Chapter 42

42

Shen Po felt as if he had had a very long dream.

He couldn’t tell whether it was a dream or reality.

In the dream, he stood on a mountain, watching a figure approach from afar along the winding mountain path.

The figure gradually drew closer, holding a bouquet of flowers in hand.

It was Wen Yan, yet didn’t quite seem like him either, looking a bit more mature than the Wen Yan in Shen Po’s memory.

Shen Po looked around.

It seemed to be an ordinary mountain, not a cemetery.

Oh, there was a pavilion nearby.

He looked up and squinted, making out two characters atop the pavilion: Haoran.

Haoran Pavilion. It was a common name; out of every ten pavilions in the country, at least one was called Haoran Pavilion.

Wen Yan walked up to the stone monument in the center of the pavilion and set down the flowers.

He gazed at the words on the monument, as if studying them and lost in thought.

Shen Po couldn’t stand seeing him look so solemn.

“Hey, don’t you see me?!”

Wen Yan didn’t turn his head, as though he truly hadn’t heard him.

Shen Po suddenly thought of a question: Wen Yan had mentioned before that he had been knocked unconscious while rescuing people in an earthquake, which was how he had ended up in Shen Po’s era, unable to return for the time being. So, was this before or after the earthquake? It had to be after, right? After all, Wen Yan looked much more composed and restrained, and his clothing was somewhat different.

Did that mean the Wen Yan from a hundred years in the future was safe and sound? Had he gone back?

If Wen Yan had gone back, what about himself?

As soon as one question surfaced, more followed in rapid succession.

But the scene before his eyes abruptly blurred and shattered. Wen Yan, standing before the monument, drifted farther and farther away. Shen Po reached out, only to grasp empty air!

He snapped his eyes open.

The strong smell of disinfectant, and the instantly recognizable whitewashed ceiling and walls.

Shen Po stared blankly until someone noticed he had awakened.

Father Shen, Madam Shen, Zheng Sheng, Old Chen, and others gathered around one after another, before gradually stepping outside at the doctor’s urging, leaving behind a room full of tonics and fresh flowers.

From Madam Shen’s weeping tears of joy and halting explanations, Shen Po learned that ten days had already passed since he was buried beneath the collapsed building.

During these ten days, many things had happened.

For instance, this battle was far from over. Not only was it not ending, but its scale had expanded beyond anyone’s expectations, and its impact was rippling outward. The authorities in Nanjing had finally awakened from their initial stupor, and most people in Shanghai had abandoned the illusion that concession and compromise could buy peace. However, many residential areas had already been bombed, causing heavy casualties; this private hospital room had only been secured after Shen Po’s uncle pulled quite a few strings.

For instance, the Oriental Library was ultimately lost. The vehicles Old Du sent that day were stuck midway and failed to transport the books in time. The morning after Shen Po was hospitalized, someone set fire to the library, burning it to the ground. Old Chen, who rushed there at the time, even tried to charge in and fight them, but Old Yang and the others held him back with all their might. Otherwise, by the time Shen Po woke up now, he would have been just in time for Old Chen’s seventh-day funeral rites^[1].

And for instance, the Shen family had also undergone considerable upheaval. The factory owned by Shen Po’s father was likewise destroyed in the flames of war. Upon hearing about Shen Po’s accident, Madam Shen had fainted on the spot; only in the last two days had she recovered enough to get out of bed, yet she refused to rest, keeping watch by Shen Po’s side day and night.

Furthermore, after the disaster struck the Commercial Press, Zhang Yuanji was so enraged that his illness nearly flared up. Dragging his aging, frail body, he had wanted to go guard the library himself, but his family stopped him. To console his maternal grandfather, Zheng Sheng concealed nothing further and truthfully explained how he, Shen Po, and the others had cooperated with Old Du to move a portion of the books ahead of time to protect them.

At this point, the old gentleman naturally could not be angry. In fact, he was grateful to Shen Po and Zheng Sheng; if not for these young people “acting up,” after the library was burned to ashes, he wouldn’t even have been able to preserve those fifty remaining crates of books.

In these turbulent times of chaos, from the great nation down to individual families, everyone was struggling bitterly.

Zheng Sheng spoke at length, transitioning from agitated emotion to calm.

Regarding the destruction of the library, he was still furious, and his eyes still reddened as he spoke.

After all, it was something they had fought so hard to protect, yet failed to save.

In contrast, Shen Po appeared unusually calm, listening quietly to Zheng Sheng’s recount without saying a single word.

Seeing this, Zheng Sheng couldn’t help but worry. “Are you alright? The doctor said your head and internal organs weren’t injured. You broke a few bones, which is a stroke of luck amid misfortune. After a few months of rest and recuperation, you’ll be fine. By then, the war should be over too.”

Zheng Sheng wasn’t certain about that last sentence; it was merely a wishful hope.

Now that the war had reached this stage, could it really end just like that? The Japanese hadn’t gained the upper hand yet, but since they had already laid their hands on a vital city like Shanghai, how could anyone fool themselves into remaining numb?

When Shen Po had insisted on evacuating the books earlier, Zheng Sheng had actually harbored a sliver of wishful thinking, believing the situation wasn’t that severe and might not truly reach such a point. Yet now the cold reality was before his eyes. The library and the Commercial Press he had once taken pride in were reduced to ruins. From now on, there would no longer be that “cultural lineage of great synthesis,” nor the “pride of Shanghai.” Looking at those charred fragments of books burned to ash, his own heart ached terribly, let alone his grandfather, who had collected them book by book with his own hands.

Yet what caused even greater anxiety was the hesitation and confusion regarding the future.

In recent days, due to his social circle, Zheng Sheng knew that countless people were fleeing Shanghai and even the Chinese mainland by land and water to escape abroad. The poor fled to surrounding regions, while the wealthy fled overseas. Shanghai had once been the country’s foremost metropolis, where people prided themselves on being more fashionable than those at the emperor’s feet. But now, they wished they had never set foot in this city, scrambling to escape in dread that a single misstep or delay would brand them and leave them trapped here forever.

“The world is in decline, and morals aren’t what they used to be. You have no idea what rumors are flying around out there. My third uncle called from Xi’an, asking if Shanghai couldn’t hold out and whether our whole family should relocate to Xi’an to seek refuge with him. But I’m not leaving. If I leave, it will only be after this war is fought. There are still people fighting on the front lines right now. Every ordinary person bears responsibility for the rise and fall of the nation^[2]. How could I abandon them and run away on my own? If the soldiers realize the folk behind them have all fled, will they still have the will to fight? If Shanghai falls too, wouldn’t that be giving the enemy exactly what they want?”

At this point, a hint of confusion crept into Zheng Sheng’s voice, as if he were asking Shen Po, or perhaps asking himself.

“Can Shanghai really hold out? If things go on like this, are we going to end up as slaves of a fallen nation?”

“Ah!”

Shen Po let out a sudden, dry wail that startled Zheng Sheng so badly he leapt straight out of his chair, thinking enemy planes were dropping bombs again.

“What are you doing…”

Before he could finish, Shen Po burst into loud sobs.

Zheng Sheng was genuinely frightened, stammering in total bewilderment, “Wh-what’s wrong? Are you hurting somewhere? I’ll go call the doctor. Just hang in there…”

He turned to rush out, but Shen Po called him back.

“Don’t go. I’m fine.”

Shen Po sniffled as tears rolled down his face, his loud sobs subsiding into silent weeping.

“It’s not my body…”

Ever since Shen Po had regained consciousness, he had called Wen Yan’s name over and over, but no matter how many times he called, he received no reply.

He had no memory of what happened after the building collapsed. The only faint recollection he had was that before the rubble pinned him down, a pair of hands seemed to have cradled his head tightly, shielding him from the most fatal blow.

Whose hands were those? Who was that person? Shen Po had thought it was Old Chen, but Old Chen was unharmed; after being shoved away, he was completely safe, and in that split second, it would have been impossible for him to turn back and save Shen Po.

Could it have been Wen Yan? But Wen Yan was only a wisp of consciousness anchored inside him; how could he have saved him? Was it just a hallucination born of delirium?

Shen Po refused to believe it was merely a hallucination brought on by extreme peril. He preferred to believe it was real, because that meant Wen Yan had truly existed. But Wen Yan was gone now, and coupled with that dream, a powerful feeling gripped him: Wen Yan had likely gone back, returned to where he belonged, and would never appear again.

This was supposed to be a good thing, yet he could not stop his tears. A hollow ache spread through his chest, as if a piece of him were missing.

The one who had kept him company through countless days and nights, from dazzling neon nights to the chaos of artillery fire, watching him transform from a spoiled young master into someone who systematically rescued books, that partner, brother, and friend who had walked through life and death with him, Wen Yan, was gone.

Though Shen Po had often scoffed at how little of the world he knew, saying that despite being fortunate enough to live in a new era, he had no idea how to enjoy life beyond taking advantage of technology, like some country bumpkin from a century in the future, if not for Wen Yan, Shen Po would never have become the man he was today.

Zheng Sheng looked at him with worry, assuming he was grieving over the destruction of the library.

“Sigh, things have already come to this, so don’t be too sad. Grandfather is heartbroken too, and he still can’t get out of bed, but he’s deeply grateful that we saved those fifty crates of books. He said that once you wake up, he’ll come see you in person. He even mentioned that if you’re interested, you can study under him in the future. He met so many people when he traveled around collecting books back then, even Cai Yuanpei^[3] was a close friend of his. Getting to study under him is an incredible stroke of luck; even I don’t get that kind of treatment!”

At the mention of books, Shen Po seemed to snap to attention, abruptly looking up.

“Where’s my camera?!”

He looked left and right, growing increasingly frantic.

“Where is it? I took so many photos. Did it break, or did you guys toss it somewhere?”

“Look at you panic!” Zheng Sheng turned around and pulled the camera from a bag on the chair. “Father John originally wanted to take the camera back, develop the photos, and bring them to you later. But I told him you’d definitely be searching everywhere for it the moment you woke up, so I asked him for it. I happened to have a Kodak camera of my own, so I traded with him.”

Zheng Sheng handed him the camera.

“Here. The film is inside, and the rest is in the bag!”

Shen Po snatched it and checked it several times. He clutched the camera tightly and pulled it into his chest, not because he treasured the camera itself so much, but because the photos inside were profoundly important to him.

They were practically the testimony of everything he had lived through during this time, and proof that Wen Yan had once existed.

“What are your plans now?” Zheng Sheng asked. “Are you preparing to go abroad?”

Shen Po looked up, his voice hoarse. “You’re planning to go abroad?”

Zheng Sheng did not hide it and nodded. “Under current circumstances, even if the Japanese retreat once, they’ll come back again later. When our mountains and rivers are broken and our military power isn’t as strong as others, we can only let ourselves be slaughtered like fish on a chopping block. Once things in Shanghai settle down, my family plans to send me to Hong Kong first, and then transfer to America. I want to study engineering design.”

Shen Po was taken aback. “You said you wanted to be a writer.”

Zheng Sheng smiled wryly. “Can writing essays save the country? I know my writing can’t compare to Mr. Lu Xun^[4]‘s. He can use a pen as a blade, but I can’t. It’s better to do something practical that might come in handy in the future. The war will end someday, won’t it? When that time comes, the country will need to be rebuilt.”

Shen Po didn’t know what to think. Only after a long pause did he say, “I haven’t decided yet.”

Zheng Sheng could understand; after such a massive catastrophe, who could make up their mind right away?

“From what I’ve heard from Uncle Shen, he wants to send you abroad too, but whether you go or not ultimately depends on you. During the days you were unconscious, Grandfather and I told them all about what you did. Uncle Chen also said that if not for you back then, he probably wouldn’t have survived. I think Uncle Shen sees you in a whole new light now and no longer treats you like a child, so you can rest easy.”

Shen Po wasn’t afraid of his father wanting to send him abroad. If he didn’t want to go, he’d have a hundred ways to get out of it. But now, he was hesitant too.

With the country in such a state, was everyone just going to leave?

But if he stayed, what could he do?

Joining the army? Shen Po knew full well he wasn’t cut out for it. Although he had matured, he was still the pampered young master Shen Po to the bone; carry a rifle for three days, and he’d probably collapse.

Study under Zhang Yuanji and become a scholar? Shen Po knew that he had only joined the Chinese department in the first place to chase girls. Asking him to pick up a pen and write a poem would be harder than getting a sow to climb a tree.

But if he were to manage a factory like his father, he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Thinking it over and over, it seemed that if he stayed in the country, every single path was blocked.

【Do you think I should go abroad?】

Long accustomed to having someone by his side at all times to talk, discuss, and plan things out with him, Shen Po’s thoughts ran ahead of his words, and he naturally asked the question in his mind.

Only after asking did he realize his mistake.

Wen Yan was gone.

From now on, there would probably never be Wen Yan again.

He had to walk this long road of life on his own.

A hundred years later… By then, he would be over one hundred and twenty years old. Not to mention the present turmoil of their country and how cheap human life was, even if he managed to survive until the war ended by sheer luck, could he really live to become an old monster over a hundred and twenty?

Shen Po’s nose stung, and tears streamed down his face.

Zheng Sheng felt helpless. How had he never noticed before that this guy was made of water like Lin Daiyu^[5]? How many times had he cried since waking up?

Just as he was fretting, a commotion suddenly came from the street downstairs.

Zheng Sheng walked over to the window and leaned out to look down. A lion dance troupe happened to be passing by below.

This was an old tradition of the Cantonese people. Every New Year, they would perform lion and dragon dances to sweep away ill fortune and welcome the new. Because Shanghai was a national metropolis, members of the Guangzhou Chamber of Commerce would also hire performers each year to dress up as colorful lions to lead the way in the New Year parade.

This year, war had broken out. Soldiers at the front were shedding blood, and citizens, whether wealthy or poor, pinched pennies and tightened their belts to send whatever food and supplies they could to the front lines. Everyone was spending their New Year amidst artillery fire, so there naturally could be no grand celebration. Ordinary neighbors wouldn’t dare set off firecrackers; even sneezing had to be done quietly for fear of causing a misunderstanding.

The lion dance “troupe” before them was hardly a troupe at all, consisting of only three people, a far cry from its usual scale. One struck a gong, one beat a drum, and a “little lion” danced along behind them as they walked.

In the past, Shanghai residents accustomed to grand spectacles would have dismissed this as child’s play and wouldn’t have spared it a second glance. But now, Zheng Sheng noticed that aside from himself, many others were leaning out of second-floor windows looking down, with an indescribable expression of what might have been longing on their faces.

No one scolded this lion dance troupe for being out of place. Perhaps at this moment, everyone felt the same as Zheng Sheng, wanting to catch a glimpse of past vibrancy and future hope from the leaps of that “little lion” and the clamor of the gongs and drums.

Along the long street, the few pedestrians who had been hurrying by with their heads down now stopped and stepped aside to watch the troupe pass. A few lively children even followed behind, clapping their hands, as if bringing back a touch of the New Year atmosphere from days gone by.

For some reason, Zheng Sheng felt a sting in his nose, and tears nearly welled in his eyes.

“There will be in the future.”

Hearing those words, he turned his head and found that Shen Po had actually gotten out of bed, standing side by side with him at the window. Of course, both of his hands were leaning on crutches.

“Oh, why did you get out of bed!” Zheng Sheng hurriedly supported him.

Shen Po looked down at the scene below and said to Zheng Sheng, “Not only will there be in the future, it will be even livelier. All the buildings here will be torn down and replaced by towering skyscrapers. Wars will be kept outside our nation’s gates, because no one will dare casually drag cannons and warships to our doorstep ever again.”

He pointed into the distance. “Look over there. Right in that spot, a magnificent tower will rise from the ground. Every night, brilliant as starlight, it will stand like a pearl towering in the East. And over that way, there will be a vast shopping district. The goods sold there will bring together the newest and most complete selection from all over the world, so that even people from America and Europe will travel thousands of miles just to buy them.”

Zheng Sheng touched his forehead. “Are you dreaming? You don’t have a fever, either.”

Shen Po continued to himself, “As far as the eye can see, it will be a brand-new world. But right now, no one could possibly understand. No one thinks we can do it. No one thinks… thinks the people of this country can stand up again and build something like that. Even the most optimistic person would never imagine it…”

Zheng Sheng thought he understood and followed his train of thought. “I’ve never doubted it myself. A great nation with thousands of years of civilization; if only we were given a few years, why worry that we couldn’t build tall towers? But right now… sigh!”

Shen Po seemed not to hear. “Still, someone has to do these things. What’s the point of just thinking about it here? I have to do something. Even if I don’t achieve anything great, I have to show that guy that without him, I can still make a name for myself. Otherwise, a hundred years from now, he’ll definitely laugh at me: I already saved the books, I already took part in history, so how could I fail to leave my own name behind?”

He murmured, his eyes already wet as he looked down at the lion dance troupe receding into the distance.