Chapter 6
“Hi.” Chang Jinxing held out his hand with those long, fair, slender fingers and shook hands with Zheng Weize.
“Done.” Zhang Yuwen turned on the circuit breaker and glanced to the side, but Zheng Weize’s attention was no longer on him; he was transfixed by Chang Jinxing, staring up at him with blatant yearning. “Ahem.”
This little hint from Zhang Yuwen snapped Zheng Weize back into reality.
Chang Jinxing, long accustomed to such gazes, was unfazed. He flashed them both a smile alluring enough to make a person fall in love with him on the spot. “Have the others moved in?” he asked Zhang Yuwen.
“Let me think… Another guy will be moving in later this afternoon, so there’s one left after him, I guess.”
Chang Jinxing nodded. “Why don’t we hang out together on the weekend, once everyone has moved in?”
Zheng Weize seconded this idea. “Sure. Where should we go?”
“Up to you guys.” Chang Jinxing grinned. “I’m good with escape rooms, murder mysteries, fishing, or board games.”
Chang Jinxing was a gregarious person. Zhang Yuwen hadn’t even known him for two days and they were already well on the way to becoming close buddies. As the landlord, he was curious about the other two tenants, so he readily agreed. “Let’s wait for Yan Jun to come, then I’ll ask.”
“Is he the homeowner?” Zheng Weize whispered to Zhang Yuwen.
“No, no,” said Zhang Yuwen, snapping back out of his thoughts. “He’s a tenant, just like you.”
“Oh.”
At first glance, Zheng Weize found Chang Jinxing tall, handsome, and vibrant.
Sure, he wore overalls and a jacket, but carrying a camera, he looked like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
Only rich people could afford a hobby like photography.
The quality of the guys in this place is so high, Zheng Weize thought, wondering what the other two tenants were like.
Having fixed the washing machine, Zhang Yuwen returned to his desk and worked on his manuscript until Liu Jingfang brought him his lunch.
Zhang Yuwen ate simply every day: a small plate of vegetables, a portion of meat, sometimes steamed fish, and a bowl of soup from the same pot that was used to prepare both dinner and lunch.
He had inherited these eating habits and brought them with him from his grandparents’ house.
Liu Jingfang and the other housekeeper arrived every morning at ten and left at seven in the evening, taking care of all aspects of Zhang Yuwen’s daily living: from shopping to picking up deliveries, from cleaning to doing the laundry.
As Zhang Yuwen ate, Chen Hong moved in too, bringing with him bags of odds and ends and exercise equipment from his defunct gym. He greeted Zhang Yuwen.
While Chen Hong passed by the dining room, Zhang Yuwen extended an insincere invitation. “Have you had lunch? Join me?”
Chen Hong declined the offer, also insincerely.
“No thanks. I’ve already eaten.” In truth, Chen Hong hadn’t eaten, and his stomach was growling in protest. “I’m trying to burn fat at the moment, so I can’t eat too much.
What are you having? Let’s see… Refined carbs?
Nope, glycemic index is too high. Don’t eat too much of that. ”
Zhang Yuwen nodded. “Makes you feel sleepy after lunch.” He eyed Chen Hong’s belongings, hoping the guy wasn’t about to start recruiting members at home.
In fact, Chen Hong had been living in his gym all this time, and now that he couldn’t afford its rent, he had to find another alternative. He had lots of belongings that he planned to bring over and take his time sorting through.
“The washing machine is in the garden,” Zhang Yuwen said. “Weize will teach you how to use it.”
“Who’s Weize, the housekeeper?” Chen Hong asked, carrying the dumbbells into his room.
“Huh?” Zheng Weize’s voice rang from the garden. “Did someone call me?”
Chen Hong went over to greet him. By the time Zhang Yuwen finished his small plate of steamed fish, he could hear them laughing heartily from the garden; they must have gotten acquainted. And when he began drinking his soup, they were playing with water, so presumably they were now good friends.
After lunch, Zhang Yuwen took his laptop with him and left for the publishing house to receive another round of admonitions.
He had a car parked in the underground garage, though he rarely drove.
He wasn’t a skilled driver and was afraid of scratching the car, and there were always traffic jams in Jiangnan.
Driving just wasn’t as convenient and fast as taking the subway, where Zhang Yuwen could put on his headphones and think about plotlines.
It was a fine, sunny day, and Zhang Yuwen was sitting across from the deputy editor at the publishing house.
“How should I put it… Your novel is very…”
“Contrived?” Zhang Yuwen asked the deputy editor sincerely. The bespectacled deputy editor looked to be no more than thirty and had the air of a sadistic, ascetic elitist. He was also blunt with his words.
“Very…arrogant.” The deputy editor found the right word. “Right. Arrogant and haughty. Your writing is uncomfortable to read. It’s like you’re up on a pedestal, looking down at a bunch of animals.”
Zhang Yuwen humbly accepted the critique. He’d learned his lesson this time and sent a preview to the publishing house instead of a completed work, just in case his effort was wasted again, but the beginning of the novel still received harsh criticism.
“It’s a kind of unsympathetic, mocking attitude,” the deputy editor continued. “Reading through this opening, it feels like you’re making fun of people with disabilities, using the hardships of your characters to flaunt your supposed wit. Have you been reading Maugham recently?”
Startled, Zhang Yuwen quickly distanced himself from Maugham. “Nope, not a fan. I don’t read Qian Zhongshu either,” he added.
The deputy editor flipped through the printed copy of the first 30,000 words again and sighed. “Compassion and empathy are essential if you want to write a good book.”
“I understand. I’ll reflect on it when I get back.”
The deputy editor pushed up his glasses, which glinted deviously. “You’re going to keep submitting manuscripts?”
“Of course. I want to be a writer.”
“Then start by understanding the hardships of others. It sounds simple, but it’s easier said than done.”
Zhang Yuwen thanked him and left the publishing house. Camus won the Nobel Prize in Literature at forty-four, and Kafka published Metamorphosis at thirty-two. He still had plenty of time.
He also had dinner plans today with his childhood friend, another unapologetic fuckboy. This childhood friend, Liang Zheng, had known Zhang Yuwen for over twenty years and was his desk mate from elementary to high school. He now worked in the government sector.
Some guys didn’t stand out in looks or height but still possessed a strange aura that seemed to project: I’m looking for a partner.
Potential mates threw themselves at guys like this in droves.
Liang Zheng was one such guy. In the player circle, his overall score was only about 80 out of 100, and when they were in school, he ranked at “second-tier handsome guy”—the kind that wasn’t considered especially physically attractive but still held a certain appeal.
Liang Zheng was a habitual womanizer and had been since primary school. Fortunately, fate intervened when a girl dragged him by the ear down the aisle. Now, while he might’ve still had the inclination, he no longer possessed the guts to go around terrorizing respectable ladies.
He was as straight as they came, and Zhang Yuwen had never harbored any intention of changing that. They were too close for him to be interested in trying, and the types of moves Liang Zheng made on girls didn’t work on him.
Liang Zheng was dumbfounded when he heard Zhang Yuwen’s latest plan. His sunglasses slid down. “Are you serious?”
“The tenants have already moved in.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Ignoring Liang Zheng’s incredulity, Zhang Yuwen went on, “If the tenants start getting suspicious, I’ll need you to make a guest appearance as the homeowner. Just say you occasionally return from abroad to stay at home for a day or two.”
Liang Zheng erupted into laughter. “Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Zhang Yuwen looked at him expressionlessly. “Be serious. This plan is key to my transition.”
“What?” Liang Zheng didn’t catch it the first time. “Transition? Transition to what?”
“I want to be a writer.”
Liang Zheng had heard something even funnier now. “Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Zhang Yuwen remained silent, not knowing quite what to say to that.
Liang Zheng laughed so hard his stomach hurt. Trailing Zhang Yuwen out of the restaurant, he apologized.
“Can I meet your tenants?” Liang Zheng asked.
“No!” Zhang Yuwen blurted. “At least not now. I’ve already gotten a scolding. The publisher said I lack empathy, so I need to reevaluate my views of other people.”
Liang Zheng, who had wanted for nothing since childhood, possessed a modicum of empathy, but not much. He opened the car door. “You’re already doing them a huge favor renting the place to them at such a low price. What more do you want?”
“To respect them from the heart, I guess,” Zhang Yuwen said. “Honestly, the deputy editor is right. I’m too arrogant, and that’s not a good thing.”
“You’re overthinking it. Other people don’t necessarily respect you, either.”
“Well, they’re not trying to become writers…”
Liang Zheng got into the driver’s seat and drove Zhang Yuwen home.
Over at No. 7 Riverbay Road, Zheng Weize, Chen Hong, and Chang Jinxing introduced themselves to each other and became friends.
Chang Jinxing made coffee by hand and shared it with the other two, and Chen Hong offered a few serious comments.
Zheng Weize was interested in Chang Jinxing, but determined not to make it too obvious.
“Where’s Yuwen?” Chang Jinxing called out, topping up his fourth mug of coffee.
Housekeeper Liu, having already changed into casual clothes, replied, “He went out for a meal with friends. I’m getting off work now too.”
“Bye, Auntie.”