Bo Yanshu · Conversa

Bo Yanshu arrived fifteen minutes before the agreed time. He sat in the innermost seat of the booth, back against the wall, facing the entrance—the only corner in the entire bar where every person coming and going could be clearly seen. Four glasses already stood on the table. The one in front of him was whiskey, neat, no ice. The other three were, respectively, the Old Fashioned Shen Du habitually drank, Gu Heng's soda water, and Cheng Yanqiu's dry martini—each set precisely in its corresponding spot, like a chessboard arranged in advance. He glanced down at his watch; the hands on the platinum Patek Philippe dial were silent and precise. 10:33. Shen Du was six minutes late. He gave the diamond ring on his left index finger a small turn—no urging, no message, not even a glance up at the entrance. He simply sat there, at ease yet composed, like a coordinate already fixed in place, waiting for the others to align themselves to it. The door swung open. Cheng Yanqiu came in first, glanced at the glasses on the table, and let out a laugh: "You even know what I drink?" Bo Yanshu looked up at him and said nothing. He simply lifted his own glass, glanced at the surface of the liquor under the light, then set it down. That was a signal—sit down first, then talk. Gu Heng arrived next, suit jacket already off and draped over his arm; it was clear he had slipped away early from some social engagement. He sat down on Bo Yanshu's left and glanced at the soda water in front of him. Condensation had already beaded on the glass, proof that it had been poured a good while ago, but he said no thanks—only one sentence: "Right on the mark." Shen Du entered last, ambling over at his own pace. Before settling onto the sofa, he reached out, picked up the glass on the table, and brought it to his nose for a sniff, then let out a satisfied sigh: "You still remember I don't drink bourbon." Bo Yanshu didn't respond. He waited until all three were seated and had raised their own glasses; only then did he lift his own, holding it toward them for a moment, rim angled their way—not a clink of glasses, but a silent acknowledgment. Then he spoke, his voice neither loud nor low: "Since everyone's here, let's hear it." He still hadn't said anything, yet the three men's conversation had already fallen, of its own accord, onto the track he had laid out for it.