Chapter 83: The Banquet at Hongmen

No matter what schemes the Japanese might be plotting in secret, life had to go on as usual. Zhou Sen resumed his routine: working by day at “Sen’s” on Haicheng Street, heading to the Fragrant Pavilion at noon, and lingering there throughout the afternoon. He taught Ah Xiang how to cook, made pastries, teased the young girl, and flirted with Bai Yulan to deepen their bond, exchanging playful banter that danced on the edge of propriety. It was like walking a tightrope—dangerous, exhilarating.

His life followed three set points: work, the Fragrant Pavilion, and home, not returning until after dinner. Jin Suying no longer came to bother him, and life was unusually pleasant.

But the peaceful days lasted only a couple of days. That morning, just after Zhou Sen arrived at “Sen’s,” Jin Suying appeared.

“Wu En, make a cup of tea for Secretary Jin,” Zhou Sen instructed. Wu En was now considered his direct subordinate, and tasks like hosting guests and serving people generally fell to him.

“Right away.”

“No need. I’m only here to pass on a message,” Jin Suying said, waving Wu En away and turning to Zhou Sen.

“Please, Secretary Jin, I’m all ears.” Zhou Sen grinned. Since Jin Suying had been tactful the past few days, there was no need for him to keep a cold face.

“Tonight, Mr. Akiyama is hosting a banquet at Musashino. He requests your presence—be sure to arrive on time,” Jin Suying stated.

“Mr. Akiyama wants to dine with me at Musashino? Did I hear that right?” Zhou Sen was surprised. Since when did he rate an invite from Akiyama, and at “Musashino” no less, the city’s top Japanese restaurant?

To be honest, Japanese cuisine held little appeal for him. He didn’t consider it a delicacy—just rustic dishes unfit for a formal table. As for sashimi and the like, eating raw flesh was the habit of beasts. As a civilized Chinese, he had nothing but disdain for it. Even their so-called sake was as bland as water, utterly flavorless—he much preferred Russian vodka.

So the meal itself was of no interest, but Akiyama’s sudden invitation could only mean one thing: an ulterior motive.

Could he refuse? Obviously not.

“That’s right, you heard correctly. Seven-thirty tonight, second floor at Musashino. Give Mr. Akiyama’s name at the door and you’ll be shown up.” Jin Suying added, “Remember to speak Japanese—don’t embarrass yourself by not making it past the front door.”

“No worries,” Zhou Sen nodded. Musashino only served Japanese clientele. Without an escort, anyone speaking Chinese would be stopped at the door.

...

After lunch at the Fragrant Pavilion, Zhou Sen sprawled on the sofa in Bai Yulan’s little attic sitting room, mulling over tonight’s meal. It was certain to be a “Feast at Hongmen”—a trap. He had no idea what Akiyama was scheming, and therefore couldn’t prepare a specific response.

“Ah…” He sighed.

“What’s wrong? Why the long face?” Bai Yulan walked over, sitting down diagonally across from him.

“I have a dinner engagement tonight. I don’t want to go, but I can’t refuse.” Zhou Sen explained with a sheepish smile.

“An old rival?”

“No.”

“A woman, then?” Bai Yulan guessed.

“If it were a woman, would I be so troubled?” He retorted, but immediately felt a murderous glare sweep over him and quickly added, “Of course, if it were a woman, I wouldn’t go either.”

“When is your tea and pastry shop opening?” Bai Yulan decided to change the subject.

“After the Lantern Festival, I suppose. I might not have time to supervise the renovations, so I’ll have to trouble you to keep an eye on things.”

“So, I’m opening your shop and working for you too?” Bai Yulan was annoyed.

“You’re the proprietress—how is it work when it’s your own business?” Zhou Sen countered, successfully silencing her.

“We’re only business partners for now. Don’t get any ideas.”

“I’m not thinking anything. Old Qin and Su Wenqing probably already know about us anyway…” Zhou Sen replied nonchalantly.

“Everyone says I seduced you, but really, I just fell into your trap,” Bai Yulan huffed, embarrassed.

“It’s all the same. You had to be willing to jump in,” Zhou Sen grinned, triumphant.

“Tell me, isn’t it a waste for the Fragrant Pavilion, such a large place, to only run a teahouse, a restaurant, and a pastry shop?” Bai Yulan asked.

“What are you plotting? Don’t reach too high, I’m warning you. The environment is only going to get harsher. We need to survive these next few years first,” Zhou Sen said.

“That’s not what you said before!” Bai Yulan exclaimed.

“I had a dream last night—the fox spirit came to warn me…” Zhou Sen dared not reveal he knew the future, so he made up an excuse.

“You and your nonsense.” Bai Yulan rolled her eyes at him, unsure whether to believe anything he said. But his actions didn’t seem false.

“The Japanese are tightening their grip on Manchuria, squeezing us harder than ever. The market will inevitably stagnate, especially with control over daily necessities. People have no money; naturally, they can’t spend. Let’s focus on survival,” Zhou Sen said with eyes closed.

“Then why did you have me plan that commercial complex?” Bai Yulan demanded.

“That’s for the future. We have to have some ideals, don’t we, Yulan?”

“You just want to have it both ways. With that mouth of yours, you’re wasted if you don’t perform comic dialogues in our teahouse,” Bai Yulan retorted.

“Fine. When I’m done being a policeman, I’ll perform cross-talk in our teahouse. I guarantee we’ll be packed every night,” Zhou Sen laughed.

“Keep dreaming!”

“Brother Sen, have a frozen pear,” Ah Xiang entered with a fruit plate, offering it to Zhou Sen first.

“Ah, Ah Xiang, you’re the best. You actually care about your brother.”

Bai Yulan could only hold her forehead in exasperation. These two really were enough to drive her mad—obviously colluding to tease her.

“Sister Lan, I’ve made red date cake. Try some—it was made under Brother Sen’s guidance,” Ah Xiang said, coming to Bai Yulan.

“Give it to your Brother Sen. It’s too sweet for me,” Bai Yulan replied with some annoyance.

“Ah Xiang, why do I smell something sour in the air…” Zhou Sen chuckled.

“Eat your frozen pear,” Bai Yulan said, stretching out her long leg and giving Zhou Sen a playful kick on the shin with her delicate foot.

“Ow! Yulan, go easy!” Zhou Sen howled in mock agony, imitating a woman’s voice so well that Ah Xiang covered her mouth, struggling not to laugh out loud.

My goodness, he thought, I actually do a pretty good impression of a woman’s shriek. What new skill have I unlocked now? Zhou Sen shuddered.

...

Night fell, and the city lights began to glow.

Outside Musashino, the top Japanese restaurant in Ice City, black cars pulled up one after another. Doormen hurried to open doors. The passengers were mostly prominent Japanese residents and military officers—impeccably dressed, self-important.

Zhou Sen stepped down from his carriage, clad in a black wool overcoat, and told Wu En to wait in a sheltered spot.

He straightened his clothes before striding toward Musashino’s entrance. His face was unfamiliar, and he was tall—not quite Japanese-looking—so the doormen stopped him.

Musashino only served Japanese patrons, for security reasons. Its clientele were the city’s elite Japanese expatriates and high officials. Any incident there would be a major scandal, and even the powerful owner behind the place might not withstand the fallout.

But as long as one spoke Japanese, entry was generally granted.

Zhou Sen’s predecessor had a knack for languages, and he’d learned Japanese at the police academy. By graduation, his Japanese was so flawless that even the instructors couldn’t tell he wasn’t a native. Zhou Sen could even switch between various regional accents, fooling locals.

So, as long as they didn’t check his papers, he could get into Musashino with ease, relying on his fluent Japanese.

Though the doormen remained skeptical, Zhou Sen’s Kyoto-accented Japanese was impeccable. Besides, his attire was no ordinary fare; as seasoned hosts, the doormen could recognize a man of means.

There were many distinguished guests in Ice City, and the doormen couldn’t possibly know them all.

The first floor of Musashino, for walk-in guests, was semi-open, with partitions draped in curtains depicting traditional Japanese stories. There were plenty of patrons: ordinary Japanese families, low-ranking officers, and even a Japanese policeman in a puppet-state uniform—judging by the insignia, at least a sergeant.

Traditional Japanese music played, and there were geisha performances as well—not that Zhou Sen appreciated any of it.

A kimono-clad waitress approached, bowing deeply. “Sir, how may I help you?”

“I have a reservation with Mr. Akiyama.”

“So, you’re a guest of Mr. Akiyama. Please, follow me.” The woman became even more respectful, leading the way.

Upstairs, by a private room, Zhou Sen removed his coat and shoes, handing them to the attendant, who bowed and slid open the door for him.

Upon entering, he was surprised to find not Akiyama, but someone entirely unexpected: Saburo Shibuya, Deputy Commissioner of the Ice City Police Department.

Startled, he then spotted Akiyama seated to Shibuya’s left; the right seat remained empty.

Zhou Sen quickly bowed. “Director Shibuya, good evening.”

“Zhou Sen, you’re quite punctual. Come, have a seat.” Shibuya gestured to the seat opposite Akiyama.

“Thank you, Director Shibuya.” Zhou Sen bowed low, walking over “in awe and trepidation,” kneeling, then straightening to bow to Akiyama. “Good evening, Mr. Akiyama.”

Akiyama inclined his head slightly. “No need for such formality, Zhou Sen.”

“Very well, all our guests have arrived. Let’s raise a glass in honor of old Mr. Anthony,” said Shibuya, lifting his cup.

Akiyama naturally echoed the toast, and Zhou Sen, of course, could not refuse.

They each filled their cups.

“Zhou Sen, are you satisfied with your current arrangement?” Shibuya asked.

Zhou Sen’s heart skipped a beat. What kind of question was this? He bowed his head. “Reporting to Director Shibuya, I am very satisfied.”

“I hear from Akiyama that you seem reluctant to work in the Special Higher Section?” Shibuya smiled slightly.

Zhou Sen glanced at Akiyama across the table, but could read nothing from his expression. He quickly replied, “I’ve always been rather lazy. The Special Higher Section’s work is highly disciplined and confidential. I’m just not used to it yet.”

“You’re quite the diplomat,” Shibuya replied. “How about transferring you to the Foreign Affairs Division? With your linguistic talent and eloquence, you’d be a perfect fit.”

“Actually, I’m not very interested in police work. If my adoptive father hadn’t forced me to attend the academy…” Zhou Sen knew this might offend Shibuya, but he also realized this could be a rare opportunity—one he couldn’t let slip by.