The Fourteenth Day
by Huina Zheng
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
The Fourteenth Day after the Tornado
For years, Yao had avoided asking Hongbin for anything. When he first married Ling, her brother had fiercely opposed the match, dismissing Yao as a man of humble roots, unworthy of her. Yao had sworn then that he would prove himself through his own hands, that he would never bow his head before Hongbin.
But now, with the factory leveled and debts piling higher by the day, pride had become a luxury he could no longer afford.
Yao and Ling stepped into Hongbin’s living room. A shaft of soft sunlight fell across the wooden sofa and the low tea table with its carved tray. Hongbin was sitting at the end of the couch beside an electric kettle. Small and wiry in a cotton shirt, this municipal office director still kept his hair neat and face clean-shaven, tidy even at home.
For two weeks, Yao had scraped for resources, called in old favors, even taken risks he had once sworn off. Each attempt collapsed, walls closing in. Only after Ling’s urging had he come here, heavy-hearted, to ask Hongbin for help.
Hongbin greeted them with a nod, spooning Tieguanyin leaves into a squat, dark teapot with a round belly and curved spout. “Sit.”
Yao placed a red plastic bag of oranges and apples on the table and sat beside Ling.
“You’re just in time,” Hongbin said. “I bought fresh Anxi Tieguanyin.” The kettle burbled. Steam rose with fragrance as he rinsed the tiny cups, then filled them. “Drink,” he urged.
The room soon filled with heat and the faint scent of tea. Yao lifted his cup; the golden liquor glowed, mellow and sweet. He sipped. “Excellent.” Hongbin refilled it at once.
Yao’s thumb rubbed the callus near his fingertip, hardened from years of gripping hoes. He closed his eyes, exhaled. Was this pride or just desperation? He opened his eyes and fixed them on Hongbin. “You know me. I’ll speak plain. I’m here about the brick factory.”
Hongbin leaned back, hands clasped, brow faintly creased.
“We’re under heavy strain,” Ling added. “But if a family pulls together, no hardship is impossible.”
Hongbin studied his tea. “I understand. But I bought a car last year; money is tight. Perhaps you could mortgage the land, seek a bank loan?”
Yao tapped the table. “The land bureau won’t issue a certificate. Without it, no bank will lend.”
Ling’s eyes flicked between them. “We truly need your help, brother.”
Hongbin leaned forward. “I’ll think on it. Maybe ask other relatives or friends.”
Yao and Ling lowered their heads, sipping tea. They knew him too well. These were only polite words. They would have to look elsewhere.
* * *
Two Hours Later
Yao and Ling boarded a bus to their village. The vehicle crawled along the highway while the scenery outside shifted slowly. They sat stiffly on hard seats. Along the roadside, makeshift markets bustled with vendors selling farm produce and local snacks. The town’s houses rose two or three stories high, their brick walls weathered by time. Power lines stretched haphazardly along the winding road.
Inside, the air was heavy with mixed odors: tobacco smoke, sweat, and the earthy scent of soil drifting through open windows. Migrant workers in plain clothes, women with children, and travelers like Yao and Ling filled the aisle. Some dozed against the glass, others whispered in low tones.
Ling turned from the window. “Bin has always wanted to invest in the factory—”
“Haven’t I said I won’t work with him? Why bring it up now?” Yao snapped.
“Isn’t it for the family? He’s still your brother—”
“Enough. Don’t say another word.” Yao pulled out a cigarette.
“If Zhe won’t help—”
“We’re going to see him, aren’t we?”
“Fine. I’m meddling again.” Ling turned away, eyes closing.
Yao lit up, drawing deeply. The thought of meeting Zhe unsettled him. He remembered that warm smile, how Zhe’s broad nose seemed to brighten his whole face, his flared nostrils giving him an easy kindness.
Zhe was eighteen years Yao’s senior, a fellow from the same village. He’d gone to the army when Yao was still a boy, later serving in the county court. In 1988, when Yao was struggling to get a Hong Kong travel permit, someone sent him to Zhe. Zhe had welcomed him, handled the paperwork with ease, and earned Yao’s enduring trust. Though they rarely saw each other afterward, that single act had forged a bond.
In 1995, when Yao returned often to scout land for a brick factory, Zhe had just opened the Yue Rong Dance Hall by the roadside. Seeing Yao’s constant trips, he asked, “Why are you always here?”
When Yao explained, Zhe showed him a vacant lot beside the hall.
“Big enough for a factory?”
“Yes, but whose land is it?”
“The village’s.”
Yao frowned. Land purchases were never simple.
“I know the headman,” Zhe said. “I’ll introduce you. He’ll sell.”
Through Zhe’s intercession, the deal was struck.
But rebuilding would demand enormous capital. Whether the brick factory could turn a profit or how long it would take remained unknown. Yao doubted whether Zhe would be as generous this time, with debt pressing heavier than ever.
* * *
Later That Evening
The bus departed, depositing Yao and Ling at the mouth of a muddy track. They veered onto it, the soft, wet earth swallowing their footsteps. Fallen branches and splintered trees lay scattered on both sides. The closer they came to the brick factory, the clearer the destruction: leaning walls, bricks scattered like bones, broken machines lying silent in the dim light.
Inside their quarters, Yao changed clothes and told Ling, “I’m going to have dinner with Zhe.”
The sky shifted from orange to deep blue. Shrouded in dusk, the lonely hills looked on as the Yue Rong Dance Hall beckoned in the distance, its windows aglow. Karaoke floated through the night air, sometimes sharp, sometimes hushed.
Crossing the sodden lot, Yao’s steps splashed in shallow puddles. Overhead, heavy clouds smothered the last traces of light.
Inside, Jacky Cheung’s “Leaving After Loving You” played. Neon lights glared against posters of Andy Lau, Aaron Kwok, and Faye Wong. Red lanterns swung above a tiled floor, where a small dance floor stood ringed by plastic chairs and tables. The air was thick with a haze of cigarette smoke, liquor, and perfume. A few couples swayed to the music.
Zhe approached. Medium-built with a soft paunch, his easy smile and warm gaze made strangers feel at home.
He led Yao into a private room, ordered food, and poured tea. After some pleasantries, their talk turned serious.
“We barely escaped. The tornado brushed past my hall. I’m sorry for your loss,” Zhe said.
“I’m trying to rebuild,” Yao replied.
“How much will it take?”
“Over a hundred thousand.”
“That’s a fortune. Relatives might help.”
“I already asked. Everyone’s strapped.”
“I’d help if I could. But this hall was built on borrowed money. I’m still in debt.”
Yao drained his tea in one swallow, as if its sweetness could drown his bitterness. He refilled both cups, forcing a smile. “I understand. If you could, I know you would.”
“Doesn’t your brother in Hong Kong have money?” Zhe asked.
Yao shook his head. “Do you remember when you helped me with the permit? I worked in a dye factory there, off the books, to send money home. It was hard, but it was the first time I felt hope.”
“I remember. You had it rough.”
Yao continued: “Barely a month later, Ling heard a brick factory nearby was selling shares, thirty thousand. She turned to Bin.” Yao’s expression tightened. “She sent a telegram to Hong Kong, asking him to come back. When he learned she wanted a loan, he agreed, but only if he could buy in, too. And if we failed, he demanded we sell our son to repay him.”
“That’s outrageous!” Zhe exclaimed. “How could a brother say that? Maybe he was just joking?”
“If he ever said it to my face, I’d fight him.” Yao closed his eyes. “Ling thought he didn’t mean it. But you should never test family when money’s involved.”
“If Bin really did that, everyone would condemn him. He wouldn’t dare.”
Yao shook his head. “We lived together in Hong Kong. For two months under the same roof, he never mentioned it. I found out only after I came home.” His gaze darkened. “Sometimes, even between brothers, money can strip love of its face.”
Zhe was quiet for a long moment. “So now you want no part of him.”
Yao nodded. “Looks like I’ve got no choice but to bow to reality.”
Zhe sighed. “As the saying goes, a misfortune may turn into a blessing. What looks like ruin today might be tomorrow’s chance. Tell Bin he can invest, so long as it’s on your terms.”
Zhe paused and then switched from Hakka to the Chaoshan dialect, his tone shifting with it. “Doing business with family is like dancing on each other’s toes. It hurts at first, but you get used to the pain. Maybe there’s a way through with less of it.”
Yao caught the change in dialect. In this region, two tongues coexisted, each signaling a different stance, a different wisdom. He realized Zhe was not refusing but was teaching him one last truth: adulthood meant compromise, not surrender; it was a different posture, a way to keep walking through the mud.
He smiled back, lighter now, the dancong tea warming him in a way he hadn’t felt for weeks.
Copyright © 2025 by Huina Zheng
