Chapter 9: You Have a Home in Jiangzhou?

Wen Ning took a deep breath and forced out a smile that looked worse than crying.

Stripping herself bare in front of a crowd of strangers—even if they were all women—was more than she could bring herself to do.

"Auntie Gu, what time does the bathhouse stop the water supply?"

Gu Lan thought for a moment. "I think it's eight? Or maybe half past eight."

She only ever remembered when the bathhouse opened. Who bothered keeping track of when it closed? By then the boiler would be shut off and the water would run cold—who'd want to dawdle till that hour just to take a cold shower?

Wen Ning said quickly, "I just remembered I forgot my bathing things. I need to run back and grab them, and sort out my luggage while I'm at it. I'll come later. Auntie Gu, you go ahead and wash first—don't wait for me. I know the way now anyway."

Before Gu Lan could get a word out, a hand shot over from the side, hooked her by the arm, and hauled her toward the bathhouse.

"Sister, I saved you a spot! Come on, hurry!"

It was Jiang Xiaocui, the wife of Clerk Wu.

Gu Lan stumbled from the yank. When she turned to look back, Wen Ning's figure had already flickered through the doorway and vanished.

Jiang Xiaocui followed her gaze, eyes darting, and lowered her voice to fish for information. "Sister, is that girl Regiment Commander Song's wife?"

Gu Lan shot her a look and pulled her arm free. "You've got your ears everywhere. Faster than the radio broadcast."

Everyone knew Jiang Xiaocui was the number one loudspeaker in the family quarters, forever poking her nose into every household's business. Let her catch wind of something, and the whole compound would know within a day. She was a shameless sycophant too—always worming her way in wherever there was something to latch onto.

Gu Lan looked down on her from the bottom of her heart, but Jiang Xiaocui knew how to work people, all honeyed words and easy smiles. As the saying went, you don't slap a smiling face—so it wouldn't do to embarrass her too openly.

"Ha, who says I've got my ears everywhere?" Jiang Xiaocui wasn't the least bit offended, grinning wide. "The whole unit's been talking about it. They say Regiment Commander Song brought home a pretty wife. And I heard that at lunch today, he and his wife were in the cafeteria and he blew up at a bunch of soldiers—made them run laps. Fifteen laps, no less!"

She paused, leaning in closer. "I'm thinking, this young couple's marriage... can't be all that good, right? What kind of husband flies into that kind of rage on his wife's first day here? And just now I saw him rush off not long after, without even staying to keep her company—"

"All right, all right." Gu Lan cut her off with a cold snort. "What business is it of yours, meddling in another family's affairs? From what I can see, Tingyue's been more than attentive. Before bringing her here, he cleaned that house top to bottom three times over—even climbed outside to scrub the window glass till it shone. Wouldn't let his wife lift a finger. So quit your speculating. If you've got that much spare time, go home and set your own man straight, so he stops leaving every last thing for you to climb up and down after."

Jiang Xiaocui choked on her words.

Everyone knew her Wu Ping was a hands-off husband who never touched a thing at home, big or small. Other couples at least had each other to lean on—her household, every last thing inside and out fell on her alone.

Last time a lightbulb burned out, she'd stood on the ladder for ages while Wu Ping sat below with his legs crossed, reading the paper, not even bothering to steady the ladder for her.

Gu Lan's words had struck right on her sore spot.

She folded at once, meekly carrying her basin inside to wash.

-

Inside the room.

Wen Ning lay quietly by the window, secretly keeping watch like a little soldier on ambush duty.

Living on the second floor had its perks—the view was perfect.

The room's location was good too, just right for spying on the bathhouse from a distance.

A few hibiscus trees grew outside the window, their pink-purple blooms in full flower.

Peering through the gaps in the treetops, she watched people trickle out of the bathhouse one after another.

The bathhouse was split into a men's section and a women's section, with a stretch of space between them. Wen Ning saw those coming out of the men's side—half-grown boys, men in military uniforms and work clothes, shuffling along in slippers with towels slung carelessly over their shoulders, talking as they walked.

"So plenty of soldiers live in the family quarters too," she murmured to herself, then turned her eyes back to the women's side.

Some women came out with half-wet hair, gathering it with their hands as they walked; others simply stood in the wind, heads tilted back, letting the breeze dry it.

Wen Ning looked away.

No way was she using this northwest wind, thick with yellow sand, to dry her hair. Wash clean only to get a fresh layer of dust blown onto it—what would be the point of bathing at all?

The sky darkened bit by bit, and the voices in the courtyard gradually scattered.

By the time it was fully black, no one could be seen going in or out of the bathhouse anymore.

All was quiet, so quiet that even the insects' chirping stood out sharp and clear.

Just then, a small figure darted under cover of darkness and slipped into the bathhouse.

Unlike the bustling scene from before, it was dead silent inside—so silent she could hear the drip of water, so silent her own breathing seemed to echo off the empty walls.

Wen Ning undressed like a thief, her heart thumping the whole while.

The bath lasted ten minutes.

Not because she was quick—back home in Shanghai, a single bath took her an hour at least.

But the water from the showerhead ran colder and colder, until it was no different from plain cold water. She couldn't take it anymore, shivering as she dried off and hurried into her clothes, sneezing twice along the way.

Only once she was out of the bathhouse did Wen Ning realize how bitterly cold the night had turned.

Her wet hair clung to her scalp, her body still damp with undried moisture. A gust of cold wind hit her head-on, setting her teeth chattering, her whole body shaking over and over.

It had been hot enough to sweat buckets during the day—how was it that the moment night fell, it was like the seasons had changed?

She hunched her neck and quickened her steps back. Just as she rounded a corner by a wall, she heard voices up ahead—not loud, not soft, drifting right into her ears.

"Did you all see that just now?" The speaker's voice carried. "Tsk, the way she acted—walked into the bathhouse and wouldn't even take her clothes off, then up and says she has to go back for something. Who's she fooling? Even an idiot could tell it was an excuse. I say she's just used to being a young lady, looks down on us common folk, thinks bathing with the likes of us is beneath her."

"Sister Cui, give it a rest," another voice urged. "The girl's young, first time here. Maybe she's just shy."

"Ha! Shy?" Jiang Xiaocui sneered. "She's married, isn't she? Not some blushing virgin behind a veil. What's there to be shy about? It's not like her own husband hasn't seen and touched her body."

The words were crude enough that someone beside her gave her a light nudge.

Jiang Xiaocui paid it no mind and went on, "If you ask me, Regiment Commander Song's wife doesn't hold a candle to the one in our cultural troupe."

"You mean Shen Manli?"

"Yes, her." Jiang Xiaocui perked up. "She's Division Commander Song's stepdaughter, don't you know. She and Regiment Commander Song are proper childhood sweethearts—now that's a match. And her temper! Smiles at everyone. Last time she ran into me, she called out 'Auntie Jiang' from way off. Now look at this one—acts like everyone owes her eight hundred yuan, face cold as ice, won't give anyone the time of day. Sister Gu Lan went out of her way to look after her, and she didn't even appreciate it. What do you call that? Stuck-up, looking down her nose at everyone—all those bad habits bred by capitalism!"

Wen Ning's steps halted. Then, without a sound, she melted into the shadows behind the wall.

The old yellow lamp under the corridor glowed dim and murky, lighting only a small patch of ground at their feet.

The group was chatting away, lively as could be. Not one of them noticed anyone passing by.