Read Novel Full Chapter 304: Four Pages
Chapter 304: Four Pages
December 8, 9:26 a.m. The bicycle shed in the Jianping Subdistrict office courtyard sat empty.
The door to the east mediation room stood open. Kang Youxing and Jiang Guifang were already seated on the bench across the table. He held the plastic document pouch on his lap, smoothing the corners over and over until the plastic began to fray.
He Xiufen stopped at the doorway, shifted the blue cloth bag under her left arm, and pulled out two hardcover notebooks, the plastic cord half-untied.
"Go in and lead with these," she said. "Money comes later."
"What if he asks about money first?"
"Even if he asks first, I'm still putting the notebooks down first."
She walked over and pushed the two notebooks to the center of the table, the cords undone, the loose ends tucked under the table's edge.
"Notebooks five and six," she said. "When you're done looking, hand them back. I'll watch you put them away."
Kang Youxing squared the two notebooks, smoothed the curled corners of the covers, then opened them.
He turned the pages slower than yesterday. Halfway through the sixth notebook, his finger stopped beneath a line.
Beneath that line, eight characters had been added: Youxing came by. Sat for a while.
He pulled the notebook an inch closer and read it again. The radiator let out a clank.
"I dropped off the medicine and left that day," he said.
Jiang Guifang leaned over for a look, sat back, and rolled her sleeve guards up a notch.
"She wrote 'sat for a while,'" Kang Youxing said.
"She wrote it," He Xiufen said.
He closed the notebook, pushed it back to the center of the table, and pressed his hand on the cover for a moment before letting go.
[Thud. The woman who kept these notebooks wrote the people who came to see her into them, too.]
"Today we talk money." Xu Qichang touched his pen to the paper. "All four points were signed yesterday. We don't go back over them today."
"I'll start with the money," Kang Youxing said.
He pulled the papers halfway out of the pouch, pushed them back in, and finally spoke without looking at them at all.
"A joint burial plot at the public cemetery: sixteen thousand. Exhuming, reboxing, hiring the truck, the headstone: twelve thousand."
"Twenty-eight thousand." Xu Qichang repeated the figure and wrote it down.
"That's the number," Kang Youxing said. "I'm not asking for more."
"Did you already pay for the plot?"
"Paid last year. Ten thousand," he said. "The remaining eighteen thousand, I can't scrape together."
"The money can't go through her hands," Jiang Guifang cut in.
"Whose hands does it go through?" Xu Qichang asked.
"Whoever moves the grave, the money goes through their hands," He Xiufen said. "He named the price. He does the work. The money goes to his account."
"What if she withholds it?"
"That's why we write down dates," He Xiufen said. "Deadlines. Account numbers. One day late, you take this paper and collect."
Jiang Guifang tucked her hands back into her sleeve guards, eyes fixed on the two notebooks in the middle of the table.
Kang Wenying had kept her hands on her knees the whole time. When the last sentence landed, she said: "I'll pay the money."
The room went quiet.
"In two installments," she said. "Before December 20, ten thousand. Before December 31, eighteen thousand."
"Why two installments?" Xu Qichang asked.
"I have a fixed deposit at the bank that matures on the twentieth. Twelve thousand," Kang Wenying said. "Taking ten thousand is enough. The remaining eighteen thousand is in my mother's passbook. That money was set aside for the grave all along. I've done the paperwork. There's time."
Kang Youxing stared down at the blank paper on the table.
"The ten thousand for the plot, I paid that," he said.
"I'll give you that ten thousand," Kang Wenying said.
His head rose halfway, then dropped again.
"Say you'll give it."
"I said I'll give it," she said. "Mom's money is Mom's. What you paid is what you paid."
"Write that down," He Xiufen said to Xu Qichang. "Write down that line of hers too."
While Xu Qichang wrote, Kang Youxing's hand curled into a fist on his knee, then loosened.
"Zhixia." He Xiufen looked over at her. "Take out the sheet. Read it."
Shen Zhixia pulled the fourth Mediation Reconciliation Tally Sheet from the cloth bag and spread it on the table. The header read "figures." Beneath it, three columns. The bottom row sat empty, its label reading "what was agreed."
"Grave relocation, twenty-eight thousand yuan total," she read. "Before the twentieth, ten thousand, paid by Kang Wenying personally. Before the thirty-first, eighteen thousand, from Feng Wenzhen's passbook. Both payments go to Kang Youxing's account. Whoever does the work hands over the receipts—one copy to the subdistrict office, one copy to Kang Wenying."
"Who does the work?" Xu Qichang asked.
"He does. He named the price. He does the work."
Shen Zhixia took out a pencil and wrote a small line beneath "what was agreed," then brushed the graphite dust away.
"Use pencil for now," He Xiufen said. "After signatures tomorrow, trace over it in pen."
"Stone for the headstone went up this year," Kang Youxing said suddenly.
"By how much?"
"I didn't ask."
"If you want to add more, say it today," He Xiufen said. "If you don't say it today, then tomorrow those four pages say twenty-eight thousand."
Kang Youxing tapped the table twice with his fingers. "No increase."
Xu Qichang read the three agreed points aloud, and both parties said "correct."
"How do the paintings get moved?"
"I'll move them," he said. "I borrowed a tricycle. One trip, stacked."
"Two boxes." He Xiufen glanced at him. "Your back."
Xu Qichang set the signing for 9:30 the next morning. He'd print the four-page agreement tonight.
"Both of you sign tomorrow," he said, looking at Jiang Guifang. "The one who came along signs too."
"What would my signature even count for?"
"Witness present," Xu Qichang said. "Once you sign, you're on the paper too."
"Fine," she said.
Out the courtyard gate, the wind rushed in from the lane mouth.
"Who spoke first today?" He Xiufen asked.
"He did."
"Who named the price?"
"Him too."
"Did he listen when you were reading?"
Shen Zhixia remembered: when she read out "eighteen thousand from the passbook," Kang Youxing had laid both hands flat on the table.
"He listened."
"When the number he wants gets read aloud in front of him, he half-believes it," He Xiufen said, tugging her scarf up. "The other half comes from that red stamp."
* * *
December 9, 8:50 a.m. Two wooden crates stood against the hallway wall of the subdistrict office.
A thin frost had formed on the lids. Jiang Guifang was wiping it off with her sleeve guard. Kang Youxing squatted beside the crates, braced one hand on the doorframe to stand, and once upright pressed his lower back against the frame and rubbed it twice.
"Tricycle?" Shen Zhixia asked.
"One trip, stacked," he said. "Didn't crush the paintings."
He Xiufen crouched to examine the brass clasps. The locks were rusted solid. Wire had been wound around twice, the wire ends tucked inward.
"Your father made these crates."
"Mom wouldn't let us throw them out," Kang Wenying said. She'd arrived around 9:10, scarf still on, carrying an empty cloth bag. She'd opened the old house's door yesterday evening. The crates had been loaded onto the tricycle then.
At 9:30, Xu Qichang spread the four pages on the table. The paper was mediation committee stationery, twenty-four ruled lines per page. The last page was only half full. He paused at the end of each clause and asked, "Do you accept this one?"
"One: Both parties confirm Feng Wenzhen's holographic will is authentic and valid, and the old house at Jianping Lane No. 23 is to be inherited by Kang Wenying."
"I accept," Kang Wenying said.
Xu Qichang waited, then read the first clause again.
"I accept," Kang Youxing said.
"Two: The two crates of old paintings shall be divided according to the will, one crate each, counted and handed over on the spot."
"My father made both these crates," Kang Youxing said, and no one answered.
"Three: The grave relocation costs for Feng Wenzhen and her husband's joint burial, totaling twenty-eight thousand yuan, shall be borne by Kang Wenying—ten thousand yuan paid before December 20, and the remaining eighteen thousand before December 31, paid to Kang Youxing's account."
"That one's right," Jiang Guifang said.
"Four: Kang Youxing shall cooperate with the inheritance registration for the old house."
"Five: Within thirty days of this agreement taking effect, both parties shall jointly apply to the court for judicial confirmation."
"Confirmation of what?" Kang Youxing asked.
Xu Qichang explained: the two of you go to court together, a judge looks at this paper, and issues a ruling. If either party fails to comply, the other takes the ruling and applies for enforcement.
"Does it cost money?" Jiang Guifang asked.
"Judicial confirmation is free," Xu Qichang said.
"Count the paintings." He flipped the record to a fresh page. "Open the crates with everyone present. Count them one by one."
The first crate was lifted onto the table. The wire was snipped, the lid pried open. The smell of camphor and old paper rushed out. The paintings were wrapped in newspaper, rolled and stacked.
Shen Zhixia unrolled one, held the corners flat with both hands, and turned it over to glance at the back.
"A look is enough," Xu Qichang said. "No handling."
"No handling," Jiang Guifang echoed, sliding both hands into her sleeve guards.
The counting went slowly. One painting called, one tally mark scratched into Xu Qichang's notebook.
"Seventeen, eighteen."
Shen Zhixia rewrapped the last scroll in its original newspaper, folding the corners back the way they'd been before.
The second crate was the same. When it opened, Kang Youxing leaned in for a look, then retreated to his seat, hands opening and closing on his knees.
"Eighteen per crate, thirty-six total," Xu Qichang wrote in the record. "Count verified. One crate each. Who gets which—decide that yourselves."
"He picks," Kang Wenying said.
Kang Youxing squatted between the two crates. He looked at the one near the door first, then reached under the other and felt for the bottommost scroll, pulling it out half an inch before sliding it back.
"This one," he said, pointing to the crate by the door.
"Looked it over?"
"Looked it over."
"Once it's counted and you go home and claim a painting's missing, it doesn't count," Xu Qichang said.
"It doesn't count," Kang Youxing said.
Signatures came last.
Kang Wenying signed first. She wrote slowly, the last stroke of her name trailing half an inch. When she pressed her fingerprint, the red ink paste on her right thumb smeared onto the name. She rubbed at it with her finger pad, which only made it worse, so she stopped.
"No more rubbing," she said.
She took off her glasses, pressed her hand beneath her lower eyelid, then put them back on.
"Mom's room. I'm moving back in," she said.
Kang Youxing signed in the second box. Quickly. When finished, he laid the pen on the paper, nib pointing toward himself, and pressed a fingertip over his own name.
Jiang Guifang suddenly said: "I'll sign one too."
Xu Qichang looked at her, handed over the pen, and pointed to the last box. "Witness present. Write here."
She signed slower than her husband. When done, she pressed her fingerprint twice: once on the name, once to the right of it.
Xu Qichang signed, then took a wooden box from the drawer and tipped out the mediation committee's seal, pressing it into the red ink paste. When he stamped, the paper shifted half a fraction; he held down the corner and pressed again.
The red seal landed in the lower right corner of page four, one character slightly smeared.
"Four copies," he said. "One for each of you, two here with me."
Kang Youxing folded his copy into the inner pocket of his padded jacket and picked up his crate.
At the doorway he paused, without turning back.
"When the grave date's set, I'll call your place," he said.
"Mm," Kang Wenying said. "Which number?"
"The one from before."
"The landline's disconnected."
He stood in the doorframe, the hallway wind melting a small patch of frost on the crate lid.
"I'll let you know when the time comes," he said.
"Mm."
Jiang Guifang followed him out, glanced back once from the corridor, and slid her hands into her sleeve guards.
At eleven, Shen Zhixia stacked one copy of the agreement, the mediation record, and the count sheet, squared the edges of the four pages, and tapped them twice against the tabletop.
[Thud. Agreement in effect. This entry logged at half.]
[Thud. The other half comes when that eighteen thousand clears the account.]
In the courtyard, under the bicycle shed, the borrowed tricycle was gone. Tire tracks remained in the dirt.
* * *
5:00 p.m. Second floor, Zhengping Firm.
Downstairs, water in the pot hissed and went quiet. He Xiufen was binding a case file at the long table, an awl punching three holes into the cover, white cotton thread running through twice, knotted on the back.
The agreement photocopy went in front. Behind it: three mediation records, four tally sheets, the handover count, the neighbors' pages, and the register entry for the seven notebooks.
On the cover she wrote, stroke by stroke: Kang Wenying and Kang Youxing inheritance dispute. Resolved through people's mediation. December 9, 2026.
When done, she tucked the file into the metal cabinet, locked it, and tossed the key back in the drawer.
She stood in front of the cabinet for a while, her hand still pressed to the door.
"This case is finished," she said. "It's my last case."
Shen Zhixia, who'd been putting her pencil back into the holder, stopped mid-motion.
Lu Jibai was tapping a stack of photocopies flush against the windowsill's edge. "I'll keep tomorrow morning clear," he said.
He Xiufen made a sound of acknowledgment.
Footsteps came up the stairs—the young man from the dried-fruit shop at the mouth of the lane, carrying two red plastic bags printed with the shop's name and phone number, and the words "Fresh Dates."
"The lady from Jianping Lane sent these over," he said. "Already paid for."
He Xiufen took them, shoved one bag into Shen Zhixia's hands—"Take it home for congee"—and snipped open the other, dumping the dates onto an old newspaper on the table. She grabbed a handful and set them in front of Lu Jibai.
"She wouldn't take our money, but she can afford to send dates," she said.
"This case, I never went to court, and I didn't beat anyone." She spat a date pit into her palm. "Call it settled. Some things get settled. And settling comes down to knowing what the other person actually wants—which isn't those two pieces of paper."
"My name's hung on that door out front for over twenty years," she said. "Hung there until today. Time to hang it a different way."
Shen Zhixia looked up.
"What do you mean, a different way?"
"Tomorrow morning at nine, all three of you upstairs." He Xiufen placed the date pit on the edge of the newspaper. "I have three things to lay out."
"Which three?"
She swept the dates on the table toward the middle of the newspaper and pressed her hand down on it.
"Nine tomorrow. You'll know then."
* * *
The desk lamp clicked off. Downstairs, the roll-up door came all the way down, the sound carrying up the stairwell.
Shen Zhixia stood at the top of the stairs holding the bag of dates, looking back at the wooden sign behind the door. White background, black characters, corners worn smooth.