Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

Summary of Chapter 145

He was wearing a blue and white striped hospital gown, the collar too low, revealing a section of his collarbone. Below his collarbone was a surgical scar, still covered with gauze, the edges of which were peeling up, revealing pink new flesh underneath. On the bedside table sat an enamel mug, the rim of which was imprinted with a flower, the petals faded to a pale pink outline, like a faded memory.

Jiang Cheng moved a chair and sat down on the edge of the bed. The chair was made of iron, and it was cold to sit on; the chill started from his thighs and crept up his back.

"master."

Huang Deqing opened his eyes. His eyes weren't as bright as before, as if covered with a layer of gray, and there were some bloodshot streaks on the whites of his eyes, left over from when he came out of the operating room, which hadn't faded. He looked at Jiang Cheng for two or three seconds, his pupils slowly focusing, like a camera lens adjusting.

"Why are you here again? Didn't I tell you you don't need to come every day?" His voice was weak, as if a gust of wind could blow it away, but his tone was still hard, like a dull knife that hadn't given up the fight. After he finished speaking, he coughed twice, covered his mouth with his fist, and his shoulders shrugged.

"The investigation team has left," Jiang Cheng told a white lie.

Huang Deqing didn't ask about the outcome. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "It's good that you're gone. Just think of it as a vacation. You haven't had a break in all these years. From landing gear to turbine blades, one thing after another, you've never stopped. Men aren't made of iron; they need to rest when they need to."

Jiang Cheng took the scraper out of his pocket. The wooden handle was worn smooth by Huang Deqing's hands, and felt warm to the touch, like a pebble that had been washed by river water for many years. It felt heavy in his hand. There was a shallow scratch on the blade, left on the lathe, which Huang Deqing had never worn off, saying it was to keep a memory.

"You asked me to bring this to Beijing for my lecture, but I brought it back. I couldn't bear to use it. I don't feel comfortable using other people's knives, and I'm afraid I'll damage yours if I use yours."

Huang Deqing reached out and touched the hilt of the knife. His fingers were too weak to move, barely able to rest on it, the fingertips trembling slightly like leaves in the wind. "Take it. Take it with you next time you go to Beijing. You'll need it. Knives are meant to be sharpened; if you don't, they'll rust. Aren't people the same? If you don't sharpen them, they'll become dull."

Jiang Cheng carefully sheathed the knife and put it back in his pocket. The hilt was pressed against his side, hard as a bone.

There was a moment of silence. The old man on the opposite bed turned over, his snoring stopped and was replaced by a few indistinct murmurs, as if he were talking in his sleep. He said a few words and then they were inaudible, before they started again.

"Sir, I withdrew the money from my savings account and gave it to the center. Director Han wrote an IOU. I'll pay you back when the center has the funds."

Huang Deqing waved his hand. The movement was very light, as if he were trying to shoo away a fly. His hand was lifted less than two centimeters off the blanket before falling back down.

"Whether you pay it back or not is irrelevant. I have no use for it. I'm alone, I can't spend that much. You should spend the money on equipment; if the equipment can work, it's better than keeping it in the bank. The bank won't repair your machines anyway."

Jiang Cheng wanted to say something, his throat moved, but before he could speak, Huang Deqing interrupted him.

"Go back. Yanxi is home alone, and Jiang Yuan is still young. She won't feel at ease without you." He paused, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was a water stain on the ceiling, yellowish-brown, spreading from the light fixture like a map.

"I have a nurse here. Just ring the bell if you need anything. Don't worry."

Jiang Cheng stood up. The chair leg scraped on the ground, but he lifted it up so it wouldn't make a sound.

He stopped at the door and glanced back. Huang Deqing had already closed his eyes, his hand resting on the blanket, his knuckles slightly bent, as if holding an invisible scraper.

A straw was stuck in the water glass on the bedside table, bent into an arc like a bridge about to break. The medicine in the IV drip dripped down slowly, as if counting seconds: one drop, two drops, three drops.

The corridor was quiet, and his footsteps turned on the motion-activated lights one by one.

Every two or three steps, the light above his head would flash, then go out again after he passed it. It was as if someone was following him, turning off the lights one by one, neither too close nor too far.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and leaned against the wall. The plaster on the wall was cold. He leaned against it, pressing the back of his head against the wall, and felt as if something was being drawn out of his body, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He recalled Team Leader Zhao standing by the window earlier, and looked down at his feet, his brow furrowing not out of disgust, but out of surprise. He was surprised that someone would scatter furnace ash here.

The investigation team stayed in Shenyang for eleven days.

For eleven days, Jiang Cheng didn't go to the center or touch the equipment. He spent his days at home writing teaching materials, tutoring Jiang Yuan, and waiting for phone calls. The phone rang occasionally, but it wasn't from Han Zhiguo.

Zheng Yanxi called twice. Once to ask if he had eaten, and the other time to say that Jiang Yuan could put on his own socks—but he put them on backwards, with his left foot on his right. He put them on by himself and proudly held up his feet to show her, his rambling revealing his longing for home.

Sun Deming called three times, each time saying the same thing: "Brother Jiang, the investigation team hasn't left yet. I wipe the equipment in the workshop every day, maintain the spray guns, and recalibrate the parameters. You can use it when you come back." Jiang Cheng knew that Sun Deming was worried about him, so he didn't tell Sun Deming that he couldn't go back for the time being.

On the afternoon of the eleventh day, Jiang Cheng was writing teaching materials at home while Jiang Yuan sat on the floor playing with building blocks. He placed a red triangle on top of a green rectangle, and as soon as he let go, the tower collapsed. The blocks rolled under the table, and he crawled over to pick them up, bumping his head on the table leg. He pouted but didn't cry out. He rubbed his forehead, crawled back, and handed the blocks to Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Cheng put down his pen, squatted down, and helped him rebuild the blocks. This time, he built it steadily, with the triangular block pressing firmly in the middle of the rectangle, without moving an inch. The little guy clapped his hands in satisfaction, muttering "High—high—", and gestured vaguely on the block tower, as if measuring how tall it really was.

The phone rang. Jiang Cheng answered it; it was Han Zhiguo's voice, a half-octave higher than usual, as if someone had pulled his throat up. "Jiang Cheng, the investigation team has left. The conclusion is in—the report is false. You're back to work. Come to the center tomorrow."

Jiang Cheng held the receiver, saying nothing. He could hear Han Zhiguo's breathing, deep and shallow, indicating he was still standing by the phone. Jiang Yuan was still clapping beside him, shouting "High—high—" his voice clear and crisp like the ringing of small bells.

"Did you hear that?" Han Zhiguo asked.

"I heard you."

"There's one more thing. When Team Leader Zhao was leaving, he said something like, 'This Jiang Cheng is a man of action.' He said it at the meeting room door, not very loudly, but I heard it. His two colleagues also heard it. I wrote it down and included it in the meeting minutes."