CHAPTER 220: CHAPTER 57: THE TELEPHONE BOOTH AND THE WOODEN GUITAR (PART 2)

In a land both strange and familiar, the young souls separated by vast oceans had their first soulful encounter in a phone booth under the Arc de Triomphe.

Ziceng’s breathing was still steady, but the sound of her heartbeat betrayed her, "Hmm." Su Ziceng replied, hanging up the phone, feeling utterly stuffed within.

Pello hung up the phone, yet felt an emptiness inside.

After stepping out of the phone booth, Su Ziceng took a deep breath and strode forward towards the streets bustling anew amidst fallen leaves. Whatever it took, she needed to find a place to stay.

Available park benches were aplenty. In Paris City, especially around the Champs Elysees, well-manicured velvet lawns and sparkling water fountains, if not for the concern of having no food to eat nor bed to sleep on, Su Ziceng would have been enchanted by the splendid Parisian street view.

Unknowingly, the last gleam in the sky was also devoured by the night.

Due to the night, pigeons that had once perched in the plaza were gone, the figures of vagrants began to move around, with scraps of leftover bread tossed onto the benches.

Su Ziceng kept looking back every three steps, if she were a man, perhaps sleeping on the street wouldn’t be so bad. Resting on the dew at night, gazing at the twinkling stars, admiring the charm of French women.

"The moon represents my heart..." The soft sound of a guitar wafted through the square. Su Ziceng turned back, seeing a young woman in the center of the square, cradling a wooden guitar, with no electronic music accompaniment, wearing her raven-black shoulder-length hair in big waves, a cotton shirt, and straight pencil pants.

"A street artist," Su Ziceng approached, drawn by the familiar tones of her homeland, stopping to listen.

Passersby came and went, with very few tossing coins into the young woman’s hat.

The wooden guitar’s timbre was monotonous, thus it didn’t resonate as it should with the emotion-rich French. However, the woman with Eastern facial features simply plucked the strings; her eyes shone like black gemstones in the night, reveling in the attention of each passerby.

This was a woman living in self-indulgence. Her voice wasn’t particularly distinctive, but she was unforgettable, with the tall and slender figure of a Northern European woman, a sharp chin, without giving off an unhealthy and malnourished look.

She had strong hands, strumming forcefully, with a voice deep and expressive with inflections.

As time passed, one song after another changed, and the crowd of onlookers grew. Several passersby opened their wallets, throwing in coins.

Su Ziceng looked at her own purse. She’d been standing the longest, yet in her wallet, there was only one hundred francs. Despite holding a designer bag and wearing designer clothes, she couldn’t produce a single cent.

Some people already started to cast dissatisfied glances towards Su Ziceng. In France, street artists are respected, and anyone could tell that these two young women, with the same yellow skin and black hair, came from the same country.

Su Ziceng clenched her teeth, opened her wallet, and dropped the hundred francs into the hat. As she bent down, the performing woman saw her dark bag, empty.

After listening to a few more songs, Su Ziceng turned and walked away.

"The generous miss," the performing woman called out to her. It was nearly ten o’clock, and some painters and stall vendors around had already dispersed.

Su Ziceng wasn’t the most generous among all; after her own generous act, several affluent Asian customers left whole notes.

The performer lit a cigarette, a slim mentholated women’s cigarette, with its fragrance wafting in the air. She picked up the hundred francs, handed it back to Su Ziceng, "Even though you weren’t the most generous, it’s still the first time I’ve seen someone generous enough to give away all they had."

Su Ziceng’s flat pocket was awkwardly open, breathing the free air of Paris.

In Paris, you encounter all kinds of people: young people yearning for romance, seniors living comfortably, and dignified tourists. The woman had been singing in the square for two years, and every day, she saw countless indifferent, insincere faces; only today, she saw a true one.

While Su Ziceng was in the square, the performing woman watched her actions closely. Su Ziceng looked back at her, a young woman with an Eastern charm, very eye-catching. Facing this woman, Su Ziceng felt a sense of déjà vu.

"You have nowhere to stay tonight, right? Come with me," the performer stuffed the note back into Su Ziceng’s bag and gathered all the coins and notes from the hat. She didn’t count them but dumped all the money into her guitar case.

As the wooden guitar clashed with the coins, it made a strange "crunch" sound. Once packed, she slung the guitar behind her back, the notes mingling with the guitar like a garbage bag over her shoulder.

Despite the invitation from a stranger, and although it was a woman, Su Ziceng hesitated. "Thank you, but I think I’ll stay here."

An open square is always better than a stranger’s cottage. Su Ziceng watched the performing woman warily. She looked only a bit older than herself, a single woman, staying in a big city like Paris - didn’t she have any peculiar issues? Su Zicen wondered and eventually declined the stranger’s offer.

"Don’t underestimate the indecency beneath Paris’s splendid facades. In Paris, there’s the broad Champs Elysees as well as hundreds of alleys like spider webs. Staying here, the chances of a blow to the head or a slit throat are the same," the artist saw her indecisiveness, and after exhaling a puff of smoke, she said something that immediately made Su Ziceng decide to follow her. (To be continued. If you like this work, please come to Qidian (qidian.com) to cast your recommendation tickets and monthly tickets. Your support is my greatest motivation.)