He would definitely come home tonight, because she was on a Tiqin Qianzheng.
If he didn’t renew it, she’d be kicked out.
When he came back, the second round of negotiations would officially begin.
But now that she’d ruined her ex-husband’s reputation, and the whole capital knew, she was at a disadvantage.
Keeping Miaomiao was her secret weapon to turn the tables in negotiations and win back her ex-husband in one move.
On a big weekend, Zeng Yunrui, Zeng Gong, came to the unit to fetch something, but ran into Zhao Lingcheng in the corridor.
He must have just gotten a haircut and a bath, smelling fresh with a hint of jasmine.
Seeing Zhao Lingcheng holding a big loaf of Russian bread in one hand and a can of Pacific saury in the other, Zeng Yunrui was a bit confused, “You’re not going home for dinner?!”
Zhao Lingcheng said, “Still got some work to do.”
Zeng Yunrui said, “Why not eat at my place? Bread and canned fish aren’t real food.”
He added, “I saw Xiao Chen came back again. I heard you………………what’s going on?”
An old chief from the same clan had asked Zeng Yunrui to play matchmaker, introducing his own daughter to Zhao Lingcheng.
That female comrade worked at the Base Hospital and had been waiting a long time for the blind date.
But now the ex-wife was suddenly back, and he wasn’t going home.
What was up with that?
Should he still introduce the new match?
Zeng Yunrui was full of questions, but Zhao Lingcheng didn’t answer.
He just closed his office door.
The whole building was quiet; he’d found his single-man state again.
At 5:30 in the afternoon, the Base’s music broadcast started on time, the first song being “Katyusha.”
Zhao Lingcheng sliced bread, stuffed it with canned fish, listening to the music.
To most people, bread and canned fish didn’t count as a meal.
But he grew up in Moscow, used to eating like this since childhood, so it was perfectly normal to him.
After “Katyusha,” the next song was “Crossing the Dadu River.”
Listening, Zhao Lingcheng seemed to see that beautiful woman always with her hair in perfect curls, always in a different qipao.
Her English was as fluent as a native speaker’s, her Russian trills beautiful and crisp.
She was his mother, who would always fly from Shen Cheng, Chongqing, and other places to Moscow just to visit him.
He still remembered her saying: “Honey, when your father comes to see you, tell him you love the Nationalist Army more.”
And: “Tell your father the Eighth Route Army are bandits—there’s no future with them.”
That was during the second official cooperation between the Nationalists and Communists, when Zhao Lingcheng was born.
His parents separated soon after he was born, each on their own side, from secret rivalry to open conflict.
Compared to his refined mother, his father always wore old clothes and smelled bad.
His father never made a special trip to see him—occasionally, he’d put him on his shoulders to look at airplanes.
Zhao Lingcheng’s foundation in the air force began then.
Honestly, he loved and missed his mother more—the fragrant, beautiful woman who spoke Russian like poetry.
His uncle would visit sometimes, in a crisp uniform, handsome and witty.
But as he grew up, his mother came less and less, and later, only his uncle would visit occasionally.
Listening to the music, Zhao Lingcheng quietly chewed his bread, right down to the last bite.
When the music stopped, he wiped his hands, opened a drawer, took out a vitamin, and popped it in his mouth.
As he chewed the orange-flavored vitamin, he remembered clearly the last time he saw his mother—she smelled just like this.
He wanted her to stay, but she said: “Honey, Mama will come back, because the counterattack will begin soon. When that happens, your father is destined to die. But don’t blame Mama; he’s too stubborn, so……………see you next time!”
Little Zhao Lingcheng didn’t understand what “retreat” or “counterattack” meant.
He only knew that his mother was leaving forever.
As he watched her get in the car, he grabbed the door handle and wouldn’t let go.
He wanted her to stay and wait with him for Dad.
He loved them both—he wished they could all be together.
But the car window rolled down, and he saw the face of a well-dressed, handsome little boy.
The boy said, “Get lost, you dirty Eighth Route!”
After finishing his vitamin C, Zhao Lingcheng drank a glass of water, sniffed himself, took off his white shirt and changed into another.
He went to the bathroom, scrubbed a bit, hung up his shirt to dry, and then went downstairs to head home.
Entering the Family Compound, he first caught the familiar smell of home-cooked food.
Then he overheard two family members gossiping, “Xiao Chen is making meat again tonight.”
The other said, “I learned to dig wild vegetables from her, and now she’s gone back to eating meat.”
Both of them said, “Xiao Chen can actually eat meat two days in a row—unbelievable.”
Zhao Lingcheng instantly knew who was cooking meat.
That kind of pickled jar meat—only his ex-wife at the Base could make it, and make it so well.
She used to cook meat for him too, and local flavors needed local people to make them.
The ingredients from this barren land seemed to taste best when cooked by locals.
But she’d cook meat and not eat any herself, only giving it to him.
She used to say, “I’m a woman, a worthless life. Why should I eat meat? Meat should be for men like you and my brother.”
If he tried to get her to eat some, she’d wipe her eyes, “Such delicious meat should go to my brother and my mother.”
Zhao Lingcheng didn’t understand his ex-wife, refused to try, and would never let her raise the child—never!
He saw her in the kitchen and said from outside the window, “Half an hour later. See you.”
Chen Mianmian, to convince him, had even invited a little guest today, and her cooking smelled amazing.
She called out, “What are you sulking for? Come in, we have a guest for dinner.”
A guest?
Who?
Zhao Lingcheng was still too young.
Thinking a leader had come and she was putting on a show, he barged in, ready to kick the guest out—only to see a tiny girl sitting at the table.
The girl saw him, instinctively scared, slid off her stool and stood up straight, pouting.
Chen Mianmian said, “Don’t be afraid, Miaomiao. Your Uncle Zhao actually loves little girls, especially loves them.”
Seeing his fierce look, Miaomiao was still scared: “I want to go home.”
Chen Mianmian said, “But you waited so long for the meat, remember?”
She turned to Zhao Lingcheng, standing by the table, “You’re scaring the child. Sit down and smile.”
The girl kept pouting, and the fierce uncle didn’t smile, but at least he sat down.
Chen Mianmian quickly said, “Miaomiao, wait, the meat will be ready soon.”
The new round of negotiations had officially begun, but she had to serve the dishes first.
Yangyu Fentiao—potato powdered noodles—were a food that northwest farmers scrimped and saved to hand over to the government.
The government specially supplied them to the Base, but people there didn’t know how to cook them, so they just gathered dust.
After soaking for eight hours in cold water, then simmering in the wide oil from the pickled jar meat—
Now, they were soft and springy, translucent, brown and glossy.
Little Miaomiao looked at the bowl of powdered noodles, swallowing hungrily.
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