Chapter 21: The Year-End Clause

Breakfast at the old house was served on a stone terrace above the carp pond, with the whole morning lying open beyond it.

Madam Xie ate her congee in silence at one end of the table.

Pei Wen, who had slept in a chair, ate at the other.

Lin Zhi sat in the middle, with the typed page flat beside his bowl, and did not touch his food.

"You signed it," he said.

Zhaoran looked up from his tea.

He wore a grey sweater, with his hair brushed back.

In the sunlight he looked tired, and better than he had in weeks.

"I did," said Zhaoran.

"It's my term. Three, from the first night," said Lin Zhi.

"It's your term, written down and honored. I thought you should have it in ink, not just in my head."

He set his cup down.

"You asked for a door. I'd like you to have a door that opens."

"And the money?" asked Lin Zhi.

"Is yours either way. It was yours the day you crossed out page nine."

Lin Zhi looked at the paper for a long moment.

Then he picked it up and tore it in half.

He tore the halves in half again, and again, until it was a handful of white scraps.

He opened his fingers and let the breeze take them over the pond.

The carp rose to look.

"I don't want a door," he said. "I want a term."

Madam Xie lowered her spoon.

"Every morning," said Lin Zhi, "you wake up and tell me what you want for breakfast."

"Out loud. In words. I don't care if it's congee. I don't care if it's nothing."

"That's the term?" asked Zhaoran.

"For a year. And after that, we renew."

"Why?" asked Zhaoran.

"Because you spent nineteen months not saying anything."

"I want to hear a man who knows what he wants say it, first thing, to my face."

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