Chapter Fifty-Five: Visitors from Beijing

If it could be said that Yuan Xiaobai had merely recovered her health before, now she was bursting with energy. By the time I opened the door, she was already out in the yard, helping Grandpa Miao push the stone mill.

Yuan Xiaobai, her face radiant, wiped the sweat from her forehead and called out to me, “Hey, good morning, Xiaoyi!”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She chuckled, “I haven’t moved around in ages. The mountain air is so refreshing—feels wonderful!”

I muttered, “Well, at least you’re finally better.”

As we chatted, there was a knock at the door. Outside, a man in a single-buttoned gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses peered in, accompanied by several others, all strangers.

“Is this the village chief’s house?” the suited man asked with a broad smile, holding two red plastic bags—gifts, it seemed.

“I’m the chief,” Grandpa Miao replied, sizing him up warily. “Who are you, and what brings you here?”

“Hello, hello!” The visitor immediately stepped forward to shake Grandpa Miao’s hand, speaking politely. “We’ve come especially to visit you, from Beijing.”

The moment Grandpa Miao heard “Beijing,” he hurriedly ushered them inside. “Beijing? Goodness, that’s the capital! Please, come in!”

The suited man continued to shake Grandpa Miao’s hand as he entered, nodding in greeting at each of us. Seven others followed—five men and two women, all fashionably dressed in rare sportswear for those days, their backpacks bulging.

I whispered to Fatty, “Fatty, do these Beijing folks seem genuine to you?”

Fatty stroked his chin. “Not really. I don’t hear the Beijing accent, but I do sense a familiar Sichuan flavor.”

I agreed, “Exactly. We’ve traveled all over these past years. Accents never truly change—southerners are different from northerners, southwest and northeast even more so. No matter how you try, the roots don’t shift.”

Fatty grinned and, switching to Sichuan dialect, said, “A bunch of fools pretending to be capital folk—just let me provoke that guy, and we’ll see.”

Shigan Dang was from Sichuan, born and raised there. Even after leaving, his roots remained. The visitors’ accents betrayed a distinct Sichuan intonation, something they could hide from Grandpa Miao but not from Fatty and me.

The leader went inside with Grandpa Miao, while the other seven lingered in the yard, splitting into two groups. They seemed to be surveying the area, but it felt more like they were scouting the terrain. I called Xiaobai and Zha Wenbin into the house, closed the door, and shared what I’d noticed. Yuan Xiaobai’s comment made us realize things were even worse.

“They’re armed,” she said. “When that man turned, his shirt rode up and I saw a gun at his waist. The guy next to him noticed and yanked his shirt down, then kept staring at me. Luckily you called me inside—I felt uneasy with him watching.”

Fatty asked, “Did you see what kind of gun?”

“I couldn’t tell. It was black, probably a pistol.”

Fatty’s expression darkened. “That’s bad news. This place is dirt poor—why would such a group come here? I noticed, too. The men outside are all trained fighters.”

Zha Wenbin said, “Let’s see what they want first. We shouldn’t act rashly. They have the numbers—if it turns violent, we’ll lose. Let’s try to learn more.”

We were hosts, they guests, so we strode openly into the living room. As Fatty said, there was no need for sneaky eavesdropping—the ones with guilty consciences were them.

Grandpa Miao stood and introduced us to the suited man, “Oh, Mr. Qian, let me introduce you. These are the educated youth who used to live here—all city kids. I treat them like my own nephews.”

The man rose and smiled at us. “Promising young people, youth is wonderful.”

Fatty switched to Sichuan dialect, his tone playful and biting. “What nonsense—you say I’m promising, but I’m just a rural kid with a bad mouth. In this society, how could someone like me be called promising? You’re just lying with your eyes open.”

I watched Mr. Qian’s face alternate between pale and flushed, unable to retort, while Fatty feigned innocence, looking to Grandpa Miao. “Oh, I forgot—this leader from Beijing doesn’t understand Sichuan dialect. My apologies.”

Grandpa Miao laughed heartily, “Don’t worry, I don’t understand either! When I was in the army, our platoon leader was from Sichuan. I always needed my comrades to translate his orders.”

Grateful for the way out, Mr. Qian quickly chimed in, “Yes, yes, China’s so vast—I didn’t quite catch what was said, but it’s fine.”

Fatty continued to tease, “I was just saying our leader’s worked hard. This is the countryside—hope we didn’t neglect you.”

Mr. Qian, unable to react, simply let Fatty ramble and continued to agree, “The mountains are nice, the air is fresh…”

On the table was a letter with a red seal—I glanced at it. It claimed the group was from a certain Beijing department, here to survey the terrain and map the area, requiring the local authorities’ cooperation. No wonder Grandpa Miao called them leaders.

Grandpa Miao stood up. “Soon I’ll take you around. Our village isn’t big in population but covers a lot of ground, very remote. The village office is nearby, with kitchen and toilet. After lunch, I’ll take you over—our conditions are limited, sorry to trouble you. I’ll send food and supplies this afternoon. If you need anything, just let me know.”

At lunch, only Fatty, Grandpa Miao, and Mr. Qian sat at the main table. The three of us ate in the yard. We’d planned to leave for home tomorrow, but Zha Wenbin suggested staying another couple of days to get a better sense of things—he was worried about Grandpa Miao’s safety. Why would a mapping team carry guns? And the seven others hadn’t spoken a word or entered the house since morning—clearly well-trained.

“Come, let me give you another bowl,” Grandpa Miao said kindly to Mr. Qian.

Mr. Qian declined, “I’m full, thank you, Chief.”

Grandpa Miao, with rural warmth and hospitality, said, “You must eat your fill!”

“Ah, Grandpa, that’s not quite right. You don’t say ‘eat your fill,’ you say ‘eat well.’ Right?” Fatty stared at Mr. Qian.

Mr. Qian smiled, “Yes, yes, this young man is right.”

Grandpa Miao asked in confusion, “Why? You should eat your fill.”

Fatty set down his bowl and looked at Mr. Qian. “Grandpa, you don’t know—anywhere in the country it’s fine to say you’re full, except in front of Sichuan folk.” He continued in dialect, “We have a saying: ‘You bastard, you ate your fill?’” Fatty seemed pleased with his cleverness. Seeing Mr. Qian’s face turn liver-colored, he couldn’t help but burst out laughing, spraying rice everywhere.

Mr. Qian’s temper was remarkably good—he brushed rice from his hair and continued politely, “No problem, no problem…”

Fatty recounted this to us, and I nearly doubled over laughing. No one could rival him in witty banter—even the best Beijing talkers would have a hard time. This confirmed our suspicion: this group was definitely up to something. They were enduring, no matter how Fatty provoked them. Their restraint showed they were not ordinary people. We were right to stay.

The village office was separated from Grandpa Miao’s house by a river, with a stone bridge connecting them, doors facing each other. For surveillance, we didn’t even need to leave the house—we could observe everything. But since the group entered the office that afternoon, they hadn’t emerged; the door remained tightly shut.

At dusk, Grandpa Miao went over to visit. Mr. Qian answered the door—no sign of the others. He explained they were tired and resting, and asked Grandpa Miao to guide them around tomorrow.

Fatty immediately volunteered to accompany Grandpa Miao, and was promptly accepted—the reasoning being that, as city people familiar with the village, they could be helpful.

That night, the four of us took turns watching the office’s front door from the window. The lights in the opposite house went out at seven, and nothing unusual happened until dawn—everything seemed normal…

Good night, happy holidays, I’ve returned to my hometown.