Hyperventilation

Out of old habit built over many years, Tai Ming woke up at 5:29 — one minute before his alarm. He went through his morning routine mechanically and headed downstairs to open the flower shop. It opened at 7, so he still had time to check the back room. What interested him most was the lilac Reinhardt had brought the other day. The sprig stood calmly in a jar and even seemed to be trying to grow timid roots into the water, testing the environment for trustworthiness.

Tai Ming leaned in to examine the lilac branch with interest, took a photo, and briefly jotted something down in the notebook lying on the table.

“Ah… right…” He scratched his head, clasped his hands behind his back, left the storage room and shut the door.
After a moment’s hesitation, he reopened it, approached the lilac again, examined it once more, glanced toward the underground greenhouse — everything there had already withered — and decided:

“To hell with it, I’ll call.” He slammed the door and went upstairs.

Tai Ming couldn’t wrap his head around one thing — his underground greenhouse — “underground” in the sense that its entrance really was through the storage room, but in reality, it was built in the inner courtyard and got plenty of sunlight — was nearly dead. Yet this lilac — this sprout, with no light, no nutrients, and no water changes— kept stubbornly trying to live. How was that possible?

He looked sadly at the narrow passageway to the greenhouse, now blocked by cardboard boxes. Along the walls lay scattered bags of soil and peat, seed packets, canisters and jars of fertilizer—all of it looked now absurdly and pathetically useless.

Tai Ming had no answer to the main question — “Why is the lilac still alive?” — and when something puzzled him, he wasn’t the type to guess or wander around in circles. There was never enough time. He grabbed his phone and dialed Reinhardt — he brought it, let him explain.

***

Reinhardt, unusually, hadn’t had breakfast today. The stuffiness had woken him, and since he couldn’t sleep, he decided to tend to the garden — or what was left of it —before the heat set in. He was methodically watering a patch of tomatoes that maybe, just maybe, could still be saved when the phone rang.

 It was Tai Ming.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Reinhardt answered, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear while pulling off his gardening gloves.
“Today? Sure, I can. What time?” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I don’t know, how about twelve?”
“Works for me,” Tai Ming replied calmly.
Reinhardt could’ve sworn he sensed his usual calm smile even through the phone.

He finished watering, went back inside, washed up, changed clothes, came down, and wheeled his bicycle out of the shed.
“Time for a ride.”

Reinhardt had deliberately given himself a couple of hours before meeting Tai Ming for two reasons — first, he still hadn’t eaten breakfast. Second — his call had given him the idea to visit a certain place.

He got on his bike and rode toward the city center. There weren’t many cars, so he easily turned off toward Luisenpark to cut across. Like everything once blooming around them, the park looked pitiful. No more city dwellers relaxing in the shade of trees or sunbathing carefree, no more lively young groups throwing noisy picnics on the grass with drinks and snacks. There wasn’t even much grass left — just pathetic patches of yellowed blades here and there, dried tree trunks, and shriveled hedges…

Reinhardt pedaled steadily, gazing at it all with deep sadness.
After leaving the park, he headed toward the center, rode along Juri-Gagarin-Ring, turned off at Thomaseck onto Bahnhofstrasse, narrowly avoiding a tram, and soon parked his bike in the station square.

“21 minutes—not bad,” he thought and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Locking his bike to a railing, he glanced around—on his right was the main train station, on the left a hotel with the plaque “Willy Brand ans Fenster.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Reinhardt muttered to himself. “Old man would turn in his grave if he knew we now need a new air policy instead of a new eastern one.”

“References for the locals — you wouldn’t get it,” he added with a fatherly smile to the kids on skateboards and bikes zipping across the square, then headed toward a modest café on the station street — right next to the tram tracks.

He hadn’t come here by accident — this little café was run by Tai Ming’s wife, Tai Yun — a charmingly fussy woman, petite but with an iron grip.
Although today, she wasn’t here — Reinhardt noted as he walked in and took a seat.
No sooner had he settled in than a tall girl in a waitress uniform approached — black slacks, white shirt, thick black hair tied back, a round face. Reinhardt thought he’d seen her before — yes, it was Tai Zhao, their daughter. He’d seen her from afar a couple of times, but never spoken to her.
However, she recognized him instantly, chatted like with an old acquaintance, took his order, and headed to the kitchen.

Waiting for his food, Reinhardt looked around — an old habit. A typical Chinese diner, nothing special — sleek black rectangular tables covered with straw mats, dieffenbachias in pots in the corners, a waving cat figurine next to the cash register and napkin stacks — for luck, as always, for money. A nice place, really, and nothing seemed to have changed much since his last visit.

“Watch ouuuuut!”
Two hefty movers in blue uniforms (must be sweltering in that!) almost tore off the narrow doorframe bringing in something that looked like an air conditioner. They set it on the floor and let out a satisfied exhale.
Immediately, Tai Yun - the owner - burst out from the back like a whirlwind.

“So she was here,” Reinhardt thought.

“I didn’t order that!” she snapped at the movers.

What followed was a heated exchange in Chinese that Reinhardt didn’t understand a word of — but bored and curious, he intervened:

“What are you installing?”

“Ventilation — not simple! Hyper-ventilation!” one of the movers explained in broken German.

Reinhardt peeked past him.
Yes, hyperventilation wouldn’t hurt here — the kitchen was full of smoke and steam, and it smelled deliciously of fried meat, rice, and vegetables simmering in sauce — but it was suffocating.
He caught the eye of one of the cooks, who pointed at the mover, put his hands together in thanks, and gave a thumbs-up.

A few more minutes of argument revealed that it wasn’t an air conditioner or an extractor fan, but a new oxygen system, subsidized by the government. The cost would be... — then came something about taxes, and Reinhardt stopped paying attention.

Tai Yun pursed her vividly red painted, wrinkled lips, grumbled something, but seemed to accept it.

Reinhardt returned to his table, just as Tai Zhao approached with a tray.

“Sorry for the wait!” she said with a polite, apologetic smile and set the plate on the table.

Reinhardt nodded and began to eat. The neatly sliced duck breast, fried in batter, was excellent — as always, or he wouldn’t be biking here for half an hour. The vegetables in sweet-and-sour sauce had a nice crunch, and the rice balanced the spices with its soft heat.

Satisfied, Reinhardt wiped his mouth with a napkin and went to pay. On his way to the counter, Tai Zhao passed him again with a tray and two beers for new customers.

“Did you like it?”

“More than I can say,” Reinhardt nodded gratefully, placing his hand over his heart.

“Hope to see you again!” Tai Zhao smiled and disappeared into the back of the café.

This time behind the counter stood Tai Yun — less irritated now, more businesslike and preoccupied.
Glancing at Reinhardt, she said curtly:

“€13.50.”

He paid, and she returned his change with mechanical precision.

Not wanting to leave without a word, he commented:

“With the ventilation" — he nodded at the oxygen system in the corner, “things should feel fresher?”

Tai Yun shrugged vaguely.

“Maybe…” she suddenly softened a little. “My husband is waiting for you, by the way — you were supposed to stop by.”

“I was just on my way,” Reinhardt replied, slightly flustered.

He left the café, the waving cat figurine giving him a farewell paw.

Reinhardt pulled an inhaler from his pocket, took a puff, and stepped into the exhausting heat to get his bike.
Tai Ming wouldn’t wait long.