The paper lanterns at the mouth of the alley came on.
I changed into a white deep-U-neck top with wide cuffs, a subtle printed pattern visible in the light.
The 丄-shaped chest strap held a small black folding fan. A deep purple hakama skirt slit at the side.
Fishnet stockings in ink-black just covering the knees, reaching ten centimeters above the knees.
Black wooden clogs with stiletto heels—each step short and crisp.
My ink-black single-tone long hair tied up in a high ponytail. A silver collarbone chain, a black wristband. The clavicle grooves and cleavage exposed.
Dianzi fell in behind me. A light pink deep-U-neck top. The H-shaped chest strap held a small pink sachet.
A light purple hakama skirt slit at the side. Peach-pink patchwork thigh-high stockings pulled smooth above the knees, reaching ten centimeters above the knees.
White wooden clogs. Her pinkish-purple gradient long hair was coiled into a bun, a pearl hair comb tucked in.
A pink ribbon wrist corsage, a pink crystal anklet. The clavicle grooves and cleavage exposed.
She reached out and gently hooked her finger on the thin straps at my back, checking that nothing was crooked.
The restaurant was tucked deep in the alley. Only a single paper lantern hung over the entrance. We pushed open the wooden door.
The cypress countertop gleamed with a honey-like luster under the warm light. The outline of the overhead lamp was reflected on its surface.
Eight counter seats were arranged in a single row. Behind them was an entire wall of white—no decoration at all.
The chef stood behind the counter. His sashimi knife flashed once under the light. The tip of the blade rested against the cypress cutting board.
Zhao Dayong sat at the far left, the sleeves of his deep blue shirt rolled to his elbows. His fingers curled over his knees. His knuckles brushed against the seam of his trousers, then released.
His eyes swept across the row of wooden plaques without prices. His Adam's apple moved.
"I've had conveyor-belt sushi. The kind with plates going around on the belt—you just grab them. I've never been to a place like this."
"Then we'll start from the first piece." I rested my elbows on the cypress countertop. The countertop was cool, carrying the scent of the wood itself.
The chef pushed forward the first piece. Ootoro. The surface of the fish was scored with fine crosshatch cuts, the distance between the knife lines less than two millimeters. The sushi rice still carried body warmth. A very shallow indentation was pressed into its surface.
Zhao Dayong picked it up with his chopsticks. The rice deformed slightly at the tips. He quickly cupped his left hand underneath and brought it to his mouth.
The moment he bit down, his eyes widened.
"This melts the second it enters your mouth. Not from chewing—it melts on its own. The fish spreads apart on your tongue. Every piece carries warmth."
I pushed a glass of sake toward him. The glass was chilled. A layer of white frost clung to its walls.
He picked it up and took a sip. His Adam's apple dipped once. The glass paused in midair.
"I've never had wine this smooth in my life. Like water, but not water. It leaves no taste in the throat. But it's still in the mouth."
The chef pushed forward the second piece. Flounder. The flesh was sliced so thin it was nearly translucent. The surface was brushed with an extremely thin layer of yuzu vinegar.
Zhao Dayong put it in his mouth and narrowed his eyes.
"This one is crisp. Doesn't feel like fish. More like some kind of fruit. There's a sound when you chew it."
He started asking the chef questions on his own—what fish this was, whether that white one was squid. The chef answered each one. He remembered each one.
With every question, his fingers loosened a little more on his knees.
The third piece was horse mackerel. When he picked it up, he didn't cup his left hand beneath it. The rice went into his mouth steady.
While Zhao Dayong was looking down at his sushi, Dianzi's finger brushed lightly against the edge of the table. An extremely fine pinch of powder landed on the surface of the next piece.
Under the light, the powder was completely invisible. Zhao Dayong picked up that piece of sushi and put it in his mouth. He chewed twice.
He picked up his sake glass and took a sip. He took another sip. His brow furrowed slightly. He looked down at the glass in his hand.
"No taste. Just a moment ago there was the fragrance of rice. Now nothing at all. Like drinking plain water."
Dianzi tilted her head at him. The curve slowly rose at the corner of her mouth. Her finger traced lightly across the surface of the cypress countertop, the tip stopping on the wood grain.
"Oh dear, how come there's no taste anymore? Was the tamago just now too sweet and it spoiled your tongue? See, this wine had flavor all along. You just didn't taste it before. We'll taste it for you. Whatever flavor we say it is, that's the flavor."
Zhao Dayong was silent for several seconds. He set his glass down on the countertop. The bottom of the glass touched the cypress with an extremely soft sound. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Then this glass of water. What do you say it is?"
"Sake. The best kind." I pushed my own glass toward him. The glass slid across the countertop, leaving behind a thin trail of water. "Take another sip."
He picked up my glass and took a sip. His Adam's apple dipped once. He swallowed. "Still water."
"Then it's correct. The difference isn't what your tongue tells you. It's what we tell you. Whatever we tell you it is, that's what it is."
He looked down at the two glasses. Both had condensation on their walls. There was no visible difference.
He picked up his own glass first and looked at it. Then he picked up mine and looked at it. Then he placed the two glasses side by side.
——Taste isn't decided by the tongue. It's decided by trust. Once you trust it, water becomes wine.
The chef pushed forward the final dish. Tamago. The surface was fried to a uniform golden brown. From the side, you could see layers upon layers of egg sheets, almost no gap between them.
Zhao Dayong picked it up, bit off a piece, and chewed very slowly. Then he set down his chopsticks and looked at the empty cypress countertop. His hands slid down from the edge of the counter and folded together on his knees.
"I don't want to leave anymore. Wherever you go, I'll go."
"Then don't leave." I pulled a black card from the Lingguang Armlet. Under the warm light, the card didn't reflect. The silver edge dimmed for a beat.
The chef took the card and inserted it into the terminal. The terminal screen lit up once and dimmed. He returned the card to me with both hands. The angle of his bow was slightly deeper than when we'd come in.
The three of us stood up. Zhao Dayong's chair shifted back a little. The chair leg scraped a short sound against the floor.
He stopped walking, bent over, and pushed the chair half an inch toward the counter before straightening up.
The chef saw us to the door. His hands were folded over his apron as he bowed. A small speck of grated ginger clung to the fabric.
The river wind poured in through the mouth of the alley, wrapped around the distant horn of a ferry.
Zhao Dayong walked beside me. His hands no longer rested on his knees. They hung naturally at his sides. His steps were slower than when he'd arrived. Each step pressed down without hesitation.
The paper lantern at the mouth of the alley swayed gently in the wind. The ink on its surface was lit a dark gold by the light.
"Where to next."
"The pier. There's a café. You'll help out. Not working exactly—more like experiencing."
He thought it over, then nodded. On the river, another ferry slowly passed through the bridge arch. The horn sounded once. The tail of the note scattered in the wind.
The ferry's portholes glowed with warm yellow lights—row by row, pulling into blurry ribbons of light on the water's surface.
Zhao Dayong stood at the mouth of the alley, watching the ferry slide completely out of the bridge arch. Then he turned and looked at me.
After he nodded, he stayed where he was. He didn't rush to leave.