Volume One, Chapter Twenty-Four: Land of Tenderness

That day, Amei told him the Water Splashing Festival had arrived, her eyes sparkling as she decided to break the rules and head into town for a day of fun. They had already arranged to use the pager to send a coded message to the messenger, so he could hurry back to the mountains in time.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t truly breaking any rules; the one rule they lived by was to have none. After all, faced with ever-changing circumstances and inscrutable but certainly ruthless enemies, sticking to conventions could be a fatal weakness.

The flying squirrel was as happy as if it were the New Year.

This was the unexpected delight that came with waiting; he picked Amei up and spun her around. She slipped free, pulled a chunk of beef jerky from her pack—seasoned with poppy seeds and salt and roasted over a fire—and handed it to him. After days of chicken, the flying squirrel was overjoyed. Amei then filled a jug of wine from the barrel.

By then, he had already spent four years in Mang City. In previous years, he’d missed the Water Splashing Festival, so he’d never been particularly interested.

This time, he finally caught it. Curiosity and anticipation made him vaguely recall a story from his primary school textbook—a tale of Premier Zhou visiting Xishuangbanna and celebrating the festival with local minorities. In his distant memory, it was a bold, radiant, magical festival he had longed for.

He checked his watch. Tomorrow would be April sixteenth. Last year on that date, he was in Mang City, but there was no celebration. Puzzled, he realized their festivals followed the Thai calendar, the Buddhist calendar of Southeast Asia.

Despite recurring nightmares, the flying squirrel felt he’d slept well.

He stepped to the doorway. Amei drew a basin of water from the well for him to wash his face, then went inside the wooden hut. Before he finished, she brought out a steaming bowl of rice noodles.

The broth was made from lamb, with slices of meat, spicy millet peppers, and fragrant scallions floating on top.

He ate heartily, watching Amei, enjoying the tropical rainforest’s gentlest season, the wind and sun. Amid years of wandering and days fraught with peril, today felt warmest, stirring a torrent of emotions. He even felt, in his reckless joy, that dying now would be worthwhile.

They rode their previously purchased, unlicensed second-hand “Great White Shark” women’s motorcycle, stopping at the traffic island on the city’s edge. A traffic warden wearing a red armband waved a flag, directing them to stop. Beside them, a tractor pulled up.

Smiling, he looked ahead. Suddenly, splashes of colorful water struck him and Amei. Instinctively, he reached for his waist, only to remember he hadn’t brought a gun.

Laughter from the tractor was louder than its engine. He saw, silhouetted against the light, several people tossing water balloons at them, their laughter full of good-natured fun.

He and Amei, drenched like dogs just hauled from a river, shook off the droplets under the sun, laughing joyfully.

They wove through the streets, amid the laughter of the Dai and Jingpo people. The whole city had become a battlefield of splashing water. Shopkeepers greeted passersby not with smiles for customers, but by drenching them with water, bestowing blessings. Security guards at government offices stood at attention by the gate, wielding thick bamboo tubes, shooting jets of water at every staff member, their enthusiasm a stark contrast to their usual timidity.

Passing a small military camp, they were suddenly met with shouts. A group of robust young soldiers, clad in white vests and army pants, pant legs rolled up, armed with large colorful toy water guns, plunged into the splashing war.

They rushed toward the flying squirrel, but every water gun was aimed at Amei. In the chaos, Amei fell from the motorcycle, scraped her knee, crouched on the ground and began to cry, then looked up at the flying squirrel, frightened and helpless, sobbing.

The soldiers stopped abruptly, stunned and at a loss. The flying squirrel hopped off the bike, knelt to comfort Amei, and winked at the embarrassed young men, who quietly retreated.

He locked up the motorcycle and bought a large woven sack of water balloons, equipping himself and Amei each with an army green water gun slung around their necks. Carrying the sack, he strode toward the roadside shops, joining the “water war.”

A man who lived by the gun was no better at water fights than anyone else, but that afternoon, the flying squirrel forgot his identity, his worries, his fears. The two of them squawked like ducks, laughing and running for two hours until they were soaked through. They found a small bench in a drinks shop on a side street, ordered icy lime water, gulped it down, and kept their “guns” ready for surprise attacks from passersby.

While Amei played happily, he went to a convenience store for cigarettes, handed ten yuan to the owner, who was watching TV with a baby on her back, and made a call to the pager station, using their coded phrase to ask why the messenger had not appeared.

Soon, a page arrived from the “employee” in the Beijing office.

The important figure he had waited for over a month—the messenger—would not be coming.

A month ago, on the very day he began waiting, the messenger was killed.

Had he not made contact today, no one would have remembered to notify him. He would have continued waiting. He couldn’t blame the glamorous young “employee” in the bright Beijing office; after all, only direct superiors knew the tasks of field agents. The girl merely recorded and relayed messages. She had never met the flying squirrel, nor could she log this information in her work journal.

His mood dropped colder than the water splashed on him. A wave of abandonment swept over him as he gazed blankly at the riotous, laughing crowds. Fate was so fickle; life, so absurd.

The sunset dyed the forests gold as they returned to their little wooden hut, embracing. The old mosquito net fluttered in the breeze, the dim light swaying gently, illuminating Amei’s flushed face.

Amei shed her soaked clothes, wiping herself with a rough, old towel.

Whenever she sweated, the flying squirrel could smell a unique fragrance on her skin, like the scent of spring grass.

Whenever she lay in his arms, he felt as though he were lying on a green meadow.

He was obsessed with Amei’s young body—petite yet full and well-proportioned. He adored her silky, satin-like skin.

On the bed, Amei had none of the mysterious shyness of Han girls her age; the vitality, boldness, and passion of a tropical minority girl left him forever enchanted.

Outside, frogs croaked and insects chirped. The stream murmured, its sounds mingling with the wind from the forest, soft as music. Under the deep blue sky, stars glittered. Time seemed to return to the dawn of creation, leaving only the two of them in the world.

The flying squirrel knew how to satisfy a woman’s body, though his skills in bed weren’t quite on par with the “water snake” squad—who had all received professional training. Yet he had no desire to use those tricks on Amei; such techniques were reserved for wicked women.

He knew that in the films their instructor showed, both men and women had taken drugs. At least, young Amei and he didn’t need that. With Amei, his sincerity was enough.

Unlike any other woman he’d ever been with, Amei followed the guidance of her body’s primal desires. Selfish, immature fools cared only for their own release; quality intimacy sprang from mutual pleasure. He loved seeing Amei climax again and again, which elevated his own peak to the extreme.

The flying squirrel felt he had fallen in love with Amei. At least for now, she was the only person he could love.

But love, to him, was such a luxury. He shook his head: not luxury, but an extreme danger.

Years of panic and displacement had made him forget what love was. Far away, his wife was raising their young son, with no knowledge of his assignments.

He had believed he would never love again. Even with Amei, the rare awakening of love could only be fleeting. His involuntary work made him wary of emotions; his ever-growing skill at reading people left human nature transparent, with no mystery.

Deception was his primary way of life. Even if he didn’t lie outright, his identity constantly shifted, both inside and out, immersing him in whatever role his work required.

He was truly self-effacing; by psychological standards, he possessed at least five or six distinct personalities. These utterly different, unhealthy personas rose and fell as needed, never interacting.

The real him seemed long gone.

Until today, when that last flicker of feeling flashed back to life.

Holding this petite, beautiful, young body, the flying squirrel knew she liked the real him. This thought made him feel a little inferior, a little self-pitying, mournful for the self about to disappear forever. Rather than trying so hard to please the girl’s body, it was more that the person who had become the flying squirrel was reluctant to let go of his own past.

On that star-lit midnight, the flying squirrel released the sleeping girl, stepped outside, bit open the cap of the rice wine, and drank alone. The years he had lived came flooding back in fragments, making him feel he'd lived several lifetimes.

And the name, buried deep in the highest-security archives and in his own mind—Chang Ke.