Night Wanderer

A little past ten in the evening, the electric lights in the apartment were dim, and cars sped by downstairs as the wind outside grew stronger.

Perhaps typhoon season was approaching—Zong Ying sat at the dining table, watching the balcony door rattling in the wind, and made this guess.

It was quite cool, so she didn’t bother closing the door. Instead, she changed back into her black silk robe and decided to go upstairs to sleep.

But then she realized she was hungry. Standing in the dim light, she thought for a while before finally grabbing the thin woolen blanket from the sofa as a shawl, fishing out two dollars, and deciding to go out.

Without a key, she wedged a thick roll of newspaper into the door crack to keep it from closing.

At this hour, the hallway lights were off, and the stairwell was completely empty.

Zong Ying walked silently to the service desk, where Mr. Ye was still sitting behind the high counter, listening to a lady on the sofa opposite him.

The lady, in her forties, wore a dark cheongsam and had a cigarette holder on her index finger. She puffed on her cigarette while complaining about her poor relatives in Zhabei insisting on sending their nephew here to take refuge.

Zong Ying glanced at her, and the lady returned the look before continuing, "The Japanese have only set up a few checkpoints in Zhabei, and everyone’s already panicking, saying war is coming. Just wait and see—in a few days, nothing will happen at all. It’ll all be a false alarm!"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Ye agreed with a forced smile, then stood up to attend to Zong Ying.

"Miss Zong, do you need something?"

"Can I get supper nearby at this hour?"

"This late? Well... there should still be wonton soup available."

"Then I’ll have wonton. Could you go get it for me?"

Zong Ying handed over the two-dollar bill.

She was quite generous, so Mr. Ye immediately said, "Of course! How many servings?"

"One. No, make it two."

Zong Ying tightened the thin woolen blanket around her. The lady on the sofa stared at her, but when Zong Ying noticed, she stubbed out her cigarette and pretended to read the evening paper.

Mr. Ye took the money and said, "I think I just saw Mr. Sheng going upstairs. He’s back, isn’t he? He usually doesn’t eat wonton soup, though." He mistakenly assumed Zong Ying had ordered two servings, one for Sheng Qingrang, and kindly reminded her.

"Mm, I know," Zong Ying replied dismissively. "I’ll head upstairs first, then. Thank you, Mr. Ye."

She had only walked about five or six meters when she heard murmurs behind her.

The lady said, "Which household is she from? I’ve never seen her before. Mr. Sheng—the one on the top floor?"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Ye said as he stepped out from behind the counter. The lady on the sofa added, "So Mr. Sheng actually has a girlfriend now. How unusual." She then lowered her voice and asked Mr. Ye, "What’s her background?"

By the time Zong Ying reached the stairwell, she could no longer hear their conversation.

She looked up at the long flight of stairs, recalling Mr. Ye’s words—"I think I just saw Mr. Sheng going upstairs." She thought that just a few seconds’ difference had cost her the chance to return tonight.

She regretted it, and Sheng Qingrang regretted it even more.

Rushing back to the apartment, he had sprinted up the stairs, only to have everything change the moment he pulled out his key—before he could even unlock the door.

Like a snail that had nearly reached the top, only to be mercilessly thrown back down, he couldn’t help feeling the frustration of wasted effort.But he hadn't slept for two consecutive days and was utterly exhausted. After entering and setting down his briefcase, he immediately lay down on the sofa.

Sheng Qingrang slept until nearly five in the morning, only to be abruptly awakened by the shrill ringing of the telephone. He sat up and glanced at the caller ID on the screen—the string of numbers was familiar. It was the same person who had called him a few days ago at around this ungodly hour, immediately launching into a furious tirade that had left a lasting impression.

He didn’t answer, but the ringing didn’t stop. By the third call, there was a sudden knock at the door.

"Addicted to playing hide-and-seek, are you? Open the damn door, or I’ll call a locksmith! Don’t push me."

The threat was accompanied by loud banging. Sheng Qingrang pretended no one was home, refusing to open the door.

Seeing that threats weren’t working, Xue Xuanqing outside the door changed tactics. "Zong Ying, listen to me—this nonsense isn’t worth getting worked up over. Open the door so we can talk properly."

Even appeasement failed. After waiting outside for about five minutes, Xue Xuanqing made a call.

Twenty minutes later, someone arrived and actually started picking the lock.

Sheng Qingrang had manually locked the door from the inside when he entered, which made breaking in more difficult, but if someone was determined, they’d eventually succeed.

His heart rate, already elevated from lack of sleep, quickened further at the increasingly brazen sounds of the lock being tampered with. For once, Sheng Qingrang felt a rare flicker of anxiety.

Compared to Zong Ying’s carefree and leisurely state over there, his life here was nothing but constant tension.

Outside, voices exchanged hurried words: "Almost done?" "Pretty much." "How much longer?" "One minute tops." Sheng Qingrang checked his watch—the minute hand was just one tick away from six, but the second hand seemed to drag, each half-rotation taking an agonizingly long time.

A thin sheen of sweat formed on his forehead. The second hand laboriously crawled three ticks before finally reaching twelve. Just then, a triumphant "Got it!" rang out from outside. He looked up, but all he saw was his own apartment door, still tightly shut.

He was back. Sheng Qingrang finally exhaled in relief, only to glance down and see Zong Ying asleep on the sofa.

She lay on her side, facing outward, a thin woolen blanket draped over her. A glimpse of her ankle peeked out from beneath her black silk shirt, one hand resting outside the sofa, the other curled against her chest. The book she had been reading had slipped to the floor—she must have dozed off while reading, as the lamp was still on.

Sheng Qingrang bent to pick up the book, but Zong Ying’s hand twitched slightly in her sleep, her fingertips lightly brushing his forearm. He looked down and noticed a waterproof dressing on her palm, realizing she hadn’t changed it in a while.

His gaze then fell on the uniform trousers pooled on the floor and the crumpled uniform shirt shoved into the corner of the sofa. He sighed almost imperceptibly but ultimately left everything untouched, straightening up and carefully stepping out.

The typhoon never arrived—it was still a clear, bright morning. Sunlight eagerly poured in, embracing Zong Ying.

When she woke and checked the time, it was already past eight. She tried to recall when she had fallen asleep the night before—maybe three, maybe four.

None of that mattered now. The important thing was, it was well past six, and Sheng Qingrang still hadn’t appeared.She felt restless with nothing to do, so she went downstairs to fetch the milk and newspaper. Mr. Ye happened to be operating the elevator for the residents and greeted her, "Good morning, Miss Zong. No work today?"

Zong Ying casually replied with a "Hmm."

"That's quite leisurely, unlike Mr. Sheng, who had to leave early in the morning."

Left already?

Mr. Ye noticed her expression and assumed she had slept through Sheng Qingrang's departure time, so he added, "He left at 6:10."

6:10—she had still been asleep on the sofa then. Why hadn’t Sheng Qingrang woken her up?

Holding the newspaper and milk bottle, Zong Ying stood there until Mr. Ye urged her to take the elevator. Just as she replied, "I'll take the stairs," someone behind her said, "Wait a moment." Zong Ying turned her head and looked up to see Sheng Qingrang's face.

Sheng Qingrang said, "The elevator will save you some effort."

It was the first time in her life Zong Ying had stepped into such an old-fashioned elevator.

The ascent was slow, and the cramped space usually prompted people to exchange a few words to avoid awkward silence. But all the way up to the top floor, neither of them spoke.

Zong Ying noticed that besides his briefcase, he was also carrying an extra bag.

Once inside, Zong Ying set down the newspaper and milk bottle, while Sheng Qingrang put down his burdens. He said, "I’m truly sorry for standing you up yesterday."

Zong Ying didn’t respond. She didn’t blame him, but neither did she say it was fine. She only remarked, "I don’t want milk tea."

Sheng Qingrang paused, then asked, "Would coffee be acceptable?"

Zong Ying thought for a moment and answered, "Yes."

He then busied himself again while Zong Ying waited in the living room, ready to enjoy the results of his labor.

After finishing the newspaper, she picked up her fallen uniform trousers from the floor and retrieved her shirt from the corner of the sofa. Just as she was about to go upstairs to change, Sheng Qingrang suddenly called out, "Miss Zong."

Zong Ying turned to look at him, but he averted his gaze and continued with his task, adding, "There’s a set of ready-made clothes in the paper bag. Please try them on."

Zong Ying stopped.

"The weather is hot, and clothes need frequent changing. Besides, I plan to take you out today." Sheng Qingrang turned off the gas stove and explained, "To avoid a repeat of last night’s regret, it might be safer if you stay by my side."

His reasoning was sound. Zong Ying walked straight to the entryway, picked up the bag, and went upstairs.

She emptied the bag—inside was a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers, made of ordinary fabric in a conventional style, practical and convenient.

A small paper bag also fell out. Opening it, she found a roll of gauze and a box of medicinal powder for wounds.

Sheng Qingrang emerged from the kitchen carrying breakfast just as Zong Ying came downstairs in the new clothes.

The short-sleeved ivory shirt with a small stand-up collar looked neat and well-fitted, and the trousers were the right length. But he noticed she was pinching the waistband.

He was about to suggest exchanging them if they didn’t fit when Zong Ying rummaged through the miscellaneous box on the coffee table, found two safety pins, and pinned a small fold at the side of the waist.

Seeing this, Sheng Qingrang let it be.

After breakfast, Sheng Qingrang went to shower while Zong Ying stayed in the living room to tend to her wound.

Outside, the cicadas were louder than the day before, and the temperature had risen even higher. The sound of water from the bathroom stopped, and Sheng Qingrang emerged, dressed. He picked up the phone and dialed Xiangsheng Car Company, requesting a car from the dispatcher. Hanging up, he informed Zong Ying, "Miss Zong, they should arrive within ten minutes. Please get ready to leave."

Zong Ying stood up, neatly folded her uniform into the paper bag, and quickly matched his pace.The car arrived promptly. The driver stepped out to open the door, and Zong Ying entered first, followed closely by Sheng Qingrang.

After settling in, he uttered only four words: "Astor House Hotel," and the car pulled away from the apartment.

After a stretch of silence, he suddenly broke it: "Did Miss Zong sleep well last night?"

Zong Ying countered, "And you, Mr. Sheng?"

Sheng Qingrang recalled the nerve-wracking half-hour that morning and replied, "Very well."

Zong Ying glanced at him. His entire face bore the pallor of sleep deprivation, and the slightly rapid flare of his nostrils indicated an elevated heart rate—classic signs of a poor night's rest.

She briefly closed her eyes and suddenly asked, "Did someone come knocking in the middle of the night over there?"

Sheng Qingrang’s tightly pressed lips parted slightly. "Not exactly the middle of the night, but someone did come looking for you." He paused. "She picked the lock."

Xue Xuanqing—true to her word.

Sheng Qingrang continued, "I had the door locked from the inside. That probably convinced her even more that someone was inside and strengthened her resolve to break in."

"Did she succeed?"

"Yes, at exactly six o'clock."

So Xue Xuanqing hadn’t managed to catch Sheng Qingrang, but that was hardly a relief.

A door locked from the inside, forced open, only to reveal no one inside—that would seem even more suspicious. Knowing Xue Xuanqing’s temperament, she wouldn’t rest until she found the person she was looking for. By now, the apartment was likely in chaos, and the police might have already been called.

From 6 a.m. yesterday until now, she had been missing for exactly 27 hours—enough to warrant a formal investigation.

Sheng Qingrang detected a flicker of anxiety on her face and said, "I suspect that returning directly to the apartment at ten tonight might invite unnecessary trouble. That’s one reason I brought you out."

Zong Ying agreed with his reasoning, responding with a brief acknowledgment before turning her gaze outside. She had walked these streets countless times, but the scenery now was entirely unfamiliar—a relic of the past.

The car followed the Suzhou Creek all the way to the Astor House Hotel.

A brass plaque at the entrance read, "Improper attire will not be admitted." A doorman opened the door and ushered them inside.

Sheng Qingrang booked a room for Zong Ying.

Putting away his wallet, he instructed her, "I have a lengthy meeting today. If I haven’t returned by nine tonight, you must come to the Tilanqiao Locksmith Guild to find me." He handed her a Municipal Council pass and asked the front desk for paper and pen, quickly scribbling down a detailed address. "The hotel can call a car for you. It’s very close."

Zong Ying pocketed the note. "Understood."

Sheng Qingrang checked his watch and, without further delay, took his leave.

For him, this marked the start of a busy day. For Zong Ying, it was merely a change of scenery to continue her idleness.

When a person loses their place in the social order, boredom is perhaps inevitable.

Zong Ying passed the time by sleeping. After waking from her nap, she followed a small crowd downstairs into the hotel’s tiny screening room.

A poster at the entrance depicted a massive clock, with a disheveled, wild-eyed singer hanging from its left side. The lower right corner bore the title The Phantom Lover .

She paid one yuan, sat through the screening, and by the time it ended, evening had fallen.

Unlike the eerie violence and terror of the black-and-white film, the entrance of the Astor House Hotel remained vibrant and bustling. The doorman cheerfully hailed a cab for her, and the driver courteously and safely delivered her to the Tilanqiao Locksmith Guild.She arrived at only six o'clock, which seemed a bit early.

After showing her credentials to the secretary in the reception room, the secretary assumed she was Mr. Sheng’s assistant and led her upstairs, even kindly reminding her, "The meeting isn’t over yet. You’d better wait before going in—it’s been quite heated today."

"Understood, thank you." Zong Ying had no intention of interrupting the meeting anyway, so she sat down on a bench in the hallway to wait.

From the innermost conference room, raised voices occasionally spilled out, arguing things like: "Your Resources Committee’s ideas are far too naive and simplistic! A factory of this scale, with machinery weighing two to three thousand tons in total—moving it inland? How? Just the shipping costs from Shanghai to Hankou alone would run up to 150,000 or 160,000 yuan!"

"Fine! Even if the machinery gets there, what about the workers? Leave them all in Shanghai, or ship them inland too? Would they even agree to follow the factory? And if we dismiss them locally, where would we get the funds to cover such massive severance pay?"

At first glance, every point sounded reasonable. Then came another round of arguments, followed by silence, and finally, the meeting ended in discord.

The door opened, and people began filing out one after another. Zong Ying waited a while longer, but Sheng Qingrang was nowhere to be seen.

She stood up and walked over, stopping just a step away from the doorway when she heard voices inside.

One middle-aged man was saying, "Relocating factories from Shanghai—anyone with half a brain can see it’s a hot potato. You’re not even on the government payroll, yet you’re putting in so much effort and energy. I really can’t fathom whose interests you’re trying to serve."

Then came Sheng Qingrang’s steady voice as always: "Elder Brother—"

The middle-aged man stood up and cut him off arrogantly, "Don’t bother trying to persuade me. You people are just fond of empty bluster. During the last Shanghai battle, the factories in the concessions only shut down for about ten days. For such trivial losses, you expect me to relocate? Then I absolutely refuse."

He suddenly strode out and nearly bumped into Zong Ying.

She turned her face away but caught sight of Sheng Qingrang emerging as well. He saw her too.

She didn’t explain why she had come early, and he clearly didn’t ask for an explanation. Instead, he turned back to retrieve his briefcase, then said indifferently at the door, "Let’s go."

His expression revealed little emotion. Only after getting into the car downstairs did he speak again: "Let’s still have dinner at the Astor House."

Zong Ying hadn’t checked out of her room yet, so this was naturally the best option.

The car drove along the river as the setting sun lay across the Huangpu, staining the water a deep crimson. The surface was calm, but great changes were undoubtedly imminent.

Remembering the fragmented arguments from the meeting, Zong Ying suddenly asked, "Mr. Sheng, since you’ve gone through my bookshelf, have you read that modern general history book?"

Author’s note: Mr. Sheng: Guess.

——

A few notes:

Xiangsheng was the largest taxi company at the time, offering very attentive service. Their phone number was 40000. The owner, if I recall correctly, used to work as a bellboy at the Astor House Hotel and started his car company after coming into a large sum of money.2. The Astor House Hotel is the first Western-style hotel in China, originally built during the Daoguang era. It is now called the Pujiang Hotel. Everyone is welcome to stay and experience it. I have photos on my Weibo—you can scroll back to around January 2nd to see them.

Midnight Song is a black-and-white horror film from 1937 that was a huge box office hit. The male lead is somewhat unattractive, but the lyricist and composer were masters—Tian Han and Xian Xinghai. You should check it out.

NRC: Short for the National Resources Commission. I’ll write more about this later, so I won’t go into detail here.