84. Double the Blessing?

A shower of chopped scallions went in at the end, along with a couple of drops of sesame oil, and Li An carried the two steaming bowls of egg noodles to the dining table.

“Wash your hands.”

After placing down the eighty-thousand-dollar bundle, Chen Xuan washed her hands and came to the table. Looking at the golden fried egg and the bright green scallions in the bowl, and smelling the faint fragrance of sesame oil mingled with the broth, her appetite stirred at once.

“Thanks for the trouble.”

With that, she picked up her chopsticks and began to eat.

“Eat as much as you can. It’s almost twelve.”

Li An himself did not like these plain, watery noodles, and he had almost eaten himself sick of them.

So he had assumed Chen Xuan would leave some behind, thinking to give her a graceful exit.

Who would have thought that in the end she even drank the soup clean.

“Is it good?”

Li An could not help asking at last, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Chen Xuan wiped her mouth. “Not as good as it looks.”

Li An had not expected such a direct answer. He wondered why he had even asked, then forced out a thin smile. “Yet you finished it all.”

Chen Xuan said, “Because I was hungry.”

Li An laughed and shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone so straightforward. If you hadn’t been hungry, would you have left some?”

Chen Xuan smiled. “Then you’ll have to wait until I’m not hungry and make me another bowl before I can tell you.”

Well.

Glancing at the time, Chen Xuan stood up. “It’s going to be tomorrow.”

Happy moments were always a little short.

...

After seeing Chen Xuan off, Li An tidied the table in a cursory way and returned to his computer.

Once again he opened the flute quartet score for Kiki’s Delivery Service and began turning the pages, while in the back of his mind he unconsciously started to work out harmonic progressions.

Of the two plans he had given Chen Xuan earlier, they both understood that the first was the better one.

Though Chen Xuan had her own stubbornness, he had his own ideas too.

Just then his phone vibrated twice beside him.

Leaves: It was too late today. Next time I’ll help you wash the dishes. Also, aside from my family, you’re the first person to cook noodles for me.

Leaves: I’m going to sleep. Good night.

Eighty Thousand and One: Good night.

Putting down his phone, Li An could not quite name what he felt.

He liked her more, perhaps.

Yes, more and more.

The more he came into contact with her, the more clearly he could feel the sincerity and vitality in Chen Xuan’s character.

She would not sweet-talk you and tell you the noodles were delicious, but she would boldly tell you what that bowl of noodles meant to her.

Li An did not know whether there were many girls like her.

But he knew one thing: every one he met was one fewer left in the world.

Once his ideas were more or less settled, Li An took out paper and pen and began writing in a rustle of strokes.

Time slipped by in a flash, and before long the edge of the sky had begun to pale with the first hint of dawn.

At 9:47 in the morning, Li An walked into the office yawning.

He was late.

He had only meant to sleep a little less, but who knew he had blurredly set the alarm for 7:30 in the evening.

If the heat had not woken him, he might have slept until noon.

He had nearly missed the morning’s important business.

“It’s just that the alarm didn’t go off.”

Putting an end to everyone’s curiosity, Li An called Liu Fengrui’s father and Wang Xiaohu’s mother separately.

He needed to confirm the performance ideas with the two children.

The afternoon before, both parents had taken the initiative to contact him and confirm that their children were willing to take part in the event.

In particular, Wang Xiaohu’s mother had left a very good impression on Li An during their first call.

He supposed that with her taking over Wang Xiaohu in the future, there might be some changes yet.

...

At 2:00 in the afternoon, all three groups held their concert-program planning meeting at the same time.

After a full afternoon of discussion and deliberation, three draft programs were placed on Qin Yong’s desk before the end of the school day.

Early the next morning, Qin Yong took the programs and discussed them further with the three group leaders in the office.

The format of a student-teacher concert was much the same everywhere: either a student solo or a student-teacher duet.

Homogenization of the program was unavoidable; if they wanted anything to stand out, they would have to enrich the content and variety of the performances.

To achieve this, every four programs needed at least one eye-catching segment, which would also effectively prevent the audience from growing bored after listening for a while.

Faced with three lists that all included student participation, Qin Yong suggested that some performances be inserted that were entirely by the teachers.

“Any stage form is fine. On the one hand, it adds polish to the program; on the other, it can also serve as a showcase for our teaching staff.”

This point had also been discussed by all three groups at yesterday’s meeting, but there were so many teachers that it was impossible to put everyone on stage.

Who would go up and who would not—such questions were always awkward in a collective discussion.

So in the end, the proposal was passed over.

Qin Yong understood. “Then I’ll choose the people. The group leaders can put in a good word when the time comes.”

The three nodded.

The final issue concerned the closing pieces for the three concerts.

The closing piece, also known as the grand finale, was crucial to a performance.

A good finale could even lift the average quality of the entire program; the reverse was equally true.

Because they had not yet seen the actual rehearsal results, everyone could only tentatively select a few pieces as candidates.

After some discussion, Tian Yu’s piano octet with his students, My Motherland, became the almost undisputed reserve finale for the piano group.

For the string group, Deng Yingnan himself would join Jia Lu and twelve students in a guzheng collective piece, Butterfly Lovers.

The wind group had relatively more candidates for the finale.

In the end, Xu Nana’s clarinet quartet and Chen Xuan’s flute octet were selected as possibilities.

“After the rehearsal in ten days, we’ll make the final decision.”

With the three groups’ programs finalized, all the teachers became busy that afternoon.

...

That afternoon, Qin Yong intended to talk with Chen Xuan about her program arrangement.

When he went to the office, he did not find her there. Wang Panpan told him Chen Xuan was in her classroom.

So he went to Chen Xuan’s classroom.

As it happened, when he knocked on the door, Li An was there too.

Seeing that Qin Yong was looking for Chen Xuan, Li An prepared to leave.

“Don’t go, don’t go,” Qin Yong called him back. “I was going to look for you in a moment anyway.”

The three sat down.

Qin Yong explained why he had come, and the two looked at each other.

After the morning meeting, the teachers downstairs had already heard about the several potential finale pieces, and the two of them had in fact been discussing that very issue.

After some back-and-forth, once Qin Yong understood Chen Xuan’s design idea, he offered his own suggestion. “I think you can enrich the arrangement a bit more.”

“Like this, Teacher Chen—revise it again today, and we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

Seeing that the plan they had labored over for a day and a half was to be changed again, Chen Xuan felt weary, but there was nothing she could do. After all, she could tell Qin Yong meant for her piece to serve as the wind group’s finale.

It was a good thing, but how was she supposed to change it?

“All right, Principal Qin.” Chen Xuan could only nod and agree for now.

After speaking on Chen Xuan’s matter, Qin Yong turned to the two of them. “I want the two of you to put together a duet.”

Both of them froze at once.

Qin Yong’s idea was simple: in the teachers’ performance segment, they had to show the highest level of the Yudong faculty.

What kind of sparks two outstanding young people might create together was something he looked forward to.

And, he thought, something the audience below the stage would look forward to as well.

“Well then, do either of you have any problems with that?”

“No.”

They answered at the same time.

Qin Yong smiled. It seemed their默契 was already there.

“Good. There’s no restriction on the repertoire; just keep it within seven minutes. Work out two pieces tonight and send them to me.”