Wedding Banquet
The wedding banquet was on the second Saturday of October — eighteen months after the small registration ceremony.
The banquet was at — a larger restaurant in the central district. One hundred and forty guests. Lin's parents, who had traveled from their village. His sister Wanwan, who was — twenty and a half now, in her second year of university in Shanghai. Su Wanyin's parents. Aunts, uncles, cousins from both sides. Lao Wei. Sun. Director Liang. Director Wang from the provincial capital. A few of Lin's cohort from university. A few of Su Wanyin's library colleagues.
Wen Qiao came — with her husband, the urban planning professor. They had been married a year and a half. They were — expecting their first child in three months.
Hu Wenyi came — by special invitation. Lin had — visited him twice in the past six months. The visits had been — substantively useful.
Mayor Cao did not come — at his own discretion. He had — sent a small handwritten note expressing congratulations. The note was — appropriate. A Mayor attending a Deputy Director's wedding banquet would have — been — too much.
#
Old Su gave the long toast he had promised eighteen months earlier.
He spoke for — almost ten minutes.
He talked about — his daughter. About — her quiet careful childhood. About — the years of her young womanhood when he had wondered whether anyone in this city would be — adequate to her. About — the moment, eighteen months earlier, when she had told him she was — going to register her marriage that autumn, and he had — known, on hearing it, that the wait had been worth it.
He talked about — Lin. About — Lin's quiet careful work. About — the texture of Lin's character, which Old Su had observed over two and a half years and had concluded was — solid. About — Lin's specific choice, on the night of the registration eighteen months earlier, to tell Su Wanyin about something Old Su had asked him to keep private. About — how that choice had — confirmed, for Old Su, that the marriage was — built on the right foundation.
He did not — name the something. The specific reference was — between the three of them.
He concluded by saying: *To Lin Zhaoxu, my son. To Su Wanyin, my daughter. To the marriage they have built. May they walk slowly. May they walk safely. May they walk far.*
The phrase — *may they walk slowly, may they walk safely, may they walk far* — was — Lao Wei's phrase, from the small registration ceremony eighteen months earlier. Old Su had — adopted it.
Lao Wei, at his table, — almost smiled.
#
Wanwan gave a toast as well.
She was — twenty and a half. Confident. Slightly different from the eighteen-year-old who had been the maid of honor at the registration. Her hair was — longer. Her face was — more settled.
She said: "I am — Lin Zhaoxu's younger sister, Wanwan. I have known my brother for twenty years and three months. I have — observed him carefully for most of that time.
"I want to — say one thing.
"My brother is — a different person now from the boy I knew when he left for university in Beijing. He is — a different person from the young man who came to Qingyuan three years ago. He has — over the past three years — become — someone our family did not — predict.
"What our family did not predict is — not — the career, though the career is — also surprising. What we did not predict is — the marriage. We did not predict that — my brother, who was always — slightly distant from people, including from us — would become — a man capable of being — close to a particular person.
"That capability was — the work of — Su Wanyin. She — over the past three years — has — taught my brother how to be — close. The teaching was — slow. It was — patient. It was — what only — a particular kind of person could have done.
"I want to — thank Su Wanyin. For — making my brother — a person we now — recognize as — fully a member of our family in the way only married people are.
"To my brother and his wife — may you — walk slowly, walk safely, walk far."
She sat down.
Su Wanyin — for one full second — did the thing where her eyes did something close to crying without crying.
Lin — held his sister's gaze across the room.
He thought: *Wanwan has — also moved. While I was building. She has — built things I did not see, and now she — has the public confidence to give a wedding toast that — describes me more accurately than I have described myself in three years.*
He raised his glass to her.
She raised hers back.
#
Late in the evening, after most of the guests had — left, and Lin and Su Wanyin were — sitting at a quiet table with their parents and Lao Wei and Lao Wei's wife (whom Lin had only met three times in three years; she was — small and quiet and very observant), Lao Wei said:
"Lin. There is — one thing I will tell you tonight that I have not told you before. My wife knows. My wife has been — telling me to tell you for months."
"Yes, Lao Wei."
"I am — retiring next year. In June."
Lin had — known this was coming. Lao Wei had said two years ago that he had nine years to retirement; the actual date had been — moving forward in conversations.
He said: "Yes."
"I want — when I retire — to spend — my retirement years writing. I have — accumulated — a great deal of material across thirty-eight years. The material is — partly memoir, partly — institutional history, partly — instructional for younger cadres. I want to — produce something from it before I die.
"I will — continue to — be available to you, after retirement, on an informal basis. The frequency of our meetings will — likely decrease. Once a month, perhaps. Not the weekly canal walks.
"I am telling you tonight because — your trajectory is — moving fast enough that — by the time I retire — you will be — at a level where my mentorship is — less useful than it was when you started. You will — by next June — be working at problems I cannot — fully advise you on, because the problems will involve — networks and texture I have not personally engaged with.
"You will — be on your own, in a way you have not been since August three years ago. The on-your-own-ness is — the next phase of the work."
Lin said: "Yes, Lao Wei."
"Walk safely."
Lao Wei's wife — for the first time that evening — spoke. She said:
"My husband has — over thirty-eight years — mentored seven young cadres. You are — the seventh. You are — the most successful of the seven. He is — proud of you. He will not say it. But — I am saying it for him."
Lin's eyes — for one fraction of a second — did the thing.
He said: "Auntie. Thank you."
She nodded.
She said: "Walk safely, child."
#
Late that night, in their apartment, Su Wanyin said:
"Lao Wei is — retiring."
"Yes."
"He gave you — the last public confirmation tonight."
"Yes."
"You will be — alone."
"Not — alone. But — without him as the regular daily mentor."
"That will — be hard."
"Yes."
She — held him.
She said: "You will — manage. You have — built the small things. They will — catch you."
"Yes, Wanyin."
"Sleep."
He slept.
#
Later that week, on the canal bridge, Lao Wei said:
"There is — one final thing I want to tell you about the retirement."
"Yes."
"My replacement — for the seventh-cadre relationship — does not exist. I will not — mentor anyone after you. You are — the last. I have — decided this. My wife agrees.
"Going forward — when I retire — the work I would have done with a new young cadre will instead be — your work. You will, in three or four years, begin to mentor someone yourself. Not — formally. The way I mentored you. Through small canal walks and folder-on-the-desk and noodle shops. The same way.
"The someone — when you find them — will be — your seventh. Not literally seventh. But — the position my mentees occupy in my life. You will — recognize them when you meet them. You will — extend what I extended to you.
"This is — not an instruction. It is — a — completion of the thing you and I have been doing. The thing only completes when — you do it for someone else."
Lin said: "Yes, Lao Wei."
"Walk safely."
#
That night, Lin wrote in his notebook:
*Lao Wei retires in June. He named the completion. I will, in three or four years, begin to find my seventh. The work continues across generations. This is — what the apprenticeship was — preparing me for.*
He went to bed.
He slept.
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