Chapter 9 — Listening to the Rain to Read Hearts

Shen Zheng looked at me. The young man standing beside him stared in utter bewilderment, struggling to process the scene.

Have you ever studied criminal profiling?

No. I simply observe people.

Shen Zheng rolled up the map and rose to his feet.

Very well. I will deploy the forces according to your assessment.

As he reached the threshold, he paused.

There is one matter I must inform you of. The bureau recently underwent a leadership change, and the new political commissar is quite conservative. In the future, it will not be convenient for me to come and seek your help openly.

You mean you will sneak over to find me in secret?

He offered a faint smile. A genuine smile, with the corners of his lips curling upward quite distinctly.

You summarize things remarkably well.

That was the very first time I saw him smile. Previously, the most one could expect was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. This time was entirely different. The smile was fleeting, yet it left an indelible trace within my heart. Much like the gentle sweep of a carving blade across stone. Extremely light, and yet the mark remained. Afterward, that particular burglary case was successfully resolved. It was not a particularly earth-shattering conclusion. They lay in wait in the exact area I had described for an entire week, eventually apprehending a man in his early forties who worked as a temporary laborer at a construction site. During the interrogation, the man confessed to a total of seven offenses. Yet, throughout this whole ordeal, what truly shook my heart was not the case itself. It was the steadily increasing frequency of Shen Zheng visits to see me. At first, he would only come when there was an active case. Later, he came even when there was no case at all. Sometimes, passing by after the end of his shift, he would stop to ask if I had eaten yet. On other occasions, he would arrive early in the morning, leave a bag of steamed buns outside my door, and quietly depart. There was one rainy evening when I packed up my stall late and returned to my dwelling drenched to the bone, looking like a drowned rat. His car was parked downstairs. He had fallen asleep in the driver seat. That day, I stood in the rain for a very long time without waking him. I watched the way he tilted his head back, his eyes closed inside the vehicle. His brow was finally free of its usual tight furrow, and his entire person lacked the perpetually vigilant defensive posture he wore during the daylight hours. He was merely a mortal man, capable of exhaustion, capable of weariness. I approached with my umbrella and gently tapped on the car window. He stirred awake. The fleeting moment he caught sight of me, his gaze held a trace of drowsiness before instantly growing sharp and alert.

You have returned? You are completely soaked through, aren't you? Go and change into dry clothes quickly, lest you catch a cold.

Why are you here?

Waiting for you. With such torrential rain falling and you still yet to pack up your stall, I was uneasy.

Then won't you step out of the car and come inside for a moment?

There is no need. Now that you have returned safely, I shall take my leave.

I watched as he rolled up the window and started the ignition. The red glow of the taillights gradually faded into the curtain of rain. That evening, I changed my clothes, wrapped myself tightly in a quilt, and sat upon the bed, my mind in absolute turmoil. At eighteen years of age, I lacked the understanding for such matters. But now that I was nineteen, to claim ignorance would be nothing more than sheer pretense.

The spring of the year 2000 arrived with unusual haste. By late February, the weeping willows had already sprouted fresh green buds. A multitude of stalls vending spring attire emerged throughout the marketplace. The space immediately adjacent to mine was now occupied by a new neighbor, a young man selling cassette tapes. His loudspeaker blared the melodies of Ren Xianqi's "Too Soft-Hearted" and Andy Lau's "Forget-Me-Not" from dawn until dusk. It was somewhat boisterous, yet it lent the surroundings a certain lively atmosphere. By early March, Shen Zheng was transferred away. He was not sent terribly far, merely promoted from the county bureau to the criminal investigation detachment of the municipal bureau. When he came to inform me of this development, his demeanor was entirely indistinguishable from his ordinary days.

The municipal bureau is short-handed, so they are transferring me there. In the future, the number of times I return to the county will likely decrease.

I let out a soft sound of acknowledgment.

That is for the best. You have received a promotion.

It cannot truly be considered a promotion. It is merely a lateral transfer.

I lowered my gaze once more to organize the bolts of blue fabric. He stood in silence for a moment.

If any situation arises, you may call the criminal investigation detachment to reach me. You remember the telephone number, do you not?

I remember.

He remained standing for a brief while longer. The marketplace surrounding us was remarkably clamorous. Someone was shouting out three pairs of socks for ten yuan, the neighboring loudspeaker continued to wail about being excessively soft-hearted, and in the distance, a tractor rumbled past with a deafening roar. Yet he simply stood there without leaving, transforming that tiny patch of space into something profoundly tranquil.

Chu Tingyu.

That was the first time he addressed me by my full given name.

Yes.

You are here entirely by yourself; you must exercise caution regarding your safety.

You have stated that eight hundred times already.

Indeed. Then I shall take my leave.

He departed. I watched as his retreating figure vanished beyond the gates of the marketplace, my hand gripping the edge of the blue fabric so tightly that my knuckles turned completely white. That day, I packed up my stall far earlier than usual. Upon returning to my quarters, I bolted the door and engaged in nothing at all, simply sitting in place. I sat there until darkness swallowed the room. Only after a person has departed does one truly discover the immense weight the days of their presence possessed. It was not the kind of overwhelming gravity that makes its presence felt the moment it appears. Rather, it was something that settled in layer by subtle layer. Changing the lock, apples, instant noodles, steamed buns, waiting downstairs on rainy days. Taken individually, each occurrence seemed insignificant. Yet when accumulated together, they formed the entire foundation of my sense of security over the past two years. Now, that very foundation had vanished. I told myself it was of no consequence; I had lived alone for over a decade, and I was hardly lacking for someone like him. Yet within my heart, I knew everything had fundamentally changed. During the first month following Shen Zheng departure, I lived in a somewhat hazy, drifting state.