Chapter 60: Mask

Zhou Zhihan said, "Indeed! Not to mention how long you've been away from your hometown and how rarely you get to speak your native dialect, I've barely been in America for half a year, and even my hometown accent is already starting to sound a bit strange.

However, this is completely normal. We overseas Chinese must use standard Mandarin when greeting one another, and we have to use English to communicate with foreigners. As a result, we rarely get to use our native dialects in daily life. Over time, if you aren't paying attention, people might say you have a somewhat peculiar accent."

"Dat is true, dat is tru!" Cheng Xiping said in an awkward Zhejiang accent. "Our generation can still remember our hometown dialect, but by the next generation or the one after dat, I reckon nobody will have any idea what Zhejhang speech even sounds like!"

Zhou Zhihan laughed, pulled over a wine glass, and filled it to the brim: "Uncle Cheng, let's have a drink and chat. The other day I saw you were so busy that I didn't have the heart to bother you."

Cheng Xiping did not stand on ceremony either, laughing as he said: "My boy, what you said is so spot on. My way of speaking has gotten all jumbled up into a chaotic northern-southern mix. Anyway, we are all Chinese, and no matter what dialect we use, it's all the Chinese language!"

"Right, right, right. Uncle, you make absolute sense. No matter where we go, it's Chinese, and no matter where we are, we are Chinese." Zhou Zhihan handed a cigarette to Cheng Xiping, saying, "Uncle, my name is Zhou Zhihan. You can just call me Zhihan."

"Zhihan! Good, good, good!" Cheng Xiping tilted his head as he spoke, bringing his cigarette to the flame that Zhou Zhihan extended to light it. "Oh, by the way, Zhihan, why didn't those friends of yours come today?"

"Today, some friends and I went to the beach to have some fun, and I was craving dumplings, so we passed by your place on our way back. They were all busy, so they didn't come." Zhou Zhihan lit his own cigarette, took a drag, and narrowed his eyes. "Uncle Chen, are you running this restaurant here all by yourself with your family?"

Cheng Xiping glanced at Ganti Duff, who was praising the dumplings endlessly, and then said to Zhou Zhihan: "I'm the only one here. My wife and son live a little over a hundred kilometers away.

My son has integrated into American society; he works here, got married, and had children. My wife stays home to help take care of the grandson. As for me, I can never stay idle at home—I just love places with lots of overseas Chinese. I learned a few things about cooking from my father back in the day and can whip up a few simple dishes, so I set up this little shop and hired two assistants."

"Uncle, you are completely right. Every time I have a day off, I have to come to Chinatown. It feels so warm and affectionate here. Talking, eating, and drinking are all in our Chinese customs and traditions—it feels so genuine!" Zhou Zhihan said as he filled Cheng Xiping's cup again. "Uncle, it really isn't easy for you living here all by yourself. Come, I propose a toast to you!"

"I've gotten used to it!" Cheng Xiping downed his drink. "Most of the people who come here to eat during the day are our fellow Chinese. Hearing the Chinese language and chatting about everyday matters makes me feel at ease. After a busy day, having a couple of drinks with the assistants at night, then locking the shop doors and sleeping soundly until dawn—it's a good life.

I usually go back frequently to visit my wife, my son, my daughter-in-law, and my little grandson. Living like this is grounded, carefree, and rather nice."

After chatting for a little longer, Zhou Zhihan stood up and asked: "Uncle, is there a restroom in your restaurant?"

"Yes, yes, go upstairs." Cheng Xiping pointed toward the stairwell and smiled. "Only for you. For anyone else, I'd just send them straight to the outhouse outside."

Zhou Zhihan also smiled and went upstairs, returning five or six minutes later.

"Yesterday, I happened to overhear you youngsters chatting for a bit, and it really touched this old man's heart! If only our China had more passionate youths like you all. Ah, by the way, Zhihan, yesterday I heard you talking about the performance of some 96-something aircraft, and you were also talking about Japanese devils' fighter planes. I was very curious, but I didn't have the nerve to ask at the time. Tell me, are our Chinese fighter planes stronger, or are the little Japanese devils' fighter planes more powerful?"

Zhou Zhihan was flushed from the alcohol: "Uncle Cheng, that kind of topic—I don't just tell anyone."

"Oh," disappointment flashed across Cheng Xiping's face.

Zhou Zhihan gave a slight hiccup, laughed, handed Cheng Xiping a cigarette, and helped light it: "I don't talk about it with ordinary people, but Uncle Cheng, you are an extraordinary person, so I'll chat with you about fighter planes! Say, Uncle Cheng, I'll tell you about Chinese and Japanese fighter planes, but this is top secret—you absolutely must keep it confidential!"

"Hey, you rascal!" Cheng Xiping said, gently shoving Zhou Zhihan's shoulder. "I never expected you to trust your Uncle Chen this much. Just for that, your uncle is going to toast you!"

The two of them raised their glasses and drank. Cheng Xiping turned his head and shouted to the restaurant assistant: "Xiaoliu, bring me that bottle of aged good wine! Also, slice up two braised pig tails, and have Erhuazi make a plate of acacia flower scrambled eggs. If any customers come in, have him whip up a few dishes; your uncle wants to have a few drinks."

"You got it, Uncle Cheng!"

Xiaoliu looked like an honest, simple-minded young man—not very tall and rather thin. He turned around immediately to fetch the wine and prepare the dishes.

In no time at all, the assistant Xiaoliu brought over a bottle of aged Xifeng liquor, along with a plate of sliced pig tails and a plate of acacia flower scrambled eggs.

Ganti Duff had no idea what the two men were talking about, nor did she care. She ate her dumplings, sipped her beer, and thought about how she had bought so many pretty bikinis today and would have to show them off proudly to her good friends when she got home.

"Uncle Cheng, let me tell you, our Chinese fighter planes are far inferior to Japan's in performance. Take the Japanese Type 96 carrier-based fighter, for instance; its performance is entirely superior to our I-15 and I-16 fighters. The engine of the Type 96 can reach an astonishing 620 horsepower, surpassing the P-26's 520 horsepower, and the devils' airborne weaponry is also much more formidable than ours."

Cheng Xiping nodded, his expression grave: "Are there any solutions?"

"We have already figured out a solution. Yesterday, what I was discussing with those two older brothers was precisely about fighter planes. Of course, this is top secret; apart from you, I haven't mentioned it to a single soul.

As for the specific performance data of the fighter planes, even if I told you, you wouldn't understand, so I won't go into detail." Zhou Zhihan had drunk a bit too much; his face was red and he was speaking somewhat stutteringly. "Come, Uncle Cheng, let me toast you once more."

"Zhihan, drink a little less. Too much alcohol hurts the body."

"No... no problem, Uncle Cheng. I... I... am still far from done..."

Dinner wrapped up at around six o'clock. Zhou Zhihan offered to pay, but Cheng Xiping insisted that there was no way he could accept money this time. "Next time you come, Uncle will get you a bottle of Shanxi Lao Fen liquor to try, and we'll stew an authentic Chinese-style earthenware pot chicken. You must bring your girlfriend along next time, too."

Seeing that Cheng Xiping simply refused to take his money, Zhou Zhihan did not push the matter further. He stood up to say goodbye, drove Ganti Duff back to the hotel, and conveniently took two bottles of fine Yanghe Daqu from Cheng Xiping to give as a gift to the old cowboy.

He wondered if mixing Yanghe Daqu with ice cubes would yield a unique flavor.

At this hour, there were no police checking for drunk driving, mainly because private cars were very scarce at the time, making the roads appear quite wide. By nightfall, there were hardly any vehicles on the streets, let alone a trace of the police.

At seven-thirty in the evening, after the last table of customers departed, the small restaurant closed its doors for the night.

Just like usual, after all the customers had left, Cheng Xiping and the two young assistants quickly cleaned the restaurant inside and out, then cooked a few simple dishes and shared a few drinks with the two assistants.

They finished work quite late today; it was past eight o'clock when the two assistants finally left the restaurant. Cheng Xiping closed the front doors and slid the wooden bolt into place.

After securing the shop doors, Cheng Xiping rechecked every single door and window on both the upper and lower floors to ensure everything was properly locked.

Using the hot water he had heated earlier in the day for cooking, Cheng Xiping took a hot bath in the bathroom, then spent half an hour smoking cigarettes one after another downstairs. Convinced that absolutely no one else would come by, he turned off the electric lights in the private dining rooms, picked up a Chinese-style oil lamp, headed upstairs, and walked into his bedroom.

At this moment, under the shadows cast by the oil lamp, Cheng Xiping's face appeared exceedingly calm—calm to the point of being chillingly grim.

Placing the oil lamp on the desk without turning on the overhead electric lights, Cheng Xiping drew the heavy window curtains shut. Then, he opened the light cover of the old-fashioned wall clock, turned the hour hand backward by a full circle and a half to point at the 11 o'clock position, and spun the minute hand forward by two and a half circles to stop at the 35-minute mark. Pressing down firmly with his thumb in the center of the clock, he heard a faint "click," and a small black secret compartment appeared within the wall.