Chapter One: The Offering

In the territory of Songyang, only two winds blow each year, and each wind howls relentlessly for half a year without pause!

For newcomers from other regions, such a claim was always met with disbelief at first, and they would immediately retort with sharp tongues:

“Northeasterners are notorious for their tall tales. They can concoct dramatic stories even about ghosts blowing out lanterns! Especially you folks from Songyang, your words are even more outlandish—dead men in your stories can be made to display joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness, and you might even stage a whole farce of corpses rising from the dead! Really now, what kind of monstrous wind could possibly whip up a sandstorm and keep blowing for half a year straight? Nonsense! Not even ghosts would believe it...”

But after surviving a year or so, those once-hardheaded outsiders would inevitably offer a heartfelt admission:

“There are so many things to love about Songyang—the flavors in the restaurants, the prices of the hotels, the décor in the karaoke bars, the service quality of the shampoo girls—all of it lingers in your memory for ages! But this never-ending, devilish wind is unbearable for outsiders. It blows us weak in the bones and limp in the tendons!”

If you let them continue their complaints, you’d eventually hear a venomous curse:

“Did your ancestors offend the Wind God when they built some old temple? Is that why the wind never stops all year round?!”

...

The boundary between Songyang’s two annual monsoon seasons is sharply defined, as clear as black and white, never overlapping. Of the two, the northwest gale in the latter half of the year is the most brutal—sharp as knives, cutting to the core.

During this season, if a man is caught out in the wild and suddenly needs to relieve himself but can’t find a restroom, he has no choice but to do so in the open. The misery isn’t in the shame of being seen by passersby, but in the fear that the fierce winds might instantly snatch away his very manhood...

The savage Siberian cold front barrels over the Changbai Mountains, rising higher and speeding up as it goes. The biting air masses, laden with endless yellow dust storms, plunge sword-like onto the vast Northeast Plain, roaring and ravaging as if determined to drive the wind into the very mud and flip out every last bug.

As this demonic wind passes through the narrow, elongated “Guanxi Corridor,” its force seems compressed and forged into a razor-sharp blade, ruthlessly slicing through every nook and cranny of Songyang’s city streets and alleys.

The gale rages through the dense, uneven clusters of buildings. Dilapidated doors, crooked windows—long neglected—are wrenched open, snapped off, or shattered. The sudden explosion of grimy glass sends shards scattering in the cold blue dawn, making a chilling sound...

In the morning, the murky clouds of dust still strive to outdo the previous night’s fury, the sun barely able to rise before being battered and dimmed, leaving everything shivering in the swirling currents.

Another day that makes life shrink back in helplessness arrives just as it did yesterday.

In 1998, the last rainfall in Songyang landed on the evening of the day after “Frost’s Descent.” The long-overdue downpour lasted two days and nights, as if all the missing precipitation of the dry season had come at once. The rare rainfall caused the Song River Reservoir, less than thirty kilometers from the city, to surge over two meters above the historic warning line—a first in Songyang’s history.

They say the city government held an emergency meeting at midnight, launching the highest level flood emergency response. Over ten thousand households from six towns along the lower Song River evacuated overnight.

...

A semi-old black-gray Santana sedan lay quietly by the reservoir dam.

The driver, Tao Ye, shut the door and immediately bent low, dashing straight for the peak of Jiguan Mountain. Normally, this was his way of measuring his heart rate and building stamina.

Standing atop the nearby mountain and looking down at the reservoir: the muddied, yellow water stretched out like a vast, dirty silk sheet, trembling with every gust of wind. The Santana by the shore had nearly vanished in the dust and gloom, reduced to an insignificant speck, like a dying ant slumped on the rim of a giant, dust-covered basin.

The robust willows that lined the dam during summer had long since shed their leaves. Only countless slender, twisted branches flailed wildly in the wind, like the desperate struggles of a drowning person, their clawing motions accompanied by a shrill, whimpering sound.

At that moment, Zhang Maolin sat alone and chilled in the Santana. Boredom gnawed at him, and he longed to step outside for a stroll, but the fierce cold wind kept him from even this simplest desire. His recurring asthma had all but destroyed any wintertime impulse in this man just past fifty.

Zhang Maolin was not naturally weak, tardy, or accommodating, but the near-suffocating pain of an asthma attack left him no room for risk.

He curled up in the passenger seat, his outdated, bulky snow jacket hanging loosely on his not-so-large frame. The collar pressed tight around his neck as he struggled to breathe, but with little success. He knew full well that venturing outside now could suffocate him in an instant.

Despite the heater’s noisy efforts, the drafty, battered car retained little warmth. Zhang Maolin tightened every drawstring on his clothes, listlessly gazing out the window.

His farsighted eyes could barely make out any details. Everything outside was lost in a gloom thicker than fog, though the recently rising water level allowed him to vaguely glimpse the dark, messy surface and floating debris.

In this season, the reservoir’s edge was already starting to freeze into pea-sized, grayish-white ice pellets.

The sight only deepened Zhang Maolin’s gloom. He lifted his head, staring blankly into the murky, empty sky.

At that moment, Tao Kan, the driver, was already on his way back down the mountain. At the foot, he paced briskly in a small clearing, shadowboxing with swift hands. A Shilin-brand cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, the cherry glowing fiercely in the yellowed, windy air.

“Hey—Kan, don’t torture yourself out there! Come have your smoke in the car. I’ll open the window and wear a mask, it won’t bother me!” Zhang Maolin rolled down the window and called out to the driver, who was bouncing around, shoulders hunched against the cold.

“No need, I’ll be done in a minute!” Tao Kan bent over, taking a few fierce drags, as if he meant to suck the whole cigarette into his mouth. Two thick plumes of gray smoke shot from his nostrils, instantly snatched away by the wind.

...

When Tao Kan climbed in, he rubbed his hands together non-stop. His red ears and cheeks made Zhang Maolin both concerned and amused.

“Just smoke in the car, I’ll be fine with a mask. It’s so cold—if you catch a chill from one cigarette, wouldn’t that be silly?” Zhang Maolin said.

“Not cold, not cold. I just ran up the hill, I’m all warmed up—just my hands are frozen. Heh heh...” Tao Kan replied with a grin.

“Not bad—you’ve got stamina. Ah, to be young!” Zhang Maolin gave him a thumbs-up.

“Not really! I’m still nowhere near the pros. The provincial finance system’s sanda tournament is coming again on May Day; I want to give it another go. Last time, I fought a retired armed police officer for third place. I had the edge in the first two rounds, but ran out of steam by the third. Sigh!” Tao Kan looked regretful.

“Not bad! I fully support you. Young people need some fight in them. When I was in the army, my fitness was top-notch—no one could beat me at the bars, single or double!” Zhang Maolin said with pride.

“Sir, you’re a true all-rounder. All the brothers in our city bank’s driver team know that among all the big shots in Xing Shang Bank, only you, Old Zhang, have both virtue and talent! You always look out for us lowly drivers. No wonder you get unanimous votes in every staff survey. They say: trains aren’t pushed, Tai Mountain isn’t piled up, and the best braggarts don’t boast! When you stand there, you have real backbone and cast a straight shadow—no one ever talks behind your back!” Tao Kan spoke while pulling out a cigarette, sniffed it under his nose, flashed a mischievous look at Zhang Maolin, and put it back, pulling a face.

Zhang Maolin watched Tao Kan’s antics and laughed.

“Ha! When did you learn to talk so slick, kid? Yes, the understanding and trust from the staff always make me feel content and moved. You know, the discipline secretary title isn’t one people usually like—it’s easy to be shunned or even cursed behind your back! What, does my summary hit home with you?” Zhang Maolin teased.

“Sir, you’re right and not right,” Tao Kan replied with a sly look.

“Oh? Right and not right? How so?” Zhang Maolin turned toward him, eyes fixed.

...

“Heh, let’s not play games. Your look is just like my dad’s—scolding and warning hidden inside! You’re holding the bun and making me guess the filling. Fine, I’ll shut up,” Tao Kan said sheepishly.

But Zhang Maolin pressed on: “Don’t be coy! That’s not the way tank soldiers act. Speak plainly.”

Tao Kan grinned. “Heroes don’t talk about their past glories! Who knew I’d end up stuck in this muddy bank? When I left the army, my father-in-law had already arranged a spot for me in the city police—my dream job. But my dad absolutely forbade it. He just couldn’t stand the thought of me in a violent profession.”

Noting Zhang Maolin’s silence, Tao Kan continued, “Honestly, we ordinary folks are stubborn and straightforward. We hate those hypocrites who preach honesty by day and hit the clubs by night! Do they really think we’re blind? Take our own city bank—everyone knows only you, Old Zhang, are truly upright! Even the boiler men in the building give you the thumbs up, saying you’re the only one who stands up to the big shots and never stoops to pick up scraps...”

Hearing Tao Kan’s machine-gun complaints, Zhang Maolin chuckled. “Is that so? Looks like you’re set on roasting me today, huh?”

“Heh, who’d dare roast the tiger in the yoke?” Tao Kan laughed quietly, then leaned in, “Uncle, there are two things I’ve been wanting to tell you. If I hold it in any longer, I’ll grow white hair in my throat!”

With his hands on the wheel, Tao Kan glanced sideways at Zhang Maolin.

“Well, what’s brewing in your gut, kid? Trouble with your wife? Maybe I can help. I know you and I are the only ones among the city drivers who stick to this plain, honest life. You spend your days with this useless official who doesn’t have a cent of loan authority—can’t even afford a good cigarette. You must feel wronged! Maybe I should suggest to the boss that we swap the drivers around. How about it?”

“Oh, please, sir! Are you trying to kill me with flattery? You really don’t know how we subordinates feel,” Tao Kan said.

“How do you feel? Tell me,” Zhang Maolin pressed.

“Well, actually, we—”

“We old staff all hope that one day, you—Old Zhang—will sit in the top chair at Xing Shang Bank, so the locals can finally run their own show! Look at all the outsiders sent here in recent years—none of them are any good. They get favors, build political capital, fatten their bellies, fill their pockets, and then roll away like dung beetles! Take our current boss—”

“Enough! Where did you pick up these ridiculous rhymes? Who taught you?” Zhang Maolin’s eyes flashed.

“No one, just our own thoughts. Everyone in the branch feels the same, though few dare say it. Only I, Tao Kan, would dare share my heart with you...”

Zhang Maolin sighed deeply. “Hmph, you really live up to your name, always talking, but all complaints! You drivers need some sense of the bigger picture—think and act correctly. Especially—look at my head.”

He tilted his head toward Tao Kan, pointing at his thinning scalp. “See? Not even grass grows there. Think I’m getting promoted, kid?”

“Sir, whether you want it or not, rumor has it that our boss is leaving for a better job at the provincial bank. The vice presidents are all sharpening their knives! Watch, soon there’ll be another good show at Xing Shang Bank!” Tao Kan grinned.

“You’re really on a roll! Fine, tonight I’ll talk to your dad and get you reassigned!” Zhang Maolin was clearly annoyed.

“Uncle, please! My dad’s itching to scold me as it is—don’t add fuel to the fire! I just feel Xing Shang Bank is headed for big trouble! These days, crooks with business licenses can get loans here and disappear without paying back. How can we go on? Sooner or later, something’s gonna blow up. But forget it, since you don’t want to hear it.”

...

“Uncle, it’s almost time. We should honor Grandpa Zhang,” Tao Kan checked his watch.

“All right, get the offerings from the trunk,” Zhang Maolin said calmly.

Three sticks of incense, three fruit-and-cake platters, and a bottle of Fenjiu were arranged neatly by the reservoir.

Braving the cold, Zhang Maolin shivered in the howling wind, slowly pouring the liquor onto the ground before bowing three times to the water.

His fierce coughing made him tremble uncontrollably.

“...It’s been nearly thirty years. The child my father saved already has a son in primary school...” Zhang Maolin said, turning to Tao Kan, his voice full of feeling.

Tao Kan replied, “Yes. I remember in primary school, the teacher told us the story of your grandfather’s heroic death saving a drowning boy. It was moving! I thought he was as great a hero as Luo Shengjiao or Huang Jiguang.”

“The people of Songyang have never forgotten him,” Zhang Maolin replied softly.

“Uncle, I heard that the boy Grandpa Zhang saved, Liu Dong, is now incredibly successful—a multi-millionaire? Is that true?” Tao Kan asked.

“That’s right. In the southeastern mountains, Liu Dong owns a huge iron mine—his assets reportedly exceed three hundred million. And that’s just one venture—he’s also in foreign trade, real estate, and more. Some say he’s the richest man in Songyang.

Every Spring Festival, Liu Dong visits me. You can tell he values old ties. The year before last, he wanted to erect a monument for my father, but I refused. In the end, I suggested he deposit his spare funds in our Xing Shang Bank, since my father was once an employee there. If my father’s spirit is watching, he’d be grateful.”

...

“In truth, it was a spur-of-the-moment suggestion—I never thought it would happen. But a month later, Liu Dong deposited five million in our branch, and two years on, he hasn’t touched the money. He promised never to withdraw it before I retire. Isn’t that remarkable?

In recent years, he’s come back especially for my father’s memorial day, though that wasn’t my intention...” Zhang Maolin paused as his phone chimed with a text: “Old brother, I’m at Hailar train station pushing for a freight car, so I can’t make it to your father’s memorial this year. I’ll return as soon as I finish here. See you soon!”

“Speak of the devil! That’s a message from Liu Dong,” Zhang Maolin said, showing Tao Kan the screen.

“Hmph! That’s the least he can do. Compared to a human life, anything else is worthless!” Tao Kan said with some resentment.

“Kan, you can’t talk like that. Maybe it’s fate! My father was a navy man, could dive dozens of meters—he was a champion winter swimmer. This reservoir is calm, and Liu Dong was just a boy of eight or nine. Saving him should have been easy, but there was an accident.

They say all merchants are cunning, but Liu Dong’s heart is rare. As a child, I couldn’t understand my father’s actions. He was the branch union chairman, a promising official, but gave his life to save a child. Maybe it was destiny.”

...

“What, sir—you believe in that stuff? I thought only powerless people had such superstitions,” Tao Kan remarked.

“Heh, it’s not about belief. Everyone has moments of inner struggle, of helplessness. Sometimes, we just need something to hold onto in our hearts,” Zhang Maolin said with a faint smile.

...

A biting wind once again whirled across the reservoir.

Tao Kan had to drag Zhang Maolin back into the car.

“Kan, when we get back, tell your brother-in-law Wen Lu to prepare a speech. I won’t call him specifically. The branch will soon hold a staff congress prep meeting, and the party committee wants him to speak for middle managers. Last year, his loan management proposal was innovative, especially his method for loan classification and transfer—it was recognized by the provincial bank. That’s no small feat!

Wen Lu is sharp and knows how to handle things. As credit chief, he’s done a stellar job these past two years. I believe he’ll go far—and then you’ll get to drive the boss’s Audi and live the good life. Am I right?” Zhang Maolin teased.

“Heh, I hope you’re right! My brother-in-law went to the provincial capital this morning. I’ll call him tonight and pass on your message,” Tao Kan replied with a goofy grin.

“He went to the provincial bank? Are you sure?” Zhang Maolin sounded surprised—a rare note from him, especially to a driver. Though Tao Kan’s answer was clear, Wen Lu would never travel without telling him first. Zhang Maolin was genuinely caught off guard.

“Yes, he left early. I saw his Volga just leaving the office,” Tao Kan added.

“Oh? Did you hear what he went for?” Zhang Maolin asked casually.

“Not for a meeting—he’s handling a transaction that needs provincial approval. Yesterday, the Volga’s driver told me he’d be taking Wen Lu today. If you like, I’ll ask Wen Lu to report to you after he gets back.”

“Heh, Tao Kan, your ears are getting longer! Here I am, the discipline secretary, and you know things before I do! You’re like an undercover agent in our bank!” Zhang Maolin laughed.

“Uncle, it’s just coincidence. My brother-in-law saw me this morning and asked for a phone charger, said he’d forgotten his. That’s how I found out. I’m no snoop! Besides, I’m just a driver—I only care about food, drink, and women! Haven’t you heard—nine out of ten drivers are randy, and the tenth is a drunk!” Tao Kan joked.

“Just kidding! Really, Wen Lu doesn’t have to report his trips to me—I don’t manage credit, and there’s no such rule. His habit just shows his personal style, which speaks well for him.

But let me warn you, Tao Kan,” Zhang Maolin said, his tone turning cold. “As a driver serving a leader, your best use is to watch the leader’s bag and the road ahead. Don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you. Every leader has their quirks—if you think you’ve figured everything out, your time is up!”

“Yes, Uncle, I get it! I keep my mouth shut with everyone else—just not with you...” Tao Kan wilted.

“Hmph, you say you get it. I hope so! You drivers are in your prime—don’t waste it. Especially you, read more books. You won’t be a driver forever. Reforms keep changing things—learn some real skills and be ready. And go home more often, talk with your retired dad about your work and hear his advice. If you can master half of your father’s wisdom, you’ll easily make it to field supervisor in the branch one day.”

“Enough, sir! Better just scold me!” Tao Kan stuck out his tongue, pulled a face, and turned on the car stereo: “You ask me how deep my love is, how much I love you...” Teresa Teng’s gentle voice suddenly warmed the car.