Epilogue

Lin Zhiyang was dead. I had long foreseen the news of his death, but I never imagined he would die so wretchedly. He was truly hacked to death at the entrance of a restaurant.

That day, I received a call from Ke Zhi, who spoke with a hint of schadenfreude: “Dakuan, your brother’s brother-in-law is dead.”

Inside, I felt no waves of emotion, even a sense of relief, as if a burden had been lifted. “Where was he sentenced?”

Ke Zhi replied, “Not by a court, but by his ‘brothers’ on the street… No one knows who he offended.”

That evening, Daguang came to see me and told me about Lin Zhiyang. He said that Yangyang had gotten drunk and, outside a hotel in the suburbs, stopped someone, demanding money. The man didn’t know him and ran off. Yangyang stayed there, stopping everyone he saw, only saying two words: “Give money.” Toward dusk, the first man he’d stopped returned, bringing several obvious gang members. They said nothing, drew their knives, and began to hack. By the time Lin Zhiyang was dragged to the hospital, his body was already cold.

Lin Baobao seemed to have overheard my conversation with Daguang. She came out of her room, leaning against the doorframe, twisting her freshly tied hair, her expression serene.

I pulled her over to sit down and said, “Yangyang is gone, just like in your dream.”

She murmured her assent, bowed her head, and kept twisting her hair, soon tangling it completely. In the lamplight, she looked like a ghost.

Daguang left, this time for good, heading to Shenzhen. I thought it was for the best. The fewer of us left, the better—if the case of Tang Yiming’s kidnapping blew up, we’d all go down together. With him so far away, even if something happened here, he’d have room to maneuver; with luck, he could become another Zheng Kui, living free outside rather than rotting in a cell. A few days ago, Daguang called and said he’d found Wan Bing, who had opened a PVC factory there. Daguang became his driver and bodyguard. I teased him, saying, “An old guy like you working as a bodyguard—that’s worthy of the Guinness World Records.”

Daguang replied, “Kuan, you have to be careful. What we did wasn’t the worst crime, but if it ‘explodes,’ it counts as a real kidnapping. We’ve all been in prison before—we know how many years this would get us. Be careful.” I smiled indifferently. I had already thought it through; if there were any real danger, I wouldn’t have done it in the first place. Old Tang knows how to save his own skin.

The New Year came, bland and flavorless. I didn’t even feel like lighting firecrackers. Like a married couple, Lin Baobao and I made dumplings at home, and I curled up on the sofa, watching the Spring Festival Gala. Zhao Benshan played a water delivery man, pretending to be a widow’s husband to fool her son, but couldn’t keep it up and was found out. The widow’s life was hard, the waterman’s life was hard, yet they were both happy and full of hope for life. I wondered, was I like that too? Always feeling that life was beautiful? That the road ahead was strewn with flowers? “Life is a tragedy full of hope”—I think that was something Kuai Bin said. I never understood it before, but now I think I do. Yes, life is like that: one hope shatters, another quickly follows, again and again, without end. According to this, when the final hope breaks, what’s left is tragedy. But I disagree. How could it be a tragedy? Simply being alive is happiness—it’s a comedy.

I have my reasons for calling life a comedy. The wicked are always punished, like Jiaguan. Though he didn’t die, he was completely ruined—Lai Shun’s shot hit him in the head, half his face was gone, his remaining eye caved in, and he became blind. That wasn’t even the end of it; he still had to go to prison. During the police investigation, Donkey Four exposed Jiaguan’s drug dealing, and now it seems he’ll die for it. Then there’s Fat Wu, the notorious “pimp,” who was crippled by Wu Zhenming. I can’t help but laugh when I think of it. I remember, back in prison, I’d told Wu Zhenming about Fat Wu forcing and organizing women into prostitution. I said he was lucky—by rights, men like him should be locked away to “cultivate” for a few years. Maybe the fact that he’d taken Yang Bo in to “sell laughter” at his restaurant had always gnawed at me. I said, if the law won’t punish him, then at least let heaven strike him down. If I get the chance, I’ll settle the score for my sisters and break his legs. Wu Zhenming remembered that. After reconnecting with me, he swore he’d follow me into the underworld. But I wasn’t interested then, and ignored him. Who knew, in a fit of anger, he’d go after Fat Wu himself. I asked him later, “Are you crazy? He never messed with you.” Wu Zhenming replied, “Well, since you’re out of the game, let me settle things for the sisters.”

One day in March, I was at home helping Lin Baobao with the laundry when the police arrived. I knew at once—it was about Lai Shun.

They didn’t take me to the station or the bureau; they questioned me about Lai Shun right there at my place.

I couldn’t be bothered to answer, so I let Lin Baobao talk. She rambled on for ages, but still didn’t understand what her son had done wrong.

The police asked me, “Is your sister-in-law mentally challenged?”

I said, “Yes. She’s insane. Her mother was, her brother is, her son too. It runs in their family.”

The officer said, “Oh, I see. No wonder Zhang Xianhao keeps shouting in there that he’s innocent. Beat someone like that and claim innocence? Must be nuts.”

I remember, when we were kids, my brother would tag along behind the older boys, stretching his neck and singing, “There’s no Jade Emperor in the sky, no Dragon King on earth. I am the Jade Emperor, I am the Dragon King. I command the Three Mountains and Five Ridges to make way—I am coming!” He seemed invincible to me then. Now it’s almost laughable—you couldn’t even protect your own wife and child, couldn’t even save your own life. The Jade Emperor? The Dragon King? Kuai Bin was right: “Give to God what is God’s, and to Caesar what is Caesar’s—there’s no solution to this.”

Autumn came, and Lai Shun was sentenced—thirteen years for assault. I thought, in thirteen years, he’d be about the same age as I am now. Would he then see through life the way I do? That day, I went to Kuai Bin’s restaurant to chat. I said, “Kuai, I think I’ve seen through life.” Kuai Bin replied, “You can never really see through life. Saying you have only proves you haven’t. Those who truly have, like me, would never say so.” I laughed, patted his nearly bald head like my grandfather used to, and said, “Ah, to hell with it.” Kuai Bin let me pat his head and sang softly, “Yesterday is still vivid, and the future remains bright.”

Life goes on, and hope strides forward with me.

When slogans about the “Eight Honors and Eight Disgraces” were pasted all over the alleys and streets of Downstreet, I was forty-one. The elders said it was the Year of the Turtle.

They say the Turtle Year is different from others; it brings either great joy or great sorrow. In this year, would I face joy or tragedy?

On my birthday, Wang Dong called from Inner Mongolia. He didn’t wish me a happy birthday. He said, “Kuan, watch yourself—the police are looking for Tang Yiming.”

I said, “Man, you’re really loyal—first you hide out, then you call to warn me.”

Wang Dong hesitated for a while, then said, “Take care, Kuan,” and hung up.

That day, I bought a huge cake and split it in two. Lin Baobao and I each took half, holding it in both hands and eating like pigs munching cabbage. Lin Baobao, her mouth smeared with cream, grinned at me: “Dakuan, let’s get married.”

I said, “Alright, I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.”

That night, the darkness was vast, and the depths of Downstreet unfathomable. Except for a few sinister wanderers, most people were sound asleep. The cold starlight drifted carelessly into my dreams. I dreamt of the past, broken into glittering fragments; I dreamt of bundles of cash and gigantic houses; I dreamt of Yang Bo, Liu Mei, Sister Lin, Mao Raorao… In the end, I dreamt I was in prison.

And so I woke up, muttering, “To hell with it.”