Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

He Yuzhu stood at the entrance of the alley, looking at the sign with peeling paint.

The four characters "Nanluoguxiang" are still there, the red paint faded and peeling, revealing the grayish-white wood underneath. A large patch of plaster has peeled off the wall next to the sign, exposing the blue bricks, the edges rounded by the wind. He remembers that the wall was freshly plastered before he left, dazzlingly white, but now it's dusty and gray, as if covered with a layer of dust that can't be washed off. But looking up at the sky, it's blue, and the marks from the bamboo broom used for sweeping the street are still on the bluestone slabs, damp, as if water has just been sprinkled on them.

The People's Republic of China is now a new nation, and Hu Jintao is much cleaner than before. But these old walls and tiles, exposed to wind and sun, will inevitably age.

He didn't rush inside.

Around four in the afternoon, the sun was setting in the west, cutting the alley in two—one half dazzlingly bright, the other hidden in shadow. Several children chased after him, and a little girl with braids passed by him, glanced back at him, and ran off again. An old woman sat on the doorstep picking chives, yellow leaves falling at her feet. She looked up at him, then lowered her head and continued picking.

He walked forward.

The soles of his leather shoes clicked on the bluestone slabs, a sound unlike the wooden clogs he remembered. After walking about twenty steps, he reached the doorway. The door was still the same door, but the black paint was long gone, the wood was cracked in several places, and the threshold was worn down by countless footsteps—so worn down that it could hold rainwater.

He stood at the door without pushing it open.

There were noises coming from the courtyard: someone was talking, but it was hard to hear what they were saying; a child cried twice and was comforted by an adult; the kettle on the stove made a hissing sound, and then someone picked it up and poured boiling water into the thermos with a muffled gurgling sound.

He pushed open the door.

The threshold was high, and as he stepped inside, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his knee when his left leg touched the ground. He didn't look down; he just stood there inside the doorway.

Everyone in the courtyard stopped.

The old woman picking chives—not the one by the door, but Aunt Zhang from the east room in the courtyard—was holding a bunch of chives, her head tilted back, mouth agape. The woman washing clothes next to her wiped her hands on her apron and also looked at him.

He Yuzhu nodded to them.

"Pillar?"

The voice came from the east wing, tinged with a hint of probing. He turned his head and saw Uncle Yan Bugui, the third uncle, peeking halfway out of the room. His glasses reflected the light, obscuring his eyes. Yan Bugui was still holding a newspaper in his hand. He paused for two seconds, then a smile slowly spread across his face.

"Hey, it really is Zhu Zi! When did you arrive? Why didn't you send a message?" He put the newspaper on the windowsill, pushed open the door and came out, his steps quicker than usual. "You've been gone for years—"

"Third Uncle," He Yuzhu interrupted him, "we'll talk later."

He continued walking inside.

The door to the west wing was open, and a child's garment, red with white flowers, hung out to dry in the doorway, billowing in the wind like someone panting. He glanced at it, but didn't stop walking.

As I reached the hanging flower gate, a shout came from behind me.

"elder brother!"

He turned around.

A girl ran over from the other side of the hanging flower gate, her braid swinging back and forth. She stopped abruptly in front of him, panting, staring at him without blinking.

He Yushui.

She was half a head taller and thinner than when he left, with a pointed chin and red-rimmed eyes. She stood there, looking at him for several seconds, then suddenly buried her face in his chest.

He Yuzhu was knocked back half a step by her, and his left leg hurt again, but he regained his balance.

She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders trembling, but she didn't make a sound.

He Yuzhu raised his hand and placed it on the back of her head, patting it gently. Her hair was fine and soft in his palm, more yellow than when he left.

"I'm back."

She nodded, but didn't look up, her hands gripping his clothes tightly around his waist.

Everyone in the courtyard watched, but no one spoke. Only the wind made the clothes hanging out to dry rustle.

The deaf old woman's room was still the same room, but the window paper had been replaced with new, shiny white paper. On the kang (heated brick bed) lay the same faded quilt, and two quilts were folded up—one blue with white flowers, the other a dull gray. The old woman sat on the edge of the kang, her back to the door, sewing something in her hands.

He Yushui grabbed He Yuzhu's hand and pulled him inside.

"Grandma, look who's back!"

The old lady turned her head.

She stared at He Yuzhu for a long, long time. Her eyes were no longer as bright as before; they were sunken, but when she looked at someone, they still held a penetrating gaze. He Yuzhu felt a pang of unease as a child, when she caught him red-handed stealing offerings of fruit.

She put down her needlework, stood up, walked shakily to him, and reached out to touch his face.

Her fingers were cold, with large knuckles and deep calluses on the base of her thumb. She touched his forehead to his eyebrows, from his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose, from the bridge of his nose to his chin, and then to his earlobe, before stopping.

"The soul has returned."

she says.

He Yuzhu stood there, his throat moved, but he didn't make a sound.

The old woman withdrew her hand, glanced at him again, turned around, and slowly walked back to the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) to sit down. As she sat down, she leaned against the edge of the kang, and her body swayed slightly.

"Rainwater, pour out the water."

He Yushui wiped her eyes and went to get the thermos. He Yuzhu stood there, watching the old lady's back, watching her gray hair, watching the patched-up jacket on her shoulder—one patch was blue, one was gray, the stitches were fine and dense, as if she had sewed it herself.

Boiling water was poured into the enamel mug, hissing as it was poured. The mug was handed to him; it was scalding hot, but he didn't let go.

He took a sip.

It was a little salty. He glanced at the bottom of the jar; there was nothing there. He then glanced at the old woman, who was busy threading a needle and wasn't looking at him.

He didn't ask, and took another sip.

It was completely dark.

He Yuzhu sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the old lady talk. She talked about Yushui's schooling—his grades were good, except for math; she talked about what had happened in the courtyard in recent years—Aunt Zhang's second son had become a factory worker, and Liu's daughter had married and moved to Fengtai; she talked about who had a baby, and who had lost an elderly person. He Yushui sat beside her, one hand constantly pulling on his sleeve, squeezing it every now and then, as if afraid he would run away.

"Brother," she suddenly said, her voice soft, "your hair has turned white."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

The old lady glanced at him, but still didn't say anything.

He Yushui pulled his hand over and examined it closely, looking at the calluses on his palm and the scar on the back of his hand—a pink scar that ran diagonally from his wrist to the base of his thumb, where new flesh had healed. She gently touched the scar with her finger, not asking how it came about, just touching it.

"Brother, are you leaving again now that you're back?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment.

"I'm still leaving. But I have time off now, so I'll come back often in the future."

He Yushui nodded, put his hand down, lowered her head, and didn't raise it for a long time.

Suddenly, a commotion arose outside.

It was a woman, her voice shrill, barely containing her anger: "You're always out and about, have you ever cared about anything at home? Where did you get that bicycle?"

Then came the man, his voice low, and it was impossible to hear what he was saying. The woman said a few more words, her voice louder, and then there was a loud bang, like something had fallen.

He Yuzhu glanced outside.

The lights were still on at Xu Damao's house.

The next morning, He Yuzhu was brushing his teeth in the yard when someone pushed the door open and came in.

Xu Damao.

He was thinner, even thinner than before, with prominent cheekbones, and wearing a faded blue jacket. He stood there, a smile plastered on his face, but his eyes were constantly darting around, finally settling on He Yuzhu's left leg, where he paused for a second.

"Brother Zhu, you're back?"

He Yuzhu spat out the toothpaste foam from his mouth and rinsed it.

"Um."

Xu Damao took two steps forward, rubbed his hands together, and smiled warmly.

"I heard you're a high-ranking official now? Where are you working?"

He Yuzhu put the toothbrush into the jar and turned to look at him.

"Xu Damao, is something the matter?"

Xu Damao's smile froze for a moment, then returned to its usual shape.

"It's nothing, it's just that we're neighbors, so we were just checking in. You've been gone for years, and everyone in our compound has missed you." He paused, leaned forward, and lowered his voice, "I heard you went to the Northeast? It must be cold there, right? I have a cousin there too, you might have even met him."

He Yuzhu looked at him but didn't reply.

The sunlight shone brightly on the ground between the two people, and you could see dust particles floating in the beams of light.

Xu Damao felt uncomfortable under his gaze and chuckled dryly twice.

"Okay, okay, you're busy, we'll talk later." He nodded, turned and left.

He Yuzhu stood there, watching his figure disappear behind the hanging flower gate. His left leg started to ache again, so he shifted his weight to his right leg.

He Yushui appeared behind him at some point and whispered, "Brother, Xu Damao has been dishonest these past two years. He's been dealing in grain coupons and associating with some shady people. Don't pay him any attention."

He Yuzhu turned around and glanced at her, then nodded.

"Know."

He turned and walked into the house, his left hand unconsciously pressing against his shirt pocket. Inside, hard to the touch, was a folded square map, its edges frayed with sweat. He'd brought it back from Northeast China, carrying it close to his chest the whole way.

I saw the rain, but I didn't ask.

Inside the house, the deaf old woman had already gotten up and was adding coal to the stove. Without turning her head, she said something.

"That person, stay away."

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement.

The water on the stove boiled, and the kettle lid was hissing loudly from the steam.