Chapter 8: Hong Kong Island (3)

The alley was pitch dark. Not far away, the slanted street was dotted with scattered lights, faint as beans.

Jiang Wanju had yet to recover from the suffocating near-death experience. Her high heels brushed against something, making a crisp sound. Chen Zhouren instinctively reached out to steady her—Jiang Wanju had no idea how he had such sharp eyesight, managing to touch her so precisely in this darkness.

“Careful,” Chen Zhouren chuckled. “Which one do you choose?”

His tone carried a hint of mischief—clearly a form of “revenge” for Jiang Wanju, saying him “your cousin.”

Jiang Wanju replied, “You’re really good at conversation.”  

Throwing his words back at him almost verbatim, Chen Zhouren then touched Jiang Wanju’s cheek with the same fingers that had been stained with her saliva.

She couldn’t see anything. The darkness was unsettling, her vision swallowed by an expanse of black. In this void, she became more acutely aware of the calluses on Chen Zhouren’s fingertips—a rough, grainy texture—brushing over her lips.

Chen Zhouren didn’t tease her further. Amidst the dim silence, he noticed her struggle. “Can’t see clearly?”

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Kkydt Eydfw xwaxwale, “Yx.”

Tl alynble swv, tayprkdt bla byde. “Mbld usw clvvla bsze sd vktbv.”

Kkydt Eydfw eked’v alrzu. Tla ryzx oyp pzktbvzu eyxr okvb polyv. Tkp byde oyp casye yde qkax, nsxrzlvlzu ldhlzsrkdt bla qkpv.

Mblu oyzjle qsaoyae vbaswtb vbl eyajdlpp. Gp vblu yrrasynble vbl pzydvle pvsdl-ryhle pvallv, y ryppkdt rszknl sqqknla vssj dsvknl sq vblx yde nyxl shla vs nblnj vblka RPp.

Mblal olal ds kppwlp—Kkydt Eydfw bye csvb bla RP nyae yde bla Yykdzyde Mayhlz Vlaxkv qsa Tsdt Isdt yde Yynyw. Fs eke Ubld Hbswald.

Usxryale vs vbl hkpkczu wdlypu Kkydt Eydfw, Ubld Hbswald alxykdle alzymle. Tl lhld lmnbydtle y qlo osaep okvb vbl sqqknlap kd Uydvsdlpl, bkp vsdl qakldezu. Bdqsavwdyvlzu, Kkydt Eydfw nswzed’v wdelapvyde y pkdtzl osae. Fbl pvsse vs vbl pkel, rwzzkdt bla nsyv vktbvla yp vbl nsze okde polrv rypv.

Xdzu y qlo pnyvvlale puzzyczlp pvsse swv—pldpkvkhl pswdep.

…dhēk r?dt uās…

Jiang Wanju sneezed.

The officer returned their IDs after a long, assessing glance between them, then finally let them go.

After walking quite a distance, Chen Zhouren let out a sigh. “That was close.”

Jiang Wanju asked, “Close to what?”

“Almost got mistaken for a man in the night business,” Chen Zhouren glanced at her and smiled. “This place isn’t like home—you shouldn’t be out so late alone.”

Jiang Wanju countered, “But it’s fine with two people?”

Chen Zhouren pretended to ponder. “Well, what’s in it for the other person?”

Jiang Wanju widened her eyes. “I should call the police back and have them take you away, you shady guy with questionable business intentions.”

Chen Zhouren laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m doing this for free, voluntarily, of my own free will. Happy now? Please, Miss Jiang Wanju, have mercy. Don’t report me.”

Jiang Wanju felt that Chen Zhouren’s way of speaking was completely different from Bai Qing’s. The latter always spoke in a formal, structured manner. Conversations with him felt like alternative performance reviews—the discussions always started with her talking about work and inevitably ended with Bai Qing encouraging her to keep working hard.

But Chen Zhouren was different. His words were proper, his voice slightly low, naturally carrying a hint of amusement. Jiang Wanju found herself unable to resist men like him, who exuded a sense of ease. No matter what she said, he could always pick up the conversation effortlessly and keep it going.

On the way back, the neon lights of Hong Kong stretched endlessly like woven stars. The city shimmered in a dreamlike haze, and the car moved as if gliding through a dream.

The two of them talked about many things, their conversation drifting freely—about the preserved head of the “Tiger of Sheung Shui” in the Police Museum, the incense-filled halls of Man Mo Temple and the “Wenchang Brush” in the hands of the god of literature, the difference between the Hong Kong orchid tree and the bauhinia, Hong Kong’s water deity beliefs, and its shifting coastline…

Of course, they also talked about work and family.

Jiang Wanju shared a bit about herself—an only child, currently in university and interning, eager to see and experience a higher world.

Chen Zhouren listened intently.

From a store by the roadside, a Taylor Swift song played. Jiang Wanju paused for a moment to listen. She liked her songs a lot. Though not a hardcore fan, her introduction to Western pop music had been Avril Lavigne and Taylor Swift.

The conversation wove in and out of different topics, but it always found its way back to the two of them.

Resting her chin on her arm, Jiang Wanju gazed out through the glass window. “Are you from Hong Kong?”

Chen Zhouren shook his head. “No.”

“Then are you from Guangdong?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I only know a few words.”

Jiang Wanju turned her face slightly to look at him. “I used to watch a lot of Hong Kong movies. Do you know Jackie Chan? In Project A, there was this rhyme—something about ABCD, a big-headed guy in a green uniform, and blowing a whistle…”

Chen Zhouren thought for a moment. “Zhuō rén wú dào chuī BB?” (If you can’t catch the criminals, you blow the whistle?)

Jiang Wanju stared at him. “You know it?”

“It’s just a slang phrase,” Chen Zhouren explained. “Before the handover, Hong Kong’s police force was understaffed.”

Jiang Wanju blinked, intrigued—she had never heard this before. The way Chen Zhouren spoke made it sound interesting.

She made a guess. “ABCD refers to the English alphabet?”

“Close, but there’s a bit more to it,” he corrected with a smile. “It actually refers to four main categories of police officers at the time.”

“The first group was European officers, mostly British. Then there were local Chinese officers, mainly Guangdong immigrants, with some from Shandong—known as the ‘Shandong cops.’”

Jiang Wanju was just about to ask why Shandong was singled out when it suddenly clicked—Weihaiwei had once been a foreign concession.

Her mood dimmed.

She wasn’t sure why, but she had always disliked studying modern history, especially the sections about territorial concessions. Memorizing those treaties had been nothing short of painful. Maybe that was one of the reasons she had chosen to pursue science later on.

Leaning her head lightly against the seat, she ran her fingers over the cold glass.

Chen Zhouren continued patiently, “Another group was the Indian officers, known as Morcha. Since Britain also colonized India, they brought in some Indian workers to serve in the police force. Now, what was that line in your rhyme again?”

Jiang Wanju thought for a moment. “Dà tóu lǜ yī.” (Big-headed green uniform.)

Chen Zhouren nodded. “That phrase referred to the Indian officers. They wore green uniforms and wrapped their heads in turbans. Unfortunately, they weren’t very competent at their jobs—so when they failed to catch criminals, all they could do was blow their whistles.”

Jiang Wanju suddenly understood.

She leaned closer to Chen Zhouren. “How do you know so much?”

The dimples at the corners of Chen Zhouren’s mouth appeared again. “You think this is a lot?”

Jiang Wanju praised him, “You’re practically all-knowing.”

Chen Zhouren let out a soft laugh and turned slightly to the side. “But I did run into a difficult question tonight—one that I might need to ask you.”

Jiang Wanju answered generously, “Go ahead and ask. If it’s something I can answer, I’ll definitely help.”

As she spoke, a loose strand of hair slipped from behind her ear. Before she could reach for it, Chen Zhouren lifted his hand first, gently tucking it back into place.

His fingers carried a faint, cool touch—like they had brushed against fresh spring mint.

“Miss Jiang,” Chen Zhouren asked, “would you like to come to my room for a drink tonight?”

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Author’s Note:

Woohoo! My favorite plot is coming soon! ! ! !