Tong Xilin didn’t realize he was crying.
When Kong Ji pressed him into his chest, he was still in a daze. His capacity for thought was being diluted and shaken at an altitude of nine thousand meters. His mind was chaos, mechanically comparing Xilin Gol with his name.
Tong Xilin.
Xilin Gol.
Kong Ji stroked his head, from the back down to the nape of his neck—long, soothing strokes.
Normally, he touched him often too, but the force was different this time. Usually, his touch carried a hint of ambiguity, like petting a small animal. Right now, his brows were knitted, his jaw pressed to the top of Tong Xilin’s head, like a true elder.
Tong Xilin’s eye sockets pressed against Kong Ji’s shoulder. It wasn’t until he felt the fabric in front of him dampen that he realized water had been spilling from his eyes the whole time.
He struggled out of Kong Ji’s embrace, scrubbed his cheeks fiercely with his palms, then turned his face and asked Kong Ji again: “So you knew all along.”
He thought back to the look in Kong Ji’s eyes that first time at the hospital—that gaze that looked through him toward another direction.
He’d thought it was through their similar features that Kong Ji could use him as a substitute for missing Tong Yuzhi. He’d thought that by repeatedly emphasizing his name to Kong Ji, emphasizing those three words, Tong Xi Lin, he could distinguish himself from Tong Yuzhi. He’d never imagined that even his name—the only thing uniquely his—was so deeply ironic.
This wasn’t a matter of who was being whose substitute anymore. This wasn’t a problem between him and Kong Ji.
Tong Xilin had believed that no matter how cold Tong Yuzhi was, he at least still felt a little fatherly love for him. Now thinking about it—Tong Yuzhi had truly hated him to the bone.
“So every time you said my name, you thought of the first time you two met. You thought of Tong Yuzhi.”
Tong Xilin didn’t say “my dad.” He said “Tong Yuzhi” directly. From expression to eyes, he was completely blank.
Kong Ji looked at him for a long, long time. He could probably also realize how cruel this matter was for Tong Xilin. He answered in the tone one used to coax a child: “When I heard your name on the phone, it occurred to me. After that, you were just you.”
Who would believe that?
Tong Xilin didn’t speak anymore. He stopped asking anything. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat, his forehead pressed tightly against the window glass, lightly bumping with the plane’s turbulence.
Tong Xilin always slept on planes—a drowsy, sporadic sleep, drifting in and out. That rushed return trip with Zhou Qi last time, he’d slept all the way from the plane to the bus.
This time he couldn’t sleep. A large hole had been torn in his chest. He closed his eyes to feel it, allowing the numbing, bone-chilling wind to howl and pour in.
They’d set off early today. The flight landed just past noon.
Tong Xilin stood up first and walked out. Kong Ji was behind him and took his backpack.
“Rest for a bit first,” he observed Tong Xilin’s expression. “Find a hotel. We’ll go over when you’re feeling a little better.”
“No need.” Tong Xilin shook his head, taking the backpack back. “Let’s just go.”
After the long bus ride pulled into the station, Tong Xilin didn’t pause and reminisce like the last time he’d returned. The station exit was lined with taxis. He raised a hand and hailed one, got in, and told the driver: “Go to the cemetery.”
Kong Ji got into the back seat with him, watching Tong Xilin’s calm profile as he looked out the window. He caught Tong Xilin’s hand and held it.
Tong Xilin turned his face to look, and tried to pull his arm away.
“Don’t move,” Kong Ji didn’t let go.
The cemetery was at the edge of the small town. Every visit, it was desolate and sparsely visited.
Tong Xilin signed in at the guard post, writing down only Kong Ji’s name.
“I’m not going in, Uncle.” He said to Kong Ji. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Kong Ji didn’t enter the cemetery. He looked at Tong Xilin earnestly for a long while, then said quietly: “Tong Xilin, we can just go back.”
Tong Xilin still shook his head.
He pulled out his photocopied admission letter from his backpack and handed it to Kong Ji: “Give it to him for me.”
The weather today was beautiful. Southern skies were always a bit bluer than northern ones, and hotter too. The August sun blazed wantonly in the early afternoon. There were many trees inside and outside the cemetery, and the sound of cicadas stretched time slow and long.
Tong Xilin crouched down in the shade of the roadside trees, burying his face deeply into his knees.
Kong Ji didn’t stay inside long.
About the same amount of time as last time. When he came out of the cemetery and saw Tong Xilin crouched under the tree in the distance—that thin, narrow figure, a small, solitary lump.
“Tong Xilin.” Kong Ji walked up in front of him, crouched down, and called to him, his tone very light.
Tong Xilin rubbed his eye sockets and looked up. His eye rims and the bridge of his nose were bright red. His face was smeared with tears.
“Mm?” His voice was tight and hoarse, thick with a nasal tone. “Did you give it to him?”
Kong Ji drew a shallow breath, raised his hand, and wiped away Tong Xilin’s tears, then pressed the kid’s head against his shoulder again.
“Gave it to him.” His voice carried something different from before. He patted Tong Xilin’s back. “Come with me.”
Similar words had been spoken twice by Kong Ji. A year ago, he’d said to him: “Come on, come home with me,” leading him away from the hospital. This time, he led him away from the cemetery.
The scheduled flight back was tomorrow. The small town didn’t have any particularly luxurious hotels. Kong Ji picked one at random and booked a two-bedroom suite.
“Hungry?” After entering the room and turning on the air conditioning, he asked Tong Xilin, “Feel like eating something?”
The suite had two bedrooms and a small but refined sitting room.
Tong Xilin took a stroll around, chose one of the rooms, walked in, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I’m not hungry.” He rubbed his eyes. “I want to sleep for a bit.”
“Then sleep.” Kong Ji looked at his face, still carrying a hint of daze. Crying for a long time would make a person tired. “I’ll be next door. Call me if you need anything.”
Tong Xilin nodded, pulled a change of clothes from his backpack, and walked into the bathroom.
He took a cold shower. Still that plant-like method of watering himself. He stood under the spray for a long time, then looked at himself in the mirror.
Eyes.
Nose bridge.
Mouth.
Tong Xilin.
Tong Yuzhi.
He removed the showerhead and aimed it at the mirror.
Tong Xilin slept straight from that afternoon until the sky darkened at dusk.
Kong Ji had brought his laptop. He still had work to handle. He’d had two calls with Jiang Lin in between, both with his voice kept very low.
“Aren’t you still going to have to send that kid of yours off to university in a few days?” Jiang Lin asked.
Kong Ji grunted “Mm,” and lowered his head to light a cigarette.
“No worries, no rush,” Jiang Lin was typing on the keyboard on the other end. “I’ll let the client know. I’ll keep your schedule clear for the next few days.”
“Where’d he get in?” He pried for another detail.
“Nankai,” Kong Ji said.
“Damn impressive.” Jiang Lin clicked his tongue. “My nephew ended up at some technical school. Didn’t even leave the province.”
“Good,” Kong Ji exchanged pleasantries. “Close to home, easier to take care of.”
“Well said. You gonna take care of him forever?” Jiang Lin laughed. “Alright, you go ahead and busy yourself.”
After hanging up, Kong Ji chewed his cigarette and looked at the unfinished files on his computer for a while, then checked the time in the top right corner. He stubbed out the cigarette, and came to the door of Tong Xilin’s room.
Tong Xilin was still sleeping, maintaining the afternoon posture—his whole body curled facing the wall, half his face hidden in the edge of the blanket.
Kong Ji picked up the air conditioner remote, adjusted the temperature up a little, and sat on the edge of the bed to look at him.
The sound of his name being called was hazy. Tong Xilin’s consciousness drifted in an empty dreamscape and heard a “Tong Xilin” coming from somewhere between far and near.
He struggled to respond. The sensation was like sleep paralysis. His eyelids were swollen and gritty, unable to open.
A hand rested on his forehead to check, then reached under the covers to feel his neck and back. He found it cold, wrapped himself in the duvet, and tried to dodge.
Kong Ji didn’t let him dodge. He lifted Tong Xilin up, person and duvet together, and patted his face.
“Mn?” Tong Xilin’s head was heavy. He looked at him, still dazed.
“Fever,” Kong Ji swept his hair up and pressed their foreheads together to test. “Any strength in your body?”
Tong Xilin’s eyeballs ached. His temples ached too. He sat on the bed in a daze and raised his own hand to touch his forehead. Couldn’t feel the temperature.
Kong Ji didn’t ask him anything further. He got clothes and dressed Tong Xilin, slid an arm under his knees, and was about to lift him horizontally in his arms.
“I can walk.” Tong Xilin threw off the covers and got out of bed. The soles of his feet went weak. His vision sparked with black dots and he slid downward.
Heatstroke. The abrupt shift between hot and cold environments. A cold shower. The air conditioning set too low.
Tong Xilin was put on an IV drip in the hospital’s infusion area. Kong Ji stood in front of him, watching him. Both of them understood in their hearts that this fever wasn’t caused just by what the doctor said.
“You don’t have to stay here with me, Uncle.”
Tong Xilin raised his head with effort. In the space of an afternoon, a fever blister had formed at the corner of his mouth. When he spoke, both the corner of his mouth and his throat hurt.
It hit him suddenly—last time, when he and Kong Ji had returned to the little house in the alley, the moment they’d entered, Kong Ji’s footsteps had headed straight for Tong Yuzhi’s room. He earnestly proposed: “It’s too boring here. You could go take another look at the house.”
Kong Ji ignored him, unscrewed a bottle cap, and fed Tong Xilin a sip of water.
“Or you could go get something to eat.” Tong Xilin swallowed water like swallowing knives, pressing his lips together to catch the drop that spilled. “You haven’t eaten all afternoon.”
Kong Ji wiped it for him with his thumb, carefully avoiding that small patch of fiery red sore, and asked, “Anything you feel like eating?”
Tong Xilin still wasn’t hungry. No appetite.
“Then talk less.” Kong Ji tapped his forehead.
Two IV bottles later, it was already past nine.
Kong Ji brought him back to the hotel, settled him in bed, and had the front desk send up two servings of dinner.
What he’d ordered for Tong Xilin was noodle soup—very plain, just a poached egg nestled in it, suitable for someone with a fever.
Tong Xilin looked at that bowl of noodles. The corners of his mouth pressed together again and again. His stomach churned with acid. He wanted to vomit.
Kong Ji set down his own bowl and watched his face.
“Tong Xilin.”
He took Tong Xilin’s hand—the one that had had the IV—and looked at the cotton and medical tape still pressed there to stop the bleeding. He peeled it back to look. There was a small bruise where the needle had gone in.
He tore off the tape, tossed it in the trash, and rubbed it lightly.
“Want to change your name?”
The question was asked as softly as the pressure of his hand. Today, the tone Kong Ji used when speaking to him had been very soft all along.
Tong Xilin looked back at him. “No.”
He wanted to keep this name.
For a lifetime.
Pulling back his hand, he scanned the bedside and asked Kong Ji to help bring his backpack over.
The backpack wasn’t packed with much—similarly light. Minus the copy of the admission letter and the clothes, all that was left was an envelope stuffed in the inner pocket.
An old envelope. Last time he’d come back with Zhou Qi, he’d gone to the house specifically to get it.
“Here, Uncle.” Tong Xilin handed the envelope to Kong Ji and tugged the corner of the duvet over himself, wrapping up like a snowman in summer.
“What’s this?” Kong Ji took the envelope and squeezed it.
“Something you’ll want,” Tong Xilin said.
Inside the envelope was Tong Yuzhi’s ID photo—the same expression, the same attire as the one in Kong Ji’s painting.
The young Tong Yuzhi.
Kong Ji stared at the photo for a long, settled moment, then raised his eyes to look at Tong Xilin anew.
“I don’t want to be caught between the two of you anymore.” Tong Xilin sniffled. “You two are really exhausting.”
