"I don't know. I really don't know."
A "Nine-Nine Cold-Dispelling Chart" was pasted on the window paper. It depicted a white plum tree with eighty-one rings of petals on its branches. Starting from the winter solstice, one petal was dotted with red each day until the entire white plum tree was covered in red petals, turning the white plum blossoms into red apricots, signifying the return of spring. The dotting hadn't even begun yet, and the winter solstice was almost here. From that day on, every nine days was counted as one "nine," and generally, the weather was coldest during the third nine-day period. Dandan thought:
"By the time of the coldest period of winter, we should have a general idea of what to expect?"
What kind of tune is this? A little deep thought, and you can't help but chuckle. A mix of anxiety and uncertainty. Huaiyu once said that in the old days, after the 20th of the twelfth lunar month, the opera troupe would choose an auspicious day to perform a "closing performance," followed by a feast and no more performances before the New Year. On New Year's Day, when the stage reopened, all the actors received a "lucky share," whereas they usually received a "small share"; the money wrapped in red paper on that day was a little more than the leading actors. He would go to the Dabeizhao Photo Studio to have his picture taken. —Oh! Huaiyu…
However, the only person I saw every day was Zhigao.
Zhigao sang earnestly on the overpass, no longer resorting to jokes or underhanded tricks. He no longer used fake scissors or cheated on the dice in the gambling game.
When he dressed up as Lü Bu, he always liked to wear a simple feather for his performance. This "feather skill," ironically, was something he learned from crickets. There was the "feather-picking" for joy and triumph; the "feather-circling" for anger and fear; the "feather-stirring" for deep thought; the "feather-shaking" for extreme rage; and also the swishing, waving, playing, wiping, and biting—using a feather to express his feelings, all in conjunction with his beautiful voice.
"That day, we set up a great battlefield at Hulao Pass. I discussed the strengths and weaknesses of my brothers from Taoyuan. Guan Yu was as strong as a tiger, Zhang Fei was as brave as a Vajra with his spear, and Liu Bei was as powerful as a god with his twin swords. How could they withstand the might of our Heavenly Dynasty? We fought Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei, who were left and right, and my name, Lü Bu, spread throughout the world."
The overpass is often frequented by the thugs of the Four Tyrants, the leader of the Yiguandao sect, secret agents from the police station, lackeys from the system... Powerful people wear felt hats askew, cigarettes dangling from their lips, stern-looking, white cloth shirts, blue jackets, long sleeves with white backing, and black trousers with wide crotches—wide crotches are convenient for posing and ready to fight at any time.
They arrived at Zhigao's stall, said "Hello," and Zhigao would give them money for cigarettes, adding:
"Please forgive me, Second Master!"
He had a goal, and he learned to be patient. Suddenly, he grew up, matured, and became silent. He earned money honestly, and began to cultivate himself into a responsible person. What force compelled him to stop wasting his time? He didn't want his transformation to be in vain. He had almost become a rogue himself.
When no one is around, I ponder these thoughts again and again, tossing and turning at night. These are all unspeakable worries.
Everyone harbors something indescribable within, something that gently yet forcefully entangles and manipulates. Like a hook, it tries to pull that thing up, making it clear, but in the end, it lacks the strength; it sinks down, buried in an abyss. Everyone is afraid. All that remains is a bewildered gaze.
Just like this day, after Huaiyu had rested, they returned to Yonghe Temple to visit Wang Laogong again. They had heard that if those who burned incense and made offerings gave more alms, the lamas would let them see the exquisitely beautiful Seven Treasures Hall's Golden Joyful Buddha. But those who were too young were not allowed in. The three of them secretly lay prone beside the hall, waiting for an opportunity to spy.
Who knows what this "Buddha of Bliss" is? I've heard it quite a few times, described in vivid detail, but the people who tell the stories always stop halfway through.
At this moment, they sneaked into the side hall, where a winding path led out through heavily locked doors, filled with a sense of "peeping into secrets," eager to catch a glimpse of the world.
There's really more to it than meets the eye.
The Buddha of Joy is very tall; the male Buddha has a fierce expression and a robust, imposing figure, exuding domineering power. The female Buddha, on the other hand, is delicate and frail, seemingly overwhelmed by affection. These two Buddha statues, though described as "two," are more accurately described as "one," as they are embracing and in sexual union. Such "joy" leaves those with only a superficial understanding of the art bewildered.
Is this what Yangming's dual cultivation is?
A little dazed, completely entranced, my heart pounding, a blush rising on my face—the whole world, everything within my sight, was Buddha. Buddha is not emptiness, Buddha is vibrant life. In that instant, a karmic entanglement was sown, from which I could not extricate myself.
Why does the Yonghe Temple exist in the world?
Dandan was the first to run away. With her back to the two of them, suppressing her overwhelming emotions, she asked:
"I wonder if Mr. Wang is still alive?"
Yes. Mr. Wang is still here.
Seven years have passed, and when I saw him again, he didn't look particularly old—he had aged long ago, withered away, so he could never change into another state. His face was still fair with a hint of pink, he still never grew a single stubble, and his skeletal hands still held a cat in their grip.
It's true, even the cats don't seem old. But perhaps these cats are the next generation they saw in their childhood, or perhaps they've been reincarnated. Speaking of which, was Old Man Wang a person from a previous life, forever guarding his only home?
Huaiyu called out to him, her voice clear and bright:
"My husband!"
"Who is it?" came the sarcastic reply, even slower. It swirled in the room, carrying the scent of an elderly person.
He shook his head. They were complete strangers.
"I'm Zhigao. It's been a long time. How are you? This is Dandan."
Mr. Wang looked bewildered. The past seemed to have vanished like smoke; he couldn't remember anything, he had forgotten everything. It was like a piece of cloth that had been soaked for seven years, completely faded, leaving no trace in his heart.
When everyone looked closely, they realized that the old man had developed a facial spasm at some point. He would tremble involuntarily, a trembling, rhythmic tremor that would subside in bursts. The muscles in his face would quickly forget that he had trembled, as if taking a short rest and preparing for the next ordeal. —Sometimes he looked like a cheerful, lively person.
Dandan tried to evoke his memories:
“Honey, many years ago, the three of us consulted the oracle, but our divination results were all mixed up. One said that life was worse than death, another said that death was worse than life, and the third said that death would come before life. Let’s try to get a more accurate reading.”
They peered at him, watching to see if his thoughts stirred even slightly. No, they only saw Old Man Wang idly waving his withered hand, which trembled uncontrollably. He said:
"I don't remember, I don't remember."
A smile played at the corners of her mouth—or rather, it wasn't a smile, but rather it started to tremble again. Suddenly, she stared straight at Dandan:
"You have someone in your heart!"
Then he turned away coldly, saw Zhigao, and said:
"You have someone in your heart!"
Then I looked at Huaiyu:
"You have someone in your heart too!"
The voice carried no emotion whatsoever, like striking two stones, producing a cold, hard, and solid echo.
The cat, with a chilling "Sniff—" pierced the awkward silence. Within it lay some ancient and mysterious mutations, the debts of whom remained unknown. Yet, Old Man Wang had raised them for three or four generations, their lineage continuing, and he was not yet a thing of the past—only, he had forgotten the past.
Just when everyone was filled with anxiety and disappointment, the fortune teller, who was walking step by step toward the Yellow Springs and who knew all the secrets of heaven, pointed at the three young women in an incredulous tone and said: "The person you will be with in the future is not the person in your heart."
"The person you will be with in the future is not the person in your heart."
"The person you will be with in the future will not be the person in your heart."
After he finished speaking, he sat down and said, "I'm tired! Let's go back."