Chapter 47 — A Dream Like Yesterday
A few years ago, cholera had broken out in the northern region. Now, with a new outbreak, panic spread among the people.
As soon as the Russian consulate learned of it, they immediately pressured all Chinese nationals in Heihe to return home, and cross-border trade was quickly suspended to clearly mark boundaries.
On the other side, a Japanese trading caravan also lost a few people—almost simultaneously with Sun Dajiang’s death.
The circumstances were suspicious, but the epidemic was urgent, and no one pursued it further. Instead, the roads around Heihe were blocked, and doctors were brought in to quickly set up makeshift treatment tents.
Everyone from the Bai family at the Heihe distillery was quarantined. Fortunately, either because the factory had been clean or because the workshops were regularly disinfected, no one had been infected yet. However, because they had all been to the police station, authorities sent medicines for them and monitored them for a while to ensure safety before leaving.
Yet overnight, another five people in Heihe died.
Among them were two former workers and an accountant from the Changshan distillery who had close contact with Sun Dajiang. The other two deaths were surprising—they were three children from Fang Ji’an’s household, including two boys.
Heihe had few doctors, so many were borrowed from Qinghe County and other surrounding areas, regardless of specialty, particularly Western medicine practitioners capable of treating and saving patients. Dr. Lin received a letter and hurried over, accompanied by Fang Jiwu carrying a medicine box. Fang Jiwu wore long sleeves and pants, and a medical mask, serving as Dr. Lin’s assistant, but he had never expected that the first thing he would do upon arrival would be to see several of his own family members die.
Fang Jiwu clenched his teeth and, ignoring the advice of other relatives to hold a grand funeral, simply arranged three thin coffins to bury his father and younger brother.
At this time of year, the soil in Heihe hadn’t frozen yet, so it could be dug deep. He asked Dr. Lin about preventing further contagion: one way was deep burial, the other was cremation.
Being low in status, suggesting cremation would have angered everyone, so deep burial was the only option.
Fang Jiwu had no money and only a dilapidated house, so he had no choice but to ask Xie Jing for help.
Xie Jing, having some silver coins on him, intended to give them to Fang Jiwu, but before he could take more than a few steps, Zhang Huwei stopped him: “Little Xie, don’t go.”
“I still have money, Teacher,” Xie Jing replied.
Zhang Huwei, who had been buying rice and was carrying a bag on his shoulder, put it down and walked a few steps toward him: “I know you have money, but you’re too young. Didn’t the doctor say this disease spreads most easily to the elderly and children? You must stay away. I’ll go give it to him.” He took the bag of coins from Xie Jing, added two more silver dollars from his own pocket, and said, “I’ll make it an even twenty. You stay in the factory—don’t go anywhere; the streets are empty!”
Xie Jing nodded.
After a while, Zhang Huwei returned with a paper for him: “The money’s given. Your classmate’s a good person—he wrote an IOU promising to return it in two years.”
Xie Jing didn’t pay much attention and saw Zhang Huwei going to move more rice. He bent down to help: “Master, I’ll help.”
“No need. This is moving it outside, not in our factory kitchen,” Zhang Huwei said.
Xie Jing took a few steps, then returned, still holding the rice bag, and looked at Zhang Huwei.
Zhang Huwei laughed: “Silly boy, put it down. I’m taking rice to Lord Bai Jiu. The convoy has returned, but they can’t enter Heihe, so they’re camped outside.”
Xie Jing’s eyes lit up. Though reluctant to put down the bag, he obeyed.
Zhang Huwei took a few steps, then heard his apprentice call out: “Teacher, wait! Take this letter to Lord Bai Jiu for me.”
“Alright, go quickly. I’ll wait here.”
Xie Jing ran back to the staff dorm, where he lived alone in a double room on the second floor, as the guards normally followed Lord Bai Jiu in shifts. He paced around, took out pen and paper, and didn’t know what to write. He had so much to say, yet didn’t know where to start. Seeing Lord Bai Jiu was enough—he’d be happy without saying a word.
Biting the pen, he tried again and wrote the character for “Lord,” but his wrist shook and his ears burned. Unable to continue, he randomly stuffed in a few previously copied exercises from Lord Bai Jiu’s lessons.
Xie Jing ran down and gave the thick letter to Zhang Huwei, who was startled: “So much work already?”
“These were practice writings. My handwriting is poor, but Lord Bai Jiu asked me to write more.”
Zhang Huwei chuckled and accepted it: “In our entire east courtyard, you’re the most sincere. I’ll deliver it for you.”
After he left, Xie Jing didn’t rest. He climbed to the top tower of the factory to watch, seeing a row of tents not far off. He stayed there until dinner before returning.
Zhang Huwei later brought back Lord Bai Jiu’s reply. Compared to Xie Jing’s thick letter, Lord Bai Jiu’s was brief: a single thin page with two words: “Still okay.”
Xie Jing was delighted and carefully placed the letter in his box, alongside other treasures, with the small stone tiger that Grandma Kou valued resting crookedly on top.
Around midnight, Xie Jing suddenly felt chills followed by fever. Having experienced cholera before, he knew the severity of the epidemic. He dressed warmly, wore a medical mask, and thought of going to the hospital, but as soon as he moved, he fell off the bed and couldn’t get up.
The noise alarmed Zhang Huwei in the next room, who put on clothes, knocked on the door, and called out: “Little Xie? Are you okay?”
Xie Jing’s forehead was burning hot, his body cold and shivering, and he couldn’t speak loudly.
Zhang Huwei, losing patience, kicked the door open.
Xie Jing felt himself being lifted. The sudden fever plunged him into a haze. In his delirium, he seemed to see a pair of pale blue boots.
He had a long dream.
In the dream, he returned to when he first met Lord Bai Jiu.
Back then, he was the most celebrated martial student in the provincial capital. Handsome and unique among students, his performances, especially as Zhao Zilong, were highly praised: a young hero wielding a silver spear, beating the drum and victorious in every battle.
Yet offstage, he was still the same hardworking boy struggling to fill his belly.
Later, the troupe owner sold him to the Cao family of the provincial government. The young master treated him well, opening a theater to showcase him, but the patriarch forbade descendants from dealing with actors. Reluctantly, the young master entrusted Xie Jing to Lord Bai Jiu.
The Cao young master said: “Xie Jing, Lord Bai Jiu is my best friend. Stay with him for two years. I’ll come for you after that. You have talent in Peking Opera and should continue.”
Xie Jing didn’t want to perform, but he knew the young master was kind, so he agreed.
The Cao family packed up his costumes and belongings and sent him to the Bai household.
The Bai estate was more than twice the size of the Cao mansion. Standing in the hall, Xie Jing saw Lord Bai Jiu descending the redwood staircase. Lord Bai Jiu looked at him, then at the luggage, and calmly arranged his accommodations.
Xie Jing remembered him from the theater visits, but dared not approach. He was shy and isolated in the new environment.
Later, a provincial epidemic broke out. Many caretakers of Lord Bai Jiu fell ill, and doctors quarantined other servants. Xie Jing, staying home, remained healthy. The steward gave him silver to care for Lord Bai Jiu. Xie Jing insisted on a contract, but the steward only promised to provide it later.
Xie Jing nursed Lord Bai Jiu for nearly a month. Using Western medicine, he boiled and sterilized syringes to administer injections. Initially, the effect was minimal. Lord Bai Jiu shivered at night, and Xie Jing stayed close to warm him, eventually saving him.
As Lord Bai Jiu recovered, Xie Jing continued sharing the room, sleeping at the bed’s foot. Occasionally, he shared part of the blanket. Lord Bai Jiu merely observed him, sometimes frowning, but quickly returning to normal.
During this month, Xie Jing felt Lord Bai Jiu grew kinder and closer. He felt allowed to relax in the Bai household.
Yet he still wanted to leave—to obtain his contract and live freely.
The steward refused to mention it; Lord Bai Jiu, playful, gave him jade or trinkets instead. Even when Cao young master came to fetch him, Lord Bai Jiu blocked the door: “There’s no Xie Wanzhou here, only Little Jing’er.”
Cao young master protested, but Lord Bai Jiu refused.
Xie Wanzhou was his theater name; after joining the Bai family, Lord Bai Jiu only asked his real name once. From then on, no one called him Xie Wanzhou—he was Xie Jing, protected by Lord Bai Jiu.
Memory was hazy; some was clear, some foggy. Yet Lord Bai Jiu’s brow and the whispered “Little Jing’er” were vivid.
At first, Xie Jing tried to leave multiple times, but gradually, he no longer wanted to go. He wanted to stay, to guard this person—even with his life.
Xie Jing felt a sting in his body and let out a muffled groan, regaining some awareness.
A cup of warm water was gently held to his lips, and he drank two sips. A familiar voice asked: “How are you? Feeling better?”
Xie Jing weakly opened his eyes: “Lord?”
Lord Bai Jiu sat beside him, holding his hand: “I’m here.” Feeling him withdraw, he whispered close: “Afraid of infection?” and reassured: “No, you have chickenpox, not cholera. You’ve already had an injection; rest a few days and you’ll be fine.”
“I want to go to the hospital…”
Lord Bai shook his head: “Hospitals are full, with deaths daily. You’ve got chickenpox—going there would be dangerous.” He covered Xie Jing with a thin blanket, applied ointment to his neck and earlobes. The cool touch comforted him. “Stay here; the medicine will last a few days. I’ve arranged more—don’t worry, you’ll recover.”
“Doctor…”
“The doctor will come in a couple of days. I gave you the injection first. Relax—there’s half a dose left.”
Xie Jing flinched as alcohol touched his skin, the injection slow and painful. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
After the injection, Lord Bai Jiu dressed him, covered him with a thin blanket, wiped his sweat, and said: “Sleep now. I’m watching over you.”
“I can do it myself.”
A nearby voice chuckled: “Do what? You’re small but stubborn. I had chickenpox as a kid, won’t infect me. Sleep.”
The medicine took effect; Xie Jing mumbled a few words, then gradually fell asleep, feeling more at ease with someone beside him. This time he slept deeply, dreaming of nothing else.
Author’s Note: Mini Theater:
Cao young master: “Lord Bai, look at Xie Wanzhou—his posture, movement, and voice, simply amazing! Did you see just now? Like a cat, silent and beautiful! This is art, so beautiful, right?”
Lord Bai Jiu’s response: “Gibberish… Xie Wanzhou… blah blah…”
Lord Bai Jiu: “Yes.”
?
Lord Bai Jiu: “No one can care for him properly but me.”
Cao young master: “???”
