"Never mind that, let's fight, this is the best time."
Hearing Honglian's response from inside, Zhigao immediately put on airs:
"It still hurts—my legs are so numb I can't lift them, ugh—this is terrible, they're so heavy. Sigh—"
“Come back in three days,” Honglian said anxiously to Zhigao.
"How about in a couple of days?"
"It's done, it's done."
"Your brother, do you think I can help you or not?"
Honglian ushered him out the door; he wasn't even as tall as her, and she was coaxing him like a child.
"Get out of here, you're like a dog trying to catch a mouse. My brother's a bunch of idiots, a bandit leader, you can't help him. And you, you clueless bastard, are trying to interfere. Damn it, stop pulling on me!"
After seeing the guests off, Honglian returned to the room. The two sat facing each other in silence, each feeling awkward. If he hadn't been injured, he wouldn't be sitting like this. She had no choice but to find some chores to do and get something to eat.
"Would you like a pancake?" The kitchen buzzed with activity. Another voice came from inside.
"Let's heat up a few steamed buns. Oh no, how about flatbread? We have pork head meat, let's wrap it up and eat it."
"It'll save you some trouble." Zhigao unexpectedly probed his mother, "What does Wu Dalang do?"
"It's a wok."
What are you selling?
"Have more, like roasted sunflower seeds, roasted pine nuts, peanuts, spiced melon seeds... the most famous is the 'strange flavor' melon seeds."
"The neck is the strange one."
"He used to be a hunchback."
"Oh—I thought there was something wrong with my health."
Zhigao sandwiched a piece of pork head meat in a pancake and ate it bite by bite with great relish.
Honglian sat down opposite him, having not looked closely at this grown-up child for a long time.
He would come to eat one meal, then wait quite a while before coming back for another. — That's because he couldn't find anything to eat.
Honglian didn't chat with him about everyday things, nor did she have anything to talk about. She just wrapped her arms around the short man's neck and chatted, as if she had found a third party to make the mother and son have something in common to talk about.
“You know, in their line of work, they always have to use their necks to carry heavy loads weighing over a hundred pounds. They walk for miles without being able to lift their heads or take a break.”
"How can you not be allowed to rest?"
"When moving and transporting, it's all porcelain, mirrors, basins and the like. They're valuable, so the landlord would bundle them up, secure them, and put a wooden board around his neck. From that moment on, he had to carry them on the road. It wasn't easy."
Zhi Gao recalled that he had probably been carrying that lump for years, doing business for half his life; over time, the large lump of flesh had been the result of that torment. —Another hunched-over man. That thick, fleshy lump on his neck was a gift from heaven, making him look even more like Wu Dalang (a character from Journey to the West), and no one could deny it.
"Does Wu Dalang's surname include Wu?"
"Humph, what Wu Dalang?" Zhigao was caught off guard by his mother's sudden rebuke. He remembered a time when he was little, and one day, she had dressed up meticulously, wearing a flower in her hair. Zhigao glared at her with his little eyes. His mother snorted at him, "Boy, what are you glaring at? If your father were still here, how could you not recognize your mother?" As she spoke, tears welled up in her eyes as she earnestly instructed, "From now on, call me 'sister,' remember? Call me, call me 'sister'!"
"Sister!" "Hmm?" Honglian responded. Zhigao, still dazed, could only ask, "What's your surname?"
"His surname is Ba."
"Ba?" Zhi Gao laughed: "A 'Ba' that's not even as tall as a palm?"
"Don't be so immoral."
"What a strange surname. It's not as good as mine."
Honglian, lost in thought, suddenly tugged gently. She hesitated, wondering if she should trace back further. She simply didn't know where he had gone. A man who doesn't want a woman often only wakes up long after being abandoned, but doesn't truly understand. The world was gloomy and desolate, as if all prospects had turned into a wall.
“Your surname is good, but your fate is bad.” Honglian said to Zhigao, “I don’t have long to live, and I’m just worried about what you will become. Alas.”
"Take it one day at a time, what's there to worry about? Stop talking." Zhigao didn't want to repeat his previous rambling and helpless words. His best skill was avoidance, and he immediately wanted to end the whole story with a good night's sleep.
Honglian called him into the room, and he said:
"I'll sleep here." She pointed to the corner of the wall, intentionally avoiding the bedside.
"Why don't you sleep in the bed?" Honglian smiled ingratiatingly, not forcing anyone. "Or I can lie down for a while too."
It had been a long time since she'd had such an opportunity, and Honglian seemed to have so much to say, but she had to start from the beginning. Mother and son lay facing each other, one tall and one short, a sight both unusual and awkward. Zhigao turned and faced the wall.
"I don't care about cultivating for this life or the next. A while ago, on April 8th, wasn't it Buddha's birthday? The temple was holding a bathing Buddha ceremony, and I went to pray for blessings. I didn't dare go inside; I only prayed outside, and my sincerity was enough. I'm asking Buddha to show you the right path—"
"It won't work; you can't put a golden flower on a dog's head."
"Your days are numbered."
"Fine, fine, if I wanted a good life, you wouldn't be doing this anymore—" Zhigao didn't finish his sentence. He couldn't continue. What good life? His long life had started so rashly, it was all fate, like a lamp in the wind, without any backbone. Worse than a woman who sold herself. Zhigao thought, sigh, rotten eyes and flies, misfortunes never come singly.
Honglian picked up on this remark: "To be honest, if we didn't do this, we wouldn't starve to death. I have no respect for you."
"How many men have you slept with?" Zhigao suddenly turned around and asked her.
Honglian was pondering how to answer.
Zhigao asked again, "How many men have you slept with?"
"Why are you asking that?"