Chapter Seventy-Five: Climbing the Tree for Peaches

Domlikshawa’s eyes stared blankly at Biaozi’s back. In truth, their encounter had been much too hurried, and Biaozi turned his head so swiftly that she wasn’t entirely certain. He did seem familiar, but she couldn’t yet be sure.

The Russian young man next to her noticed her unusual expression. “Domlikshawa, are you feeling unwell?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just that the person ahead looks like a villain I once met.”

The Russian glanced in the direction she was looking. “Really? Should I go and give him a beating?”

Domlikshawa replied, “I’m not sure if I’ve mistaken him for someone else. But if I’m right, he should be arrested and punished with the harshest penalties!”

The Russian volunteered enthusiastically, “That’s easy. I’ll bring him back for you to see.”

He strode quickly toward Biaozi, just about to call out for him to stop, when Ambassador Shirley emerged from the doorway. “Isn’t that Joseph? And Miss Domlikshawa? I’m delighted to see you both. I hadn’t expected you so early; I can tell you quite clearly, you are my first guests today, and I’m truly honored. Please, come inside.”

Joseph had apparently forgotten all about the Chinese villain and accepted the invitation, stepping inside. Domlikshawa, however, asked, “Mr. Ambassador, may I ask who the Chinese man who just left was?”

Shirley paused for a moment. “Just left? Oh, he was helping me buy groceries. You know, it’s best for a Chinese person to bargain at the market here. If we French try, we’re certain to be overcharged. The Chinese aren’t friendly toward us; they’re not polite about it.”

Domlikshawa thought the man must have been in the embassy for some time, so she assumed she’d mistaken him for someone else. Considering she had just arrived at Dongjiaomin Lane, it made no sense for those bandits to have followed her so quickly—it must simply have been a resemblance.

“What’s troubling you, beautiful lady?” Shirley asked.

Domlikshawa did not wish to dwell on the past. “It’s nothing, just a case of mistaken identity.”

Had Domlikshawa had another, closer look at Biaozi, she would surely have recognized him. But for now, a crisis that could have left Yang Xiaolin with no grave to be buried in passed by unnoticed.

Sometimes, things are just like this: no matter how meticulously you plan, there are always uncertainties that shape the outcome. Simply put, man proposes, heaven disposes.

Fate gives both sides equal chances; whoever seizes them becomes the ultimate victor.

After preparing the meal, Yang Xiaolin brought food to the workers. Seeing Nirel standing aside, he offered him a bowl of noodles. “Nirel, have you had breakfast yet?”

The noodles were cooked with lard and topped with scallions, emitting an enticing aroma. Nirel’s nose twitched. “Not yet. You’ve brought it just in time—a competent cook, indeed.”

Yang Xiaolin handed him the noodles along with a pair of chopsticks. Nirel used them deftly, found a large stone to set the bowl down, and remembered to say, “Thank you,” before eating.

Yang Xiaolin glanced around. “Is it all your people on duty today?”

Nirel had no suspicion about the cook’s intentions. “Yes, the French are attending a banquet; only two of them are at the gate for show.”

“Why not let the Indians stand guard?”

“Them? Forget it. Lu, whatever delicious dish you make today, save some for me on a plate. I don’t want to eat the French leftovers.”

Yang Xiaolin readily agreed. “No problem. Should I save some wine for you as well?”

Nirel laughed, showing his white teeth. “You’re practically a god.”

Both burst into hearty laughter, but at that moment, an unwelcome voice sounded behind them—the French nobleman.

“What are you doing?” he demanded in Mandarin, which Yang Xiaolin understood. He quickly turned around. “Nirel hadn’t had breakfast yet, so I brought him something to eat.”

The nobleman raised his head haughtily, his chin nearly perpendicular to his neck. “Do you have plenty of time, then?”

Yang Xiaolin said nothing. The nobleman looked at Nirel. “Nirel, isn’t your post by that big tree over there?”

“I’m just eating a bowl of noodles; I really am hungry. Captain, rest assured, I won’t neglect my duties.”

Nirel spoke with unusual humility, not at all his usual character. Yang Xiaolin knew Nirel was a man of spirit. In Nirel’s eyes, Yang Xiaolin saw suppressed anger, but even more, grievance and helplessness. Nirel had ideals; he needed French citizenship, which was nearly within reach. So, though he was angry, he endured.

The Frenchman was unmoved, pointing toward the tree. “Go stand over there!”

Nirel’s chest heaved, and many nearby watched—Chinese, Africans, and French alike, their gazes filled with sympathy, contempt, or schadenfreude. Under all those stares, Nirel slowly set down his chopsticks.

The French noble abruptly knocked the bowl of noodles to the ground, then shouted at Yang Xiaolin, “Clean this up!”

As the noodles fell, Nirel paused for a moment, and Yang Xiaolin, without protest, began picking up the shattered porcelain pieces. Just then, he heard the Frenchman say something in French, which Yang Xiaolin did not understand.

As soon as the words fell, Yang Xiaolin saw Nirel suddenly whirl around and lunge at the Frenchman, his expression fiercely agitated, grabbing the man's neck and shouting loudly.

In a real fight, the Frenchman was no match for Nirel. Though he struggled desperately, he could not escape Nirel’s powerful arms; soon his pale face turned red from being strangled. Yang Xiaolin didn’t want any unexpected incidents before he made his move, so he rushed up and tried to pull Nirel’s arms away. “Nirel! Let go, you’ll kill him!”

“I want to kill him! He dared call me a black dog!”

Yang Xiaolin was stunned. In his mind, he too referred to Nirel as a black dog, though he’d never said it aloud. He hadn’t realized how deeply Nirel hated the term—thank goodness he’d never called him that.

Yang Xiaolin used all his strength to pry Nirel’s arms away. “Alright, alright! If you keep strangling him, forget about becoming a comprador in China!”

Nirel tried to break free, but Yang Xiaolin held on tightly. Nirel was so agitated that if Yang Xiaolin let go, he might actually kill someone.

The French nobleman was hardly noble now; he dared not fight Nirel, retreating several steps and drawing his pistol at Nirel.

“What are you doing?”

Someone had already gone to alert Ambassador Shirley, who hurried over just in time. His arrival calmed the heated scene. He looked at Nirel, then at the captain, and seemed to understand.

A conversation followed between the three, but Yang Xiaolin couldn’t understand it. Shirley seemed adept at smoothing things over, and before long, both Nirel and the Frenchman’s anger had subsided. The Frenchman holstered his gun, and Nirel returned to his post. Only then did Yang Xiaolin realize his arms were aching from holding Nirel back—what strength!

At least, he thought, there was no fatality.

Yang Xiaolin sighed in relief. No deaths meant his plans would not be affected.

But as this thought settled, a flash of inspiration struck: “What if someone really did die?”

He looked at the French noble, then at Nirel. If Nirel actually killed him, what would Shirley do? If he were Shirley, he’d surely imprison Nirel, and then the African soldiers would be useless.

If the killer wasn’t Nirel, would Nirel meekly let himself be arrested? Suddenly, Yang Xiaolin felt a surge of excitement. His eyes lit up as he watched the French captain’s disappearing figure.

He made up his mind: he would kill someone.