dkrc Chapter 97 What Others Can't Give
Chapter 97 What Others Can't Give
"I'm not going back." Sun Deming said decisively, as if he had already made up his mind. "Director Han transferred my position to a permanent post, and I'll stay at the center. As for Ansteel, I talked to the factory director, and he said it was fine; it's good for young people to go out and try their luck."
Jiang Cheng looked at him, wanting to say something, but didn't. He reached out and patted Sun Deming's shoulder. Sun Deming's shoulder was hard, the bones felt rough to the touch, but patting it gave a reassuring feeling.
The two men stood in the courtyard, neither speaking. The moonlight cast their shadows on the ground, one long and one short. Sun Deming's shadow was taller and thinner than his, like a bamboo pole that swayed in the wind.
In the distance, a train passed by, its whistle echoing through the night sky, long and desolate. Jiang Cheng tucked his lunchbox under his arm and turned to walk towards the factory gate. After a few steps, he stopped and glanced back. Sun Deming was still standing there, the moonlight illuminating his face and clearly defining his features. He wore a dark blue work uniform, the cuffs frayed white, the collar turned up, covering half his neck. He stood there like a wooden stake driven into the ground.
"Deming, go back to sleep early."
"Um."
Jiang Cheng turned around and left.
He stopped at the factory gate. The light in the guardhouse was still on, and the old guard was asleep, snoring softly like a cat purring. A radio sat on the table, still on, crackling softly without any human voice. He didn't wake him, but opened the door and went out himself.
The street was quiet, the streetlights casting a dim yellow glow on the ground, like clumps of ink that couldn't be dissolved. His footsteps echoed through the empty street, each beat like a heartbeat. He walked slowly, unhurriedly. The braised pork in the lunchbox was still hot, burning his hands through the metal sheet, so he switched hands to carry it, then switched back after a while.
He went downstairs and looked up at the fourth-floor window. The light was off. He checked his watch; it was almost midnight. She was asleep.
He tiptoed upstairs. The motion-activated lights in the hallway were broken, so he groped his way up in the dark, one hand holding onto the wall, the other carrying his lunchbox. The white plaster on the wall smeared onto his hand, feeling cool.
He opened the door and went inside. The room was quiet; the fire in the stove was almost out, only a few pieces of ember still glowing faintly, like eyes about to go out. Jiang Yuan was fast asleep in his crib, the blanket kicked to his feet, revealing two chubby little feet with five toes spread out like five small pebbles. He knelt down, pulled the blanket up, and covered the little guy's feet. The little guy whimpered, turned over, facing inwards, and fell back into a deep sleep.
Zheng Yanxi was asleep on the large bed, lying on her side with her face towards the small bed. Her hair was spread out on the pillow, with a strand hanging down to the edge of the bed like a piece of black silk. Moonlight shone in through the window, illuminating her face and softening her features. Her brows were slightly furrowed, as if she were thinking about something even in her dreams.
He stood there, watching her for a long time. Then he quietly walked to the table, put down the lunchbox, and sat down. He didn't turn on the light, just sat there in the darkness. Outside the window, the moon slowly moved behind the clouds, and the sky darkened. In the distance came the call of a night bird, I didn't know what kind of bird it was, its calls were long and short, as if it were calling for something.
He reached out and touched the lunchbox. It was still warm.
His fingers lingered on the lid of the lunchbox for a moment. Then he stood up, went into the kitchen, turned on the stove, and added a few pieces of coal. Flames leaped up, licking the bottom of the pot and hissing. He poured the braised pork from the lunchbox into the pot, heated it up, ladled it out, and placed it on the table. Then he sat down at the table, picked up his chopsticks, took a piece of meat, and put it in his mouth.
The meat was thoroughly heated, melted in my mouth, and perfectly seasoned.
He ate slowly, piece by piece, very slowly. After finishing one piece, he put down his chopsticks, took a sip of water, and then picked up another piece. Jiang Yuan turned over in his small bed, mumbled something, and then fell silent again. The moonlight outside the window shone through the clouds, faint, as if seen through a veil.
He finished the last piece of meat, washed the bowl, scrubbed the pot, and wiped the stove clean. Then he went back to the bedroom and lay down next to Zheng Yanxi. She didn't wake up, her breathing was even. He turned his head and looked at her face. In the moonlight, her long eyelashes cast a small shadow. He reached out, wanting to touch her face, but stopped halfway. He was afraid of waking her.
He pulled his hand back and placed it on his chest. His heart was pounding strongly, each beat like the beating of a drum.
Outside the window, a night bird called out once more, then fell silent. The whole world quieted down. He closed his eyes, and images of the diesel engine factory workshop floated into his mind—the crankshaft grinding machine, the rust on the guide rails, the sound of the grinding wheel spindle turning, its smooth, noiseless rotation. That sound lingered in his mind for a long time, like a wordless song.
He turned over, pulled the blanket up, and covered his shoulders.
Outside the window, the moon had completely hidden behind the clouds, and the sky was as black as ink. Only a few lights remained on in the distant factory area, like stars that had fallen from the sky and landed on earth, making one reluctant to return.
After returning from Benxi, Sun Deming was a completely different person.
It wasn't because of a leap forward in his skills, but because his demeanor had changed. Before, he walked with a swaying gait, his shoulders uneven, like a loose screw, and his shoes would make a "rustling" sound as he walked.
Now he walks upright, his back straight, his steps are steady, and every step he takes is solid, the soles of his shoes slapping the ground with a thud.
Before, he would sit in the corner during meetings, avoiding speaking as much as possible. If someone asked for his opinion, he would say, "I'll listen to Brother Jiang," and then lower his head, as if waiting for others to look away from him. Now, he dares to speak up, dares to argue with Lao Zhao, and even if he loses, he's not in a hurry, smiling and saying, "Lao Zhao, you're right, but I still think my proposal is better." Lao Zhao was amused and said, "You've got some nerve now, haven't you?" Sun Deming replied, "It's not that my wings have hardened, it's that I've become too proud."
Old Zhao asked what it meant to have a "straight back," and Sun Deming said it meant knowing what you're capable of.
Old Zhao repeated this to Jiang Cheng, then shook his head, saying that the kid was incredibly arrogant now. Jiang Cheng didn't reply. He knew that Sun Deming wasn't arrogant; he had finally found his roots.
People can't teach people, but experience can teach people; they'll learn it in one go.
When you're alone in a place like Benxi, facing a machine that's been broken for years, dealing with the factory workers and technicians, and bearing all the pressure and expectations, you finally know who you are.
That kind of thing isn't something others can give you; it's something you earn yourself.
Han Zhiguo observed this, then called Jiang Cheng into his office and closed the door. The office was small, containing a table, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. On top of the cabinet were several bundles of old newspapers, which Han Zhiguo had brought from the lobby, saying they would be useful later.