A Dog Out of Nowhere Chapter 12

Xu Zhou dropped Fang Chi off at the street corner leading toward Sun Wenqu’s place. It was still quite far, but Fang Chi didn’t let him take him further. If Xu Zhou made the round trip, he wouldn’t even have time to eat.

“What are you going there for?” Xu Zhou asked.

“Cooking,” Fang Chi said. “Cleaning the house, washing clothes…”

“…Housekeeping? Don’t you make good money at the club? Why a part time?” Xu Zhou looked at him. Everyone in their class knew Fang Chi lived alone in the city, usually covering expenses with competition winnings and guiding gigs. His income wasn’t bad.

“It’s complicated,” Fang Chi sighed and patted his shoulder. “See you.”

He was genuinely curious about Sun Wenqu’s painting, that was part of why he agreed to come.

He had no idea how Sun Wenqu might have painted Chief Huang and him. If it looked like his calligraphy, that’d actually be pretty good, could even mount it and hang it up.

Sometimes it was hard to believe that someone like Sun Wenqu could be connected to calligraphy and painting.

And the fact he’d draw for someone else gave Fang Chi an odd little flicker of feeling, beyond the things about Sun Wenqu he found intolerable.

The courtyard gate was open, that same Beetle from the other day parked outside.

Fang Chi went in and knocked on the door. Since there were guests today, he didn’t climb in through the window, better give Sun Wenqu a bit of face.

Someone opened the door: Ma Liang.

Fang Chi wasn’t sure how to address him, big brother, or… uncle…

“Hello.” After a pause, he skipped the title.

“Ah, eldest nephew,” Ma Liang laughed. “Been waitm waiting for you half the day.”

“I just got out of school.” Fang Chi came in, tossed his bag against the wall. “No groceries, right?”

“There are groceries, your Uncle Liang and I went shopping,” Sun Wenqu came out of the study, holding a rolled sheet of rice paper, ink faintly visible. “You just need to cook.”

“Oh.” Fang Chi glanced at the paper, was that really an ink painting of the cat?

“This is for you,” Sun Wenqu handed it over. “I worked half the day on it.”

“Even stamped it.” Ma Liang chuckled.

“Oh.” Fang Chi took the roll and slowly unrolled it.

Because he had been picturing a traditional ink painting, artsy, elegant, full of style, when he carefully spread the sheet and saw content wildly out of proportion to the size of the paper, he froze for half a minute, blank.

It was actually really well drawn, done with brush and ink, and very vivid. Chief Huang’s stern CEO face was perfectly captured. One glance and you knew it was him. As for the poop-scooping servant beside him…

“This is…” Fang Chi finally burst out laughing. “Chibi style?”

“What, you don’t like chibi? I worked hard on that,” Sun Wenqu said.

Yes, it was a palm-sized chibi painting inked onto a two-foot sheet of rice paper. The brushwork was layered and balanced, composition clear, light and dark in harmony… and yet, it was chibi.

Chief Huang and Fang Chi were drawn adorably, and sure enough, Sun Wenqu’s seal was stamped beside them. The sheer unexpectedness of it had Fang Chi laughing nonstop.

“He really did spend half the day, at least half an hour,” Ma Liang laughed along.

“Do you like it or not, give me an answer,” Sun Wenqu crossed his arms.

“I do,” Fang Chi rolled up the painting. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sun Wenqu smirked. “I mainly wanted to see if you’d laugh. Didn’t expect dimples.”

Fang Chi paused, then recalled how ridiculously he’d just been laughing, and felt a bit awkward. He put the painting on the coffee table and went into the kitchen.

The groceries Sun Wenqu and Ma Liang had bought were piled on the counter, along with foreign-labeled seasonings Fang Chi couldn’t identify. He had to open one, lick it, then guess what it was.

“Is it enough?” Ma Liang asked from the doorway.

“Enough for a week,” Fang Chi eyed the pile. “You two used to run a canteen?”

“Saves you from running out all the time,” Ma Liang smiled. “You’ve got it rough, nephew. Make it bland, your dad likes it bland.”

Fang Chi looked back at him.

“Biological dad.” Ma Liang laughed so hard his eyes nearly disappeared, then went back to the living room.

Fang Chi poked through the vegetables. Truly, similar people flocked together: even with his stammer, Ma Liang could slip in sharp jabs.

“Eat together later,” Ma Liang popped back in. “Your dear dad’s got good, good wine.”

“…Oh,” Fang Chi replied.

“How long will that take?” Ma Liang went into the study.

Sun Wenqu was looking at a half-finished painting of Chief Huang, just sketched. “Dunno, two days. My hand’s stiff.”

“Why so into it all of a sudden?” Ma Liang asked.

“Nothing better to do.” Sun Wenqu smiled. The chibi painting he’d done in minutes just to lure Fang Chi over. “Yesterday I tried to write for Luo Peng, couldn’t write a thing, my hand all locked up. So I doodled something to loosen up.”

“Sti….stick it over your bed for inspiration?” Ma Liang teased.

“Maybe write something like ‘old ox pulls cart, old horse knows the road,’” Sun Wenqu mused. “When they go hiking, you coming?”

“If you go, I’ll go,” Ma Liang said. “I’ve got nothing to say to Bowen.”

“You make it sound like a love triangle,” Sun Wenqu clicked his tongue.

“You, you’re… such a useless waste,” Ma Liang shot him a look. “Not my type.”

“Get lost!” Sun Wenqu glanced at him. Only Ma Liang could say things like that without him getting mad.

Anyone else daring to poke that sore spot, he’d have slammed the inkstone in their face.

Fang Chi could cook, but probably wasn’t used to cooking this much. In just half an hour, from the living room Sun Wenqu heard him drop the spatula four times, and even break a bowl once.

“My spatula still alive?” he called out.

Fang Chi didn’t answer, just stuck a hand out holding the spatula and waved it toward the living room.

“Break it and I’ll dock your pay,” Sun Wenqu added.

No response, just the hiss of vegetables hitting the wok.

They ate three together. Fang Chi made four dishes and a soup: ribs, fish, minced pork with eggplant, greens, and cucumber-pidan soup.

The presentation was rough, dishes clumped, broth dripped down the rims, but it smelled decent.

“This is my level. Make do.” Fang Chi said.

“Drink?” Sun Wenqu pulled out a bottle of who-knows-what, poured toward Fang Chi’s glass, then stopped. “Oh right, you can’t, underage.”

Fang Chi just looked at him, silent.

Ma Liang took the bottle and poured Fang Chi a drink.

“What is this?” Fang Chi asked. The bottle was covered in fine foreign lettering, abstract patterns, unreadable.

“’82 Red Star Erguotou,” Sun Wenqu pointed at his glass. “Just lick it. Or want me to dip chopsticks in it for you?”

“E, enough,” Ma Liang gave him a look. “You two never get tired, do you? Al, always playing.”

“How old are you anyway,” Sun Wenqu sat across from Fang Chi. “Legal yet?”

“I…” Fang Chi began, but Sun Wenqu cut him off.

“Say ‘14 years old, eighth grade,’ and I’ll beat you.” He pointed.

“I’m legal,” Fang Chi sighed softly.

“Senior year, right?” Sun Wenqu grinned. “Still has to go to night study.”

“Mm.” Fang Chi answered.

“You’re such a drama king. I want to interview you, what gives you such dedication?” Sun Wenqu picked up a rib. “Mm, these ribs are good. Ugly outside, tasty heart… Fang Ying, what’s she to you?”

“My cousin.” Fang Chi bent to eat some greens.

“How come I never knew she had a cousin like you?” Sun Wenqu thought aloud.

“You two were together before I even started school, and we weren’t in the same place,” Fang Chi looked at him. “Did you two date or not?”

“Date or not?” Sun Wenqu turned to Ma Liang.

“H*ll,” Ma Liang was chewing ribs, mumbling, “Do I say yes or no? That scam-for-money thing, did it happen or not?”

“It happened,” Sun Wenqu said.

“Then yes,” Ma Liang nodded. “First stirrings of love, a-all green and naïve.”

“So that means…” Fang Chi looked up at Sun Wenqu. “You…”

“Never abandoned her, no,” Sun Wenqu cut in quickly. “She transferred schools, she broke it off. I wasn’t all that upset, honestly.”

“Oh.” Fang Chi lowered his head, embarrassed.

“Come, a toast,” Ma Liang raised his glass. “To… nephew’s coo… cooking.”

“To my son’s first-ever indenture contract,” Sun Wenqu raised his glass too.

Fang Chi was speechless, lifted his glass silently.

“Not gonna say anything? Toast to what?” Sun Wenqu narrowed his eyes.

“To neither of you.” Fang Chi said.

“Drink.” Ma Liang laughed and drank. “You could toast to your twis-twisty…”

Fang Chi frowned at him.

“…ups and downs! of life,” Ma Liang finished.

“Ha.” Fang Chi almost laughed.

With Ma Liang around, Sun Wenqu acted far more normal, no sarcasm, no teasing.

Fang Chi found it strangely moving, and scarfed down his food in a few quick bites.

“Teenagers are different,” Sun Wenqu observed. “Like feeding pigs, no effort required.”

“You seriously never got beaten up for that mouth?” Fang Chi asked.

“Oh I have,” Sun Wenqu said, grabbing more food. “By you.”

Ma Liang couldn’t hold back and laughed for a long time: “He’s hit midlife… before, he wasn’t, wasn’t like this.”

After the meal, Fang Chi cleared the dishes to wash. Sun Wenqu and Ma Liang chatted in the living room. Even though Ma Liang still stammered, his tone was different from during dinner, serious, weighty. Fang Chi couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded like some solemn recitation.

Sun Wenqu didn’t say a word, as if Ma Liang were just reciting to himself, lonely, only with a stammer.

That service contract included laundry, cooking, tidying. After washing the dishes, Fang Chi tossed the clothes piled by Sun Wenqu’s washing machine in and started a load.

“I’m off, gotta head to school. Skipped yesterday, got chewed out plenty.” Fang Chi walked into the living room. Sun Wenqu had set out a tea set and was steeping tea.

“Have a sip? Might keep you from getting sleepy tonight,” Sun Wenqu said.

“No. I’ll get insomnia.” Fang Chi grabbed his bag.

“Walking again?” Sun Wenqu looked at him. “All your trickery and schemes and you never got yourself a ride? Even a bike?”

“I’ve got one,” Fang Chi put on his headphones, opened the door, and left. “I just like walking.”

He did own a bike, bought years ago, barely used. Truth was, he preferred walking.

Walking made him feel grounded, counted as exercise, and sometimes brought back memories of trailing after his grandfather, scrambling all over the mountains.

Childhood memories really leave deep marks.

Xu Zhou was always saying so, his own childhood was games, which was why he couldn’t tear himself away from them now.

Fang Chi thought there was some truth in that. He still dreamt often of endless green fields, sometimes even thought he could smell earth.

“Hal-lo!” A song ended in his earphones, and suddenly a voice came through.

Fang Chi jumped, frozen a moment, unsure whether it came from the earphones or someone shouting nearby.

As he looked around, the voice came again: “The songs you listen to are so dull. Next time I’ll load you some that have punch!”

This time Fang Chi recognized it, Sun Wenqu’s voice.

“What the h*ll?” He yanked out his MP3 player. Sure enough, it was a recording!

Probably when he’d set it on the table while cooking, Sun Wenqu had grabbed it to mess around…

He pulled off his earphones, deleted the recording, and checked carefully that there weren’t any others, didn’t want to be spooked halfway through a song again.

How many years since this guy’s brain last developed? Not just 360 degrees, even if you spun him 3600, you’d never guess he was nearly thirty.

***

Sun Wenqu decided to get back into his old fitness routine.

He woke up in good spirits, spent most of the morning finishing another painting for Fang Chi, rested a bit, then headed out.

The gym by the neighborhood he used to frequent had changed owners. Renovated, looking like some club. He hadn’t even sat down before several personal trainers swarmed him.

He picked one relatively easier on the eyes, and the others backed off. Still gave him the feeling of picking companions at a nightclub.

The trainer’s surname was Yang. “Easier on the eyes” only in comparison, on his own, he wasn’t all that pleasant-looking, but his build was streamlined, not one of those inverted-triangle types.

“Let me introduce the programs. Are you looking to bulk up, or…” Coach Yang opened his folder.

“No intros, I get dizzy listening.” Sun Wenqu waved him off. “Just give me a membership card. Two hours a day. Goal’s no fat, no ribs sticking out. Beyond that, you handle it.”

“Got it!” Coach Yang grinned. “I’ll tally it up, give you a price.”

“Mm.” Sun Wenqu stood, wandering the equipment area. All new, fully stocked.

He’d never worked out for the sake of fitness, just to kill time, and back then, having a good body earned him extra glances. Now, nothing had flavor. Only killing time still worked.

“Brother Sun?” Someone called behind him. “It’s Brother Sun, right? Sun Wenqu?”

He turned. A shirtless, sweaty man, hair spiked in blue. Recognizing the hair, he said, “Little Ji.”

“What a coincidence! Brother Sun, you come here to work out too?” Little Ji swung a dumbbell and came over.

“I live here.” Sun Wenqu stepped back a little.

“Right, you’re in the next complex…” Little Ji smiled. “Your hair’s gotten long, huh? Why didn’t you call me to fix it up?”

“Long? Just been a few days. If you can tell already, I must’ve been eating growth supplements.” Sun Wenqu glanced at the mirror.

“You could trim it, or dye it. Too black, looks heavy. Or highlights, more fashionable.” Little Ji eyed him through the mirror, dumbbell in hand.

Sun Wenqu looked at the blue patch on his head: “No.”

“Hey, don’t look at me, I just wanted ‘design emphasis,’” Little Ji touched his own hair. “For you, I wouldn’t do this.”

“I’ll call you if I want anything.” Sun Wenqu said.

After a few more words with Little Ji, Coach Yang came over with the pricing. Sun Wenqu barely looked, just paid.

“Start today?” Coach Yang asked.

“Sure, I’m here already.”

“Then let me explain the daily plan, ” Coach Yang began, pulling out a printed sheet.

“No need. Just tell me what to do.”

For some reason, Sun Wenqu especially hated people explaining things to him. Whether Little Ji lecturing on hairstyles or Coach Yang on workouts, any explanation irritated him and he couldn’t listen.

Two hours later, drenched in sweat, he felt good. Showering at home, he collapsed on the sofa, too tired to move to bed and slept there.

Exercise sleep was always solid, dreamless, didn’t even know how long he’d been out, until someone shook him awake.

He shot up, shocked, someone was pushing him inside his own house.

“It’s me.” Fang Chi stood there, sweaty, looking at him.

“Wait, didn’t I lock the windows?” Sun Wenqu checked. Still closed. “How’d you get in?”

Fang Chi sighed, raised his hand. In it, Sun Wenqu’s key. “It was stuck in the door. Can’t believe you’ve never been robbed.”

“Nope.” Sun Wenqu took the key, tossed it on the table. “Just make noodles or something. I overdid it this afternoon, no appetite.”

“Overdid it should make you starving,” Fang Chi set down his earphones, pulled out his MP3, eyed him. “Don’t record on this again. Yesterday scared the cr*p out of me.”

Sun Wenqu laughed: “What a scaredy-cat. Your music’s dull. I’ve got better stuff on my computer, pick something.”

Fang Chi thought of Gravity that day, and those English songs in his car. Shook his head: “I don’t understand your stuff. I’ll stick with dull.”

“I’m elevating your taste,” Sun Wenqu clicked his tongue. “No ambition.”

“You’re ambitious enough,” Fang Chi muttered, heading into the kitchen. “Want cold noodles instead…”

“Say that again.” Sun Wenqu’s voice suddenly chilled.

Fang Chi froze, turned, Sun Wenqu’s face was dark, unreadable. Fang Chi was lost, no idea what button he’d pushed. “What?”

Sun Wenqu stared at him, then waved him off with a frown. “Nothing. Cook.”

Fang Chi threw together a sauce, made a bowl of mixed noodles, brought it out.

“I can’t eat this much.” Sun Wenqu looked at the bowl. “You make it for your appetite, huh?”

“No.” Fang Chi grabbed a small bowl, split off some. “For me it’s two bowls. You said no appetite, so I cut half.”

Sun Wenqu took a bite. “Hey, your noodles are eight hundred leagues better than your dishes.”

“I eat noodles all the time. Hundreds of bowls a year, practice.” Fang Chi quickly polished off his share.

“Eat this much and still not fat.” Sun Wenqu studied him. “Because of walking all the time? Or always running for your life?”

“Not always running.” Fang Chi said. “When I’m not training, I run.”

“Training? Training what?” Sun Wenqu raised a brow.