Night Wanderer

The visitor didn't stay long. Just as Zong Ying finished her second cigarette, she heard the door close.

She remained standing on the semicircular balcony. Below in the garden, two foreign children were playing noisily when a blonde woman speaking English came out, sternly urging them to change clothes for church.

People in the concession continued their orderly lives as usual before the crisis arrived.

At this moment, Sheng Qingrang opened the balcony door and invited her inside.

"The sun is getting rather strong out there. Best come in."

Though he used this reason, his actual motive was his urgency to leave and quickly explain matters to Zong Ying.

This man was quite adept at masking his intentions.

Zong Ying returned indoors and listened as he continued: "The hot water system is malfunctioning. If you need hot water for bathing, you can boil it on the gas stove. The guest room upstairs faces north and stays cooler—Miss Zong may rest there if she wishes. Today being Sunday, the cleaning service workers should arrive around ten o'clock—"

As he spoke, he picked up a brand-new briefcase from the sofa, took out a stack of bills, and handed them to Zong Ying. Calmly, he added, "Pay them directly, and you may tip appropriately." Then: "Mr. Ye at the service office is rather inquisitive. If he delivers meals and asks about you, simply say you're my friend. Be sure to pay him promptly for the meals as well."

Zong Ying accepted the money and counted it in front of him.

One-yuan, five-yuan, and ten-yuan notes—102 yuan in total.

"One hundred and two," she said, extracting two yuan and returning them to Sheng Qingrang. "I prefer round numbers."

Sheng Qingrang took them back.

Satisfied that he had explained everything, he picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. But glancing back at Zong Ying's long-worn uniform, he paused and returned. Without a word, he went straight to the bedroom and retrieved a neatly folded black silk changshan.

"If you need a change of clothes, you may wear this. It was delivered the day before yesterday, freshly laundered and unworn."

Zong Ying faintly sensed his unease about leaving her alone here—not out of concern for her safety, but rather a discomfort at having his private space intruded upon.

He masked this tension with superficial generosity, even if subconsciously.

Zong Ying took the changshan and glanced at the clock. "Mr. Sheng, it's getting late."

Sheng Qingrang caught her implication and realized he might have over-explained, creating misunderstanding. "I'll do my best to return by ten tonight," he said, reiterating his promise to take her back that evening before bidding farewell. He closed the door behind him.

Once the sound of his footsteps faded in the hallway, the apartment grew even quieter.

Zong Ying let herself sink back into the sofa. Her lifeless phone lay on the coffee table—dead, its screen dark. Even if charged, it would be useless without signal.

Exhausted from a sleepless night, she covered her face with her hands, intending to rest briefly to the rhythm of the ticking clock. But sleep wouldn't come.

What was happening over there now? If Xue Xuanqing couldn't reach her, she'd surely be furious. The hospital might try contacting her; her family might be looking for her too—

But none of them would find her.

Perhaps it was for the best. Rarely did she have such ample time to do nothing.

Zong Ying stood and walked to the bathroom. It was far tidier than she had expected.The bathroom had separate wet and dry areas, with a row of wooden cabinets against the wall. Opening them revealed neatly arranged toiletries. As expected, the leftmost cabinet held several stacks of new towels. Zong Ying took one out and draped it over the edge of the bathtub.

Above the bathtub were two faucets, one marked with an "H," which Zong Ying guessed stood for hot water.

Even though Sheng Qingrang had mentioned the hot water pipeline system was faulty, she stubbornly tried turning the hot water faucet—indeed, no water came out.

Given the heat, she wasn’t keen on taking the time to boil water either, so she simply turned on the other faucet and took a cold shower.

Only after finishing did a dull, lingering chill and ache creep up from the back of her head.

She hastily dried herself and put on her clothes. When it came to the shirt, she lowered her head to sniff it, then set it aside and went out to fetch the black silk changshan instead.

Designed for home wear, this changshan was naturally shorter than those meant for going out. Yet when she put it on, the black silk fabric nearly reached her ankles.

The frog buttons ran diagonally from the collar to the armpit, then straight down to mid-thigh, with a slit below for ease of movement.

There should have been a matching pair of trousers, but Sheng Qingrang had forgotten to give them to her.

Zong Ying picked up the newspaper again and sat on the sofa, reading through it page by page in order.

The headline was about the disappearance of a Japanese sailor named Miyazaki Sadao from the Shanghai garrison on July 24th. The accompanying photo showed Japanese soldiers at a checkpoint in Zhabei, bayonets fixed as they searched passersby and vehicles.

Flipping further revealed trivial personal announcements, gossip, and reports about the northern frontlines—written with a baseless optimism.

The room was too quiet. The more she read, the more uneasy she felt, so she set the newspaper aside and stood up, attempting to start the gramophone.

The bulky, heavy machine bore the VICTOR logo. Manual and laborious to operate, it would play for only a short while before stopping again. By modern standards of efficiency and convenience, expending so much effort just to hear a song was clearly impractical.

But even fleeting liveliness was still liveliness, Zong Ying thought.

So when the wall clock chimed eight times, the gramophone began playing again: "Comparing Suzhou and Hangzhou to paradise—but now they seem ordinary, while Shanghai ascends even higher..."

Rubbing the lingering ache at the back of her head, Zong Ying wandered almost unconsciously into Sheng Qingrang’s study.

The study’s south-facing windows overlooked several large bookcases lined against the wall, their glass doors spotless. The southernmost cabinet held rows of French books. Zong Ying pulled out a French-English dictionary, quickly looked up a few words, then scanned the shelves again, confirming the collection was largely professional literature.

In the corner was a stack of certificates. She casually picked one up—it was an English letter of appointment.

The hiring organization was the Shanghai Municipal Council of the International Settlement, and the position was related to legal consultancy. The date showed it was a recent appointment.

She recalled that when he had tried to prove he was from the year 1937, the meeting record he presented had also been from the Municipal Council.

Zong Ying returned the letter to its place and opened the second bookcase. What caught her eye was a photo frame.

Inside was a black-and-white family portrait: parents seated in front, the mother holding a little girl in her arms, while four children stood behind them.No, to be precise, there were three standing, the one on the far edge had only half his face visible, looking somewhat startled, as if he had been pushed into the frame at the last moment before the shutter clicked.

It seemed as though—

He didn’t have the right to stand with the other children for the photo, an outsider.

Though he was young when the photo was taken, Zong Ying could recognize him as Sheng Qingrang.

Even as a child, his features were striking. By Zong Ying’s aesthetic judgment, he was the most outstanding among the five.

How exactly had such a photo come to be?

As Zong Ying pondered, the doorbell suddenly rang.

It was only a little past eight, unusually early for the cleaning service.

Zong Ying returned the photo frame to its place and hurried to open the door.

Before the door was fully open, a bright, youthful voice rang out: “Third Brother, I need to borrow another book!” The girl’s voice faltered as she caught sight of Zong Ying’s half-visible face, her previously cheerful smile instantly dropping. “This is my third brother’s apartment. Who are you?”

At this point, Zong Ying couldn’t just shut the door. She replied, “A friend.”

The girl’s expression shifted from disbelief to suspicion before she cautiously asked, “A girlfriend?”

“A passing friend,” Zong Ying clarified, fully opening the door and gesturing for her to enter.

A passing friend—it sounded like a relationship destined to be forgotten from the start.

“Is Third Brother not here?” The girl glanced around the apartment. “He was just here.”

“He had urgent business and left,” Zong Ying replied, feeling weary as she sat back on the sofa, quickly sizing up the visitor.

The girl wore a short-sleeved midi dress, her short hair tucked behind her ears. Simple, yet her hairpin and fabric were clearly high-end. She seemed to be a student.

Zong Ying guessed she was the little girl held by her mother in the photo—Xiao Nan, Sheng Qingrang’s younger sister.

The guest who had visited the apartment an hour earlier must have been her too.

Zong Ying’s craving for a cigarette surfaced. She retrieved a cigarette from the pack in her trousers draped over the sofa arm and stood up. “Go find the book you need. I’ll step outside for a moment.”

She stood half a head taller than the girl.

“Since Third Brother isn’t here, I won’t take anything,” the girl said.

Zong Ying had intended to smoke on the balcony, but at this response, she turned back and gave a perfunctory nod of agreement.

Sunlight streamed in, but Zong Ying remained in the shadows.

She wore a loose black silk men’s robe that covered her from neck to ankle, revealing only a wrist and fingers holding a pristine white cigarette.

The girl stared for a long moment, first struck by the inexplicable ambiguity and strangeness of Zong Ying’s attire, then suddenly muttering inappropriately, “Third Brother actually allows smoking at home…?”

Zong Ying raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

The girl snapped back to reality, clutching her handbag. “I’ll be going now.”

She left in such haste it was almost like fleeing. Zong Ying didn’t even get her name—not that she cared.

The cleaning service arrived punctually at ten. At mealtime, Mr. Ye from the service desk downstairs delivered food on schedule. Both seemed familiar with Sheng Qingrang and inquired about Zong Ying’s identity. Following Sheng Qingrang’s instructions, Zong Ying replied uniformly, “A friend.” But clearly, no one believed it.

After lunch, certain no more visitors would come, Zong Ying went upstairs to rest.The north-facing room in Apartment 699 was cool and shaded—Zong Ying slept there for the first time. Even decades later, she had never slept in this upstairs room. She had expected to struggle with unfamiliar beds, but surprisingly, she didn’t.

In her dream, the branches of a plane tree stretched through the narrow window, insistently bringing a touch of life into the chilly room.

She woke up close to ten o’clock and quickly went downstairs to change into her uniform, waiting for Sheng Qingrang.

Suddenly, she heard hurried footsteps, followed by the anxious sound of a lock turning—but just as the clock struck, everything fell silent.

She never saw Sheng Qingrang.

Author’s Note:

Mr. Sheng: What a shame. I wasn’t fast enough—looks like I’ll have to go back alone to watch TV, enjoy the AC, and take a hot bath. I’ll come pick up Miss Zong tomorrow. @Zong Ying A note: In 1937, 100 yuan in legal tender could buy about two large cows.