Volume 1: A sound on Wall Street, Xinxiang City is busy copying books Chapter 148: Discharged from Hospital
Subtitle of this chapter: "Discharge from the Hospital"
"Beep, beep, the host has triggered a historical random event. The system is evaluating..."
"Beep, beep, the evaluation is over. The S value has not been increased yet, and the historical trunk has not changed yet."
"Beep, beep, the second system task is being generated..."
"Master Ball, what second system mission? I haven't ."
"Host, please wait a moment..."
"Master Ball... Master Ball! Don't leave. After you come back from updating, I, the host, will die!"
"BIU!"
It was November 7, 1920, Eastern Time, and four days had passed since Yuan Yanshu was arrested.
His physical condition was getting worse and worse. Not only did the wound begin to fester, but the symptoms of sepsis became more obvious. But our Master Yuan still didn't get the news of his release.
Now even the Master Ball has left him...
Discharge
Medical staff came in, they stripped the Chinese man naked, shaved his head, and fastened him to a gurney with metal straps. The bright lights made him dizzy, and they listened to his heartbeat. A man in a mask inserted an injection needle into his arm.
He awoke with a bandage on his head, feeling sick, and lying in a small room that looked like the bottom of a well. In the days and nights after the operation, he realized that his previous pain was not even close to the edge of hell.
The ice cube in his mouth didn't feel cool at all. In those days, China hated himself; he hated himself as a person, hated the need to relieve himself, hated that he had to be manipulated, hated the beard on his face. He endured those extremely painful treatments with fortitude, but when the doctor told him that he had previously suffered from sepsis and almost died, China felt sad for his fate and cried out loud.
The physical pain and the insomnia or nightmares at night did not allow him to think about something as abstract as death. Soon after, the doctor told him that he was getting better and would be able to go home to recuperate soon.
Unbelievably, that day had come. No one came to pick him up, so he had to walk slowly toward Brooklyn alone.
The Chinese were a little tired and hungry, so they walked into a small restaurant on the street.
At one table, several young men were eating and drinking, making a lot of noise, but the Chinese ignored them at first. A very old man was squatting on the floor with his back against the counter , motionless like an object. The long years had shrunk him, smoothing his edges, just like the polishing of stone by running water or the tempering of a proverb by generations. He was dark, thin, and withered, as if he was beyond time and in eternity.
The Chinese looked at his black felt hat, the curly hair around his ears, and the black suit that looked like mourning clothes with great interest, and thought of his plan to cheat the Jews badly. He thought that in this era, it would be difficult to find Jews like him anywhere else except New York.
He sat down at a table near the window. It was getting dark outside, but the stench and noise of the city came through the iron bars. The owner brought him sardines and roast beef. The Chinese drank a few glasses of red wine with the dishes. He sipped the wine boredly and looked around lazily.
A dim electric light hung from a beam; at another table there were three customers: two looked like factory workers; the third looked rough, drinking with his hat on. The Chinese suddenly felt something brush his face. Next to the rough glass, on the stripe of the tablecloth, there was a small ball of bread crumbs. That was it, except someone had thrown it at him on purpose.
The people at the other table didn't seem to notice him. The Chinese man was a little puzzled, and when nothing happened, he opened the newspaper he had just bought, as if to cover up the reality. A few minutes later, another ball hit him, and this time the hired workers laughed.
The Chinese man said to himself that it was not worth making a fuss, but it was absurd for him to be dragged into a fight with a few strangers when he had just recovered from a serious illness. He decided to leave, and just as he stood up, the owner came over and begged him in a panicked tone:
"Mr. Yuan, those guys are drunk, ignore them."
The Chinese were not surprised that the owner had called out his last name, but felt that these words of comfort had made matters worse. At first, the provocation of the hired hands was directed at one Oriental, or no one; now it was directed at him, at his last name, and everyone knew it. The Chinese pushed the owner aside, faced the hired hands, and asked them what they wanted.
The rough-looking man staggered to his feet. He was only one step away from the Chinese, but he shouted as if they were a long way away. He pretended to be drunk, and this affectation was an intolerable mockery. He cursed and cursed, and took out a long dagger and threw it up, watching it fall and catching it, intimidating the Chinese to fight with him. The owner objected in a trembling voice that the Chinese had no weapons. At this time, something unexpected happened.
The Jew, crouching in a corner in reverie, threw a gleaming dagger at him, which landed right at his feet. It was as if the New York spirit dictated that the Chinese should accept the challenge.
The Chinese man bent down to pick up the dagger, and two thoughts flashed through his mind. First, this almost instinctive action made him advance and not retreat, and he had to fight. Second, this weapon in his clumsy hands not only failed to protect him, but also gave people a reason to kill him. Like all men, he had only seen others play with knives on TV in his life, but he knew that when stabbing, the blade should face inwards and the knife should be thrust from bottom to top.
I would never allow this to happen to me in China, he thought.
"Let's go to the back." the other party said.
They went out the back door, and if the Chinese had no hope, at least he had no fear. As he crossed the threshold, he thought that on that first night in the hospital, when they stuck the needle into his arm, if he could have died in a knife fight in the alley, it would have been a relief, a happiness, a joy for him. He also thought that if he could have chosen or yearned for the way he would die, this would have been the kind of death he would have chosen or yearned for.
The Chinese, who are better at using pens, talking and keyboards, hold tightly the daggers they are not good at using and walk towards the darkness..
(End of full text)
…
At the same time, the Embassy of the Republic of China in London.
"Brother Zhizhi, Twelfth Sister still refuses to eat?"
"Shaochuan, Shaochuan, look at your bad idea. She asked you to send a diplomatic note, so you sent it, but you insisted on getting her to agree to return to the country before sending it... You know the temper of the Tang Sect female generals. And you are not going to send it now."
After hearing this, Gu Weijun could only smile bitterly and shook his head, saying, "This is really my fault. I didn't expect that the twelfth sister has the same temper as her fifth sister."
Shi Zhaoji was really furious, so he continued to complain, "Well, now American newspapers are saying that the boy has sepsis. Twelve Sister said she would go back to the United States... to see him for the last time. If she is not allowed to go, she will go on a hunger strike. Shaochuan, what do you think we should do about this?"
Hearing this, the great diplomat of the Republic of China looked even more bitter, frowning and thinking for a long time. He turned his head and saw the "World News" that had "flown" all the way over, and he made up his mind.
"Hey... just let her go." Seeing Shi Zhaoji's dissatisfied look, he immediately said, "Brother Zhizhi, don't be anxious. Listen to me first."
"Okay, go ahead."
Gu Weijun sorted out his thoughts and then slowly said, "According to the newspaper, this boy has sepsis and will not live long. If he really dies, it will also put an end to my twelfth sister's feelings for him..."
Shi Zhaoji got a little anxious when he heard this: "What if he gets better?"
Gu Weijun did not answer the question directly, but pointed to the newspaper and said, "Brother Zhizhi, have you also read the two articles he wrote? What do you think?"
Shi Zhaoji pondered for a moment and said, "This boy is indeed extraordinary and has extraordinary talents. I am ashamed of myself. In my opinion, you are the only one in our country's diplomatic community who has such insight and talent."
Gu Weijun shook his head and said, "I'm afraid I'll also be left staring at them. So..."
"So what?"
Gu Weijun stood up and said generously: "So if Yuan really survives the disaster, we will help them to be together even if we are blamed by Lord Xinhui and Lord Xiangshan!"
Shi Zhaoji understood , but he immediately began to shake his head.
"Brother Zhi, do you think this boy's talent is not worthy of my twelfth sister?"
"No, Shaochuan, you don't know. I just received a telegram from Tiyun. His brother Wuxia will arrive in London soon."
"What...what is he doing here?"
"What else can I do? Of course I'm here to pick up my twelfth sister and bring her back to the country to get married!"
"How can a fiancé come to pick up his fiancée and bring her back to his country to get married?"
"What's the point of talking about decorum? In my opinion, this is probably the idea of Xinhui Gong. He has so many friends in North America for so many years, how could he hide the matter between Twelve Sister and Yuan from him?? "
