dkrc Chapter 142 What brings you here?
Chapter 142 What brings you here?
"Xiao Jiang, don't congratulate me yet." He walked over and shook Jiang Cheng's hand. The old man's hand was thin, with prominent knuckles, but it was very strong, like a pair of pliers covered with leather. There was a dark age spot on the back of his hand, with indistinct edges, as if someone had drawn a stroke with a brush and it had bled out.
"There's something I need to tell you. Keep that in mind, but don't panic. Panicking won't help. When something happens, just handle it."
Jiang Cheng didn't speak, but listened quietly.
"Someone anonymously reported you. The report reached the ministry and the Commission of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense. Director Li tried to suppress it for a few days, but it can't be left unresolved. There are procedures at higher levels, and no one can suppress it until those procedures are followed." He released his grip, walked back to the table, picked up the document, and handed it to Jiang Cheng. "But you don't need to worry about this. Director Li said he would call the provincial department. National defense projects have special characteristics, and local authorities shouldn't interfere. His exact words were, 'What are you local authorities investigating about things used by the military? Do you even understand what you're investigating? Do you even know what a turbine blade is?'"
Jiang Cheng took the document but didn't open it. He placed it on the table and stared at the manila envelope for two seconds.
The recipient's name was written on the envelope, in neat handwriting, as if it had been written with a ruler, each stroke distinct and without any cursive.
"Mr. Zhou, do you think I was wrong?"
Old Zhou paused for a moment. Then he smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling together like a folding fan that had been used for many years.
"Your mistake was not keeping your achievements to yourself. You stepped forward and did the work, and others weren't used to it. When people are not used to it, they will suppress you—that's instinct, not malice. People have a sense of territory; if you trespass on someone else's territory, of course they'll want to fight back." He paused, put his glasses back on, and his eyes behind the lenses became profound. "But you must remember, industry values data, not people. Your data is there; no one can erase it. Just like that rolling mill you repaired—whether it runs or not doesn't depend on who signed off on it, but on whether your skills are up to par. Data is inanimate, but data is more reliable than people."
On the day of the award ceremony, Jiang Cheng wore the Zhongshan suit that Han Zhiguo had lent him. The suit was a size too big; the collar was loose and baggy. He tugged at it, but it still didn't fit properly. The tag on the back of the collar hadn't been cut off, and it itched. When he came out of the fitting room, Sun Deming glanced at him and said, "Looks like it's borrowed."
Jiang Cheng responded frankly, "It was borrowed in the first place."
Sun Deming chuckled and gave a thumbs up, "As expected of my master, your spiritual cultivation has transcended vulgar tastes."
Standing on the stage of the Great Hall of the People, surrounded by a sea of faces, he couldn't make out who was who. His gaze swept across the crowd, seeing only a blurry mass of faces, like a faded photograph. He took his prepared speech out of his pocket, glanced at it, and put it back. Han Zhiguo had written it for him; it began with "Respected leaders and guests," and after three lines, it hadn't even gotten to the point. This shouldn't be happening. He remembered Huang Deqing's words—"Preparing a speech is fine, but don't read it verbatim. The person reading from the prepared speech lacks confidence. Without confidence, the voice wavers. And if the voice wavers, the audience stops listening."
"Hello everyone, I'm Jiang Cheng from the Shenyang Promotion Center." This time, he didn't emphasize his identity as a fitter.
The audience fell silent. He didn't say "Respected leaders," nor "It's an honor to stand here." He went straight to the story of the rolling mill—it had been broken for three years, and no one dared to disassemble it. The factory director was so anxious that blisters appeared on his lips, a string of small blisters that never healed. He spent three days disassembling it, taking three packs of cigarettes with him. By the time he finished the cigarettes, the machine was also disassembled. He spent three days reassembling it, his hands chafed raw, scabbing over and then breaking again. During the test run, the factory director stood beside him, his hands trembling, a cigarette between his fingers, forgotten to light, ash falling all over the floor. The machine started running, and the factory director cried—a grown man in his fifties, tears streaming down his face. He told this story in a minute, without adjectives, without words like "excited," "moved," or "proud."
"Machines don't lie. They either turn or they don't. You can't fool them, and they can't fool you. Whatever you give them, they give back exactly what they give you—not a penny more, not a penny less." He paused, glancing at the audience. The lights were so bright he could barely open his eyes. "What I've done is worthy of those titles."
As soon as he finished speaking, waves of applause, like a tide, surged up from every corner of the audience, echoing throughout the hall.
He turned around and walked off the stage. As he passed the first row, he saw Old Zhou. Old Zhou didn't applaud; he placed his hands on the table, but there was a light in his eyes—a light that wasn't a reflection of the lamplight, but emanated from within, like a piece of charcoal buried in ash in a furnace, its surface dark, but burning hot to the touch if you dug it open.
After receiving the award, he didn't stay in Beijing any longer. Chen Siyuan saw him off at the station and asked, "Brother Jiang, won't you stay another day? There's a small-scale symposium at the institute tomorrow, and we'd like to invite you to speak. Everyone attending is a key member of their respective units, and the department head is also coming."
He declined, saying, "I have family matters to attend to."
On the train, he leaned against the window and closed his eyes. The train rumbled and the wheels rolled rhythmically over the rails. He couldn't sleep; his mind was filled with thoughts of the investigation team.
Zhou Chuanming's face flashed through his mind—the last time they stared at each other at the entrance of the provincial government building—Zhou was wearing a gray woolen overcoat and a gray scarf, with a small, indelible stain on the scarf. Then there was Wang Jianguo's gold teeth, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Then there was Team Leader Zhao's indistinct gaze behind his glasses. He opened his eyes. The snowfield outside the window was still white, but it was getting dark, and the white was turning gray, like old newspapers, like a white shirt that had been washed many times.
Upon returning to Shenyang, he didn't go back to the center but went straight to the medical school. He didn't know why he went; his feet made the decision for him.
A poster was pasted on the entrance of the medical school, reading "Winter Games Registration Notice," in black lettering on red paper. A corner had been blown off by the wind, and the remaining part swayed in the breeze, like a beckoning gesture. He stood at the entrance for a while. The wind was strong, hurting his ears. He turned up his coat collar, but it still didn't stop the cold wind from seeping in through the collar and down his neck.
Zheng Yanxi walked out of the teaching building, wearing a gray coat and a red scarf. One end of the scarf was much longer than the other, hanging down in front of her chest, the tip swaying with her steps like a small flag. She was carrying several books, stacked so high that her chin was pressing down on the top book, and she walked with a slight forward lean, as if she were carrying something on her head. Sunlight shone on her face from the side, casting shadows on her eyelashes.
Upon seeing him, she slowed her pace. Her chin relaxed, and the top book slid down. She crouched down, caught it in mid-air, and tucked it under her arm.
"Why are you here?"