Officer Xu's investigation lasted three days.
He interviewed everyone-the students' parents, the women who did laundry at the well, even the old men playing chess under the locust tree. Every conversation was meticulous, recorded page by page in his notebook. Zhao Youcai received him politely at first, then grew cold, and finally stood in the courtyard of the village compound, smoking one cigarette after another, saying nothing.
On the third day, Officer Xu found what he was looking for.
At the grain purchase station in the commune, forty days ago, Zhao Yunfei had signed for a batch of funds. The amount was ninety yuan. The purpose was listed as "literacy training materials." The materials were never distributed, and no one had ever seen them. This record surfaced at the same time Secretary Wu found that literacy training had indeed taken place in March and September, but only two sessions. No session on the fourteenth. Yet the records showed Zhao Yunfei had filed expenses for three sessions.
When the investigation reached this point, Officer Xu closed his notebook and said to Zhao Youcai, "Secretary Zhao, I need to talk to your son."
Zhao Youcai's cigarette hung from his mouth for a full three minutes without being touched. The ash grew long, then dropped, scattering across the table. He reached out and ground the ash flat with his palm.
"I'll call him," he said.
Zhao Yunfei came. He was wearing a clean white shirt, the collar still carrying the smell of laundry soap. He sat down across from Officer Xu, his hands clasped in front of him on the table. His fingers were slightly trembling, but the rest of his body was still.
"I need to ask you about the literacy training funds."
"I've already explained it to the production team. The three sessions were: March fifteenth, September twelfth, and an October follow-up training that was discussed but not actually carried out. The ninety yuan was paid out, with specific details recorded in the account book."
"On the night of the incident, where were you?"
"At home, sleeping."
"Can anyone verify that?"
"My father can."
Zhao Youcai, standing by the window, averted his gaze.
Officer Xu observed this little detail. He wrote it in his notebook, then looked up at Zhao Yunfei. The young man was composed, his answers polished, his eyes meeting Officer Xu's steadily. But there was a slight tremor in his voice, barely audible-like a crack in a piece of wood a fraction of a millimeter across, invisible to the naked eye, but that a skilled carpenter could find by touch.
"Zhao Yunfei, in the literacy training-"
"Officer Xu, I did misuse public funds."
The admission was sudden, like a rock thrown into still water, sending shivers through the room.
Zhao Youcai's hand, holding the cigarette, froze. The ash grew long, dropped, fell on the floor, scattered. He watched his son from behind, as if a stranger had taken his place.
"I took ninety yuan. It was accounted and recorded, but I can't produce the materials," Zhao Yunfei said. "I used it on personal expenses. The details are in my notebook at home. Those aren't appropriate for public discussion."
Officer Xu was silent for a moment, then closed his notebook. "Now is not the time to talk about the funds. We are investigating the rape. The misuse of funds is a separate matter-it can wait. Back to the night of the incident: you said you were at home sleeping. Did anyone else see you besides your father?"
"No."
"Think carefully."
Zhao Yunfei's fingers twitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could see Chen Xiulan's silhouette in the wheat field-she was standing with her back to him, the wind lifting the hem of her dress-and Liu Mancang's twisted face in the moonlight. A dark, rust-colored scar had already formed a crust on her temple. She said, "If you don't go, all three of us are finished."
"No one saw," he said.
That night, Zhao Yunfei did not sleep.
He sat on the kang under the kerosene lamp, a stack of paper in front of him. The first page was blank. He picked up his pen, wrote a line, scratched it out. Wrote another, scratched that out too. In the end, there was only one sentence left on the page: "It has nothing to do with her. Everything was my doing."
He stared at this sentence for an excruciatingly long time. Then he folded the paper, tucked it into the lining of his clothes, put on his coat, and walked out.
The moonlight was bright. He walked past the pond, the muddy bank slippery. He paused by the pond, looking at the water. The moonlight had cracked the water's surface into pieces, each piece a patch of cold white. The frogs at the pond edge called in sequence, one after another, like questions posed by the night. He thought, if he jumped in now, it would all be over. Everything-the ninety yuan, the wheat field, Chen Xiulan's wound-they would all sink to the bottom, silent as stones.
But he didn't jump. He turned around and headed toward the hill behind the school.
He climbed the hill and sat on the patch of grass where he had sat with Chen Xiulan. From here, the whole village lay before him. The roofs glowed bluish-white in the moonlight, like a hibernating animal. Below the eastern corner, Chen Xiulan's house had the light on.
She wasn't asleep either.
The next morning, Officer Xu found him.
Zhao Yunfei was lying in the wheat field, his face blue. Next to his body was an empty bottle of pesticide-"Dimethoate," the yellow label, a brand that had sold at the commune supply cooperative for three years, effective against aphids, also effective at killing people. Beside the bottle was a piece of paper, folded neatly, pressed under a clod of earth, as if he was afraid the wind would carry it away.
On the paper was written: "It has nothing to do with her. Everything was my doing. The money is in the west wing roof beam."
The wheat field was harvested, the stubble crisp and yellow, scattered like a body of fallen soldiers on a battlefield. He lay in a furrow, his face tilted toward the sky, his glasses askew. One lens had fallen out, leaving only an empty frame. The pupils had already dilated, reflecting the cold white of the sky.
The gathered crowd watched from a distance. No one dared come close. Only Wang Cuiying squatted at the edge of the field, sobbing. She dabbed at her nose, she dabbed at her tears, her voice sharp and piercing.
Chen Xiulan arrived late.
She stood at the outermost edge of the crowd. She looked at the distant furrow, at the man lying there, at the torn piece of paper blowing in the wind. Accountant Cui was holding that piece of paper, reading it aloud repeatedly: "It has nothing to do with her. It has nothing to do with her."
Chen Xiulan stood there. The wind lifted her hair. The bandage at her temple had already been removed, revealing a healing wound that had turned a fresh pink, standing out against her dark skin.
She didn't cry. She didn't speak.
Zhao Youcai pushed through the crowd, knelt beside his son, and let out a low sob-the first time in seventeen years anyone in the village had heard him cry. He picked up his son's head and held it in his arms, just holding it, not moving. The sunlight fell on his back, casting a black shadow. The people around him slowly, one by one, stepped back, leaving a space. Sunlight poured into that space, illuminating a man and a dead man.
That evening, everything changed.
The commune sent a car. They took Zhao Yunfei's body away. They also took Zhao Youcai away for questioning. Before he got in the car, Zhao Youcai turned around and looked back at the village. His gaze swept across the crowd at the village entrance, passing over every face. In the end, his eyes landed on Chen Xiulan's face.
She was standing in the crowd, holding a student's notebook, as if she had just come from class. She was wearing the same peacock-blue printed blouse, her hair tied back simply, her face showing no expression-like a statue.
Zhao Youcai looked at her for three full seconds. Then he got in the car and closed the door.
The car drove off, its black chassis swallowing the light. The red rear lights grew farther and farther away, eventually turning into two tiny dots that disappeared at the end of the field ridge.
The crowd slowly dispersed. Wang Cuiying was still crying, wrapping her sleeves around her nose and eyes. Accountant Cui was clutching that piece of paper, wanting to hand it to someone, but no one knew who to give it to.
Chen Xiulan was the last to leave. She stood by the threshing ground, watching the smoke from the distant car's exhaust dissipate into the air. She turned around, walking the same direction Liu Mancang had walked that night.
But this time, she wasn't in a hurry.