The Oriental Pearl Tower, the Huangpu River—these were the places Brian Brooks most wanted to visit before coming to Shanghai. But after a month of working himself to the bone and scrimping on every expense, when he finally got his first paycheck—seven big bills—he put five of them together with the 2,500 yuan he already had and deposited it all in the bank. The remaining two bills he handed over to a fellow villager as rent. With empty hands, Brian Brooks figured he could wait another month before going to see the tower and the river.

After another month of hard work, he received eight big bills, one of which was secretly slipped to him by the boss’s wife, who, seeing how well Brian Brooks took care of her son, took pity on him. But after getting a haircut, buying some daily necessities, and purchasing some cheap fruit for a kindly neighbor, Brian Brooks was once again left with nothing. He had to tell himself that he’d go see the tower and the river next month.

In fact, Brian Brooks didn’t know that many migrant workers and fortune-seekers in this city never got the chance to see that tower or that river from beginning to end.

As it turned out, for the next half year, Brian Brooks remained busy within that small circle, and like a fly, he gradually forgot about it. After all, he’d calculated that just the round-trip bus fare from the urban-rural fringe to the Huangpu River would cost 17 yuan—far too extravagant.

At the end of winter, as the weather gradually warmed, Brian Brooks spent his first winter without seeing heavy snow. Finally, having more or less adapted to the city’s rhythm, he found time to play chess with his neighbor, an old man surnamed Sun. Maybe because his math had always been just so-so, Mr. Sun said Brian Brooks had a knack for the game. But in any case, Brian Brooks had never beaten the old man. Today, Brian Brooks finally caught a glimpse of victory, only to be checkmated by the old man’s calm, patient play. Seeing Brian Brooks’s frustrated expression, the silver-haired old man’s weathered, stern face broke into a smile—a smile like the setting sun, never dazzling. He said softly, “Ergou, you’d better hurry up. We agreed that the day you beat me, you’ll find yourself a wife. If you don’t put in more effort, it’s going to be tough.”

Brian Brooks set up the chess pieces and smiled. “No rush, there’s always another chance.”

The old man sat in his wicker chair, gently rocking, squinting his eyes. “You can take your time, but I’m afraid this old geezer might not last. If one day I can’t catch my breath, your wife might just slip away.”

Brian Brooks had no reply. He actually wanted to know how the old man viewed death, the greatest matter in life, but he felt that no matter what, there probably weren’t many people as open-minded as Mr. Sun. The old residents on this street said that Mr. Sun had once been quite impressive, though no one could say exactly how impressive. But whenever the old man was in the mood to talk, he’d always speak of things far removed from this street and this little world.

It was mealtime now. There were no other chess enthusiasts watching, just a little brat holding a rice bowl, chubby-faced and focused on shoveling food into his mouth. Then he quietly watched Brian Brooks set up the chessboard, battle fiercely, and, as usual, lose. Brian Brooks couldn’t be bothered with the little rascal. The kid was the apple of the restaurant owner’s eye, named Mark Lee. Who knows how the barely literate owner managed to pick such an uncommon character from the Xinhua Dictionary. The boy was only in third grade, but despite his age, he acted with the swagger of a general. All day long, he caused trouble for Brian Brooks—flirting with pretty girls at school, brawling with older bullies collecting protection money on the street—leaving Brian Brooks to clean up after him. After half a year, the two of them couldn’t stand each other, but the brat did pick up Brian Brooks’s bad habit of running around the streets with a rice bowl.

After finishing his meal, the little brat shot a sidelong glance at Brian Brooks, muttering disdainfully, “This mutt couldn’t get a wife if he tried.”

Before Brian Brooks could explode, the kid had already jumped up and run off, not forgetting to turn around and wiggle his butt at Brian Brooks.

At the end of the street, a young girl was waiting for Mark Lee. She had delicate features—not quite stunning, but tall and graceful. Any man with a discerning eye could tell that once she matured, her figure would be quite something. She might not be campus beauty material, but she was more than enough to outshine the gaudily dressed salon girls on the roadside. Her name was Emily Lee, and she was Mark Lee’s biological sister. It was hard to imagine such a lovely girl was the product of a skinny father and a plump mother. People on these streets joked that she must be a rich family’s lost daughter. Every time she heard this, the boss’s wife would sway her astonishing hips and pat her chest, saying, “I was this pretty when I was young.”

Brian Brooks liked Emily Lee. He, the toad, never denied it. Emily Lee was quiet and gentle, caring and considerate. Though her grades were average—not as outstanding as some of the girls Brian Brooks had known in high school—he felt girls didn’t need to be too smart. If a woman was much smarter than a man, both would end up exhausted. At least, Brian Brooks would never go after a clever woman. But even if he did, those gifted girls probably wouldn’t notice a little toad like him.

This old man, whose routines and mannerisms were almost rigid, seemed to be less stingy with his smiles in front of this young farmer from the northeast. He smiled and said, “That girl’s nice, but she’s not right for you.”