Pathway to Japanese Literature

Even in the heart of Shanghai’s bustling cityscape existed pockets of unexpected tranquility.
Matsuzaki’s office on Yuanmingyuan Road numbered among these oases.
The street often lay devoid of pedestrians, its tobacco stall standing solitary—I always made certain to purchase my cigarettes there.
His office occupied the sixth floor of a building near that very stall.
The southern windows drank deeply of sunlight while their eastern counterparts offered views over brick walls into the British Consulate’s wooded grounds, where birdsong drifted up from shadowed thickets.

In this office, Matsuzaki kept a splendid Go board.
Though bearing a business office sign, it saw few visitors; in the entrance hall sat only a couple of burly clerks before a large ledger that seemed rarely opened, reading magazines or conversing in hushed tones—giving it the feel of an overly spacious reception room.
Passing through that corner and opening the wooden door led to Matsuzaki’s private chamber.
Bookshelves, luxurious chairs, a Go board by the window...
I often played Go with Matsuzaki.
His skill matched mine nearly move for move, yet his playing style defied prediction—press him hard and he’d wage total war, nudge him gently and he’d yield like water.
Qin Qiyuan would sometimes visit too, watching our games with quiet amusement.
The others facing the board were but a handful of Japanese and Chinese.

The office’s appearance was peculiar, the presence of a Go board was unusual for Shanghai, and in reality, special transactions were conducted there.
Hundreds of thousands in cash—sometimes millions—were stuffed into briefcases and passed through there.
The many threads connected to the hands of two or three burly clerks burrowed into basements here and there.
That single thread even extended to White Russian brokers loitering in the streets of the former French Concession.
These matters may appear exceedingly complex, yet one could also say they are exceedingly simple.
However, that is a separate matter from this story.

However, what must be noted here is that Qin Qiyuan was involved in these transactions.
Many metals were extracted by his companions—or rather, his subordinates—primarily through his funds and Zhang Hao’s discernment.
Gold and copper went without saying—there was molybdenum, and even iridium.

Shanghai had many grand buildings, yet none had basements—this was Qin Qiyuan’s observation, rooted in geographical reality yet equally interpretable as metaphor.
Though Shanghai—once said to rival New York among global cities in its stockpiles—had grown quite impoverished, it still harbored vast reserves.
And yet in all aspects it was a market of merchants—before monetary power, there were no basements.
However, this internationally characterized city, though courteous toward foreigners, maintained among compatriots—particularly within gang affiliations—a measure of territorial codes and benevolence.
Qin Qiyuan deliberately had Zhang Hao trample all of that.
The fact that Zhang Hao was sniped and killed on Jing’an Temple Road late at night was actually one of the causes.

Regarding this incident, Qin Qiyuan skillfully concealed his involvement and adopted an attitude to soften police scrutiny.
The case was buried in obscurity—a common enough outcome in Shanghai.
Yet Qin acknowledged his own negligence; though he had spent that night drinking through Tokyo with an old acquaintance, Hoshino Takeo, after years apart, he admitted it had been imprudent to lose himself so thoroughly in personal reflection.
Later, they identified Zhong Yisheng as Zhang Hao’s assailant.
Zhong Yisheng was a figure of some renown within Shanghai’s Green Gang—the very organization Zhang himself had once belonged to.
And one month thereafter, Zhong received singular retribution at the hands of Chen Zhendong, Qin’s most trusted lieutenant.

“The opportunity has finally come surging in,” Qin said to me with a complex smile.

In those words lingered a chilling nuance.
I made various conjectures, thinking it might be related to Zhang Hao, but I now understood that it had not been so simple.

That day, I was playing Go at Matsuzaki’s office.

Having been informed that a man had come to visit, I went out to the corridor and found Mr. Yang there. This man in his sixties, commonly addressed as Mr. Yang, held a peculiar position serving under Liu Danyong—Qin Qiyuan's lover—that combined the roles of protector, manservant, and cook. An enigmatic figure whose nature hovered between cunning and guilelessness, he spoke both Japanese and English with precise articulation yet never indulged in lengthy phrases.

When Mr. Yang saw me, he stated he urgently needed to meet Qin Qiyuan. Even I didn't know Qin's current whereabouts.

Mr. Yang was studying my face as if probing, but suddenly shook his head with a look of bewilderment.
And he muttered.

“Madam said, ‘I see the color of blood, I see the color of blood…’”

As I stood dumbfounded, Mr. Yang repeated once more.

“I see the color of blood.”

At last I too understood. When I pressed for details, those words had manifested through Danyong the previous afternoon. Moreover, Qin’s whereabouts remained unknown. Mr.Yang wore an expression of deep perplexity.

“There’s no need to worry,” I said.
“Most likely, I’ll meet Mr. Qin tonight, and when I do, I’ll pass that along.”

Mr. Yang clasped his hands together at his chest, reiterated his message persistently, bowed deeply, and left.

I returned to Matsuzaki’s room, but with a heavy haze-like unease lingering over me and no interest in Go, I soon went outside, gazed for a while at the boats packed tightly along Suzhou Creek, then returned to my hotel room and threw myself onto the bed.

Now, regarding Liu Danyong—to chronicle her in full would require a separate volume altogether—I shall confine myself here to recording only those aspects pertinent to this narrative.

From early childhood, she had been regularly taken by her mother to Zhenjiang’s Jinshan Temple, later devoting herself to Zen meditation training.
Upon passing twenty years of age at a certain Daoist temple in Jiangbei, she mastered esoteric prayer rituals and attained communion with the spirit world.
Several years thereafter, under guidance from Zen Master Gen’en—an eminent monk dwelling incognito within Shanghai’s urban sprawl—this spiritual communion became both refined into a form of heightened sensitivity and paradoxically intensified.
Such constituted her history, yet all acknowledged the peerless purity of her soul when engaged in prayer.
Transposed into contemporary parlance, she appeared endowed with remarkable faculties for mental focus, self-induced trance states, or accessing egoless awareness.
During devotions—or while channeling concentrated prayer—she would at unguarded moments of self-oblivion interface with the spirit realm and vocalize its utterances aloud.
What’s more, she retained conscious memory of these pronouncements.
Thus she stood distinct from conventional shamans: no conscious veneration of otherworldly entities animated her practice, merely an innate receptivity to ethereal currents—consequently abstaining from oracular pronouncements, prophetic declarations, or divinatory acts.

Although she was such a person, her life was far removed from the aforementioned matters. In Shanghai, she had been a café waitress, had taught Chinese to a certain Frenchman, and had also been a dancer for a time. During this dancer period, Qin Qiyuan discovered her and had her live in one wing of his residence on Daxilu Road. She had no relatives, and Mr. Yang alone was said to be some sort of relation. She was remarkably indifferent to money, disdained gaudy accessories, yet had a habit of indiscriminately buying all manner of cosmetics and delighting in their acquisition.

Listing only these two aspects of her in this way makes her true nature seem suspect.
But one night, I was startled.

That evening, alone with Qin Qiyuan at Arcadia, I savored rich zakuska and grew pleasantly intoxicated by crisp vodka while listening to a cabaret band without dancers.
And through some turn of conversation, Qin began speaking of Danyong in a confessional murmur.

"...Ice and charcoal cannot coexist; cold and heat should not abide together. Yet within her, both flourish splendidly."
"Her passion blazes fiercely at times, then grows colder than indifference."
"What sparks these shifts? I cannot begin to grasp."
"It flares like straw flames one moment, turns cold as drenched ashes the next."
"The very unknowing of its cause leaves me disoriented."
"A woman's emotions...what we name passion—I know they seldom endure—but hers verges on extremity."
"It swings pendulum-like through her entire being—this functional oscillation between fire and ice."
"That transcends my comprehension."

“It’s not such an exaggerated matter,” I ventured.

Qin tilted his head simply.

“I might be exaggerating how I perceive it.”
“But if I keep watching her intently, I can’t help but grow concerned.”
“As she oscillates between heat and cold, her emotions… her passion might physiologically extinguish all at once—snap off entirely. Such concerns aren’t entirely unfounded.”

“Could it be an illness?”

“Well, since she refuses to see a doctor, it’s unclear—but she seems to have a fever. Her lungs might be diseased, her heart could be weak, her nerves appear exhausted… I truly can’t tell.”

But it became clear to me that Qin’s concerns did not lie in such matters.
Though I may have been someone to whom he could easily confide anything, one might say that what truly needed disclosing still remained unclear.

After a period of silence, I said.

“Well, you can just envelop her gently with your love.”

Qin raised his eyes and stared fixedly into space.

“That’s the problem.”
“Originally, my love... might have been impure.”
“At first, I was drawn to her unique qualities; then it became about that spiritual world.”
“This may be an overly general way of putting it, but I believe that losing mystery means losing spirit.”
“Both Christianity and Muhammadanism declined after their prophets ceased to appear.”
“Buddhism too became vulgar after shifting from the pursuit of tathatā to the salvation of all beings.”
“Japan’s misogi training—though you would know this better than I—retains living vitality only so long as it maintains connection with the divine realm.”
“Mystery, miracles, the spiritual world... When humanity loses that something which modern intellect struggles to comprehend, its elevated spirit perishes.”
“Having said that, I do not believe in the existence of the spiritual world.”
“I don’t believe in that, but I am certain of the aforementioned theory.”
“And this is also the belief of the East.”

Once things reached this point, he constructed reality upon his beliefs, his words ranging across expansive heavens.
Danyong had been completely forgotten.
Yet after debating theories of mystery with me for some time, he suddenly remembered her.

“Do me a favor and drop by to visit her.”
“She’ll be pleased.”
“Let’s treat her to some steamed buns.”

Between Danyong and the steamed buns, I blinked my eyes. But in truth, Danyong was supposed to be resting due to mild cerebral anemia, and Mr. Yang’s handmade steamed buns were her particular pride.

Qin’s residence on Daxilu Road was not far from Arcadia. By tricycle, it would take but a short while.

The guest room stood exceedingly plain, deliberately eschewing any eye-catching opulence, furnished only with heavy implements that had likely been provided beyond necessity. Mr. Yang lit cigarettes and served tea, but presently there appeared steamed buns heaped in massive quantities upon three sober-hued dishes.

“Who on earth is going to eat all this?” I said.

“This is his usual habit,” Qin laughed.

They were Yangzhou’s famous steamed buns, coming in three varieties: pork, crab, and minced filling.
Danyong had a curious fondness for these, and it was said there were days when she would subsist on them alone without eating other meals.
They lived up to their reputation—their flavor was excellent and their texture pleasing on the tongue.
After drinking too much vodka, these sweet steamed buns were particularly delicious.
They filled the stomach while settling the alcohol and reducing conversation.

It was then that Liu Danyong unexpectedly appeared.
In my mind, the steamed buns were the main purpose and the visit secondary; moreover, since I couldn't go to Danyong's room anyway, I intended to leave just my words of concern and depart.
Yet she had come out from her quarters.

She seemed to have thrown a purple velvet gown over nightclothes, yet appeared slender; a pink neckerchief with a Chinese brocade pattern was tied snugly over black hair down to the chin.
I inadvertently gazed at her face peeking out from the silk cloth.
Beneath pale bloodless skin, tense flesh showed almost no movement or expression.
Were physiological functions to cease instantaneously yet life persist, this would likely be the face that results.
In the midst of this stillness, a single point in the black eyes—which moved only with glacial slowness—bore a faint light, while the tip of a canine tooth showed white at the edge of thin lips.

Without taking my eyes off her face, I stood up and gave a slight bow.
She also bowed slightly.—I cannot speak Chinese, and she cannot speak Japanese.

Qin and she exchanged some brief words.
She settled into a chair and rested her chin on her slender, pointed fingers.

When Qin said something, she looked at me and nodded, then another series of brief words passed between them.
In Qin’s tone there was gentle consideration, while hers felt strangely mechanical—or so I perceived.

But more than that, an intensely strong aroma had been assailing my nose since earlier. The perfume’s scent mingled with something else—sandalwood perhaps—and I found myself distracted by this peculiar combination. It was only later that I learned she would, whenever struck by mild dizziness and retiring to bed, have Coty perfume lavishly scattered about and sandalwood incense excessively burned, immersing herself in that blended fragrance of sharp vitality and languid decay. Qin had concluded from this ritual that her so-called cerebral anemia stemmed not from pathology but nervous disposition.

The flesh of her face never relaxed once during my stay.
The fragrance coming from her did not fade either.

Soon, Qin took her out and, after making her wait for a while, returned with Mr.Yang who brought hot tea, but I soon took my leave.
My lodgings at Broadway Mansions were quite far, and I had someone drive me there by car.

In the car, I was looking at Danyong’s face with a dream-like vividness I had just witnessed and was smelling the fragrance.

It was her existence—more neurotic than spiritual—that at times transmitted words from the spiritual world.

On one occasion, she went to visit her friend’s ailing mother, and while sitting with her friend in the parlor, amidst an unexpected silence, she suddenly looked up at the ceiling and shouted loudly.

“The smell of death! The smell of death!”

She snapped back to herself, her face paling.
――She was always aware of the words she’d spoken unconsciously.
――Her friend’s face too lost its color.
Then the two of them clasped hands and wept.

A week later, the friend’s mother died.

There were countless examples of this kind.
The unfulfilled prophecies—had they been misinterpreted, or had they simply faded from memory?

When Zhang Hao was assassinated by sniper fire, the pattern diverged slightly.

That evening after dinner, she found herself gripped by an inexplicable loneliness and performed her prayer ritual for the first time in months.
In a corner of her room stood an aged miniature Buddha statue—a keepsake from her late mother—enshrined within a humble cabinet adorned sparingly with brass and bronze fittings.
Before it, she lit a small crimson candle, knelt in formal seiza posture, and pressed her palms together.

The words of prayer differed depending on the occasion.
Sometimes it would be a passage from a Buddhist sutra; other times, a passage from Taoist doctrine.
As she recited them under her breath, her body became light as a feather, and soon her consciousness scattered into empty space.
—But now, her clasped hands began to feel heavy.
They were being dragged down oppressively, downward and downward.
This won’t do, she realized.
But both hands did not rise naturally and gracefully upward as usual—instead, they sank heavily downward…

She stopped praying, returned to normal consciousness, and let out a sigh of relief.
Beads of sweat formed on her forehead—there was bound to be some calamity.
She told Chen Zhendong, who had come during Qin’s absence, about this foreseen calamity.
Chen laughed and dismissed it.

But that very late night, Zhang Hao was shot by a sniper.

At that moment, an utterly trivial coincidence—Danyong having told Chen Zhendong about the omen of calamity—led to significant consequences.

Chen Zhendong possessed a rugged spirit that dismissed all matters of the spiritual world.
This spirit was not only rugged but vigorous and sound.
And the fact that disaster had been foreseen stoked his fury toward the perpetrator.
When he learned the perpetrator was Zhong Yisheng, his rage redoubled.

Zhong Yisheng had once visited Qin Qiyuan.
On his second visit, he had briefly met Liu Danyong too.
It was a short call of five or ten minutes—apparently without particular business—though he’d hinted at wanting to meet Zhang Hao.
"That bastard seems eager to join our trade circle," Qin had laughed.
Chen Zhendong now recalled those past visits.
That memory—intertwined with Danyong’s prophecy—seemed to plant something ominous within him.

The result manifested as a bizarre act of revenge.
――Let me state here in advance.
Chen Zhendong led two companions to ambush Zhong Yisheng in the dim back alleys of the inner city district, cleanly severing his left ear at the root.

The psychological shifts in Chen Zhendong and the Zhong Yisheng assault incident would make for a tremendously compelling story if narrated novelistically.
However, that has little to do with the main theme of this story, so let us leave it at that.

Now, regarding Liu Danyong—she stood bathed in afternoon sunlight on the stone steps leading to the courtyard, gazing vacantly at a cluster of deciduous shrubs, when she suddenly cried out:

“I see the color of blood! I see the color of blood!”

Upon becoming conscious of her own words, she was struck with terror and turned to retreat into the room.
There stood Mr.Yang, eyes wide and mouth agape in surprise.

Danyong clung to that arm.
The body felt a terrible sense of discomfort.

She was helped by Mr.Yang and went to bed.

Mr.Yang, precisely because he had also known about the omen from Zhang Hao’s time, was somewhat flustered.
I too felt a slight chill upon hearing that.

However, looking back now, it remains unclear what Danyong’s spiritual inspiration at that time was meant to indicate. Zhong Yisheng had his ear severed the previous day, and two days later, she herself coughed up blood.

When there was still some time before dusk, a call came to me from Qin Qiyuan.
He said he wanted me to come over so we could have a meal together.
The voice was lively.
I felt a relief like a hazy sky clearing up.

He had taken a room at the Palace Hotel and was dividing his time between there and his house on Daxilu Road.
In other words, the Daxilu Road property served as his private residence and secluded retreat, while the Palace functioned as his official residence and office.

From my place to the Palace was close.
When I arrived, he was drinking tea in the downstairs hall as he had informed me by phone.
Chen Zhendong was at the same table.
They seemed to have just concluded their discussion.

He wore a Chinese-style outfit—unusual for when he was at the Palace.
His face carried a fresh vitality.
Ordinarily, his cheeks bore a pallid roughness that hinted at physical and mental exhaustion, but now it seemed as though this had been rinsed away with cold water—his clear gaze and finely shaped nose settling into composed tranquility.
For the first time in years, I found his face beautiful.
Then I studied the embroidery on his collar—something I hadn’t seen in ages.

“I’ve just come from meeting Hong Zhengmin,” he said.

I silently nodded.
There had been no other way to respond.—Hong Zhengmin was the paramount leader of the Green Gang living in seclusion in Nanshi District.
At that time, while Zhu Peng served as the Green Gang’s nominal leader and Hong Zhengmin had completely retired from public appearances, it was said that Hong’s latent influence still surpassed Zhu Peng’s.

While I was sipping my coffee, Qin exchanged a few words with Chen Zhendong, and Chen Zhendong gave me a respectful bow before heading out.

“Everything’s settled,” Qin said brightly.

I wanted to hear about the details of the meeting with Hong Zhengmin.
Qin did not try to hide anything.
He also seemed to be enjoying speaking openly.
――I sipped coffee, smoked a cigarette, then went to the cluttered room where he changed from his Chinese-style outfit into a Western suit. After deliberately killing time, I headed to the upstairs dining hall slightly later and had a meal―during which he spoke intermittently.

I will now attempt to piece together those fragments here.

At first, there was doubt whether Hong Zhengmin would agree to meet.
However, Qin felt it absolutely necessary to meet him.
Zhu Peng and the like were not an issue—it had to be Hong Zhengmin.

“My judgment was correct.
He’s an admirable man,” Qin said.

He sent a messenger to request a meeting.
The acceptance came: tomorrow at two in the afternoon…

He donned a Chinese-style outfit, rode in a car, brought Chen Zhendong along, and was guided by a young subordinate as he went.

When they stopped the car in a corner of Nanshi’s purely Chinese quarter, a man was waiting at the entrance to the alley there.
Qin left Chen Zhendong and the guide in the car and was led by the man.

He entered the alleyway, passed through several gates, climbed stairs, and was led to a room narrower than anticipated. Throughout this movement, the guide kept close to his right side and appeared to brush against his right flank multiple times. He smiled wryly to himself and discreetly pressed against the left breast of his garment—where he had concealed a small pistol.

"A precaution against contingencies," Qin said.
"They should have known about Zhong Yisheng too."

The chamber contained hanging scrolls of calligraphy and paintings adorning the walls, aged ceramic and bronze vases atop desks, numerous chairs clustered by the windows... while in one corner of a desk stood tall stacks of photo albums that seemed filled with scenic images from various locales.

The guide was replaced by another man, and Qin sat down on the couch before the small central table.
Tobacco and tea were served.
――That was all the hospitality during their meeting.

When Hong Zhengmin came out, the man formally presented Qin Qiyuan once more.
Hong nodded and looked at Qin.
Qin greeted him respectfully.
Hong had the man leave the room and sat down facing Qin across the small table.

“I knew about you.”
“I too had been wanting to meet you,” Hong said with a smile.

Hong, approaching seventy years old, still retained his vigor: his shoulders showed thickness of muscle, his hair was cropped short, his complexion was swarthy, and thick eyebrows paired with narrow eyes were his distinctive features.
And Qin found it both unexpected and strange that an air of seemingly kind consideration had appeared in both his face and demeanor.
Something had defied his expectations.

This unexpected development rendered even their dialogue unforeseen.
Qin began to speak without reservation.

He had ventured into metal trading intending to probe Shanghai’s underbelly, but discovered something else through the near absence of basements in its grand buildings.
Constructed on muddy terrain, this city had water just three feet below its surface.
When torrential rains came, the waters would rise three feet even on Menuki Street.
A population of four million to five million lived on that water.
How was the sewage produced by these people disposed of?
There were currently three purification plants where sewage underwent processes such as aeration, stirring, disinfection, and sedimentation before being discharged into the river; however, vast amounts of electricity were consumed by the pumps that directed sewage to these purification plants.
Yet these districts with sewage purification systems accounted for only a small portion of the entire city. In most areas—particularly the Chinese residential districts—sewage was transferred from night soil buckets to boats, transported to the countryside, and sold as fertilizer.
The revenue from these sales was even more enormous.
During the era of the Municipal Council, the aforementioned electricity costs had amounted to approximately one million yuan annually, while the revenue from sewage sales had reached about ten million yuan per year.

“How do you view this fact?” Qin said.

“The intent behind your question…” Hong countered.

“What angers me is Shanghai’s mockery of rural areas. If Shanghai were a true modern city, it could justify consuming a hundredfold more electricity for sewage purification. But if it claims to be a true Chinese city, it should distribute surplus sewage to rural regions at minimal cost—or freely.”

Hong nodded gravely and fixed his gaze on Qin’s face.

“I’ve come to dislike the people of Shanghai as well,” Qin said.

And he spoke of Mei An, who was at his home.
This maid from the countryside had a young daughter back in her hometown.
Qin gave her a bolt of yuzen-dyed cotton cloth he had received from a Japanese acquaintance.
It was near the end of the year.
She sewed the cotton cloth late into the night, finally staying up until dawn.
When he heard about this from Mr. Yang and questioned her, she had sewn New Year’s finery for her daughter in the countryside.
Her sole thought was to have it ready in time for New Year’s—as this year too drew near its end, Qin recalled Mei An and bought her Suzhou-patterned silk to give.
She was delighted and was sewing for her daughter.

“Can one find such a woman—no, such human compassion—anywhere else in Shanghai?” Qin asked.

Hong shook his head.

“The reason Shanghai has lost such human compassion is that it has completely abandoned the farmer spirit.”

“That’s why even in peacetime, Shanghai teemed with anywhere from a hundred thousand to two hundred thousand coolies and beggars, and it wasn’t uncommon for there to be two thousand to three thousand deaths from exposure and starvation each month during winter.”

“They should all be returned to rural areas to farm.”

“In between cultivating rice and wheat, they could grow cotton or raise pigs.”

“If cotton cultivation were to reach five percent of all farmland, its harvest could easily sustain all of East Asia, and pig bristles have superior utility value compared to raw silk.”

“There was no need to willingly cling to a life of beggary or coolie labor.”

“The people of Shanghai have forgotten all such things,” Qin said.

“Indeed,” Hong agreed.
“Shanghai has lost the agrarian consciousness you advocate.
“However, for a nation to exist, other spirits are probably necessary as well.”

“No, what I mean is that unless China establishes a new national organization conceived with agrarian spirit as its foundation, it cannot continue to exist as a nation.”
“Things like the old New Life Movement, the recent New Citizen Movement, or the Bao-Jia system—such shallow measures simply won’t do.”

Hong stared fixedly at Qin.
“So you plan to go out to some rural area—and thus intend to entrust posthumous matters to me...?”
“Posthumous matters... No—I want to settle some business.”

Qin met Hong’s gaze.
Hong’s eyes nevertheless retained their serene composure as they kept watch on Qin.

The silence continued.

The hot tea that had been brought several times during the meeting was once again delivered by the same man. When the man left, Qin reached into his breast pocket and took out a small paper package.

“I would like you to return this to its owner.”

Hong shot a sharp glance at the paper package placed on the small table.

“May I examine it?”

“Please do.”

Beneath the wrapping paper lay white stationery bearing Zhong Yisheng’s inscribed name. Inside lay a human ear severed at the root, wrapped in oilpaper. Darkened blood stained its surface, the flesh already beginning to desiccate.

Hong rewrapped it and said,
“I was aware of that bastard.
Still, you’ve gone and made things complicated.”
“Complicated...”

“It’s the aftermath. It would’ve been simpler to finish everything in one stroke.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I’m well aware of that, but…”

Hong stood up and placed the paper package on the cupboard.

Strangely enough, those dialogues and deflections had been conducted with perfect composure.
That ran particularly contrary to Qin’s expectations.
He felt light perspiration on his forehead and a growing fatigue.

The matter was settled.
Qin rose and took his leave.
Hong saw him off as far as the staircase.

The man who had first guided him emerged and accompanied Qin to the automobile.

In the car, Qin remained silent for a long time.
Chen Zhendong also maintained silence beside him.
This robust and keen twenty-five-year-old man furrowed his brows as if irritated.

While having a light dinner in the palace’s upper-floor dining hall, Qin muttered.

“I feel like I forgot to tell Hong Zhengmin something important…”

“No—that’s already all settled.”
“Things in this line of work are simple and straightforward.”

And he suddenly burst into laughter.

“It’s absurd, isn’t it? From your perspective, I must look like some clown. At times I’m a dreamy poet, at others a dandy handling a half-mad woman, then suddenly a chivalrous rogue—all Shanghai’s handiwork. That too is this city’s doing. I’ve grown thoroughly sick of this life.”

“So you’re finally retreating to Wuxi’s countryside?”

“Hmm, seems like just the right opportunity.”
“Even if you retreat, Wuxi is just two hours by express train from Shanghai.”
“You can come back now and then.”
“But your life—your work—it’ll all be a completely fresh start in new directions.”

He turned his eyes out the window and gazed at the murky surface of the Huangpu River at dusk.—Our dining table was by the window, so we could even see the small boats on the river.

“I’ll show you around Wuxi sometime.”
“That area has not just muddy waters like these, but many clear streams.”
“A short distance from the town lies the famous Plum Garden, and you can enjoy views of Lake Tai.”
“Even if rural areas don’t interest you, Wuxi’s town itself is nearly China’s sole self-rising industrial city, with raw silk, spinning, and flour milling factories lining the streets.”
“There’s something clear and vibrant about it.”

“It’s odd to leave out agriculture,” I said with a smile.

“It goes without saying—the rice and wheat are of the finest quality.”
“However, more than such matters, what deserves the most attention is that Wuxi’s light industrial zone still retains its farmer spirit.”
“I am envisioning an industry that does not lose the farmer spirit.”
“There, the true joy of production would come alive even in modern times…”

When it came to such matters, I always remained silent and listened reverently.
I wanted to let his ideas...plans develop freely.
But in that dining hall, I found myself drawn to something else as well.

About two tables away diagonally across sat a middle-aged man who seemed familiar. He wore a brown suit with a bow tie, his hair slicked with oil. A beer bottle stood on the dining table. The man kept eyeing our direction intently. It was unclear whether Qin had noticed or not, but he seemed to be deliberately turning his face away from where the man sat.

Sure enough, when we finished our meal and were about to start on coffee, the man quietly stood up and approached Qin to greet him. Qin showed a blatantly cold attitude. However, the man persisted in addressing him with unwaveringly courteous manners, maintaining a cheerful smile throughout. I couldn’t understand Chinese, so their conversation’s content remained unclear to me, but the contrast in their appearances was striking. Qin sat dressed in ostentatiously dandyish clothes maintaining an aloof demeanor, while the other man—from his attire to his bearing to his speech—carried himself like a socially seasoned gentleman, never letting the smile slip from his face.

Qin signaled me with a glance.
I finished my coffee, but Qin stood up leaving his half-drunk.

When we stepped out into the corridor, I asked.
“Who’s that man?”
“You know him—Zhou Diao.”

Speaking of Zhou Diao, he was known as a socialite in various circles, with his official profession being that of a trader. However, among Qin and a few others, his true nature had largely been surmised—Zhou had acquaintances in every conceivable quarter, connections that spanned diverse spheres: politically linked to the Japanese side, the Nanjing government faction, the Chongqing government faction, the Yan’an government faction, and even European nations. There was even talk that through his hands, citizenship from a certain European neutral country had been sold by its consulate. Such political relations are often characterized by vagueness and indistinctness. The only certainty was that a certain individual went about whispering and spreading political code words—‘such-and-such faction’—as if they were matters of grave importance. Through these whispers, he apparently intended to win the other party’s goodwill and trust.

Not limited to Zhou Diao, there were many men of that kind loitering about.
And among themselves, they secretly harbored jealousy and antagonism.

"It's one aspect of Shanghai's character," Qin uttered as if spitting it out.

Perhaps to distract himself from that loathsome mood, Qin returned to the room, took out a bottle of dry gin, and drank from a small glass.

Taking that opportunity, I brought up the matter of Liu Danyong's "I see the color of blood."
Strangely, Qin already knew about that matter.

“When it comes to Danyong, I feel an odd lingering regret,” Qin said solemnly. “Call it a spiritual intuition—she won’t live much longer.”

I detected a chill in the air and slipped on my coat. Qin did the same. Moments like these made me crave crab outings, though the season had long ended. He kept glancing at his wristwatch, clearly anticipating something.

What he had been waiting for seemed to be Chen Zhendong. When Chen Zhendong entered, he adjusted his posture.

Chen briskly reported something. Qin nodded at each word. Then he said to me:

"I hear Genkaku Zenji will come to Danyong tomorrow morning. That should bring her some peace of mind."

This consideration proved appropriate, and Qin’s premonition was no mere groundless fear—I would later realize this. Let me state it plainly now: The next morning, Danyong coughed up a considerable amount of blood. First came unconsciousness, then terror gripped her. After the terror subsided, she sank into a calm state of decline. It was then Genkaku Zenji arrived—clad in rough robes, his face alone radiantly clear.

The Zen master sat by Danyong’s side for about two hours. No prayers were offered, no sermons delivered—only occasional brief words spoken into the silence. She responded with equally brief replies.

By afternoon, her expression had solidified into something indistinguishable between rigidity and tension. When someone mentioned calling a doctor, she refused with sudden vehemence, as if startled awake.

Evening brought no improvement. Late that night, she clung to Qin’s hand until its grip abruptly slackened—then passed away with perfect stillness, nearly free from anguish.—Someday I hope to speak calmly of this Liu Danyong.

In a room at the Palace Hotel, I was recalling Danyong.
When Chen Zhendong said something to Qin, he smiled and told me:

“Chen advises me to return to the house on Great Western Road.”

“Of course you must do that,” I answered.

“When I go back there, Shanghai grows faint.”
“I might as well enjoy Shanghai for one more night.”

There was something of ironic cruelty contained within that. I averted my eyes from it and addressed Chen Zhendong—the following dialogue being what Qin interpreted for us as we spoke.

"What do you think of Shanghai, Mr. Chen?"

"It’s trivial but interesting."

"You mean human vulgarity and an interest in that?"

"It’s slightly different... Let’s say it’s like the savory taste of beef starting to rot."

He, who appeared ordinary yet robust, possessed clear insights.
“In that case, it must be difficult for you to easily abandon Shanghai.”

“I can abandon it anytime.”
“However, I will go to the countryside with Mr. Qin—but I’ll come back here from time to time.”
“I’ll be the liaison.”

“Even so—between Shanghai and the countryside—which do you want to live in?”

“That is something determined by ideology.”

“Or rather—setting aside ideology—purely on an emotional level, which holds more appeal for you: this muddy current… the flavor of rotting beef, or the crisp taste of fresh vegetables?”

“Such things are mere sentimentality.”

At this point, Qin stopped interpreting and said to me:

“Sentimentality is Chen’s greatest enemy.”
“Even him telling me to return to Danyong carries a meaning distinct from sentimentality.”
“He constantly treats sentimentality as his sworn foe.”
“A young man who ought to be brimming with sentimentality—to see him maturing with such convictions makes me shudder at what he might become.”
“When conversing with Chen—setting ideology aside—there are moments I realize ideals and beliefs stand separated from sentimentality by the thinnest of veils, and it chills me.”
“Yet I still wish to keep sentimentality close—alongside ideals and beliefs—as sustenance for my heart.”
“I intend to gradually instill some measure of sentimentality into Chen henceforth.”

I nodded and answered.

“Do try telling Mr. Chen exactly that.”

“I’ve said it before.”

“So…”

He was making a terribly disgusted face.

Chen had likely grasped the gist of our conversation; making a disgusted face, he sulkily poured himself some gin. Qin and I exchanged glances and smiled.

However, that evening, Qin returned to the house on Great Western Road.
At the moment of parting, the three of them toasted to Shanghai with potent gin.

A few days later, Qin Qiyuan left Shanghai in near-definitive fashion and headed for the countryside near Wuxi.
Though merely two hours away by express train from Shanghai, there was an air of departing for some distant realm.
Chen Zhendong and the maid Mei An accompanied him.
At the house on Great Western Road, Mr.Yang and two other men remained keeping watch.

I went to the station to see them off and, from among the several others also there to bid farewell, was introduced to Hong Zhengmin, which somewhat surprised me. In how Hong Zhengmin firmly grasped Qin’s hand, there was a kind of affection visible.

Let me mention this in passing.
Zhong Yisheng's matter was handled by Hong Zhengmin.
He received a considerable sum and was sent off to Guangdong.
What this cunning yet reckless man lacking a left ear did in Guangdong belongs to another story.
However, I do not yet know the details about that matter.