all reason, to cold-hearted lovers.
Fu Mian’s arms tightened and loosened around Song Yuzhang in turns. Squeezed by him, Song Yuzhang let out a couple of laughs and turned his head. “Hey—haven’t smoked in ages. Give me a cigarette.”
“Not bad. You’re already asking for cigarettes—want some wine too?”
“If there’s wine, even better.”
There was no shortage of tobacco. Song Yuzhang got his cigarette, but no wine. Fu Mian said, “Afraid you’ll let slip the truth after drinking.”
Song Yuzhang took a drag. “Relax. I can hold my liquor.”
One of his legs was folded, the other bent. The way he smoked was practiced, languid, almost rakish. Fu Mian touched his bangs. “Your hair’s gotten longer.”
A straight ribbon of bluish smoke flowed from Song Yuzhang’s lips. “So it’s long.”
“I’ll trim it for you.”
Song Yuzhang waved a hand. “Don’t point a knife at me. I’m afraid you won’t be able to control yourself.”
Fu Mian smiled. “I wouldn’t bear to.”
“You don’t bear to see me die—but you don’t mind seeing me suffer.”
Song Yuzhang cut straight to the heart of Fu Mian’s thoughts, so plainly and calmly that Fu Mian was taken aback. Hearing it said aloud oddly made him feel a bit better. “Then I won’t cut it. Long hair’s fine too.”
“So you’re planning to keep me for life?” Song Yuzhang said casually.
Fu Mian stroked his hair and leaned in slightly. “What—unhappy about that?”
“I am.”
Fu Mian smiled and gave Song Yuzhang’s shoulder a shove. “Not up to you.”
The cigarette traced an arc through the air with that push. Song Yuzhang said, “Then I’ll take things as they come. Another bottle of wine!”
Song Yuzhang lived like a spoiled heir—smoking, drinking, admiring flowers, reading books. He was so well-behaved, so compliant, that Fu Mian almost couldn’t help believing he had truly resigned himself to his fate.
“Want me to take you out for a walk?” Fu Mian asked with a half-smile, nudging Song Yuzhang’s knee with his own.
Song Yuzhang bumped back. “Sure.”
“You’ve been wanting to go out for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Staying in the same place gets stifling. Of course I want to get out.”
“Stifling? Even if it is, you still have to endure it.”
Their knees kept knocking together, the mood suddenly catching fire. Just as Fu Mian rolled over to kiss him, there was movement outside.
“Sir—urgent matter.”
Caught mid-smile, face to face, they were abruptly interrupted, like being jolted awake from a fine dream. Fu Mian wiped the expression from his face, rolled off the bed, and fastened his buttons as he said, “Coming.”
When he stood up and turned back, Song Yuzhang had already turned away, lying with his back to him.
Fu Mian watched him quietly for a moment, then bent a knee and nudged his back. “Turn around.”
Song Yuzhang ignored him. Fu Mian bumped him twice more before Song Yuzhang finally rolled over. “Are you done yet?”
Fu Mian bent down, a faint smile returning to his face. Before he could speak, the voice outside urged again, anxiously, “Sir.”
“I heard you,” Fu Mian said coldly.
Zhang Changshan had called Qingxi.
There was no ulterior motive in the call—he simply wanted to ask whether Fu Mian had dealt with the person yet.
It wasn’t impatience of the sort Shen Chengduo imagined; rather, Fu Mian had detained Song Yuzhang for too long, and Zhang Changshan couldn’t help worrying that “the longer it drags on, the more could go wrong.”
As for Song Yuzhang, the original plan had been to shoot him dead outright—the safest option. Fu Mian had insisted on keeping him, claiming there were old grievances to settle. Fine, then—keep him. Zhang Changshan didn’t want prolonged entanglements with desperate men like this.
As long as Song Yuzhang was “dead,” that would be enough.
Haizhou was simply too fat a piece of meat. The clearer the front-line battles became, the louder the scheming in the rear grew. Everyone was scrambling, dividing things up. Zhang Changshan’s current position was valuable in wartime—but after the war, who knew? Song Yuzhang himself wasn’t bad, but when old families held the reins, it always made people uneasy.
The bombing had been a stroke of coincidence—it struck right when Zhang Changshan was wavering.
Song Yuzhang was too capable.
More than half the Haizhou merchants had died. Not only had he survived, he had swiftly reorganized Haizhou’s commercial market. Was Haizhou really going to be ruled by a single man?
Far away in Nancheng, Zhang Changshan finally made up his mind.
Song Yuzhang truly could not be left alive.
“Xiao Fu,” Zhang Changshan said earnestly at last, “don’t raise a tiger that will one day turn on you.”
Fu Mian replied calmly, “He’s in the palm of my hand. He can’t escape.”
Zhang Changshan chuckled. “Good. Very good.”
After hanging up, Zhang Changshan’s expression also turned ugly. He spoke into the receiver, “Refuses a toast only to drink a forfeit—what a thing.”
Song Yuzhang had been lying on the bed reading when Fu Mian returned. The serious book was abandoned, replaced with less serious activities.
Barely nineteen—hard to say whether he counted as a man or still a boy—but in this regard he was especially vigorous. Fortunately, Song Yuzhang was a veteran of the pleasure quarters and could match him blow for blow without falling behind.
After several fierce rounds, the two lay drenched in sweat, holding each other. Fu Mian kissed beneath Song Yuzhang’s eyelids, murmuring as he kissed downward, “Qingxi can’t be stayed in anymore.”
Song Yuzhang’s eyes didn’t move at all. “Oh? Why all of a sudden?” Yet inside, a completely opposite thought surged up— The opportunity I’ve been waiting for has finally arrived.
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