Read Novel Full Chapter 508: Unlimited Noodles
Chapter 508: Unlimited Noodles
At noon on April 5th, all six tables downstairs were full, and the one by the door still had half a bowl of soup sitting on it. He Xiufen came out of the kitchen, two grease marks on the front of her apron, holding a torn-off calendar page turned over to the blank side, a pencil tucked behind her ear.
"Closed on the ninth, for one day." She slapped the paper down on the counter. "Back open the tenth."
"Who's ordering the food?"
"I am." He Xiufen pulled the pencil from behind her ear and started writing line by line down the paper, the characters big, the horizontal strokes drawn long. "Seven dishes. Braised pork, one pot. Fried hairtail, one plate. Steamed egg custard, one big bowl, for the ones with bad teeth. Four cold dishes: smashed cucumber, wood ear salad, peanuts, pickled radish."
"A whole pot of braised pork—how many people are you expecting?"
"Two long stretches." She didn't look up. "Those two rows you counted, about twenty-some."
"Twenty-three." Shen Zhixia said. "Some of them won't come."
"Whoever comes, counts." He Xiufen finished the last line, the pencil tip pausing on the paper. "I ordered two bags of noodles, fifty jin each."
"We can't finish that."
"If there's leftover, I'll keep it and sell it. No loss." She slid the paper under the glass on the counter and smoothed down each of the four corners. "Noodles are unlimited. That part's not negotiable."
"The money—"
"The food's on me."
"Director He—"
"Keep your money." He Xiufen turned and went back into the kitchen, came out carrying an enamel basin with a chip knocked out of the bottom rim. "Tomorrow, bring down two thermoses from upstairs. Nothing else from you."
She'd written the closure notice bigger than usual: April 9, closed one day. Four strips of tape, perfectly straight, stuck on the inside of the glass door.
Not half an hour later, the man in work clothes by the door pushed his bowl forward. "Director He, you're closed on the ninth?"
"Closed."
"What for?"
"Giving someone away."
"Who?"
He Xiufen tilted her chin toward the ceiling. The man looked up, and only after two or three seconds did it click. "Lawyer Shen?"
"Yeah."
"Congratulations." He stood, tucked his change under the bowl, and as he reached the door, turned back. "Could I come have a bowl on the ninth?"
"No noodles sold on the ninth." He Xiufen cleared his bowl. "If you come, take a seat."
"Then I'll come on the tenth."
"On the tenth, I'll give you an extra pinch of scallions."
The call came at twelve-forty. She was helping pull soaked wood ears out of the basin, hands wet, and wiped them twice on her apron before answering.
"Lawyer Shen." Wind on the other end, plus an elevator chime. "It's Ma Jianjun. On the ninth, at noon, I'm delivering an order."
"Who placed the order?"
"I did."
"Brother Ma—"
"It's not just me." He cut the engine and the wind dropped. "A few of us from the group chip went in. It's all written on the slip. You'll see when you get it."
"No spending money."
"I'm not the one paying." Ma Jianjun spoke fast. "On the ninth, before noon, I'll be there for sure. Will you be around?"
"Come in person," she said.
The line went quiet for half a second.
"I'll come in person, and I'll make the delivery too." Ma Jianjun said, "I've got to bring this one to the door."
"Bringing it to the door is fine. Just don't pile anything up."
"Just one thing." He laughed once, then coughed. "Lawyer Shen, on the ninth I'm eating two bowls."
"Noodles are unlimited."
"Good." He held the phone away and shouted "Be right there" toward someone else, then came back. "Lawyer Shen. On the ninth, I'm wearing my uniform."
"Wear whatever you want."
After hanging up, He Xiufen poked her head out of the kitchen. "Brother Ma?"
"He's delivering an order on the ninth."
"Delivering what?"
"He won't say. It's on the slip."
"That kid." He Xiufen turned the flame down half a notch and looked over at her. "That blue thing of Zhi'an's? Tell him to bring it tonight so I can let out the cuffs."
"He said he'll sew it himself."
"You think his sewing's wearable?"
"He said he'll wear it."
He Xiufen snorted and cracked the pot lid open a sliver, steam rising toward the ceiling.
April 7th, 8 p.m. She was at home.
Zhi'an hung the blue shirt on the nail behind the door and tugged the cuffs with both hands, pulled twice, but the sleeves were still short, showing a sliver of his thin wrists. He turned around. "Sis, does this work?"
"It works."
"Auntie He said she'd let the sleeves out for me."
"Then wait for her to do it."
"I sewed two stitches myself." He flipped the cuff inside out. White thread, uneven stitches. "They're crooked."
"Crooked or not, it's on the inside."
He smoothed the shirt flat, sat at the desk and opened his homework notebook, biting the cap of his pen.
The phone rang a little after eight. That number didn't show up often, and it took her two seconds to place it before answering.
"Lawyer Shen, this is Pang Chunlai's son."
"Yeah."
"On the ninth, I'm driving my dad down the mountain." He seemed to be standing outside; crickets were chirping, something rattling far off. "Leaving at six, stopping twice along the way, arriving at eleven."
"The trip takes that long?"
"He can't sit still. I drive slow, no rush." He paused. "The car's borrowed."
"I'll cover the gas."
"Lawyer Shen, no need—"
"I'll cover the gas. That's all I'm asking about."
The other end acknowledged. She asked again: "Does he have enough medicine?"
"He's got it. The cough's lighter this spring."
"Mornings on the ninth will be cold. Bring him an extra layer."
"I've got it." He seemed to think for a moment. "Lawyer Shen, my dad's been asking every day whether the ninth is here yet. He's been marking tally lines on the wall, one line a day."
She switched the phone to her other hand.
"I told him we're going to the city for noodles." He said, "He said it's not just noodles."
Someone shouted in the background, distant and hoarse. The handset changed hands, and the breathing got heavier.
"Lawyer Shen."
"Yes, it's me."
"I don't get carsick." The old man said, "I've worked it out. Leave at six, arrive by eleven. Won't be late."
"Take it slow on the road. When you get here, sit downstairs for a bit first. Don't come upstairs."
"I'll climb the steps myself." He said, then coughed twice, swallowing the end of the sentence back. "Cook my noodles a little soft."
"Soft."
"No chili."
"None."
He handed the phone back to his son, said "See you on the ninth," and hung up.
Zhi'an hadn't written a single word. He took the pen cap out of his mouth. "How old is he?"
"Over seventy."
"Riding all that way."
"He wants to come."
"What's Lawyer Lu wearing on the ninth?" Zhi'an asked suddenly.
"Why do you want to know?"
"The sleeves on this thing are too short." He looked down and picked at the two white stitches on the cuff. "If he's wearing a shirt and I show up in this looking like I always do, that won't be right."
"Ask him yourself."
"I won't." He put the pen cap back in his mouth, wrote two characters, then looked up. "Sis, on the ninth I'll carry the bowls."
"Carry the bowls, but don't run."
April 8th, 3 p.m. All the tables downstairs had been rearranged.
Four small square tables were pushed together two by two—some high, some low, and the seam in the middle was wide enough to slide a piece of paper through. Shi Lei hauled six square stools out of the minibus, all wood, the seats polished shiny, borrowed from the grain and oil shop next door, he said. He set them one by one along the table, then stepped back to look. "Still short three on this side."
"There are two more chairs upstairs," He Xiufen said.
"Those are for your office."
"Nobody's working on the ninth."
Tang Guo arrived holding a paper bag, inside it a hardcover notebook, red, the cover still wrapped in plastic film. She peeled off the film and spread the book open on the counter, turned to the first page. The paper was blank.
"A sign-in book." She said, "Where's a pen?"
"In the drawer."
She picked out the thickest one, found a length of red string, and tied the cap end to the iron corner under the counter—looping it twice, tugging it tight until the string stretched taut. "Same as the one at the Civil Affairs Bureau." She looked up. "Tied down, so it can't go missing."
"Who are you copying?"
"You."
Zhi'an carried two chairs down from upstairs, put one at one end of the long table and one at the other, then pressed down on the seats to test them. He walked a full circle around the table and suddenly asked, "Should I bring the camera?"
"No."
"Then who takes the photos?"
"I'm not taking photos." Tang Guo squared up the notebook. "Whoever wants a picture, I'll take it for them."
"What do you mean?"
"Whoever wants a photo with Zhixia, hand me your phone and I'll press the button." She pantomimed pressing a shutter. "This hand of mine isn't holding a camera that day."
Guo Jianping was her own suggestion: "Jianping will come on the ninth, help me carry things. He won't sit at the table."
"Save him a seat," Shen Zhixia said.
"He won't sit. Says he's used to standing."
Lu Jibai was crouched by the long table, holding a scraper, working on a patch of old glue on the tabletop. The glue must have been left from a price sign stuck up some year or other; the scraped-off bits came up yellow and curled into little rolls. He'd scrape once, then run his thumb over the spot to feel if it was smooth.
"Stop scraping that spot." He Xiufen stood at the kitchen doorway. "You'll scratch it."
"If I scratch it, I'll refinish it."
"The oil's on the stove."
"I know."
When he finished scraping, he got the oil bottle, dipped a rag in, and rubbed the spot twice until the color blended and you couldn't tell it had ever been there. The table leg against the wall was short a piece, so he folded a strip of cardboard twice and wedged it underneath, then crouched to check if the table still wobbled.
Inside the kitchen, a row of basins. A huge basin of soaked wood ears, black and glossy, floating on the water's surface; pickled radish cut into strips and pressed under a clean-washed stone; hairtail thawing in an aluminum basin, half-frozen still, ice chips piled on the fish. He Xiufen cut a big slab of pork into cubes, filled a whole basin, and wiped her hand on her apron.
"That old man on the ninth," Shen Zhixia stood in the doorway, "cook his noodles alone in one pot, cook them soft."
"I know." He Xiufen said, "Bad teeth?"
"He didn't say teeth. He said soft."
"Then soft it is." He Xiufen pushed the basin of pork to one side. "I'll make two extra soft dishes. Two bowls of egg custard, and I'll pick the middle cuts of hairtail for him."
"How did you know he was coming?"
"Even if you hadn't said anything, I'd have known." He Xiufen poured water into the pot. "The people coming on the ninth—none of them are the sort who just wander past the door and drop in."
7 p.m., the sky was getting dark. Shi Lei drove the minibus off, agreeing to be downstairs at seven-thirty on the morning of the ninth to set out the stools first and wipe down the sign. Tang Guo stood the sign-in book upright against the counter; the red string hung down a little, the pen swaying under the iron corner. Zhi'an wiped both chair seats once more, then went to turn on the light by the door.
"I'll be down at six tomorrow morning to start the fire." Lu Jibai straightened the last stool.
"Director He starts the fire."
"She cooks. I help."
He Xiufen went upstairs. The staircase was narrow; she kept one hand on the railing and took the steps slowly. Half a minute later, from upstairs came the sound of wood dragging on the floor—pulling away from under the window, a pause after each pull.
She came back down, holding the old wooden chair against her chest, one hand supporting the underside of the seat, the other gripping the back. Three patches of the chair back were worn shiny—twenty years of sitting had done that. Zhi'an reached to take it, but she turned her body slightly, not letting him.
"I'll carry it myself."
She set the chair by the stove, against the wall, a step away from the burner, out of the walkway. Once it was placed, she pulled out a tissue and wiped down the seat, then glanced at the pot.
"Auntie He." Tang Guo said, "Tomorrow, you sit at the table."
"The table's for them."
"Then where are you sitting?"
He Xiufen pushed the chair back in half an inch. The chair faced the stove, and also faced the sliver of light coming through the doorway.
"Tomorrow, I'll sit here."