TBW - 18

18. The slanted windowsill held pots of cilantro and green onions.

Lying too often might bring karmic retribution. After replying to Cheng Simin’s message that afternoon, Shi Ying’s stomach began to ache.

At first, the pain was bearable—he assumed it was hunger from skipping meals. Hurriedly, he wolfed down a cold boxed meal, but even after filling his stomach, the discomfort worsened. Crouching in the vineyard picking grapes, his vision blurred intermittently, heat sweats gave way to cold ones, and eventually, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He rushed to the bathroom and vomited up the cold food.

After rinsing his mouth under the cold tap, Shi Ying struggled to catch his breath, leaning against the wall as he staggered out.

Seeing his pale face, bloodshot eyes, and frail demeanor—as if on the verge of death—Old Zhao quickly offered him the room he used at the winery to rest.

Old Zhao’s bedroom was adjacent to the office, separated by a storeroom. The office was lavishly decorated, with rosewood furniture in the center, purple clay teapots and tea pets, spotlights, a fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows, a feature wall, and even two large jade cabbage sculptures on the desk.

But the storeroom was another story altogether. A rickety wooden bed was covered with a coarse blue-checkered sheet. Instead of a headboard, shelves nailed directly to the wall served as a makeshift wardrobe. On the slanted windowsill sat pots of cilantro and green onions, repeatedly harvested over time.

As Shi Ying lay down on the bed under Old Zhao’s support, he turned his head and spotted an electric pot on the bedside table, still containing leftover fried pancakes and chili peppers from Old Zhao’s breakfast.

Frowning, Old Zhao immediately unplugged the pot and moved it to another corner of the room, embarrassed.

In recent years, Old Zhao had lived alone without a woman to keep him in check. His lifestyle was rough—cooking at the head of the bed and eating at the foot, unshaven and unkempt. In winter, he slept in thermal underwear, but in summer, he often ran downstairs in his underwear to use the toilet, prioritizing convenience above all else. But now, with a young man around who watched him half the day, he felt a bit uneasy adjusting.

Opening the window to let in fresh air, he turned on the air conditioner by the bed.

Muttering to himself, he rummaged through his medicine box. “It’s nothing serious—just heatstroke. No need to call an ambulance. You’re so young; you won’t die that easily.”

Shi Ying had been trying to keep his eyes open to express gratitude for Old Zhao’s care, but hearing this, he gave up the effort, closing his eyes and whispering weakly: “Alright, thanks for the good words. Not dying is the best outcome.”

“Hahaha, exactly! This happens because you don’t work enough normally, and then suddenly overdo it. You worked too hard yesterday—you should’ve rested today. Besides, even if you haven’t been working physically, you’ve been overworking mentally. As the experts on TV say, mental labor is still labor.” Old Zhao rarely went to the hospital, often self-medicating when sick. His medicine box was enormous, containing at least a hundred types of drugs. After searching diligently, he finally found an unexpired box of Huoxiang Zhengqi Liquid.

Twisting open a bottle, he placed it by Shi Ying’s mouth, inwardly reflecting that the last time he cared for someone like this was twenty years ago, back when he still had a wife. If he had followed his ex-wife’s wishes back then—giving up entrepreneurship, finding a stable job, and having a child—would he now have a son around Shi Ying’s age?

But it was too late for regrets. A person could only choose one path in life. He had already traded the idea of a “son” for the winery, and now he had to make it succeed.

The money Shi Ying invested would barely last until the end of the year. Unsold old wine and the costs of producing new batches meant the winery was still heading toward bankruptcy.

The winery desperately needed a new direction, and Old Zhao pinned all his hopes on Shi Ying.

After drinking the medicine, Old Zhao lingered, watching as Shi Ying opened his eyes again. Finally, he began speaking hesitantly: “Xiao Shi, how’s your review of those documents going? Have you come up with any good ideas?”

“Just waiting around won’t do.”

Later that afternoon, after recovering slightly, Shi Ying began explaining the marketing strategies he had compiled over the past month to Old Zhao, point by point.

For years, Old Zhao had been fixated on exporting his wine to high-demand markets like the United States, France, and Italy. He spent a fortune hiring intermediaries and attending trade shows, but every time they took his wine and money, the results were disappointing.

Before the pandemic, he had a few fixed American clients whose orders barely kept the winery afloat. But after the pandemic, with rising trade protectionism, his premium wines struggled to find their way overseas. Forced to pivot, he rerouted his exports through Hong Kong, only to end up selling domestically at slashed prices.

Last year, China’s wine market saw a significant downturn. Small wineries like his faced the same predicament, and to minimize losses, price wars erupted. At one point, Old Zhao’s dry reds were sold for as low as 20 yuan per bottle in local supermarkets—and still went unnoticed because competitors offered an extra two-yuan plastic corkscrew.

Though this low-price strategy helped clear some inventory, the consequences followed swiftly: once prices dropped, they couldn’t rise again. Thus, he found himself at this dead end.

In April, during the Spring Sugar and Wine Fair, the Western City Wine Association organized promotional events for its members outside the city. Old Zhao couldn’t even afford travel expenses and could only watch helplessly as competing wineries secured major deals with chain restaurants.

Then came June’s International Grape and Wine Industry Conference and China International Wine Culture Tourism Expo, both held in Western City. With no funds, he couldn’t secure a booth and was left sitting in the winery, staring blankly.

He was beside himself with worry, but when Shi Ying presented him with an hour-long PowerPoint presentation, calmly advising him not to rush—Old Zhao nearly fainted from frustration.

After midnight, the initial grape harvest completed and Old Zhao’s emotions soothed, Shi Ying drove back to Huanghe Garden in his Tollyjoy.

A thunderclap split the sky. Before the raindrops appeared, the ground was already wet.

Within seconds, torrential rain poured down like a curtain, silencing the bustling, sweltering city. Rain streaked across Shi Ying’s windshield, and even at full speed, the wipers couldn’t keep visibility clear.

With extreme weather forcing roadside vendors to pack up early, Shi Ying’s appetite returned, craving something light and warm.

Residents of Banshan loved spicy and salty flavors; young and old alike couldn’t do without chili. Driving around twice, Shi Ying found nothing open except for heavy, spicy barbecue joints. Eventually, he pulled over in the rain and dashed into the convenience store at the entrance of Huanghe Garden.

The store mainly sold cigarettes and alcohol, with limited instant food options. The instant noodles were shelved on the lowest rack.

Bending down, Shi Ying inspected them for a while, but his appetite waned further at the sight of these dusty products. After debating between seafood-flavored noodles (without seafood) and beef-flavored noodles (without beef), he reluctantly grabbed two packs of seafood noodles. As he stood up, Zhou Yan, holding a case of Red Bull, smiled at him.

Shi Ying paused, racking his brain to place her face, but drew a blank—he’d never seen her before.

Cheng Simin’s dumplings were excellent. By the fifth one that afternoon, Zhou Yan couldn’t resist pairing them with a bottle of aged rice wine she dug out of the fridge. Though low in alcohol content, it was enough to knock her out given her low tolerance. She passed out on the couch before nightfall.

When she woke up at 11 PM, sleep eluded her. Middle-aged people don’t need much rest, and her night was ruined. Scrolling through short videos and watching live streams didn’t help, so she opened a delivery app to see if there were any orders.

Coincidentally, within ten minutes of going online, she snagged a 3,000-yuan cross-provincial transport job.

The client wouldn’t accompany the trip; she needed to deliver live poultry over 800 kilometers away.

As Zhou Yan prepared for her overnight departure, she struck up a conversation with the young neighbor.

“Unit 1201, right? I’m 1204. We’ve met a few times in the elevator.”

“Eating so late? Just instant noodles? There’s sausage and marinated eggs too.”

Realizing she was a familiar neighbor, Shi Ying quickly adopted a polite and friendly demeanor. “Yeah, it’s raining, and I couldn’t find anything else open. Making do with what’s here.”

“You’re buying a midnight snack?” Zhou Yan had already filled a plastic bag with bread and sausages at the counter. The Red Bull in her arms was for energy, and now she wanted to grab a 3-liter bottle of purified water past Shi Ying.

“Not really. I ate plenty this afternoon. I’m heading out for a truck run—I just got an out-of-province order.”

Mentioning midnight snacks reminded Zhou Yan of the frozen dumplings in her fridge. “The dumplings from Unit 1203 are fantastic. I ate so many this afternoon that I doubt I’ll be hungry tomorrow morning.”

“You weren’t home this afternoon and missed out, huh? How about I call her for you? There’s enough for ten people!”

Zhou Yan, eager to help Cheng Simin sell her surplus, started pulling out her phone. Shi Ying hastily intervened: “Isn’t it inconvenient to bother her at this hour? Her family must be asleep by now.”

Puzzled but undeterred, Zhou Yan continued searching for “1203” in her WeChat contacts. Glancing up at him, she said, “Family? You mean her dog? Dogs don’t mind staying up late.”

“What?” Seeing Zhou Yan about to make a voice call, Shi Ying panicked, snatching her phone and holding it above his head. “I meant her husband and two kids! Please don’t call—really, I’m not hungry.”

Realizing his actions resembled robbery, Shi Ying awkwardly handed the phone back. “Seriously, don’t disturb the kids—they’re still growing.”

“What?” Now it was Zhou Yan’s turn to gawk. Taking her phone back, she burst into roaring laughter, like clanging cymbals. “Kid, don’t spread rumors! Unit 1203 doesn’t have kids—she’s still a young girl!”

“She’s one of those who eats well and worries about nothing. Her life is great—what’s that term online? It’s… uh… ‘pre-’ something…”

After a few seconds, Zhou Yan raised her head confidently, like a rooster crowing: “Ah yes! Single nobility!”