Chapter 4
Knock
Chapter 4: Knock
Cai Yaoting had the folder spread open on the kitchen counter. Mrs. Cai was at the sink washing dishes.
“Are you going to propose to her or something?” She glanced at the stack of documents in his hand — an A4 transparent sleeve, color-printed Excel spreadsheets, three charts, a page of highlighted statutory provisions.
“What proposal, I’m going to talk business with Auntie Chen.” He held the spreadsheet up to the light to make sure the highlighter hadn’t bled over the numbers. “You don’t understand — you need data for these things. Last time I went empty-handed and she sent me off with some peanut cookies. This time I’m prepared.”
“You said that last time too.”
Cai Yaoting pretended not to hear. He snapped the folder shut and gave the cover a pat. “Here, brew me another pot of tea. I’ll bring it up.”
“She has tea.”
“Then — fine, I’ll manage.”
He pulled on the navy blue POLO shirt — the one with the standing collar — slid into his slippers at the door. His keys jangled from the belt loop, like a battle horn sounding the charge. He was the only one who heard the solemnity in it.
Chen Sulan was opening the door to a weather report on the radio.
“Yaoting ah.”
“Auntie, I wanted to tell you—”
“Come in and sit.”
He hadn’t finished his first sentence before he was ushered inside. He’d learned his lesson this time — he didn’t wait for tea to arrive before he started talking. He was still settling into the chair when he flipped open the folder and laid it flat on the round wooden table.
“Auntie, I put together some materials. Take a look—”
Chen Sulan had already headed toward the kitchen.
“You don’t have to make tea—” he called after her back.
The sound of the kettle filling. The click of the gas burner catching. She didn’t turn around.
Cai Yaoting sat there, the folder spread open, the highlighted figures on the spreadsheet catching the light that filtered through the corrugated iron roof in a particularly garish way. He looked at the numbers on the table — projected square footage per unit, compensation calculations, a timeline. He trusted those numbers. Numbers didn’t go in circles on you.
“Has your son’s midterm results come in?”
The question came from the kitchen. His spine stiffened.
“They did… math improved. Auntie, about what I was saying—”
“By how much?”
”…Twenty points.”
“Twenty points is good.” She came out carrying two cups of tea, set one in front of him and one on her side. Then her eyes landed on the folder on the table. She paused a beat.
“What’s this?”
“The urban renewal materials—”
“Oh.” She sat down and lifted her cup. “Has your wife been to the temple recently? Last time she mentioned that one at Bao’an Temple—”
Cai Yaoting’s mouth closed.
He opened it again. “Auntie, I really did put serious work into these—”
“I know.” Her voice was easy, unhurried. “You always put serious work into things.”
Something about that stopped him cold. He looked down at the Excel spreadsheet — ten rows, ten columns, every cell checked twice. He had the sudden sense that these numbers were a foreign language inside Chen Sulan’s living room — accurate, complete, and nobody was listening.
He took a sip of tea. Bitter. The sweetness from the peanut cookies last time was still in his mouth, turning everything he drank sour.
“Auntie…”
“We’ll see.”
Cai Yaoting closed the folder. As the cover came down, he noticed the cup on the low stool beside the recliner across the room — the same as last time, same position, the tea inside dark and deep, like something left there a long while.
He didn’t ask whose cup it was.
When Fang Dingyuan came the second time, he was wearing an off-white POLO shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His first visit had taught him three things: no suit, don’t rush to the point, and don’t give Chen Sulan three consecutive openings to pour tea.
He brought a fruit gift box. A different brand from last time — dried mango from Yuching in Tainan, plainly packaged, the kind of thing that read less like a corporate gift and more like something a younger relative might bring. He’d thought this through.
“Mrs. Chen, it’s been a while.”
She opened the door to the same width as last time — halfway. Then she saw who it was and opened it all the way.
“Oh, Mr. Fang.”
“Fang Dingyuan. I came before.”
“I remember. Come in.”
This time she didn’t go straight to the kitchen. She sat down by the round table and watched him set the gift box on its surface.
“Dried mango. From Tainan.” He sat, his pace slower than usual. “The fresh mango you cut for me last time was so good — I thought I’d bring something along those lines.”
Chen Sulan opened the box, looked inside, and nodded. “You’re very thoughtful.”
Fang Dingyuan smiled, then — in a voice that managed to sound like a thought just occurring to him — said: “Mrs. Chen, I’ve been going around meeting with the other residents. Everyone’s situation is different — some are concerned about square footage, some about the moving arrangements, some about the construction period. We’ve adjusted the proposal for each household based on their particular circumstances.”
He paused half a beat.
“Your situation is a little different being up here at the top, so the terms would be different too. I discussed it specifically with the company—” His gaze slid from her face to the space behind her, to the low stool beside the recliner, pausing there for less than a second. “I was hoping to talk it through with you and Mr. Wu — would he be—”
“He’s been busy lately.”
Fang Dingyuan gave a small nod. The angle of his smile didn’t shift, but his fingers tightened once, briefly, on the handle of his briefcase. “Of course. I’ll run through everything with you then.”
He took a thin folder from the briefcase but didn’t open it immediately. He laid it on the table, his fingers pressing down on the corner.
“Mrs. Chen, I understand you need time to think. This is the compensation proposal for the top-floor unit — different from the lower floors. Take a look when you have a moment. No rush.”
Chen Sulan glanced at the folder. She didn’t reach for it.
“All right. Let me think about it.”
Fang Dingyuan stood. This time he was the one who ended it — before the first cup of tea.
“I won’t take up any more of your time.” He walked toward the door, slowing slightly as he passed the photographs on the wall. “Mrs. Chen — what did Mr. Wu do for work?”
“Carpentry.”
“That explains it.” Fang Dingyuan looked at the weathered wooden mailbox at the entrance. “Remarkable craftsmanship.”
After he left, Chen Sulan stayed in her chair. On the table: the dried mango gift box and the folder. She pushed the gift box to the corner of the table and set an empty cup on top of the folder to hold it in place.
The radio was playing a song she didn’t recognize.
Xu Guanghui came up at around four in the afternoon.
He didn’t knock. He stood in the rooftop corridor and cleared his throat twice, announcing himself. Chen Sulan’s door wasn’t latched; the screen door let light through, and through it you could make out the shape of the living room.
“Sulan-jie.”
“Guanghui.” The screen door swung open. “What brings you up?”
“Just walking.” He came in and sat beside the round table. He’d brought nothing. Both hands empty, resting on his knees. His left hand shook slightly; he covered it with his right.
Chen Sulan poured tea. This time she didn’t bring out anything to eat. Two cups on the table, and she sat down across from him.
They drank tea. The afternoon serial drama murmured from the radio — low enough that it just filled the silence between words rather than taking over.
“How’s Biyun these days?” Chen Sulan asked.
Xu Guanghui picked up his cup and set it back down. “Fine.” He paused. “Last week I took her to the park. She stood by the fountain for a long time, watching the children play in the water. On the way home she called me by a student’s name.”
“Called you what?”
“Lin.” He let out a short, quiet laugh. The kind that doesn’t stay long. “The student she remembered best over the years. Thirty years of teaching, and Lin was always the most common surname in her classes.”
Chen Sulan said nothing. She drank her tea.
“I need to go to the market in a bit.” Xu Guanghui said. “The milkfish at Huang’s stall is cheap today. Biyun likes it — I’ll pick up a couple.”
“You’re going to cook?”
“She can’t manage the stove much anymore. I cook. Not as well as she did, but she can’t tell the difference now.”
He said this without a change in register. There was no suppression of feeling — it was simply that he’d rehearsed those words inside his head so many times that they had become fact, something that no longer needed a particular tone to carry.
Chen Sulan looked at his hands. His left hand lay on his knee, the knuckles pale — the kind of pallor that comes when blood isn’t quite making it to the ends of the fingers.
“You’ve gotten thinner,” she said.
“Have I?” He looked down at himself. “Maybe. I’ve been walking more lately.”
A short silence. In the radio drama, someone was arguing in another room — the volume low enough that it felt like business happening somewhere else.
“Sulan-jie,” Xu Guanghui said, his pace unchanged. “On the question of the urban renewal — think it through at your own pace.”
“Mm.”
“I’m not rushing you. It’s just… everyone has their own reasons.” He rotated his teacup in his hands. “Mine are simple. Biyun’s long-term care insurance doesn’t cover everything. The day center is over thirty thousand a month. My pension holds for now, but if she deteriorates and needs a facility…”
He stopped. Not because anyone interrupted him. He stopped himself.
“Never mind.” He drained his cup and stood. “I’m off to the market. Anything I can pick up for you?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Then I’ll head out.”
He walked to the door, turned back for a look. Chen Sulan was sitting in her chair, tea cup in both hands, the tea long gone, but she was still holding it.
Xu Guanghui turned and went downstairs. Chen Sulan collected the two cups and carried them to the kitchen. His cup was drunk to the dregs — a fine scattering of tea leaves had settled at the bottom. She rinsed it and set it upside-down on the dish rack, beside another cup of the same pattern that had been there a long time, its spot empty for many months now.
Pressure doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in layers.
That afternoon, Cai Yaoting sent a message to the group chat: “Quick update — I went and had a chat with Auntie Chen today. She said she’s still thinking. I’ll keep following up. Don’t worry.”
Lu Zhensheng replied in seconds: “Chairman, you’ve worked hard! But ‘still thinking’ until when exactly? There are 15 days left”
Cai Yaoting: “I’ll handle it.”
Lu Zhensheng: “It’s not your problem, it’s just that someone…”
Cai Yaoting: “Please don’t call people out in the group.”
Lu Zhensheng: “I’m not calling anyone out! I’m stating a fact. Nine out of ten units have signed. One unit hasn’t. Everyone’s waiting on that one unit. That’s arithmetic.”
8 read.
Guo Boyan surfaced: “Since Lu-ge is in such a hurry, how come you’re not taking a closer look at whether your terms are the same as everyone else’s?”
Lu Zhensheng: ”?? What do you mean”
Guo Boyan: “Nothing. Just asking.”
Cai Yaoting: “Everyone please don’t argue in the group chat. If there are issues, sort them out privately.”
Guo Boyan: “Sort it out privately — that’s your favorite phrase. When the third floor leaked into my place, you said to sort it out privately too. Three years of sorting out. And the wall’s still wet.”
9 read.
Cai Yaoting didn’t respond. After four minutes he sent: “The leak has already been resolved. Please don’t drag old business in here.”
Guo Boyan: “Resolved? You took out the partition wall and the water just ran into my unit instead. That’s resolved?”
Lu Zhensheng: “Can we please not fight about this, the point is the renewal”
Guo Boyan: “The renewal IS this. You think a new building makes all of this go away?”
Cai Yaoting: “I’m saying this one last time. I had someone come look at the leak. The technician said it was pipe corrosion, not a wall issue.”
Guo Boyan: “You hired the technician.”
9 read. No one said anything else. Silence for twelve minutes.
Zhao Peiyun sent an unrelated message, like a splash of water on a patch of smoldering dry grass: “Does anyone know a good air conditioner repair service nearby? The unit on the fourth floor for Mrs. Xu seems to be…”
Guo Boyan didn’t respond. Cai Yaoting posted a phone number. Lu Zhensheng sent an OK sticker — it was unclear whether he was replying to Zhao Peiyun or signaling that he accepted the ceasefire.
The group was quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
Eight forty-seven at night.
Guo Zeng Wanru’s avatar appeared. She rarely posted in the group — the occasional sticker, mostly just read receipts.
She typed:
“We’re reconsidering.”
Lu Zhensheng: “Reconsidering what?!”
Guo Zeng Wanru: “Whether to withdraw our consent.”
Lu Zhensheng: “Please tell me you’re joking”
Guo Zeng Wanru didn’t answer him. She sent a second message:
“The consent form states clearly that a signed agreement can be withdrawn. That is our right.”
Lu Zhensheng sent three in a row: “Do you know what that would mean” “Everyone has already signed and now you’re saying you want to pull out” “Does your husband know about this”
Guo Zeng Wanru: “He asked me to send it.”
Cai Yaoting had typed out a response; by the time it went through, six people were already typing: “Everyone stay calm, don’t make any decisions in the group chat. Mrs. Guo, I’ll call Guo-da’ge this evening and we’ll work through this properly.”
Zhao Peiyun: “@Cai Yaoting Chairman, can you first get a sense of the Guos’ concerns?”
Lu Zhensheng: “What is there to get a sense of! They just don’t want to sign! First one Chen Sulan wasn’t enough, now there’s another one”
Guo Zeng Wanru: “Mr. Lu, please get your facts straight. We are reconsidering — not refusing to sign. But if basic fairness can’t be guaranteed, then signing is pointless.”
Lu Zhensheng: “What fairness?”
Guo Zeng Wanru: “Go ask the developer.”
9 read.
Zhou Mingda posted: “I’d suggest everyone calm down. Making judgments with incomplete information tends to go wrong.”
Nobody replied to him.
Cai Yaoting sent another: “I’ll reach out to Mr. Fang tomorrow and get all the terms laid out clearly for everyone. Please don’t rush — I’ll handle it.”
Lu Zhensheng sent a sticker that took real effort to dig out — a rabbit sitting on the floor with both hands on its head.
9 read.
The notification pings were still going off on phones in different apartments, cascading floor by floor, like a building being knocked on by many hands at once. Behind every door, someone was staring at a screen; the glow of those bright little rectangles was close enough to see each face in detail — close enough to see the way each person’s mouth had gone tight in its own particular direction.
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