sinovels Chapter 1412 Gratitude and Kindness
Chapter 1412 Gratitude and Kindness
Chapter 1412 Gratitude and Kindness
In September in New Zealand, spring is just beginning to awaken. Ivan sits on the porch, admiring the view of the farm.
Cherry blossoms and apricot blossoms bloom in profusion, their pink and white petals drifting in the wind like a gentle snowfall. Morning dew still clings to the blades of grass, and the air is filled with the mingled scents of earth and flowers. Flocks of sheep move across the distant hillsides like a white cloud.
My phone rang; it was a number from Italy.
“Professor Ivan,” came Augusto Barberini’s voice on the other end of the phone, a complex mix of joy and regret, “Carlota’s piano recital is next week in Milan. We cordially invite you to Rome, and we also invited Professor Yang Ping, but he…”
“He refused,” Ivan said calmly. He knew Yang Ping very well.
“Professor Yang said he’s very busy right now.” Augustus’s voice was tinged with disappointment, carrying the restraint characteristic of aristocrats, but unable to conceal his regret. “We sent someone to Nandu to invite him, even offering to charter a plane and provide full security… but he just shook his head, saying, ‘There’s not enough time.’”
“Mr. Barberini, you don’t understand Yang Ping,” Ivan’s voice was gentle but firm. “For him, the ward and the laboratory are his world.”
“But… he was one of the people who saved my daughter,” Augustus said, his voice filled with a father’s unwavering resolve. “We want to thank him in person. Carlotta asks every day if Professor Yang will change his mind. She’s even learned Chinese so she can thank him in person. She played a Chinese piece, ‘Jasmine Flower,’ to dedicate to him at her concert.”
Ivan closed his eyes. He could imagine the scene: a young pianist playing a Chinese folk song on the stage of La Scala, while the person she most wanted to hear it for was on the other side of the world, engrossed in microscopes and data.
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, then Augustus said, "Then... can you come? Carlotta said that if Professor Yang can't come, she at least wants to see you. You're someone she's met, someone she can thank."
“I will go,” Ivan said, “as a witness, as Yang Ping’s spokesperson, and as your friend. I will tell Yang Ping everything about Carlota, in a way he is willing to hear: data, images, and facts.”
Hanging up the phone, Ivan gazed at the distant orchard. The tender green of spring was covering the withered yellow of winter, and flocks of sheep moved slowly across the hillside, like a tranquil oil painting. In September, New Zealand was a time of growth, and he was about to embark on a journey to see firsthand how the spring they had started together would blossom in another hemisphere.
He went back inside and began having his assistant pack his luggage. He didn't need much; he always traveled light.
At Rome's Fiumicino Airport, Ivan didn't use the regular passenger lane. A black Maserati drove directly onto the tarmac, the door opened, and Augusto Barberini himself stepped out. He had come to pick him up personally, a very high honor in aristocratic etiquette.
“Professor Ivan,” Augustus grasped Ivan’s hand, his eyes filled with sincere gratitude, “thank you for coming. You and Professor Yang are both Carlota’s benefactors.”
Ivan carefully examined the Italian nobleman, the one who had found him in his most desperate moment. Back then, the nobleman's hair was still dark gray, but now it was almost completely white. Yet, his innate elegance remained unchanged, only now tinged with a profound, weathered tranquility.
“Mr. Barberini, Professor Yang asked me to tell you that he has reviewed Carlota’s latest medical report. He said, ‘Very good.’ To him, that is the highest praise.”
Augustus nodded: "Thank you!"
As the convoy headed towards the Barberini estate, Augustus reiterated his regret: "We really wish we could thank both of them. Carlota asks every day if Professor Yang will change his mind. She even learned Chinese so she could thank him in person. She played a Chinese piece, 'Jasmine Flower,' intending to dedicate it to him at the concert."
“She lives a good life, and is grateful and kind to the world. That is the greatest gratitude we can owe to Professor Yang,” Ivan replied.
He looked out the window; the ancient streets of Rome shimmered in the autumn sun, including the Colosseum, Piazza Venezia, and the Spanish Steps.
Carlota waited in front of the main building of the Barberini estate. The October sun bathed her in a golden glow. She wore a simple white dress, without jewelry or makeup, but the radiance of her resilience after the disaster shone brighter than any adornment.
Healthy skin has a natural pinkish glow; it's not flawless, but rather bears the marks of life—almost invisible surgical incision lines, slight uneven pigmentation, and, most importantly, the genuine, whole, and vibrant smile she gave Ivan.
“Professor Ivan!” She hurried forward, her steps steady, her hands swinging naturally—those hands, once deformed, contracted, and thought to be incapable of playing the piano again, were now flexible, elegant, and full of strength. She embraced Ivan tightly, then stepped back, her eyes filled with expectation, but that expectation already contained the answer: “Professor Yang…still no time?”
“No time,” Ivan said gently, “or rather, all his time is devoted to medicine, but let me tell you what he’s been up to lately…”
They strolled through the estate's gardens, where autumn roses were still in full bloom. Ivan detailed the latest work of Yang Ping's team in skin-muscle cloning technology: improving the technology to shorten cultivation time; researching how to make the cultured skin contain more complete nerve endings for faster sensory recovery; and exploring how to make the technology cheaper and more accessible so that people outside the Barberini family could also benefit.
Ivan said, "He was thinking about how to ensure that a burned child in Africa could receive the same treatment as Carlota. This wasn't charity; it was justice. He believed that medical progress isn't real progress if it doesn't benefit everyone."
Carlota listened quietly, slowing her pace. They walked to a fountain, the gentle murmur of water masking the distant noise.
“I understand,” she finally said. “He wanted to save more people, so he didn’t have time to celebrate those he had already saved.”
“Exactly!” Ivan said. “This is the lifestyle he has chosen, and we respect it.”
Carlota turned to Ivan, a complex light flickering in her eyes: “But I learned Chinese, Professor. I practiced for three months, every single note of Jasmine Flower. I was thinking that if he could come, I would be on stage, say ‘Thank you, Professor Yang’ in Chinese, and then play the piece.”
He said that as long as you have gratitude and kindness in your heart towards this world, that is the greatest way to thank him.
Carlota nodded, took a deep breath, as if making a decision: "I understand! I will face this world properly." The follow-up examination was conducted at the manor's medical center, a modern building that contrasted sharply with the ancient surroundings. It was clearly a recent emergency renovation for Carlota, but at this moment, it resembled an ordinary clinic—quiet, professional, and full of hope.
Ivan had airlifted the most advanced testing equipment ahead of time, and also opened a remote video link with Yang Ping's team, not Yang Ping himself, but his team members, to transmit data in real time.
“Skin elasticity is close to 87 percent of normal skin,” Ivan recorded, his voice professional and calm, “an improvement of two percentage points from last month. Touch and temperature sensation have fully recovered, pain threshold is close to normal, and fine motor function and dexterity of the hand have recovered to 92 percent, and strength has recovered to 85 percent.”
“Miss Carlotta: Your recovery data is very good. Continue playing the piano, but avoid overusing the small joints in your hands. Continue to protect your skin, but don't let the protection become a burden. Continue living your life, but remember what you went through, not as trauma, but as a starting point. This is Professor Yang's assessment of your examination.” A voice came from the other end, and the translated Italian appeared on the screen.
Carlotta's eyes reddened as she read those few lines over and over, as if she could glean more meaning from them.
“He remembers me,” she said softly, “in his own way.”
"He remembers every patient," Ivan said.
After the follow-up examination, Ivan was organizing the report in the study at the medical center. Carlotta walked in, holding the sheet music for "Jasmine Flower" that she used to practice, which was covered with dense Chinese annotations.
“Professor,” she said, “I would like to ask you to check if my Chinese pronunciation is correct. If Professor Yang cannot come, I would like to at least make sure that if he hears it on the video, he can understand what I am saying.”
Ivan took the sheet music and looked at the Chinese sentences marked with Italian phonetic symbols. His Chinese wasn't very good either, but it was enough to make a judgment: "Here, the tone of 'thank you' is wrong; it should be the fourth tone, not the first. And here, the 'shou' in 'professor' should be pronounced more lightly."
He helped her correct it, over and over again.
The dinner following the follow-up examination was held in the manor's main dining room. The long table was laden with exquisite Italian dishes, but the atmosphere was far from relaxed. Augustus sat at the head of the table, Ivan to his right, and Carlotta to his left. They discussed music, art, and politics, but the conversation inevitably revolved around the absent man.
“We originally hoped to thank both of our benefactors at the same time,” Augustus said, raising his glass with the deep affection of a father, “but we understand Professor Yang Ping.”
He turned to Ivan: "Professor, please tell Professor Yang Ping that the Barberini family will establish a foundation named after him to support the research and application of medical theories. Not as a reward, but to maintain gratitude and goodwill towards the world."
Ivan nodded, but his expression turned serious: "I will pass on the message, but I can't guarantee he will accept it. He rarely accepts honors named after individuals."
Carlota said sincerely, "If he can't accept it, we can use another name. Actually, the name is not important. What's important is that we put our hearts into doing this. Professor Yang will definitely be happy."
Augustus raised his glass: "Then, a toast to Professor Yang Ping, to Professor Ivan, and to all those who have made contributions."
The wine glasses clinked together in mid-air, making a crisp sound.
One evening at La Scala in Milan, Ivan sat in his box, watching Carlotta on stage.
This opera house is a temple of Italian music, with red velvet seats, golden decorations, and crystal chandeliers shimmering overhead. But at this moment, all the light is focused on the young woman at the center of the stage.
She wore a simple white dress, without jewelry or makeup. As her fingers touched the keys, Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major flowed out, simple and perfect. Each note seemed to tell a story—about disaster, about rebirth, about those who persevered in the darkness.
Then came the "Revolutionary Etude." That piece that required both hands, speed, and power. A piece once thought she could never play again. Her fingers danced across the keys; those once deformed, contracted fingers were now flexible, strong, and full of life. The music filled the entire space, stirring, angry, and then returning to calm, like dawn after a storm.
The performance ended to thunderous applause. As Carlotta took her bow, she glanced at Ivan's box and gave a slight bow. Then, she walked to the center of the stage and said in Italian, "Next, I would like to play a Chinese folk song, 'Jasmine Flower.' This piece is dedicated to a doctor who is not present—Professor Yang Ping. With his theories, his techniques, and his time, he gave me new skin and muscles, new life. He wasn't here, but he is."
Then she began to speak in Chinese, slowly but clearly, each word carefully practiced: "Thank you, Professor Yang. I will continue to play the piano, continue to live, and continue to become the person you hope I will be."
The music began, a simple and beautiful melody, like a jasmine flower swaying in the night breeze. The entire hall fell silent, then, with the translator's explanation, the applause grew even more enthusiastic.
After the concert, Carlota waited for Ivan backstage.
“Professor Ivan,” she said, “I want to go to China to see Professor Yang Ping. I want to do something for his hospital and his team.”
"Actually, there's no need for that. Professor Yang is the purest person I've ever met. He doesn't need your gratitude. As I've said before, he'll be happy as long as you have goodwill and gratitude towards the world. If you insist on going to China, you can do it in another way, such as seeing if there are any people who need help."
"May I?……"
"Of course! There are still many people in this world who need help. For example, your father suggested setting up a fund. Actually, I have an idea for you to consider. You can set up a fund to help poor burn patients. You can use your own story to encourage those burn patients to bravely face life."
"Thank you for reminding me. I feel I can do a lot: set up a charity fund for burns, hold a tour with burns as the theme, inspire those who have been injured to have the courage to live. I can encourage them with my energy and help them financially, and put Professor Yang's words into practice, to be grateful and kind to this world."
"Yes!"