Chapter 104

The road was dark on the way back that day, as there were no streetlights along the village path. Only the two headlights of the car pierced through the darkness. It was only a little past seven, yet it felt like deep into the night.

In the back seat of the car lay a finely carved painting of plants, covered with a plastic bubble wrap, and the four corners of the frame were carefully wrapped with foam paper.

They had packaged it together. The servants were not around, so Shang Mingbao found these materials in the storage room. She held the painting while Xiang Feiran wrapped it layer by layer, securing it with tape. He did this meticulously, methodically, and smoothly, and she cooperated seamlessly. After packing it up, they placed it in the Mercedes together.

“Does it seem like it’s sticking out a bit?”

“It’s fine.”

Even though he was confident it would be fine, he was still very careful when closing the car door, fearing it might get bumped.

They made dinner together, but it was terrible.

Shang Mingbao knew his time management well. When he said he could only give an afternoon, it meant he wouldn’t stay for dinner, as he likely had other plans for the evening. So she hadn’t prepared for him to stay and eat. Around five o’clock, a thought suddenly occurred to her, and she asked, “You didn’t have lunch, are you hungry?”

Xiang Feiran didn’t lie: “Yes.”

He hadn’t had breakfast either, aside from a cup of black coffee—if that even counts as eating.

Shang Mingbao and he stared at each other for a while. “There’s no cook at home… and no takeout either.”

They opened the fridge. There were, of course, plenty of ingredients, but beyond Xiang Feiran’s culinary skills. Eventually, they found two steaks, a few asparagus, a few mushrooms, and a tomato.

If Xiang Feiran’s intelligence was leaps and bounds ahead of others, then cooking was an area where he eternally scored zero.

Shang Mingbao sat on a high stool by the island counter, watching him calmly turn on the stove, use metal tongs to skillfully flip the steaks, and she thought he had made significant progress. But when she finally took a bite of the Australian M9-grade steak, she chewed for a long time before swallowing with difficulty and said in bewilderment, “I thought you liked medium rare.”

Xiang Feiran’s movements paused, and without changing his expression, he said, “I’ve changed; I like well-done now.”

People who are bad at cooking often lack confidence in the doneness of food, always worried it’s not cooked enough, so what they end up serving is always overcooked.

Love is like cooking delicate dishes.

Xiang Feiran had a high tolerance for food; as long as it wasn’t poisonous, it was fine—even mildly poisonous things were sometimes acceptable, like certain fruits from the Araceae family, or fried dandelions. He believed that fried dandelions were no different from tempura in high-end Japanese restaurants.

Shang Mingbao quietly ate, just as she had quietly eaten the plain boiled noodles he made during a camping trip that summer. Those were also overcooked, so soft that they broke as soon as she picked them up with chopsticks. During those years in New York and Boston, they had only cooked a few times in the apartment on West 56th Street, either triggering the smoke alarm or creating something so unappetizing it was hard to even lift the chopsticks.

Compared to that, this was actually one of Xiang Feiran’s more successful attempts.

“In the six years we’ve been together, this is the fifth time I’ve eaten something you made,” Shang Mingbao suddenly said.

Xiang Feiran glanced at her, “It’s better to eat less of bad food.”

“But I like eating it.”

“?” Xiang Feiran was stunned by her.

“I mean, I like the feeling of cooking together, eating together.” Shang Mingbao put down her knife and fork, looked across the marble island counter at him, “Do you feel a lot of psychological pressure when you cook?”

Xiang Feiran took a sip of cold water and set down his glass, “Cooking for myself is different from cooking for you.”

“So, living for yourself is different from tying someone else into your life too?” Shang Mingbao tilted her chin slightly.

“…,” Xiang Feiran suddenly realized her conversational skills had improved, and he looked at her intently, “Where did you learn this?”

Shang Mingbao raised the corners of her lips, “I didn’t age for nothing.”

Xiang Feiran didn’t want to delve into this topic, so he gave her a heavy look, “Stop eating, wait for your chef to come back and have him make you something good.”

“Are you still against marriage?” Shang Mingbao opened the gate, revealing the pitch-black sky over the rocky beach.

He should have told her firmly that he was. That would bring their issue back to the starting point, the path ahead still a labyrinth, and their current closeness would seem meaningless.

If he wanted to completely sever ties, this would undoubtedly be the most efficient way to do it.

But the truth was, his resolve had already been fractured for her, opening a narrow passage, with a sign on the door that read, “Only Shang Mingbao may pass.”

Shang Mingbao looked at him clearly, waiting for his answer.

“Overall, yes,” Xiang Feiran answered in a scientific manner.

Shang Mingbao dipped her fingertip in water and drew a pie chart on the pure white marble countertop, dividing it into a 99% and 1% ratio: “Like this kind of overall?”

Xiang Feiran: “…”

Expressionless, he placed his hands on the edge of the countertop, leaned slightly forward, and moved closer: “You were cuter when you asked ‘Brother Feiran, I want to kiss you.'”

Shang Mingbao bit her lower lip lightly and asked, “Who does the remaining 1% belong to? Is it mine?”

“…”

As he said, she indeed had the talent to make herself happy.

“Even if it’s mine, I’m still sad…” Shang Mingbao’s expression turned desolate again, whether she was pretending or not, “Back then, you clearly told me you’d figured it out and wanted to marry me. But now you’ve returned to your ‘overall anti-marriage stance,’ which means that back then, you hadn’t really figured it out, you were just forcing yourself.”

She mumbled, her gaze hidden under her eyelashes, looking self-reproachful and distressed.

Xiang Feiran tried to see if there were any traces of her acting on her face but failed.

Even though he knew she had set up a logical trap for him, he could only bend into it and say calmly, “I wasn’t forcing myself.”

His heart skipped a beat.

Shang Mingbao slightly pressed her lips together, but her brow was still furrowed: “Then how could it change in just over a year?”

“Because…”

“Because I forgot to add a premise,” Shang Mingbao raised her eyes, propping her chin on her palm like a calyx, “If we could continue, would you still be anti-marriage, or ‘overall’ anti-marriage?”

Shang Mingbao wiped off the watermark from earlier with a napkin and drew two circles. The first circle was still a pie chart with a 99% to 1% ratio, while the second circle connected the 1% segment with an arrow: “If Shang Mingbao stands in this segment, then 1% becomes 100%—Brother Feiran, am I right?”

Today, in just a few hours, it seemed like he had seen a hundred different sides of Shang Mingbao.

There was the shy and rash “Brother Feiran, I want to kiss you” who acted without thinking;

There was the clear-minded, determined “I’ve seen through myself, please see me clearly too”;

There was the sly, fox-like Shang Mingbao who gently led him into a trap with every step, saying, “If it’s Shang Mingbao, then 1% becomes 100%.”

The village road was very dark, the lush plants on both sides illuminated into a stark white by the car headlights. If viewed from far enough away, from a high enough vantage point, this car would look like a silver needle, slowly piercing into a cloth as black as the deepest night.

Before leaving, they did not kiss. He got into the driver’s seat, and Shang Mingbao saw him off by the car door. Her hand rested on the car door as she leaned in to look at him, as if she had something to say, or perhaps she just wanted to gaze at him like this.

Their breathing gradually filled the small, engine-revving car cabin, tinged with a warm humidity.

“Brother Feiran, touch me,” she sighed and murmured, pressing her cheek against the palm he lifted for her.

Her face seemed made for his palm, and his palm for her face, the lines of life lightly brushed and warmed by her soft skin.

Shang Mingbao closed her eyes. In the pitch-black night, she felt Xiang Feiran’s hand gently tighten—her head and neck were drawn close to him, pulled into the car.

He didn’t kiss her. Their necks entwined like two plants leaning and clinging to each other, brushed by the wind, their biological pheromones mingling in this silence.

Lowering his face, his thin lips rested against her ear.

They really were about to part. Shang Mingbao’s hand, propped on the car door, turned pale as bone as she inexplicably wanted to take one more look at him, to remember his face at this moment with all her might.

“It’s getting late,” he said softly, having an appointment in the laboratory.

The car turned around in her sight and drove out of the courtyard. Shang Mingbao unconsciously took two steps forward, then stopped.

Perhaps because she had waited so long for him to come this time, she couldn’t bear to watch him leave with his back to her.

Before he left for Nepal, they weren’t able to meet again.

The collection and research trip to Nepal had long been scheduled. He was originally supposed to take a PhD student with him, but the student’s family suddenly had an emergency, so Xiang Feiran went alone.

Before any long trip, Xiang Feiran would always return to the mountains for a couple of days.

Xiang Lianqiao’s health was always teetering between good and bad. Occasionally, he would stay in the intensive care ward for some time, but he always felt more comfortable in the mountains. Everyone around him watched over him, not allowing him to do anything too taxing. When a small African country had another humanitarian crisis, Xiang Lianqiao watched the Chinese representative’s appeal at the United Nations and the gruesome news broadcasts, secretly wiping away tears, which his sharp-eyed assistant noticed. He had recently undergone cataract surgery and shouldn’t cry. Since then, any excessively negative international news was kept from being delivered to his study.

Xiang Feiran’s marriage had never been brought up again by Xiang Lianqiao, nor did he ask about his future plans. But when he suddenly heard him mention Shang Mingbao, the old man let out a light, high-pitched “Oh,” full of mischief.

“I don’t understand,” Xiang Feiran said, sitting with him in the courtyard.

“What don’t you understand?” Xiang Lianqiao asked slowly.

“I’m afraid she’ll leave again. I can’t take it a second time.”

“If you’re asking me, I can’t answer that either,” Xiang Lianqiao lifted his slack eyelids. “You’ve only seen your grandmother a few times. I was always being transferred around, and she wanted stability, so we had to get a divorce. It was amicable, but we still fought and reconciled for over a year before the divorce. I thought, if we couldn’t live together, then I should let her go. From that day on, I never said I loved her again.”

His vocal cords, long slackened by age, were raspy.
“Once, she came to visit Qiu Cheng. Qiu Cheng said, ‘Mom, Dad really loves you.’ She was stunned, came over to ask me, ‘Is our daughter right?’ She was wearing new clothes, Feiran, she had married a senior from her school as her new husband. I could only say, ‘He used to love you.’ She was even more stunned, as if she was about to cry, and said, ‘Lianqiao, have you ever thought that if you had told me you loved me a few more times, I might not have left?'”

This was the first time Xiang Feiran heard him talk about this part of his past.

He had met his grandmother a few times, but the impression wasn’t deep—she passed away due to heart disease. In his memory, at that time, Xiang Lianqiao lived in the city, and every time his grandmother visited, she was always kind, with a gentle smile and the broad elegance typical of a family from Jiangnan.

“She passed away too early. She was bedridden, and that evening, I went to visit her. I still remember the feeling of the sunlight streaming in, the shadow of the lattice window—it was the old market area, torn down last year. She said she couldn’t survive anymore and asked me to give her an answer. I said, ‘Mianzhi, I really loved you.’ She kept crying, and that night, she passed away.”

After a long silence, Xiang Lianqiao spoke again, in a voice with no echo: “I always dream of her.”

Xiang Feiran had also met his grandmother’s second husband. After her death, he would visit during the holidays. He was a physicist and would always sit peacefully with Xiang Lianqiao. Because of this relationship, everyone believed there was no love between Xiang Lianqiao and his ex-wife—if there had been love, how could he be so peaceful with the man who had also been with her?

“Feiran, one must never hurt the heart of a loved one…” Xiang Lianqiao returned to this thought, “Your grandfather has only experienced failure, not success, so I can’t guide you.”

He stroked the dragon’s head of his cane, “No rush, no rush. Take your time to think, but you need to be smarter than your grandfather and figure it out before it’s too late.”

–

The plane landed in Kathmandu, and following the only highway in Nepal built with the help of the Chinese government, they arrived at a small town called Chitwan.

This is a forest town where you can see elephants walking through the town center. Guests stay in garden-style hotels and enjoy breakfast while elephant herds, after playing in the river behind the houses, are driven and ridden past, causing slight tremors on the muddy ground as they walk by the windows.

Someone who never recorded short videos made one this time and sent it to Shang Mingbao.

In fact, there were two videos. The first one was not well done, so he put down his half-eaten breakfast, patiently moved to another spot, and waited for the second elephant to pass by.

After resting here for a day, Xiang Feiran followed the guide into this vast forest kingdom, where wildlife was everywhere.

Shang Mingbao still said goodnight to him every day. Sometimes, when she was too absorbed in her studio work, Xiang Feiran would ask her, “Where’s today’s goodnight?”

Shang Mingbao would catch up at two or three in the morning, which was like being caught staying up late—feeling guilty, she would immediately retract the message. Even though the retraction had a time stamp, she would scratch her head with a pencil, unsure what to do, seemingly convinced he would be concerned and criticize her for staying up late.

Essie often came to check on the progress. When Shang Mingbao was looking at her phone, Essie would suddenly appear and teasingly ask, “Still no breakthrough?” Essie blinked and added, “They say it’s easy for a girl to win a guy over, but you’re chasing Xiang Bo? That reminds me of something.” She said, “Did you know you’re pinned at the top of his WeChat?”

Shang Mingbao was startled, “I didn’t know.”

“During the documentary shoot, I caught a glimpse, but the note was weird, so I didn’t realize it at first. I thought it was just someone with a similar profile picture.”

Shang Mingbao’s heart pounded, and she dared not blink, “Is it…a string of Tibetan characters?”

“Yes, exactly!” Essie waved her finger, “It’s a string of Tibetan characters. What does it mean?”

“Ajia.”

“Ajia? What’s that?” Essie asked, “Your Tibetan name?”

How many years has it been?

That was… when she was nineteen.

Twenty-seven-year-old Shang Mingbao blushed, “It means ‘wife’ in Tibetan.”

Essie first covered her mouth in disbelief, wanting to sigh romantically but hesitated, realizing something was off: “Wait, isn’t he opposed to marriage?”

“Yes. At that time, I also thought I’d be married off by my family, but… I really wanted to marry him.” Shang Mingbao felt her face tighten.

That small courtyard in Tashi, the white horse grazing, the roaring stream, the apple tree at the bridge, and him walking towards her from under the apple tree, meeting her gaze.

“Did he ever let you call yourself that?” Essie felt indignant, “He’s against marriage, yet he played along with this—wouldn’t that deepen delusion and pain?”

“He didn’t allow it. When the guide mistook us for a married couple, he always corrected them. So…” Shang Mingbao smiled, “I told him that string of Tibetan characters meant ‘Baima,’ which means ‘fairy.'”

All these years, Xiang Feiran never changed it.

She thought that after they broke up, he would unpin her from his list and change her unique note. Maybe he was just too lazy.

Baima, Baima.

Do you know Baima is your Ajia?

Baima, I really want to be your Ajia.

She was the nineteen-year-old girl who dreamed of marrying you.

That day, in the forests of Nepal, Xiang Feiran encountered a Tibetan monk destined to come for herbal medicine and meditation.