These are all his enemies. Today's guy is a latrine cleaner; he always has a nasty, pungent odor about him, so foul it's disgusting.
"I won't shout. Old turtle! Dung dung!"
"Gah! I'll fuck your mother! Aren't you going to call me dad?"
With a whoosh, the curtain was lifted.
"Put my brother down!" the tablet said indifferently.
The man turned around in the direction of the woman's voice:
"Hey, what 'brother'? Okay, that's it, we'll play again another day. Red Lotus, I'll definitely come, I can't bear not to fuck you! Kid, fuck your mother!"
Red Lotus, first a strong, pungent fragrance hit Zhigao's forehead.
Then I saw a pair of eyes, very dark and bright. Although they were puffy, the darkness seemed even deeper.
Her cheekbones were unusually high, protruding stubbornly and self-deceivingly on her pale, pointed face.
She always laughs, a helpless laugh, a habit of "coaxing" others, and she does the same with her son.
Only in her son could she remember the man from her past, the man whose surname was Lai. Zhigao's father had once praised her hands.
She had a pair of long, slender, but somewhat bony, white hands, with thin, pointed fingers, like a white reed sprouting from cracked soil: once a white flower, nameless. She had received praise, though. A man had once given her a hand-held pot.
Honglian stood before Zhigao, her hands twitching and convulsing as she bound them together, fingers interlocking, unable to understand a single word, yet her fingers seemed to be writing secrets of her heart. She was extremely timid and embarrassed.
She took some money from the tea tray and casually, then apologetically, slipped it to Zhigao.
"Where have you been running around these past few days?"
"That's all, I'm going to find some work."
"Sleep here?"
Just as Zhigao was about to answer, another guest came in from outside. The wind blew against the paper window with a dull thud. By the light of the lamp, Zhigao saw that his mother had bruises on her neck and temples, swaying red.
"red lotus!"
Mother responded and left.
Zhigao left the courtyard quietly. With money in his pocket, he felt a sense of warmth. Where should he go tonight? Perhaps he should spend the night in the kitchen. Although there were no beds, only a thick layer of chicken feathers on the floor, and the walls were sealed tightly with mud and paper to keep out the cold wind, there were always poor people from the countryside and towns huddled together to sleep, as well as beggars and peddlers. A place where everyone could hear each other's voices. Ultimately, it would be more reassuring than here. He could sleep soundly until dawn, and another day would begin.
Alright, let's go to the kitchen. He hurried out the door and hadn't gone far when he saw the man who shoveled night soil carrying a bucket and scoop of night soil and pushing a night soil cart, going from house to house.
Zhigao furtively picked up a small stone and threw it hard, hitting him in the neck. A piercing shout echoed through the quiet night:
"Damn it! You little bastard, you little pheasant, I'll make sure you die a horrible death, you'll be sold when you grow up!"
Zhigao ran a few steps with great enthusiasm, but immediately collapsed. From afar, the song "Cave Dwelling," which he had heard countless times since childhood, drifted from Yanzhi Hutong, accompanying his desolate steps.
"The willow leaves are so pointed, they cover the sky. Your Majesty, listen carefully to what I have to say. This matter arose in our Lan Dian Chang, west of the capital—"
Zhigao's memories came flooding back to him.
He had never seen his father; he had passed away when Zhigao was very young. Why wasn't he there? Perhaps he was dead, perhaps he had run away. This was the truth Honglian had never told him, and he didn't want to know. —In any case, it wasn't a good thing.
At first, before her name was changed to "Honglian," her mother was a poor seamstress. She would beg for scraps of fabric from tailor shops to mend tattered clothes for bachelors. She'd lay a cloth on the ground, scissors and needle in hand, mending everything. One day, Zhigao saw his mother mending a pair of sweater's smelly socks. The socks had just been taken off; they were still damp and reeking of stench. His mother couldn't bear it any longer, felt nauseous, and leaned against the wall, vomiting profusely. That night, she felt so sick she couldn't eat and vomited again.
When all hope seems lost, I always remember those warm, damp, smelly socks, like a half-dissolved corpse, oozing blood and pus. ...
Later, my mother started "selling" things.
Zhigao gradually realized that his mother was "selling" him.
He once cried out in anger:
"I won't come back to sleep, I'll never come back!"
He's back; he's going to live.
He and his mother lived within the poignant tales of the kiln:
"The first watch drum sounds, oh heavens! The tent is filled with tears. I think of my beloved brother, my dear lover, my lover, my little sister's heart belongs only to you. One night as husband and wife, a hundred nights of love..."—singing until dawn.
Sighing and lamenting, no one shows any mercy to anyone else. Who knows? Everyone has their own story, and in the end, aren't they all the same: in the short span of five hours, there have been countless partings and reunions, falsehoods, disheartening sentiments, even kinship is fleeting. Zhigao couldn't believe that he cared so much for his mother, yet he was using her money all along. — He wouldn't come back once he had a little bit of livelihood. Every time he came back, it was shameful.
Passing by a large courtyard, which was also on the way to the kitchen, I unexpectedly overheard Boss Tang lecturing Huaiyu:
"Fighting! How shameful! How dare you even listen to Teacher Ding's lectures? And Teacher Ding even gave you a nice name! Huh, fighting in the classroom?"
A series of sharp slaps followed, and Huaiyu was sure to get a beating. Zhigao stopped and whispered outside the courtyard. Old Tang was getting into the swing of things:
"You skipped school to go to the opera! Always following Zhigao around, you're hopeless!" Zhigao slowly lowered his head.
"His mother is a shady character, do you think people don't know that?"
“She’s not his mother—she’s his sister.” Huaiyu defended Zhigao’s origins.
"Sister? The eldest brother's sister? You're still pretending to be a grandson! Don't hang out with him anymore, the two of you are always running around like crazy, you're not learning anything good."
"Dad, Zhigao is a good man. His mother's bad behavior has nothing to do with him, so don't look down on him!"
Upon hearing this, Tang Laoda slapped Huaiyu across the face again.
“I don’t look down on anyone, but I don’t want others to look down on me. I’m disciplining you so you’ll become successful. Earn a living with your own strength; every drop of sweat you sweat will shatter into eight pieces! And you still want to work with actors? Hey! Actors, restaurants, brothels, bathhouses, porters… they’re all lowlifes. If you hadn’t mentioned it, I would have forgotten to teach you a lesson: you need to learn to read so you can work in an office, copying, or being an accountant—you, you’re really a good-for-nothing!”
After giving him a severe scolding, Boss Tang, disregarding his own strength, also gave Huaiyu a good beating.