Chapter 7
Hong Kong Island
Chen Zhaoren smiled and said, “You really know what to say.”
Jiang Wanju replied, “Mr. Chen is good at conversation too.”
The crowd surged around them. There was still some time before the New Year’s countdown, and Chen Zhaoren invited Jiang Wanju to have a few drinks at the bar. Like all the other men before him, it felt similar—but different, because his surname was Chen, because he was Chen Zhaoren.
Jiang Wanju agreed.
Chen Zhaoren led her to a booth and teased, “Why did you wear high heels here? Aren’t you worried your feet will hurt?”
Jiang Wanju had never been to a nightclub before and had no experience. She only thought to dress in a more mature style, never considering how exhausting it would be. Still, she straightened her back and said, “They look nice.”
Chen Zhaoren ordered a Naught Girl Bellini, then turned to ask, “Not worried about whether they fit this time?”
Jiang Wanju countered, “You’re not me, how would you know if my shoes fit?”
Chen Zhaoren looked at her carefully. “Why do you seem a little unhappy today?”
Jiang Wanju thought for a moment and admitted, “Maybe because someone refused to be called ‘cousin’?”
Chen Zhaoren said, “Look at you, so petty.”
Jiang Wanju replied, “I don’t deny your evaluation of me, but sir—Mr. Chen—if you gave me a lot, a lot of money, like Bai Qing’s fortune, I could become generous too.”
Chen Zhaoren laughed. “I agree with your point.”
“Successful businessmen aren’t generous because they’re generous,” Jiang Wanju said, “They start being generous after they succeed. I’m still an unsuccessful businessperson, sir, so you can’t criticize me now.”
Chen Zhaoren raised his hands in surrender. “Jiang Wanju, your words are thunderous and enlightening.”
It was now half-past ten. The bar staff had already removed the central chairs. Guests were singing and dancing, the music rising along with the warmth of the crowd. Jiang Wanju’s drink finally arrived, and she took a small sip.
She didn’t understand its ingredients. Twirling the glass, she heard Chen Zhaoren say, “Lychee liqueur, with pear puree and sparkling wine… oh, and candied lychee. Girls love this kind of thing.”
Jiang Wanju asked, “Have you served this to many girls?”
Chen Zhaoren smiled. “Don’t you think that’s a bit offensive?”
Jiang Wanju raised the delicate stemmed glass and took a large sip.
“I have a friend whose girlfriend’s name sounds like ‘Lychee,’” Chen Zhaoren suddenly said. “It’s quite interesting.”
Jiang Wanju replied, “Maybe parents just like naming children after fruits they love to eat.”
Chen Zhaoren opened the bottle. A few scantily clad bunny girls brought over the expensive liquor, leaning forward to personally pour it into an ice bucket. Jiang Wanju couldn’t control her gaze. She watched those beautiful faces, youth and beauty priceless—but here, they were something you could pay for by the hour.
Chen Zhaoren’s eyes stayed fixed on Jiang Wanju. He drank slowly and spoke the same way: “My friend always called his girlfriend ‘Lychee.’ Later, at a gathering, no one else was allowed to eat lychee except him.”
Jiang Wanju laughed out loud. “So bossy.”
“Perhaps all men in love are like that,” Chen Zhaoren said. “Unfortunately, I can’t verify that for you.”
As the New Year began, Jiang Wanju didn’t leave the bar. In the final ten seconds, the music stopped, and everyone—inside and outside—was shouting the countdown passionately. Chen Zhaoren didn’t. He seemed genuinely unmoved by youthful excitement, just smiling as he watched Jiang Wanju count down and excitedly drink—she had mistakenly taken his glass, and the alcohol spread through her body.
Jiang Wanju had three drinks in total, finishing only half of the last one.
They partied until two in the morning. Jiang Wanju was exhausted. Wearing high heels, she held onto Chen Zhaoren’s shoulder with one hand as they walked side by side out of the chaotic bar. The night air was slightly cold, just enough to keep one momentarily rational.
Midnight Hong Kong was not as safe as Shanghai. In Shanghai, outside the bar, there are police cars; no matter how late, you feel secure. Here, it wasn’t the same. The Central District’s cobblestone streets sloped steeply, giving a nearly chaotic, inverted feeling. At the end, magical purple lights glowed like purgatory. Jiang Wanju didn’t want to take a car. The red taxi drove off, leaving her walking side by side with Chen Zhaoren.
She couldn’t remember who kissed first or who pulled the other into the alley.
The streetlights were dim, the alley narrow. Chen Zhaoren’s hair smelled faintly clean. This was a chaotic alley; nearby, raucous teens and drunkards were fighting. Jiang Wanju, who had always been proper, never imagined she’d be in this place like this.
Chen Zhaoren was tall and upright. Even with six-centimeter heels, she felt her neck stretch uncomfortably when kissing him, like a bamboo shoot growing from the ground, striving to meet him.
His lips and tongue were like a mature snake, skillfully igniting sparks in her mouth, stealing her breath and voice. Jiang Wanju’s face flushed slightly; the sensation of suffocation wasn’t pleasant. Before being overwhelmed, she deliberately fiddled with his belt, the cold metal clicked open in segments.
Chen Zhaoren also touched the sensitive point of her body. Jiang Wanju tilted her face toward him, the air she exhaled faintly carrying alcohol, like a light mist floating in the air.
The scent of spicy stir-fried crab wafted from somewhere in the night, the late-night scene still bustling with work, pleasure, and indulgence. Red taxis passed. Chen Zhaoren tugged Jiang Wanju’s hand, guiding her deeper into the narrow alley. Most of the lights were gone; Jiang Wanju could barely see anything. Her vision was slightly impaired in dim light.
With sight limited, her other senses became sharper: the warmth of Chen Zhaoren’s hand, the scent of his fingers, the fragrance of his shirt.
Jiang Wanju couldn’t control her instinctive reactions. She didn’t like hiding herself; no one does. She could see nothing, yet in this chaotic alley, she and a well-dressed man were entwined.
Jiang Wanju couldn’t speak; her saliva ran along his fingers.
Nearby, teenagers were still fighting, amidst the smell of stir-fried crab, noisy voices, and passing cars—a chaotic, upside-down scene typical of some alley in Hong Kong.
Her personal record was three minutes, but Chen Zhaoren took less than two, and she mewled uncontrollably. He pressed his fingers to her lips, letting her lick them.
Jiang Wanju struggled to calm her uncontrolled breathing in the darkness.
In the silence, seeing nothing, Chen Zhaoren lit a cigarette and held it to her lips. She inhaled lightly, frowned, and exhaled slowly.
Jiang Wanju hadn’t learned to smoke properly yet; nothing remained in her mouth.
But by the faint glow of the cigarette, she could see Chen Zhaoren’s lips, the deep dimple on his cheek.
He asked, “Xiao Wanju, kissing my cousin feels good, but does kissing me feel better?”
