Chapter Thirty-One: An Encounter of Passion or a Trap

Because he couldn’t be bothered to find a parking spot, Cheng Xiaoyu pulled into a random KFC drive-thru, bought a combo meal with a pair of spicy wings, and left under the envious gaze of the staff. He parked the car casually by the roadside and started on his burger. He’d only had a few bites when his phone buzzed with a new message. Fishing his Great Wall flip phone out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen—a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello, Cheng Xiaoyu. I watched your performance yesterday and was truly amazed. May I get to know you?”

Cheng Xiaoyu scrolled through his missed calls from the previous day; it wasn’t Ji Yunyun’s number. He saved Ji Yunyun’s contact for good measure, then thought for a moment—he hadn’t given his number to anyone else. So he replied, “Hello, who is this? I don’t recall giving you my number.”

The response came almost instantly, the typing speed impressive. “If you want to know who I am, just meet me and you’ll find out!”

With over forty years of experience, Cheng Xiaoyu knew uninvited contacts rarely heralded anything good. He replied at once, “I’m busy. If you won’t say who you are, I won’t reply to your messages.”

“I’m Tang Wenqian, the one who danced ‘Dunhuang’ at Gezhi Academy yesterday. If you don’t believe me, I can send you a photo.”

“No need. How did you get my number?”

“I asked around. Are you sure you don’t want to see my photo? I’m quite pretty, you know.”

Just then, his phone prompted him to accept or reject a file. Cheng Xiaoyu tapped ‘decline’ and replied, “I’m not interested in women. Please don’t bother me anymore.”

“Ah, not interested in women? Do you like men, then?”

“Relations with the opposite sex are merely for the propagation of the species; true love exists only between those of the same sex. Do you understand? Please don’t judge me by conventional standards. If you can’t accept it, at least keep me in your thoughts.”

“Haha, you’re really funny. I’m starting to like you even more.” Another file soon followed.

Cheng Xiaoyu declined the photo again and replied, “Your beauty would only make me jealous. Why send me your photo? I have no interest in playing such games with strangers. Goodbye.”

There was a pause before the next message arrived. “Why would you share something so private with me? Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell others?”

Cheng Xiaoyu finished his burger, wiped his hands clean, and replied, “This has weighed on my heart for a long time. I feel like I can’t hold it in any longer. You have no idea how exhausting it is pretending to be straight among all those men every day. I’ve always wanted a girl to confide in, a sister to share my sorrows. You’re the first girl to reach out to me; I believe you’re a good person.”

“Alright, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. So, are we friends now?”

“Of course! We can be the best of sisters.” After sending that, the other side fell silent. Cheng Xiaoyu slipped his phone back into his pocket, tossed his unfinished KFC into a nearby bin, wiped his mouth, and started the car toward Jinling East Road.

On the other end, it was none other than Xu Qinning. She’d hesitated so long to reply because the thought of Cheng Xiaoyu, with his image, wanting to be her “sister” was too much to take in. She remembered how he’d touched her the day before and shuddered, tossing her phone under the bed.

Earlier that morning, Xu Qinning had called Su Yuxi, asking her to invite Cheng Xiaoyu out, but Su Yuxi refused. After much cajoling, Xu Qinning finally got Cheng Xiaoyu’s number from her, planning to use her best friend’s photo to lure him out for a bit of fun. She hadn’t expected the conversation to take this turn. Still skeptical, she decided to message him again later that night, hoping to get more out of him.

Cheng Xiaoyu, unaware of anyone plotting against him, simply believed that anyone who sought him out was either a trap or a disaster—either way, both could be fatal. If it really was a beautiful woman, he could always claim he wasn’t gay when they met. It just went to show: wisdom comes with age.

Arriving at Jinling East Road, Cheng Xiaoyu found a parking spot and called Wang Ou, who said she’d be there soon. They agreed to meet at the entrance of the Haiyin School of Arts. Getting out of the car, Cheng Xiaoyu noticed the chill, tightened his sports jacket, pulled the hood over his head, and walked toward the school. From a distance, he saw Wang Ou, bundled up like a bear, waving at him.

As soon as Wang Ou saw him, she gave him a big bear hug. “Chubby, you were amazing yesterday! I had no idea you guys were so good—especially Xia Shamo. That high note blew me away. I already knew she was pretty, but not that she was this pretty. Looks like our school’s beauty rankings are about to be shaken up again.” She finished with the air of someone concerned for the greater good.

Cheng Xiaoyu, not one to dwell on the past, asked as they walked, “Did you get any good photos yesterday?”

That brought a spark to Wang Ou’s eyes. “Haven’t had time to sort them yet. Ran out of storage—I could’ve taken a lot more material otherwise.” She sounded genuinely regretful.

“What size card do you use?” Cheng Xiaoyu asked.

“A 10-gig,” Wang Ou sighed. “Next time I’ll bring spares.”

Cheng Xiaoyu slapped her shoulder. “I’ll buy you ten more today. Just make sure you send me the best shots.”

Wang Ou clasped her hands in mock solemnity. “I won’t let you down, benefactor.”

Cheng Xiaoyu then asked, “By the way, did you give my number to anyone?”

Wang Ou shook her head. “No. Who’d want your number? Was it a guy or a girl?”

“A girl, and she insisted on sending me her photo.”

“Then she must be blind,” Wang Ou said indignantly.

“Damn it, Wang Dazhuang, I was going to treat you to dinner, but not anymore.”

“Brother Yu, can you please stop using food as a threat? That’s no way to cherish our friendship.”

“Then I’ll have to charge you for guitar lessons.”

“I can pay in kind. You can do whatever you want with me.” Wang Ou nudged Cheng Xiaoyu with her shoulder, batting her eyes.

Cheng Xiaoyu could only surrender.

They wandered through several instrument shops. There weren’t many selling guitars—most dealt in orchestral instruments, pianos, violins, and traditional instruments. Perhaps in this world, few people learned guitar; even Wang Ou seemed a bit hesitant.

But with a single sentence, Cheng Xiaoyu dispelled her doubts: guitars are a surefire way to impress girls. Instantly, Wang Ou’s enthusiasm soared, and she dragged Cheng Xiaoyu to keep searching.

Finally, at a somewhat out-of-the-way Xinghai Music Shop, they found a display of guitars. Inside, several people were browsing, most looking at pianos and violins; no one paid any attention to the guitars. Cheng Xiaoyu browsed among the guitars, unattended, with Wang Ou trailing behind, clueless but curious.

Cheng Xiaoyu figured Wang Ou had no musical foundation and wasn’t looking to make it her career, so starting with a folk guitar would be best. Most novices can’t tell the difference between a classical and a folk guitar, but the distinction is dramatic. In brief: classical guitars have a gourd-shaped body, nylon strings, a wide, shorter neck (19 frets), and a gentle, warm tone, but low volume. Folk guitars often have a cutaway, steel strings, a slimmer, longer neck (22 frets), a crisp, bright, modern sound, and much greater volume. Their uses are distinct: classical guitars are for solo performance, folk guitars for accompaniment.

After much deliberation, Cheng Xiaoyu chose a rosewood folk guitar, meticulously checking if it was solid wood, whether the lacquer was even, and if there were any dents or scratches. The grain looked good, so he decided to ask the price. Twice he called out for help—no one answered. Everyone was crowded around the piano section, so he went over.

Two families who knew each other had come to buy a piano for their children but couldn’t decide on a brand or whether to get an upright or a grand. After all, a piano isn’t a small purchase; spending tens of thousands for a child’s toy is a bit extravagant. The boss was out, the knowledgeable salesperson was on vacation, leaving only the boss’s daughter and a new hire—two petite girls—struggling to answer the families’ barrage of questions.

Cheng Xiaoyu tapped one of the girls, petite and neat in a black uniform, and asked, “How much is this guitar?”

She glanced at the guitar in his hands. “Isn’t there a price tag?”

He shook his head.

“I’m new here, so you’ll have to wait for the boss to return,” she replied. Seeing the two families about to leave, and her commission slipping away, she hurried over to persuade them to stay: “The boss will be back any moment, please wait a bit longer.”

Just then, another girl in a white down jacket, flared jeans, and sneakers, with her hair in a ponytail, came rushing out, phone in hand. Cheng Xiaoyu heard her complain sweetly, “Dad, how long does it take to buy cigarettes? The customers are about to leave!” He twisted his waist to protect the guitar, letting this delicate beauty slip past. Buying a guitar these days was truly a challenge; if it wasn’t so cold, they’d probably have left already.

The two families, reassured by the girls’ promises of the biggest discounts, finally agreed to wait. The store was spacious but not well-heated, so everyone huddled around the electric heater by the cashier.

With nothing to do, Cheng Xiaoyu began tuning the folk guitar. With his exceptional hearing, he didn’t need a tuner or reference; he simply plucked and adjusted each string. Wang Ou, ever the curious child, peppered him with questions about what he was doing and why. Cheng Xiaoyu answered each one patiently. Once the guitar was in tune, and with the boss still absent, he asked Wang Ou to grab a chair.

Sitting down, Cheng Xiaoyu struck a pose. “Watch how a master plays.” With a sweep of the strings, a sound like a mountain stream striking smooth pebbles filled the air.

His left hand pressed the frets, right hand plucked the strings. Though this body was playing guitar for the first time, the craft etched into his soul flowed as naturally as eating or drinking. He played Jeong Seong-ha’s version of “One Day,” originally by Korean group bban, but hauntingly beautiful in its guitar solo adaptation.

In his past life, Cheng Xiaoyu had repeatedly studied Jeong Seong-ha’s performances to master its nuances. The opening required percussive slaps on the guitar body to mimic a snare drum—right palm, thumb on the sixth string, and a downward sweep with the middle finger. This percussive melody, one of Jeong’s trademarks, is easy to attempt but hard to master, especially the “Spiderman” hand position—middle and ring fingers curled, striking the melody notes precisely during the percussive hit.

The second advanced technique was the bass drum—less frequent but essential for rhythm, produced by striking above the sound hole with the heel of the hand immediately after plucking. This rhythmically coincides with the melody, and combining these two techniques is like having a built-in jazz drummer: the music gains a new level of rhythmic and melodic complexity.

Though this body couldn’t yet achieve his former technical peak, Cheng Xiaoyu played “One Day” flawlessly. The beautiful melody stunned Wang Ou and those around them. In China, guitar is still a niche instrument, and few can play it well; Cheng Xiaoyu’s skills soon drew a crowd.

Not only did he play with exquisite technique and rhythm, but his effortless strumming carried a grace that, had his looks been better, would have surely left the girls swooning. Even so, the ponytailed girl in the down jacket, a couple of children who seemed to be piano students, and most of the parents gathered around, their eyes alight with admiration. One little boy even declared he wanted to learn guitar instead of piano.

Focused on his performance, Cheng Xiaoyu hadn’t noticed the crowd until he looked up and stood, apologizing, “Sorry for disturbing you all.”

The ponytailed girl quickly said, “Not at all! I’ve never heard anyone play guitar this well. Are you a music student?”

Cheng Xiaoyu smiled. “Sort of. I just play guitar for fun—my main instrument is piano.”

She immediately pulled him aside, as if grasping a lifeline. “Then you must know how to choose a piano, right?”

He hesitated—he didn’t want to get involved—but seeing her gentle, lovely features, he relented. “I know a thing or two.” It wasn’t that he judged by looks, but had it been someone less attractive, he wouldn’t have been so eager to help. Admiring beauty is only human.

She beamed. “That’s fantastic! Could you help me deal with those two families choosing pianos? No matter what, you’ll get the highest discount on your purchases today.”

This girl was clearly clever, adept at leveraging her strengths and quickly building rapport without offending. Cheng Xiaoyu nodded.

She introduced him as a gifted piano student from Shanghai Theatre Academy, recommending him as the go-to expert for all their piano questions. The families, having heard his guitar performance, were impressed enough to trust him.

Cheng Xiaoyu wasn’t shy. Though not yet an official student at the academy, he was halfway there, and had been brushing up on his piano knowledge lately. He boldly stepped forward.

One young mother, holding the boy who wanted to switch to guitar, asked, “He insists on a grand piano, but his teacher says an upright is enough. Which do you think is better?”

Cheng Xiaoyu considered, “It depends on your budget and the space you have. If money’s tight, an upright is better.”

She replied, “He’s just starting out, so nothing too expensive—twenty to thirty thousand is fine. The living room is about fifty square meters, but there isn’t much space for a piano.”

“Then an upright is definitely more suitable,” Cheng Xiaoyu said.

Another parent interjected, “But what’s the difference between uprights and grands?”

“For practice, an upright is more appropriate,” Cheng Xiaoyu explained. “Grands are for concerts or if you want to splurge at home. The main differences: first, grands are more responsive for rapid passages—think pieces like ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’ Second, grands have clearly defined tone regions and balanced volume across the range, whereas uprights are bass-heavy, with lighter treble. Third, the soft pedal on grands changes timbre and volume but keeps the touch consistent; on uprights, pedal use affects the feel. Most importantly, consider your living room or studio size—a grand can be overwhelming in a small space, and too much resonance at high volume can damage hearing. In a small room, adjust the lid for softer sound and less echo. Grands also require more care; unless you’re set on a professional path, stick with an upright.” He demonstrated on the piano, his explanation clear and professional.

The mother persisted, “So grands are better, right?”

Cheng Xiaoyu shook his head. “Not really. Under a hundred thousand yuan, a good upright is better than a cheap grand. Off-brand grands aren’t as good as top-brand uprights.”

Impressed by his expertise, the parents had him help them choose two excellent domestic Pearl River pianos. He played “Flight of the Bumblebee,” dazzling the two six- or seven-year-olds, while the ponytailed girl looked at him with newfound admiration. For the first time, Cheng Xiaoyu felt the satisfaction of being a skilled pianist.

Once she’d closed the sales, Cheng Xiaoyu picked out a guitar for himself and another for Wang Ou. “How much for the two guitars?” he asked the ponytailed girl.

She glanced at them, made a quick call, and returned. “Just two hundred yuan for both. Consider it a thank you for your help.”

Cheng Xiaoyu scratched his head. “I can’t accept that.”

She smiled. “Without you, I would’ve lost two big sales. I should be the one thanking you.”

“These aren’t expensive guitars, and I didn’t do much—just spoke honestly. You’re being too generous,” he protested, preparing to pay. But Wang Ou had already counted out the two hundred yuan.

They packed the guitars in their bags, ready to leave.

The ponytailed girl handed over a business card. “Take this—our store and my father’s numbers. If you need anything, just call. I’m Fu Xiyue. I’m usually here on weekends; you two are always welcome.”

Cheng Xiaoyu stopped to accept the card. “I’m Cheng Xiaoyu, a senior at Fudan High School.”

She was surprised. “What a coincidence! I’m a freshman in Business Administration at Fudan University. Graduated from a Shanghai high school.”

Cheng Xiaoyu grinned. “Small world. I practice piano at Fudan’s music department every afternoon.”

Fu Xiyue smiled. “I have a friend in the music department. With your guitar skills, I bet your piano is also impressive.”

Cheng Xiaoyu, embarrassed that he hadn’t been practicing much lately, demurred, “Just average.”

“I’d love to learn guitar too. Could I have your number in case I have questions?” she asked, her eyes wide and bright.

Cheng Xiaoyu, unable to refuse a girl like that, agreed. He handed her his phone.

She saved her number, then walked them to the door.

After waving goodbye to Fu Xiyue, Wang Ou’s enthusiasm for guitar was unstoppable. Clutching her new instrument, she declared, “Master, my future happiness is in your hands!”

Cheng Xiaoyu chuckled slyly, “That depends on your performance.”

Wang Ou replied with heartfelt sincerity, “Tomorrow I’ll bring an external hard drive full of private collections as an offering to my teacher!”