Author: Yu Dao Qiao

Translator: Jenny Lu

Editor: Adrian S. Mei

 

Chapter 1

 

Dusk settled over the city, neon signs bleeding colour across the pavement. The glass door to Perfumum’s front garden squeaked open.

 

A man sauntered in, silver rings swinging from his left ear as he came to a stop. Tall, long-legged, sharply dressed—brown jacket beneath a trench coat that gave him a refined, almost rakish air. Then again, his left hand clutched a woven plastic sack printed with the words “Pig Feed”, whilst his right jabbed at the dirt.

 

Within moments, a dew-speckled sunflower stood upright in the flowerbed, looking rather perky beneath the strings of fairy lights overhead. The man dusted off his hands, straightened up, and—instead of actually entering the bar—turned on his heel and strolled away, for all the world like a guerrilla gardener passing through.

 

The bartender, Jackie, who’d slipped outside for a skive, rubbed his eyes at the retreating figure. Bloody freezing out, yet the fellow walked about like he was on a catwalk. Style over survival, clearly.

 

Heavens, he looked exactly like their flash git of an owner, the one supposedly gallivanting round the world.

 

Turned out Jackie’s eyes were working just fine. Said owner, with nothing better to do, had got bored and even decided to scale the wall for a laugh. Successfully, as it happened.

 

The long-shuttered balcony door on the second floor now stood wide open, lights blazing. Inside was an absolute jumble: tea tables, ceramics, oil paintings, sculptures, instruments... even a bloody great meteorite fragment, all souvenirs collected from God-knows-where.

 

Before long, water bubbled in the clay teapot, fragrant steam soon rising. Right on cue, the door flew open with a bang.

 

“How the hell are you–” The manager, Tang Chen, had stormed in expecting a burglar, only to see that face and nearly topple over in shock. He clung to the doorframe. “Zhu Jingru? Where’d you fly in from? Have you actually turned into a bloody unicorn?”

 

Zhu Jingru pointed cheerfully at the balcony. “I’ll take you along next time.”

 

“Nope! I’d like to live a bit longer, thank you very much.”

 

Zhu gestured invitingly. “C’mon, sit down. Have some tea.”

 

Tang took a step back.

 

“Brought it specially from Sri Lanka. For you.”

 

Tang’s scalp prickled. The old fox made him tea? Must have been poisoned.

 

Zhu pushed the cup toward him with a smile. “Have a taste.”

 

Tang eyed it suspiciously, then accepted. Clear, fragrant—harmless enough. He was thirsty anyway. Closing his eyes, he decided to gamble. On Zhu Jingru’s conscience, of all things.

 

It took three seconds. Then the taste detonated like a bomb. Tang spat the whole mouthful out and clutched the bin, retching. “Oh fu–”

 

Zhu handed him a tissue, then immediately dumped the remaining tea leaves, murmuring sympathetically, “Ah. Made a bit of a hash of the roasting. Didn’t think it’d be quite that bad.”

 

“I—urgh—I should never have—urgh—trusted you…” Tang wiped his mouth, voice shaking. Every taste on the spectrum assaulted him at once. He slumped weakly opposite Zhu. “Right. How long are you staying this time?”

 

“Don’t know.”

 

“And what are you planning to do after?”

 

“Don’t know that either.”

 

Tang’s eyes widened. “You absolute bastard—you flew back from South America just to make me drink that abomination?”

 

Zhu sprawled bonelessly backward onto the floor. “It’s tea. Premium Ceylon black tea.”

 

Tang stared at the sinister black sludge gleaming in the bin, his expression going blank. “You’re exactly as mental as you always were.”

 

Not wrong, that.

 

When Tang first met Zhu, he’d realized the man’s mother must have dropped him on his head. Nothing was too absurd or pointless for the nutcase.

 

Dropped out of university to ride a knackered motorbike across Eurasia. Disbanded his band when he got bored and buggered off to the northwest to help build the Great Green Wall. Mountains, deserts, the middle of bloody nowhere—wherever took his fancy. Completely barking.

 

Now in his thirties, he hadn’t changed a bit. Still did whatever he fancied, always plotting, with that roguish grin of his stirring up chaos.

 

Why had his mother even bothered to pick him back up?

 

Profound question.

 

The nutcase now had his head propped on one hand, the dark red phoenix flower tattoo encircling his wrist peeking out. He cracked open one eye, looking thoroughly wicked. His features were intense, striking—those bedroom eyes, the sort that could turn a glance at a bin lorry into a come-on.

 

Mystery solved. It was the face.

 

By the time Tang reached his twenty-seventh blind date horror story, Zhu had nodded off, eyes closed, the light casting long shadows. The muffled din from the bar below drifted up. He’d crossed half the globe to wash up in this relatively safe harbour.

 

Half-asleep, he caught Tang muttering, “The bar’s about to go under, you know. Bet you didn’t know that.”

 

Mm.

 

He knew now…

 

A knock came at the door.

 

Jackie’s voice rang loud and clear: “Boss? You up? Mr Tang stormed off an hour ago cursing.”

 

Zhu forced his eyes open. He lay warm under a blanket. The heating was on full blast. He made a sound in his throat in acknowledgment.

 

“Wind him up again?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Another failed blind date?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“So, when was the last time you dated anyone?”

 

The abrupt shift in topic jolted Zhu fully awake. He sat up, pulling his own coat around his shoulders. “Come in.”

 

Jackie pushed through the doorway, hurrying over for gossip. “Gone for half a year—customers reckon you’ve got a kid crawling about by now. Still no sign of your other half, then?”

 

When had he last dated? “Eight years ago? Ten? Can’t recall.”

 

Jackie gaped.

 

Zhu blinked at him.

 

The bartender stared hard at Zhu’s crotch, “Boss... everything still working down there?”

 

Zhu looked down as well, considering this for a moment before asking inscrutably, “Need me to drop my trousers?”

 

As a long-time employee, Jackie knew full well that the owner would actually do it. He laughed nervously and found an excuse to scarper.

Zhu stretched, wandering out to the balcony railing to catch the breeze. How long since he’d dated? Odd question. Everyone around him was getting married, falling in love. All terribly dull.

 

Zhu leant against the railing, cigarette between his lips, exhaling smoke rings into the darkness. Ginkgo leaves carpeted the street below in faded gold. He murmured to himself, “The day I lose my mind and fall in love, that’ll be lights out for me.”

 

The words had barely left his mouth when the street lamp below went out.

 

Snuffed.

 

Zhu stood perfectly still. Right. Fine. Just a coincidence. He reached for another drag—except there was nothing there. His hand had trembled. The cig was already on the ground.

 

Whether he’d actually jinxed himself, Zhu didn’t want to know. Either way, it kept him awake all night. 

 

Tang rang early the next morning. Zhu hadn’t slept at all—he was standing at the mirror getting himself sorted, face still damp from washing.

 

“Over a dozen signs need repainting. There’s no way they’ll get those colours right without you. I’ll have them wait for you at the bar.”

 

“Will do.”

 

The moment he rang off, he set about shaving and drying his hair. His stint pig-farming in South America hadn’t exactly offered grooming facilities—high time he made himself presentable again.

 

Half an hour later, sunlight poured softly through the skylight above his bed. Rare sunny day. Light pooled at Zhu’s feet as he pulled on his trousers.

 

One last check in the mirror before heading out: white long-sleeved T-shirt beneath a loose-knit black jumper, comfortable and relaxed. Two silver rings in his left ear, as always.

 

He stepped outside and breathed out into the wind. His carefully styled hair immediately went to pieces. A smile tugged at his mouth as he swept it back.

 

The drive over was short. Yinhe Road was quiet at this hour—nothing like it used to be. Zhu took it in as he cruised past: nearly all new shops, fresh green paint on the road signs, even the flowers had changed. Only the long road and gingkos were familiar.

 

He parked and spotted two men waiting outside Perfumum. He greeted them first, walking over with cigarettes and bottled water. They stared at him for a good ten seconds. Neither took anything.

 

The older painter was chomping on a corn cob, his young apprentice tucking into a pork bun. Both wore black balaclavas against the cold, only their eyes, nostrils, and mouths visible—a pair of bank robbers if there ever was one.

 

The painters stared at the dazzlingly dressed, handsome man and pursed their lips so they wouldn’t spray out half-chewed food.

 

No one moved.

 

Zhu’s gaze dropped to the pork bun. He’d once befriended twenty stray dogs in Florence through sheer persistence—humans were easier.

 

He slung an arm around the older painter’s shoulders, the other around the apprentice. Three grown men squatted in a neat row on the bar steps, chatting absolute bollocks—from pleasantries to proper banter, swapping stories about tough business and the importance of good craftsmanship, family this and family that.

 

Zhu managed to strike up genuine camaraderie, successfully cadging a bite of that pork bun. Not a hint of pretension about him. Before long they were smoking together whilst mixing paint—Zhu was effortlessly charming.

 

Talk turned to marriage eventually, as it does. The older painter asked, “You married, mate? My eldest daughter’s about your age. If you’re single, I swear, she’d be over the moon meeting you.”

 

“Best not, then.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

Zhu smiled. “I’m also looking for a good man.”

 

The painter’s brush hit the ground.

 

Zhu picked it up for him, all innocent helpfulness.

 

The apprentice, younger and flustered, tried to smooth things over. “It’s normal these days, liking blokes... quite fashionable, even... Mr Zhu’s very... modern... keeping up with trends... ha ha.”

 

The older man fell silent, head down, trying to edge away from Zhu.

 

But Zhu was enjoying himself far too much. Every time the painter shifted, Zhu shifted too, playing dumb. “Sorry, what?”

 

The old fellow, probably convinced the predatory homosexual was about to pounce, clenched his fists and stood up. He shouted something about remembering he’d left the gas on at home, never mind the payment, and bolted before anyone could reply, leaving his apprentice behind. He ran like the devil was after him. Gone in seconds.

 

Zhu turned away, mildly disappointed, and gave the shell-shocked apprentice a smile.

 

Three minutes later, the apprentice fled as well. Zhu crouched alone on the steps, painting away, fingers and black jumper both spattered with colour. Before he knew it, the sun was high overhead, and Yinhe Road had come back to life.

 

Zhu finished the job and stretched, tempted to collapse on the grass verge for a snooze. Unfortunately, there was still paint and tools to clear up.

 

He yawned his way to the zebra crossing, looking for a hit of caffeine. Just opposite sat a café, its wooden sign bearing two words in bold font: South Bank.

He pushed open the glass door. Wind chimes tinkled, bright and ethereal.

 

“Hello, good afternoon.”

 

The voice that greeted him was slightly rough, a smoky quality to it—unexpectedly sensual, with a distinctive rhythm to each word. A voice that went straight through him—low, rough-edged, the sort that made you think impure thoughts.

 

Zhu’s face stayed composed even as his pulse kicked up. He walked to the counter, eyes ogling.

 

The tall man behind it wore a pastel brown apron over a loose white linen shirt. Hardly professional attire, yet he carried himself with a certain aloofness that kept the world at arm’s length. 

 

He looked up, meeting Zhu’s eyes. Not young, exactly. Experience had settled into the lines of his face. His nose was sharply defined, his skin almost translucent, but it was the eyes—those eyes. The whites were visible beneath dark, sharp irises, deeply unnerving. He looked at people with absolute calm, almost indifference, his mouth holding a faint, unreadable curve. His features were arranged in a composition both remote and mature.

 

A man like this had an edge to him. He was unsettling in the way a wolf unsettled Zhu years ago on a glacier in Xinjiang.

 

“What would you like, sir?”

 

Zhu snapped back to attention. Was he asking for the second time?

 

Zhu ordered a caffe latte without thinking, paid, found a seat. The window spot suited him. It was good for staring into space. He propped his chin on his hand, apparently watching the street, actually watching the glass reflection. Every movement of the barista was economical, that impassive face never shifting. The man turned to grind coffee beans. Arse like that, legs for days—heavens, the man was put together perfectly. Even Zhu, picky bastard that he was, couldn’t find fault.

 

Zhu ducked down, breathing slowly. He pulled out his mobile and searched: Is instant physical attraction a medical condition?

 

He was done for.

 

Dead. Done in by a cute face.

 

Turns out Tang was right about his boss’s head. Must have been dropped hard too.

 

The coffee arrived shortly, set down with the faintest clink. “Enjoy.”

 

Zhu had a private obsession. Without appearing to, he stared at the hand beside his cup. He caught the faint scent of pine soap.

 

Pale skin made the veins stand out dark across the back of the hand. Broad palm, long fingers, knuckles slightly reddened where they protruded. Calluses that suggested strength. He wouldn’t mind them deep in any of his orifices.

 

Zhu grabbed the coffee that had just touched the table and tipped his head back, downing it in one go. It scalded him badly enough that his voice came out hoarse, but his expression remained perfectly intact.

 

“One more iced Americano, if you don’t mind. Cheers.”

 

Anyone else pulling that stunt would’ve been written off as mad, but Zhu was too well-dressed to seem unhinged.

 

“Certainly.” The man was oddly unruffled, collecting the empty cup on a tray before turning away.

 

The moment his back was turned, Zhu opened his mouth and panted, breathing in and out rapidly. His insides turned molten. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He grabbed a napkin to dab them away, arriving at an inescapable conclusion.

 

Scalding liquids don’t cure lust at first sight.

 

By evening, his throat still burnt. His voice had gone raspy. Worried he’d actually jinxed himself into “lights off”, Zhu dragged himself to hospital to get it checked. Even as he stared at the white walls in the waiting room, his thoughts kept drifting back to the café.

 

The doctor examined him, wrote a prescription, told him to avoid hot drinks for a week. Protect his voice. Stick to warm beverages.

 

“But if I don’t order any coffee, can I still touch–”

 

He caught himself. Too late.

 

The doctor looked up. “Sorry?”

 

“Nothing. Never mind.” Zhu’s expression remained perfectly guileless under the doctor’s puzzled gaze.

 

The next morning, Zhu chewed ice cubes to wake himself up properly. Sore throat or not, he preened like a peacock getting ready for display, then walked back into Café South Bank. Ordered a caffe latte chilled to room temperature. Compliant for once. He claimed the window seat nearest the counter. Sat in the sunlight for a full hour.

 

The next day was the same. And the day after that. Soon, two weeks had passed. Zhu dropped in for coffee every day. Ordered, drank, left. Gave away nothing.

 

On the fifteenth day, a light drizzle graced the city.

 

Zhu sat focused, moving his charcoal pencil across his sketchbook. The drawing was remarkably lifelike—a hand gripping a glass, knuckles defined, capturing that distinctly masculine grace. Small letters were written beside it—a name one of the staff had given him.

 

Bai Qinglin.

 

The picky bastard that he was, of course he’d locked onto the owner of the café at first glance. When he finished the sketch, he watched Bai. The man stood by the back door on the phone, voice low enough that Zhu couldn’t make out the words. The rolled-back sleeves exposed well-defined muscle in his forearms. Someone who exercised regularly. Everything about his build and bearing suggested discipline.

 

The call went on. Bai was usually economical with words, but he had a way of commanding a room. Nearly every issue at the café, large or small, required his attention.

 

Zhu timed his departure. Before leaving, he glanced back at Bai twice more.

 

A breeze rose. The wind chimes stirred. So did something in his chest.