Heifeng had no interest in joining the national automobile association; handshakes and speeches were someone else's pastime. He had too much on his plate. The third-generation Harmony X prototype was finally humming along, and if everything held through thermal tests, it could move into pilot production ahead of schedule.
State media had also come knocking, hoping to do a feature on the young founder who made both chips and cars. He agreed, not because he craved the spotlight, but because the company did. Audi's brand was still young, and the correct exposure smoothed countless future conversations.
Uncle Ye called as he was packing. Grandpa had been worrying again. Since the old house on Dongda Street was fully repaired, Grandpa and Grandma spent long afternoons watering potted pines in the courtyard and, in equal measure, fretting about their grandson.
They'd never once complained about his donations or the way he had arranged their care, but they did complain about his absence. Grandma, in particular, had taken to grumbling that he could build a car from a bolt and a dream yet still couldn't find time to sit for a bowl of noodles.
He smiled helplessly into the phone and promised he would come to Beijing. This time, he would not just pass through. He would stay a few days, eat Grandma's pickled cucumbers, and let Grandpa lecture him about boxing footwork again.
There was work in Beijing, too. The marketing team wanted him on the A8 launch tour. The A6 had opened the door to government fleets and big enterprises, but the A8 was a different kind of key.
In China, the A8 spoke for the person in the back seat. Ministers and chairpersons chose it because it was quiet, spacious, safe, and said just enough without bragging. If they could place the A8 into the right procurement catalogs and motorcades, Audi's perception would climb a whole flight of stairs overnight.
That meant meetings with the relevant offices, and, if possible, a polite conversation with Director Liu at the commission overseeing state-owned assets: no promises, no pressure, just the seed of a relationship.
He landed in Beijing with a small group from marketing and product. Public affairs kept calling to reshuffle appointments; the city's calendar changes with the wind. The team bus waited at the curb, its driver half asleep over the wheel. The moment the automatic doors of the terminal slid open, the concourse roared to life.
It took him a second to understand the noise wasn't for him. A river of fans flowed down the arrivals hall, phone screens glittering, banners lifting and falling like waves. Security had formed a loose lane with retractable belts, but even the belts trembled under the pressure of bodies.
"Who's in today?" someone from marketing asked, craning for a look.
"Chen Zhining," the driver said, suddenly very awake. "Top star right now. Any brand she posts sells out by noon."
An uncle in a scuffed jacket stood on tiptoe near the exit, gripping a hand-written sign. The letters were careful and a little crooked: "Chen Zhining, marry me, I can cook." Heifeng couldn't help smiling. A girl beside the uncle saw the bus full of strangers and decided they were rivals. "Don't block the lane," she said in a voice that tried to sound fierce and mostly sounded breathless.
Then the screaming rolled over them as a woman in a baseball cap and mask stepped out with her team. Even with the brim pulled low, even hidden behind fabric, she was unmistakable. She moved like a bright note carried by a chord, light and precise, camera flashes catching on the corner of her eye.
The bus eased away as the escort unit ferried her through the crowd. A few fans, too busy filming, wandered into the road, and the driver muttered under his breath and slalomed around them. In the back, someone pulled up an info page on their phone and handed it to Heifeng. Awards. Box office.
Variety show ratings that bent graphs into smiles. A quiet, candid photo of her holding a stray cat, hair in a messy tie, laughter caught at the edge of her teeth. He closed the page and returned the phone. He had never had patience for celebrity gossip, but good work was good work, no matter the industry.
"Boss, we could try to book her for the A8 event," the marketing lead said, half joking, half calculating.
"If she fits the story we want to tell," he answered. "The car is the main character. The person on stage should serve the car, not the other way around."
The bus pulled into the familiar hutong. Dongda Street was still narrow enough that two bicycles could argue about who had the right of way. They got out one block early so the driver wouldn't scrape his paint on the old stone corner. Grandpa's siheyuan lay behind a plain red gate with brass studs, indistinguishable from a dozen neighbors to anyone who hadn't grown up measuring childhood in the tilt of those studs.
He pushed the latch and stepped into the shade. The small pine in the courtyard had grown a little crooked toward the sun. Two bamboo chairs sat under the eaves, as they had for twenty years, changing only in the depth of their shine. From the kitchen came the clink of chopsticks and Grandma's measured coughing.
"Back already?" Grandpa's voice floated from the study. "Did the wind carry you or the plane?"
"Carried by Grandma's nagging," he said, and only had time to set his bag down before Grandpa emerged with a smile he disguised as a frown. A gentle kick tapped his calf, the same harmless move that had ended countless childhood spars. He let himself stumble an extra step to make the old man happy. They pretended for a few seconds that they were master and student again, then laughed at the same time and fell into a hug.
Grandma came out, wiping her hands on an apron. "So you still remember this door," she said, and then the words came faster, as they always did when she was relieved. "You're too thin. The news said you were in the South last week. How can the South make a person think? Did you sleep? Do you eat airline food? Why didn't you call when you landed?"
"I called Uncle," he said, guilty and content all at once. "I was afraid you would say don't work, just stay home, and then I would really stay home."
"I should say it," she replied. "But I won't, because your grandfather would shout at me afterward. Wash your hands. I made noodles. Then you can tell me what that A8 is and why it's better than the A6. And don't use those terms I don't understand."
He washed in the stone basin by the back door while Grandpa kept up a running commentary about the neighbors. The old gatekeeper had retired. The couple on the east side had a new baby who cried like a police whistle. Someone's idle nephew had learned to paint and now sold ink lotuses to tourists who spoke very kindly in bad Mandarin. The courtyard felt the same and completely different, which was to say it felt like home.
Over bowls steaming with scallions and sesame, talk drifted to the future. He told them the A8 roadshow would open soon and that he might meet a few officials. He promised to take Grandma to a quiet park where the peach trees were early this year. Grandpa asked, suddenly serious, whether he had slept at all in the last week. He promised again. It felt good to promise here, in a place where promises were not contracts but the thread of ordinary life.
When he pulled out his phone to silence the day's notifications, the screen lit up on the last thing he had glanced at in the bus: the quiet picture of a woman with a stray cat. He almost laughed at himself. He was not a person who fell for faces on screens.
He closed the app and put the phone face down. The city outside the wall roared and flashed, but beneath the roof tiles, the air was cool, and the seconds unspooled without being counted.
Night would bring schedules back to the table. There were talking points to refine for the state interview, a procurement memo to review, and a list of dignitaries who preferred their cars black, black, and black. He would need to nudge product on seat cushioning, because a minister's back does more for word-of-mouth than any billboard.
He would need to choose which meeting to decline without offending. He would need to decide whether the A8 should make its first entrance on a stage or glide up to a curb in silence, letting the door open to speak for it. All of that could wait until morning.
For now, he let Grandma refill his bowl. He let Grandpa pour him tea and argue that a man who drove a good car should still learn to walk faster. He listened to the cicadas beyond the wall. In the airport that afternoon, the crowd had surged and shouted for a star.
In this courtyard, the quiet pressed close, patient and solid as the old bricks. He did not need to choose between the two. He only needed to remember which one to carry with him when he stepped back outside.