TBW - 22

22. Tumbleweed

Shi Ying hadn’t slept all night. After eating, he sent two messages to Cheng Simin but received no reply. He then opened his bank account and stared at the string of digits, counting the zeros.

Next, he turned on his computer, used a VPN to access WhatsApp, and began messaging his friends in Nottingham—the subletter, the car dealer, and others.

With an eight-hour time difference, it was early afternoon in the UK, perfect for work-related calls. By four in the morning, he had successfully arranged the disposal of his belongings still in the city center.

He sold his second-hand Mercedes, purchased less than a year ago, back to the dealer at a lower price. He entrusted dozens of barely-used luxury items to a friend to list on Vestiaire. As for the rent he had prepaid until next year, he asked the subletter to refund half. In return, the remaining household items, books, and appliances in the apartment were left for the subletter and friends to use, sell, or dispose of as they wished.

This arrangement was mutually beneficial. After all, Shi Ying had seen many international students online selling half-used bottles of soy sauce.

After finishing these deliberately drawn-out tasks, he opened his email and clicked on the messages he had long avoided responding to.

The senders included administrative staff reminding him of overdue tuition fees, professors trying to reach him, and classmates wondering where he had disappeared to.

During his time back in China, Shi Ying had vacillated repeatedly between taking a temporary leave of absence and dropping out entirely. Initially, he couldn’t continue because of financial constraints. But now, after consolidating his funds, he had enough to cover next year’s tuition. His resolve became clearer than ever.

With a deep breath, he pressed “send,” cutting off his escape route. The elephant sitting on his chest seemed to lift one foot.

Feeling invigorated, as if fueled by adrenaline, he opened Excel and began drafting a timeline for entering several of Old Zhao’s wines into competitions this year.

He downloaded materials, wrote qualifications, and translated key information into Chinese that Old Zhao could understand.

During breaks for water, he scrolled through Cheng Simin’s WeChat Moments, liking and complimenting her posts whenever possible. He went through years’ worth of photos and updates without feeling tired.

By dawn, he had scrolled through her entire feed. Holding a USB drive filled with files, he took a shower, changed clothes, and drove straight to the winery.

When Shi Ying arrived at the office, Old Zhao was still asleep in the storeroom next door.

In his dream, Old Zhao was young again, his hair thick and lush. He found himself trekking through a desolate desert, endless dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. The air was thick with sandstorms, everything tinted in shades of brown. He wore full protective gear, his face covered, unsure of how he got there or where he was going. Instinctively, he kept walking, step by step, trudging forward despite the harsh terrain.

The food and water in his backpack were nearly depleted. His throat burned with thirst, and his body trembled from the cold, but he didn’t stop. Each step was a struggle against the coarse gravel beneath his feet.

On the brink of unconsciousness, he caught sight of several knee-high shadows darting past.

Rarely did living creatures appear in such barren wastelands. During droughts, tumbleweeds would retract their roots and roll with the wind in their dried-up forms.

The tumbleweeds moved swiftly, like galloping antelopes chasing one another. Captivated, Old Zhao paused briefly to catch his breath. The next moment, his eyes widened in disbelief—he spotted an oasis in the distance, a vibrant patch of green amidst the barrenness.

Old Zhao scrambled toward the tumbleweeds, pushing through thick shrubs until he reached the heart of the oasis. Without hesitation, he cupped the water with his hands and drank greedily, ignoring whether it was clean. When his shirt was soaked and his thirst quenched, he finally noticed birdsong echoing around him.

A strong breeze swept through the oasis, rustling the fluffy leaves atop the trees, creating waves of light and shadow like rippling ocean tides.

Following the sound, he turned his gaze to the edge of the lake, where a glossy golden-waist swallow perched on a grapevine laden with fruit, calling out loudly.

It felt like the toll of an ancient temple bell striking his back. In the dream, tears streamed down Old Zhao’s face as he staggered toward the grapes. The swallow, unafraid of humans, didn’t fly away but instead flapped its wings and landed on his fingertip.

The bird turned its head and chirped again.

At that moment, Old Zhao jolted awake. The swallow’s call had morphed into Shi Ying’s voice outside the door. Waving his arms, he rolled off the wooden bed and landed heavily on the floor. Rubbing his sparse hair, he grimaced in pain, while the youthful, energetic Shi Ying stood outside, shouting confidently:

“Boss Zhao? Are you awake? If you’re not naked, I’m coming in!”

---

The first rays of spring sunlight illuminated the arched roof of the winery. Old Zhao, fully dressed, was already seated in the meeting room with Shi Ying.

Shi Ying prattled on about the steps for entering international wine competitions, while Old Zhao sipped goji berry-infused water from his thermos. Under the table, he secretly browsed a dream interpretation website on his phone, searching for the meaning of his recent dream.

“A desert oasis is a highly auspicious sign,” the site read. “As for the swallow, it likely symbolizes newfound love.”

This was monumental news. Old Zhao had never imagined he’d have the chance to fall in love again.

Lost in thought, he grinned foolishly at the interpretation. Suddenly, silence filled the room. Looking up, he saw Shi Ying glaring at him from beside the projector screen.

Old Zhao chuckled awkwardly, flipped his phone face down on the table, and reluctantly picked up the printed materials Shi Ying had prepared. “Xiao Shi, look at you! Just yesterday, didn’t you say our business couldn’t be rushed? You told me to focus on developing my premium wines.”

“But I haven’t even had time to inspect this year’s grapes. And now, after just one night, you’re telling me to enter three wines into competitions? Time is so tight—I’m not a magician… Besides, entering competitions costs money…”

“Did I mention money? Didn’t we talk about wine?”

“If you don’t have confidence in your own wine, then just say so. Don’t waste my time following you around for nothing.”

Seeing Shi Ying’s expression grow increasingly sour, like a snarling dog ready to snap, Old Zhao quickly softened his tone. “Hey, don’t get me wrong—seriously, don’t misunderstand. When I was courting my ex-wife back in the day, I actually learned a bit of magic.”

Sighing deeply, Old Zhao lamented the loss of his dignity. When had he become an old man willing to bend over backward for scraps? But recalling the dream he’d just had, he consoled himself: perhaps Shi Ying’s new plan wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

The winery already had production lines for red wine and Cabernet Sauvignon, but what they lacked was innovation in new categories.

Old Zhao stood up and led Shi Ying to the underground fermentation room.

Behind the rows of brewing barrels was a hidden door. Inside, stored under constant temperature, were all the experimental wines Old Zhao had developed over the years.

The room resembled a cluttered storeroom, packed with not only wine but also tools and stacks of brewing manuals.

Old Zhao rummaged through the shelves until he pulled out a pale golden glass bottle from a corner. Shaking it slightly, he turned to Shi Ying and said, “Xiao Shi, take a look at this. It’s an orange wine I made last year—40% alcohol, smooth on the palate, not bitter at all, with a hint of mint. It’s drinkable without any blending.”

With that, Old Zhao revealed his final trump card without reservation. Scanning the shelves, he added, “Take a look at these—they’re all my personal collection, real treasures!”

“Moscato, special reserve, ice wine, rosé, semi-sweet, honey—you name it, I’ve got it.”

Having spent decades growing grapes and running a winery, Old Zhao was truly an expert when it came to experimenting with wine. Standing in the shadows, his rough hands carefully wiped the fingerprints off the glass doors of the wine racks with a cloth.

His voice carried deep emotion as he spoke directly to Shi Ying but directed his resolve toward the wines themselves: “Go ahead—pick whichever ones can serve as samples. Send them to those competitions.”

After finalizing the sample submission timeline with Old Zhao, Shi Ying spent the morning typing away at his computer, filling out forms and drafting slides, appearing thoroughly busy.

However, several times when Old Zhao came upstairs to make tea and passed by the office, he noticed Shi Ying alternating seamlessly between looking at his computer and scrolling through his phone.

Recently, a small boss renting part of the production line was bottling low-alcohol fruit wine, and the newly harvested grapes from this year had begun destemming and crushing. The winery was bustling with workers every day.

To earn some extra pocket change, Old Zhao reopened the winery’s long-closed restaurant. Previously, it served high-end Western cuisine with premium red wines, offering thousand-yuan T-bone steaks. Now, the standards had plummeted drastically. Earlier this year, he hired a cook earning 1,600 yuan per month, who prepared three dishes daily—two vegetarian and one meat dish—packaged as boxed lunches.

Today, the cook had taken leave, so Old Zhao personally prepared a large pot of red broth mugwort noodles for lunch.

At noon, they ate together with the workers in the canteen. Shi Ying still maintained his usual demeanor—chewing slowly, eating elegantly—but now he had added the habit of constantly checking his phone.

Old Zhao enjoyed watching him work but hated seeing him eat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Old Zhao noticed Shi Ying pick up his phone again, letting out a barely audible sigh. Finally, unable to resist, Old Zhao asked, “What’s wrong? Did your phone break? Do you need a spare?”