ATC 08

Chapter 8

Hong Kong Island

The alley was dark. Not far away, on the sloping street, lights were scattered like beans.

Jiang Wanju had not yet recovered from the suffocating near-death sensation. Her high heels hit something, making a fragile sound. Chen Zhaoren instinctively steadied her—Jiang Wanju had no idea how he had such sharp eyesight to accurately touch her in this darkness.

“Be careful,” Chen Zhaoren said with a smile. “Which one will you choose?”

His tone carried a hint of mischief, clearly “revenge” for Jiang Wanju calling him “your cousin.”

Jiang Wanju replied, “You really know how to talk.”

Almost word for word, he returned her comment, his fingers—wet from her saliva—touching her cheek.

She couldn’t see anything. The darkness made her uneasy; the blackness was overwhelming. Amid the chaos, Jiang Wanju could distinctly feel the calluses on Chen Zhaoren’s fingers, rough and firm, sliding across her lips.

Chen Zhaoren stopped teasing. Dim, quiet, and heavy, he noticed her difficulty: “Can’t see clearly?”

“Mm,” Jiang Wanju replied.

He extended his hand, holding hers, teasing: “Then you better hold on tight.”

Jiang Wanju said nothing. Her palms were sweating. His hand was broad and strong, able to envelop her entire fist. They moved forward along the dark path. When they neared the sloped cobblestone street, passing police noticed them and came to check their IDs.

There was no problem—Jiang Wanju had both her ID and Hong Kong–Macau travel permit, and so did Chen Zhaoren.

Compared to the flustered and uneasy Jiang Wanju, Chen Zhaoren’s demeanor was much more relaxed. He even spoke to the police in Cantonese, though Jiang Wanju couldn’t understand a word. She stood aside, tightening her coat against the cold wind, catching only a few scattered words—sensitive syllables:

“…nvēi p?ng yāo…”

Jiang Wanju sneezed. The police returned their IDs after lingering between them for a while, then let them go.

Once they were far away, Chen Zhaoren sighed: “That was close.”

“Close for what?” Jiang Wanju asked.

“Almost mistaken for men working the night shift,” Chen Zhaoren said, smiling at her. “This isn’t home. Don’t be out this late alone.”

“Two people are okay?” Jiang Wanju asked.

He pretended to think: “Then what benefit would the other person get?”

Jiang Wanju widened her eyes. “I wanted to call the police and have them arrest you—you schemer of a shady profession!”

Chen Zhaoren laughed aloud and raised his hands in surrender: “Alright, alright, I volunteer, willingly, gladly. Is that okay? Please, Miss Jiang Wanju, forgive me—don’t report me.”

Jiang Wanju felt this man’s way of speaking was completely different from Bai Qing. The latter’s words were formal and structured; their “dates” felt like unusual work reports. Conversations always started with Jiang Wanju talking about her day and ended with Bai Qing’s encouragement to work hard.

But Chen Zhaoren was different. His words were formal, his tone slightly low, naturally carrying a hint of amusement. Jiang Wanju could not resist this warm, approachable charm. Whatever she said, he could respond naturally and continue the conversation.

On the way back by car, Hong Kong’s streetlights wove a glittering tapestry, neon blurred and dreamlike.

They talked about many things—wildly imaginative topics: the police museum’s “Tiger of Sheung Shui” skull specimen, the incense at Man Mo Temple and the “Wenchang Pen” in the hand of Wenchang Dijun, the difference between Bauhinia blakeana and purple Bauhinia flowers, Hong Kong’s water deity beliefs and coastline…

Of course, they also spoke about work and family.

Jiang Wanju shared her situation—only child, university student, currently interning, wanting to see higher places.

Chen Zhaoren listened carefully.

From a shop by the street came a Taylor Swift song. Jiang Wanju paused to listen. She liked the singer; though not a full-fledged fan, her introduction to Western music had been Avril Lavigne and Taylor Swift.

Topics twisted and turned but always circled back to the two of them.

Resting her chin on her arm, she looked out the window. “Are you from Hong Kong?”

“No,” Chen Zhaoren denied.

“Then are you from Guangdong?”

“No,” he smiled. “I only know a few phrases.”

Jiang Wanju tilted her head. “I used to watch so many Hong Kong movies. Jackie Chan, you know? In that movie Project A, there was a rhyme—ABCD, big head in green, blowing BB…”

Chen Zhaoren thought for a moment: “捉人唔到吹BB?”

Jiang Wanju looked at him. “You know it?”

“It’s slang. Before the handover, Hong Kong’s police were understaffed,” Chen Zhaoren explained. “At that time, the police could basically be divided into four types.”

Jiang Wanju listened wide-eyed, intrigued. She had never heard this before.

She guessed: “ABCD refers to English letters?”

“Almost. There’s a little more,” Chen Zhaoren corrected with a smile. “It refers to the four main categories of police at the time.”

“First, the Europeans I mentioned. Then, among the local Chinese police in Hong Kong Island, most were Guangdong immigrants, and some from Shandong—called Shandong cops.”

Jiang Wanju was about to ask why Shandong was specified, then recalled that Weihaiwei was once a leased territory. Her mood sank.

She could not say why, but she disliked studying modern history, especially the parts about ceded territories. Every treaty made her feel sad—perhaps one reason she later chose science.

Jiang Wanju leaned back, her fingers touching the cold glass.

Chen Zhaoren patiently continued: “Another group was Indian—Moroccan cops. Britain also colonized India, so some laborers were brought from India. How did your rhyme go again?”

Jiang Wanju thought: “Big head in green.”

Chen Zhaoren nodded. “That described the Indian police—turbans, green uniforms, poor performance. They couldn’t catch thieves, so they had to whistle out of frustration—”

Jiang Wanju suddenly understood.

She leaned closer: “How do you know so much?”

His dimple appeared again. “Is this considered a lot?”

Jiang Wanju praised him: “You’re practically omniscient.”

Chen Zhaoren laughed, shifting sideways. “But tonight, I’ve run into a problem—I may need to ask you.”

Jiang Wanju replied generously: “Go ahead. If I can answer, I’ll definitely help.”

As she spoke, a strand of hair fell from her tucked hair. Before she could adjust it, Chen Zhaoren lifted his hand and neatly tucked it back for her.

His fingers carried a faint coolness, like brushing over the tender mint of spring.

“Miss Jiang,” Chen Zhaoren asked, “would you like to come to my room for a drink tonight?”