WP Chapter 9

Si Shaorong had assumed that Jiang Yibai’s place would also carry that heavily dated vibe. Maybe there would be a green refrigerator from the last century, a cracked and worn leather sofa, the walls painted in the once-trendy white-on-top, green-on-bottom scheme, one of those identical orange desk lamps every household used to have, and the ubiquitous Double Happiness bedding set.

But once Jiang Yibai stepped in and flicked on the light switch, Si Shaorong’s eyes lit up.

The apartment had clearly been renovated later on. The walls were pure white, the kitchen was open-plan, the backsplash tiled in trendy white squares. The flooring was smooth, self-leveling concrete. The entire space felt open and bright, with a distinct industrial aesthetic. The furniture was minimalist, nothing flashy or decorative.

The fabric sofa in the living room was covered in a white slipcover. A few beanbags were tossed nearby. The coffee table had a black metal finish, and the TV stand was made of walnut wood. A large, simple painting hung on the dining room wall. Two small spotlights were mounted above it, making the artwork the visual centerpiece of the space and giving the room a tasteful, artistic feel.

Next to a Japanese-style sideboard sat a guitar and a bass. The dining table was covered with a dark table runner, and a vase sat in the middle. Beneath it was a brass tray holding a few guitar picks and some small bottles of men’s cologne.

Near the window in the living room stood a black piano, draped with a deep red cloth. A stack of sheet music was casually left on the bench.

At a glance, the place gave off a remarkably comfortable atmosphere. It had a quiet, lived-in warmth, far removed from noise or flash. What remained was a calm, unhurried presence, the kind of coziness polished over time, the feeling of a home that had been lived in for many years. The moment you stepped through the door, you felt at ease.

Si Shaorong took his time, letting his eyes pass over every corner. He couldn’t help but admire it all.

“This place is…?” he finally asked.

Jiang Yibai led him to the guest room door, opened it, and said, “This was my dad’s old apartment. Back then, housing was assigned through work units. My grandpa had one. My dad had one.”

He explained, “My grandpa worked in a government office early on. My dad was assigned here later on through his job. His hometown isn’t in this area. He came here alone to study, carrying a bamboo basket with some clothes and daily necessities. That was it. Eventually he met my mom. t
They were both in the same system, and got to know each other through work.”

“My grandpa’s place isn’t far from here either. It’s rented out now, just waiting to be demolished someday,” Jiang Yibai said as he poured a glass of water for Si Shaorong. Then he led him around the apartment again. “This place is old, but some things only have charm because they’re old. When I moved in, I left a few things as they were. Like this bookshelf, this desk, and these lamps…”

As Si Shaorong listened, he looked around and silently agreed with Jiang Yibai’s perspective. This apartment felt like a gallery blending the modern with the old. It had a unique charm of its own.

The lights in several rooms were vintage models from decades ago. Black cords hung down long and loose from the ceiling, and when the bulbs lit up, they gave off a very warm yellow glow. The desk lamps still had those old orange shades, placed neatly on the desks. On the windowsill were several pots of succulents and candles, adding a playful touch.

The bookshelf was an old, deep red solid wood cabinet. It wasn’t tall or large and had sliding glass doors. The sliders had grown a little stiff with age.

On top of the bookcase sat a black wooden box. Inside, the shelves were packed with old, yellowed books. Even after decades, the structure hadn’t warped at all. Unlike some modern bookcases that start to sag under the weight of too many books, this one held firm.

Si Shaorong scanned the spines one by one and saw titles like Collected Works of Ruan Ji, Xiaopin Collection, A Brief History of the Twenty-Four Histories, Basics of Classical Poetry Forms, and Chronological Table of Chinese History published by Zhonghua Book Company.

The books carried a heavy sense of history, the kind you would never find in a modern bookstore. Many of them were designed to be read from right to left. The text was in traditional vertical script.

Curious, Si Shaorong looked through them one by one. Suddenly, he spotted a small, thin booklet with a plain white cover and no markings.

Jiang Yibai followed his gaze, then immediately grinned and gave him a wink. “Guess what book that is?”

Si Shaorong shook his head.

Jiang Yibai pulled the booklet out. It was very thin, not even as thick as a coin standing on its side. On the white cover were three characters. Foundations of Study. After looking at it for a moment, Si Shaorong said curiously, “This was handwritten, right? Is that… brush calligraphy?”

The calligraphy didn’t look forceful, but each stroke carried weight. It felt like the person writing had been cautious and restrained with every horizontal and diagonal stroke. Below the title, in smaller script, it read. Written by Gu Si.

Si Shaorong thought the pen name looked rather strange. But aside from those few characters, the booklet had nothing else. No ISBN, no price, no publisher name.

As Si Shaorong flipped through a bit more, he started to feel something was off. The book cover seemed to have been wrapped over the original. Someone had used a piece of slightly stiff white paper, folded the edges inward, and glued it down with some kind of paste to cover up whatever had originally been on the surface.

Time had clearly worn it down. The edge of the cover had started to come loose. Jiang Yibai motioned for him to open it and take a look.

Si Shaorong peeled it back like he was uncovering a hidden treasure. Underneath, in large bold characters, it read: Criticize Lin, Criticize Confucius Study Materials (The “Criticize Lin, Criticize Confucius” campaign was a political movement during China’s Cultural Revolution that condemned Lin Biao and traditional Confucian values as reactionary.)

Si Shaorong: “……”

“Hahahahahahaha.” Jiang Yibai burst out laughing.

Then he flipped to the table of contents. The first entry: The Three Character Classic as a Reactionary Model Promoting Confucian Doctrine.

Si Shaorong had never seen anything like this and immediately got curious, diving right in.

Jiang Yibai didn’t interrupt. He just set Si Shaorong’s glass of water on the desk and went about tidying up.

Si Shaorong was a full-time writer, with his own schedule for writing. Jiang Yibai was half a freelancer himself, with flexible hours too.

Neither of them had work the next morning, so time slipped past midnight without either of them saying anything about sleep.

When Si Shaorong finally looked up from the book, he realized there was a faint sound coming from the television in the living room. He carried the book out and saw Jiang Yibai already changed into pajamas, curled up on the sofa watching a movie.

On the square black metal coffee table were some fruit and yogurt. A few sheets of music had been tossed to the side. Jiang Yibai wore gray striped pajama pants and a matching top. His bangs were pushed back, revealing his full forehead, and his messy hair actually made him look kind of cute.

Holding the book, Si Shaorong asked, “Did someone in your family write this title on the cover?”

“Hmm? Probably,” Jiang Yibai scooted over to make room for him and leaned on one hand with his chin in his palm. “All these books were my grandpa’s. After he passed, my mom brought them all here. I heard he had really nice handwriting. He used to be a young master or something, but the family fell on hard times. There wasn’t anyone else left. It’s a whole mess that’s hard to explain.”

He pointed at the three characters on the cover, and said, “I’m guessing my grandpa wrote that. Must have been meant as some kind of joke, right?”

“Yeah.” Si Shaorong clearly shared the same thought and nodded. “It’s incredible. Did you read what was inside?”

“Of course I did. I didn’t understand it when I was a kid, but I get it now.” Jiang Yibai was clearly enjoying himself. “These people really dared to say anything.”

“Far-fetched and full of twisted logic,” Si Shaorong frowned. But he had to admit, this kind of material gave him excellent inspiration. It only made him feel more certain that moving in had been the right choice. “Those books… can I read them whenever I want?”

“Sure, go ahead. Just be a little careful with them.” Jiang Yibai was more than generous. He took the book out of Si Shaorong’s hands and set it aside, then stuffed an emperor tangerine into his hands and added, “But the ones in my bedroom aren’t open access.”

Si Shaorong nodded. There were already plenty in the study. He might not even make it through all of them.

Jiang Yibai looked at him and couldn’t be more pleased. The great master wasn’t exactly how he had imagined, but somehow even more lovable. It turned out he wasn’t so aloof, and not that hard to talk to either. People always said the great master had a weird temper. Maybe that was just because no one had figured out how to talk to him properly. Or maybe they didn’t have anything in common.

Jiang Yibai felt like someone dangling bait on a line, secretly laughing to himself as he watched the big fish slowly inch closer to the hook. Hands clasped together in his heart, he made a silent prayer. Grandpa, oh Grandpa, whether your grandson manages to get a boyfriend now… it all depends on these books of yours.

Heaven only knows, if his grandfather’s spirit really was watching from above, he was probably wishing for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead and be done with it.

Jiang Yibai had never taken well to discipline. He was always the kind who responded better to coaxing than to force. After realizing his orientation in middle school, he had gone through a phase of confusion. Back then he wrote a lot of melodramatic stuff. It was the era when everyone was obsessed with gazing up at Ferris wheels at a 45-degree angle, drowning in teenage sorrow. Jiang Yibai had copied the trend so well he even won awards for it.

But later he made some great girlfriends and close friends, and slowly grew out of that angsty stage. When his parents died unexpectedly near the end of college, he started letting go of even more. His personality became more unrestrained, though in the eyes of his students, it wasn’t called “unrestrained.” It was called “certifiably insane.”

The next morning, Jiang Yibai slept straight through until broad daylight. He was still lying in bed, not fully processing it yet. He was living with the great master? They were actually living together now? Was this real? Did he drink fake liquor last night?

He sat up, a head full of curls looking like a freshly formed bird’s nest. Face still groggy, he stared blankly for a while, then got out of bed and tiptoed to the guest room.

The guest room was next to the dining room. Standing at the door, Jiang Yibai could hear the sound of fast typing from inside. He didn’t dare interrupt.

He was overwhelmed, almost high from the excitement, ready to howl at the sky outside. He hadn’t drunk fake liquor! He really was living with the great master! The great master was in his house, working! Maybe the next great literary masterpiece was about to be born right here!

Jiang Yibai stood dumbly at the door, grinning like an idiot. The censorship blocks in his brain were already wide awake and working overtime. From now on, this would be their little love nest. After they clapped for love, they would move from the kitchen to the bathroom to the dining room, clapping in every possible position. Then the great master would be hit with a burst of inspiration, and while they were still going at it, he would start recording voice notes to capture the outline of the story. Eventually, their masterpiece would be born out of these love-clapping sessions. When the novel received an interview in the future, this would be their shared secret. On camera, they would gaze into each other’s eyes, smiling knowingly. Then once the reporter left, they would go back to clapping again…

“Jiang…?”

“…Yibai?”

“Jiang Yibai?”

“Ah!” Jiang Yibai jolted and blurted out, “I’m fine!”

Si Shaorong: “???” Fine about what? Why was he just standing outside the door spacing out?