Qingmu recalled the fire once again, the flames leaping high in the evening wind like the grim face of death. Black smoke billowed in the night, forming a thick black blanket around the flames.
He jumped out of bed, threw on his overcoat, and without even changing his shoes, ran out in his slippers, only to trip over the roots of a mulberry tree by the door.
My memory ends there; all I can recall is him standing under the old willow tree in Liuying Lane, with Crow perched on his head.
These were not secrets; they were all known to Saladin, so he did not establish a mental barrier, and the events unfolded within Saladin's dream.
He recalled how he came to the wool mill, and some new images began to connect.
He saw himself sitting on a bench, his left handcuffed, the other end of the handcuffs strapped to the back of the chair. A big-nosed policeman asked him in a heavy southern accent:
"Where are you from? What's your passport? Are you China, Japan, or Vietnam?"
When the topic turned to the Vietnam, the guy seemed to grit his teeth.
He asked many more questions, but Qingmu didn't say a word. This infuriated him. He shouted loudly:
"Speak up, you bastard! Don't think you can stay here and collect welfare just because you don't talk. You piece of trash, want to be United States citizens? Let me tell you, no way! I've seen plenty of people like you. We have plenty of ways to send you back. Talk now. Say one word in Japanese and we'll send you back to Tokyo; say one word in Chinese and we'll send you to Beijing. You want to go to Hong Kong? Fine, as long as you admit you're from Hong Kong, we'll send you Hong Kong. But if you don't say anything, we'll send you to Cambodia, to Phnom Penh, to be a drug slave!"
Qingmu remained silent until he got into the immigration car.
"Give me back my clothes and my cane," he said in English.
The policeman was startled, probably not expecting his English to be more fluent than his own. The mixed-race policeman from Mississippi inexplicably frowned, his face turning as ugly as an old pumpkin, and sneered:
"You took advantage of someone's drunkenness, stripped them of their clothes and wore them yourself, and you have the nerve to say they were your clothes? Do you know what kind of crime that was? Fraud! Robbery! If that gentleman hadn't been unwilling to stoop to your level, you would have spent the rest of your life in prison."
At that moment, another policeman came over carrying a plastic bag and said, "These are his clothes."
The big-nosed policeman was taken aback and said, "He stole this; how can you give it to him?"
The policeman said, "That gentleman said he gave it to him and asked me to pass on a message." He handed the bag to Qingmu. "He told me to tell you that there is no eternal right or wrong in this world, hatred cannot solve problems, not even the Milky Way is eternal, let alone our short lives. Go home."
Qingmu's lips twitched. The word "home" struck his heart like two bullets.
But he couldn't remember where his home was.
He silently got dressed, while the big-nosed policeman grumbled and complained.
"What a load of crap, PhD, assistant professor, genius! I almost forgot, that guy was Asian too! The officials at the federal Department of Education and the Immigration Bureau are all idiots. What's the point of bringing in so many Asian students every year, and then keeping them to teach? Having a bunch of Asian scum teach our kids? They're shit! Sooner or later, Asia will rule the world!"
His words greatly displeased the immigration officer accompanying him, who glared at him and said, "If you're unhappy with immigration policy, you can run for Congress, preferably become president, and then change the law. If you don't have that ability, then shut up! Go back and ask your grandfather how he came to United States. It's really funny that an African American is mocking an Asian."
The big-nosed, dark-skinned policeman deflated like a rooster being grabbed by the neck.
Qingmu put on his trench coat and jeans, slipped on his brand-new leather shoes, tidied his slightly disheveled hair, and stood up straight. In an instant, the homeless man transformed into a debonair gentleman.
He held out his hand and said, "And my walking stick."
"A cane? What cane?" The policeman looked at him with a puzzled expression.
"A piece of wood, this long, this thick, and black," said Qingmu.
"I didn't see it!" the policeman said impatiently. "Get out of here, don't cause trouble!"
The immigration officer glanced at the documents and said, "The inventory list shows he does indeed have a... stick. It's his only personal item."
The policeman cursed "FUCK" and left. A while later, he returned carrying a black wooden stick, muttering, "You even want to take back a piece of broken wood? A poor bastard is a poor bastard, a yellow-skinned pig, an Asia!"
Qingmu ignored him, took the stick, and got into the immigration car.
However, he wasn't sent to Cambodia because Cambodia didn't have an international airport at that time, and there were no United States flights or books going there. They sent him to Vietnam, which was mired in war. The United States still occupied the last city there, and his plane landed and immediately took off with the evacuating United States soldiers. Shortly afterward, North Vietnam tanks roared into the streets of Saigon.
Due to war and disease, the population there has declined sharply, creating an urgent need for a replacement workforce. No one would refuse a strong, undocumented laborer.
The images flashed before Qingmu frame by frame: he leaned on a black, gnarled wooden stick, weaving nets in the fishing grounds by the sea, logging in the forests of the mountains... He followed a group of barefoot, short men across the border, selling daily necessities in the chaotic Phnom Penh, and then heading north from there to wander the streets of Yangon.
His trench coat and leather shoes were brand new. His jeans, perhaps because they were too long, had been shortened at the bottom by the young professor from Princeton, leaving the seams frayed and the original flared shape barely visible, turning them into straight-leg trousers.
The leather shoes were covered in dust, but a light wipe made them shine, and the toes were so shiny they reflected your face like a mirror.
He was the cleanest homeless man in Yangon.
His mind was blank; he didn't know where he was going or where he could go. But there was always a faint scent beckoning him, like a dog abandoned by its owner in a foreign land, stubbornly crawling on the ground, searching for the scent of home.
While traveling north from Mianyue, he encountered a group that bought marijuana and opium poppies. He followed them over several mountains and arrived at a place called Masuba. Following the scent, he found the small temple in the mountains.
There were no monks in the temple, only a woman lived there.
The woman said, "You finally found me."
Qingmu didn't know what to say, because he couldn't remember what to say, why he had come here, or how he had managed to find this place.
The woman said again, "You've already killed Kitano, sealed off the True Martial Dreamscape, and my husband is dead. Only my daughter and I are left. Why must you be so ruthless?"