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丰年记
A FRUITFUL
YEAR
miss a fei
The year 2013 was indeed a fruitful one for
26-year-old Shanghaiese writer Zhang Yiwei
张怡微. Currently pursuing a doctorate in
literature at the National Chengchi University
in Taiwan, she’s the first mainlander to win
the Taipei Literature Award (First Prize in
the essay category). She has also been the
recipient of the Taiwan Times Literary Prize
(First Prize in the short story category), and the
New Writer Prize from the Chinese Literature
Media Awards. Zhang made her debut as the
First Prize winner of the sixth New Concept
Composition Competition in 2004 and since
has been regarded as one of the leading
writers of the post-80s generation. Her
published novels include Woken From a Dream
(《梦 ∙ 醒》, 2008), Next Stop, Xidan (《下一
站西单》, 2010), The Night You Didn’t Know
Abou t (《你所不知道的夜晚》, 2012) and
short story collections such as Time, Please
Wait (《时光，请等一等》, 2010), and Youth’s
Forb idden Games (《青春禁忌游戏》, 2006). 1T he first time I brought Zhuo Ran home was last year in February. I
didn’t let my mother know beforehand, nor did I know how to tell her.
One morning, I simply asked: “I’d like to bring a friend home in a day or
two; could you manage to be back at noon?” My mother was kneeling on
the floor, scraping and washing unscrupulously.
Without hesitation, she replied: “No, with the Spring Festival coming,
I’m busy at the store.”
At the time, she was working in a private photo studio, helping with
photo cutting, lighting, storekeeping, and cleaning. Ever since her
early retirement, she redirected most of her energy to the studio, but
I still haven’t found any tangible, deep connection between her and
photography. She enjoys being photographed though, and has kept
numerous selfportraits from different periods and photographers. Some
were taken by art fans in the factory’s labor union, some by young men
in the neighboring workshop, some by distant relatives, and some by
the backbone of the cultural and arts unit she became acquainted with
during the Down to the Countryside Movement. She claims these photos
were taken for me to look at so that I wouldn’t miss her too much when
she passed away. However, it seems that such preparation had been going
on for a long time—ever since she was a teenage girl.
Back then, there were no coloring techniques; photos could only be
printed the size of a fingernail. Still, she glued all these small pictures into
a photo album, one by one, marking the date, location, photographer,
the clothes she wore, and their colors. When I asked her about the
whereabouts of the photographers, she muttered vague replies and
seemed to be at a loss. But when it came to anecdotes of when the photos
were taken, or how to strike a pose, she could be extremely talkative. Even
though she can’t even turn on a digital camera—and is almost completely
unaware of Photoshop—those images and experiences became a
significant part of her life.
She replied so resolutely that I didn’t want to throw her off of her work,
so I had to tell Zhuo Ran: “Perhaps you can come in the evening. My
mother is too busy. I’m afraid we can only treat you to a simple meal.”
Zhuo Ran acquiesced, simply replying that he would need to inform
his parents that the plan to visit my house had changed from noon to
evening. Sometimes I wished he would say more, but he never took that
cue. A good conformist and follower, he is like a well-behaved, tongue-
tied little boy.
“Oh, about the money, have you spoken to her?”
I couldn’t see Zhuo Ran’s expression over the phone, but my heart
pulsed with complicated emotions—not a good feeling, but not an
extremely bad one.
“Qingqing, if you don’t have money, I could give you some. My mother
will be comforted and gain face if your mother gives me some money.
Author’s Note: This story originates from the scene
“bringing the boyfriend home for the first time”. Personal
relations in a cold world are the most common, yet most
difficult, subject to depict, especially when you still want
to maintain the warmth of life and the peaceful visage
of the characters while their hearts boil. That is similar
to this short story, which ultimately is warm and blissful.
ZHANG YI WEI
张怡微
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Then, maybe she will like you,” Zhuo Ran added.
I shouldn’t have been blamed for neglecting this issue. In fact, I had been looking for an opportunity to break it to my mother. But, for some reason, the words just stuck in my throat like a fish bone. In my family, my mother and I have only each other, but we are on two different planets, each following its own orbit. Only in rare moments do we share some warmth together. I don’t offer painstaking reports or converse deeply with her, nor do I ask her
for advice. As such, she rarely asks after me. This seems different from Zhuo Ran’s family or, rather, any healthy family.
Actually, I had already dined twice with Zhuo Ran’s family behind my mother’s back. His family exercises the straightforwardness found in typical Shanghaiese, blunt
and without pretense. But from start to finish, Zhuo Ran’s mother never said a word to me. His father appeared more amiable and asked about my family.
“Why not let Zhuo Ran visit?” His father asked.“What’s the point?” I thought, but I said, “Next time.”
“You know,” eyeing the chopsticks in my hand, his father continued, “even if your family lives in the sl
ums, you should let Zhuo Ran visit.”
I then realized, in this family, next to each plate lay a pair of serving chopsticks.
2“Who is this friend?” Mother asked me.
“My boyfriend,” I answered.
I was helping her clear away tableware when she blurted out the question, but froze upon answering. She asked : “Oh, then why is he coming? Marriage proposal?”
“Not exactly,” I laughed. “Actually, I am not sure why either. Just think of it as him casually hanging out with us.”My mother took a long and meaningful look at me
and jeered lightheartedly: “No wonder you haven’t been paying attention to me recently, turns out you are soon to be married!”
“No, not at all!” I swiftly denied. “Don’t talk gibberish—not this soon.”
“Soon is not bad; either way it’s a good thing.” She sidled up to the stove and gestured for me to clea
n up the table, seemingly not have taken my words seriously. I felt temporarily reassured. Zhuo Ran and I met in middle school. From a secret relationship at school to a public one later; from the endless confusion to the increased humdrum of daily trifles—all the grievances and melancholy—I never tried to share it with my mother. I didn’t know how. But I did know that, regardless of my decisions, my mother would always respect me. She only wished for my happiness.
“Qingqing, it’s time to prepare. But, when your friend gets here, do you want to come in the store and have a picture taken? I can ask Uncle Lin to take a photo of you both together,” my mother said, as she came into the living room with a plate of apples.
“A wedding photo?” I asked playfully.
“No, of course not!” she said, immediately and forcefully denying just as I had earlier, “How could this kind of wedding photo be presentable? Y our Uncle Lin’s workshop is tiny. We can’t have others looking down on you. But in truth, those studios with ‘Parisian’ and ‘Milanese’ in their names are not as good as your Uncle Lin’s. He still uses film, really brilliant, complicated, technical stuff that truly captures the depth of people. You young people wouldn’t understand.”
I suddenly gathered my courage and asked: “Mom, could you prepare 2,000 kuai to give to Zhuo Ra
n?”
“What? Why?” She was startled.
To be honest, I didn’t know why either.
“Maybe he will be happy. It shows that you like him,” I answered with false composure.
“I haven’t even met him, how could I know if I like him or not. Didn’t you say that he is only coming to hang out?”“Qingqing, what is going on? Tell your mother the truth,” My mother suddenly tensed up, which made me anxious.“Are you having a…?” She closed in like Mei Shiping from Thunderstorm—ghastly.
“Nonsense! Of course not. If you don’t want to, so be it. It’s nothing serious. I knew you would say no. I actually
don’t see the point either; giving him money is pointless. MY MOTHER AND I HAVE ONLY EACH OTHER, BUT WE ARE ON TWO DIFFERENT PLANETS, EACH FOLLOWING ITS OWN ORBIT
But I am in a difficult position, mom, I hate it too!” For some reason, with these words, I grew agitated. But I knew this agitation would end badly. So, I turned around and went into my room, cutting the conversation short. For an instant, I was almost overcome with the impulse to cry, but I soon calmed myself. What would be the point? Luckily, she didn’t bother me the whole night. All went as before, each of us on our own planet with our own worries.
3T he next day, when I woke, there was an envelope
on the table with 2,000 kuai; it was heavy in my hand. Underneath it lay a note with oddly written characters: “Mom has money.” It was neatly written—and heartbreaking. Actually, I have money; Zhuo Ran has money as well—a lot of money. But he insisted that this 2,000 yuan would have insurmountable significance on his mother. After some deliberation, I put the money back in mother’s drawer.
Zhuo Ran arrived at dusk, holding a paper bag labeled “Oriental Shopping Mall”. When I asked what it held, he answered: “Clothes my mom bought for your mother, a 3,000 kuai cashmere sweater—half off.”
“Anything for my dad? Or you just decided you wouldn’t bother?” I asked.
He looked ill at ease and at a loss. “I thought they were no longer together,” he said with a shaky voice.
“He’s still my dad and not dead,” I replied gruffly.“Right, right, right. I will make up for it later. Please don’t be mad…I am visiting your home, you should be happy,” Zhuo Ran said in an attempt to appease. Happy.
I hadn’t been happy for a long time, in fact; I constantly felt an invisible weight on my shoulders. When Zhuo Ran was busy looking around the house, I poured him a cup of hot water, wanting to turn on the heat, but not enough to look for the remote. He coughed twice, and I pretended not to hear it. Faked fragility, a little cold isn’t fatal. I really didn’t want to give him the special treatment, the money, or even heating. Watching him drinking water and shivering, I handed him a rubber hot-water bag: “This is what I use, very warm.”
“Thank you,” he said politely, looking at me timidly.
I hadn’t seen him so cordial in a while. Such gratitude aroused my sympathy.
When my mother returned, Zhuo Ran and I went to the door to greet her together. This grand gesture gave her a start.
“Sit, sit, sit, go sit,” she blurted out without even looking at Zhuo Ran. Zhuo Ran was transfixed and then smiled.
I guess my mother was shy; after all, I’d never brought a boyfriend home before.
My mother said: “There’s another guest coming, just in time to have a meal together. I bought a lot of good things!” “Someone’s coming?” I thought to myself. Now, that was rare.
“Who is it?” asked Zhuo Ran.
I had no idea either. Zhuo Ran walked around my house with light steps, leafing through my books absentmindedly. He also scrutinized our furniture and photos; most, of course, were displays of my mother’s youth. There’s not even one picture of me on display. Old family photos seemed to contain an extra person we avoided carefully.
In all the pictures my mother and I took together, I looked glum and dull while she seemed in high spirits. Therefore, only the images of her youth were on display in our house, with mine nowhere to be found.
My mother asked me to help wash the vegetables. After cleaning the green onions and slicing the gin
ger, I finally asked her who else was coming.
Mother said, mysteriously: “This afternoon, a pigeon walked over to our photo studio door. It was thrilling. It stood resolutely in front of our door and pondered for a long, long time. Taking two steps forward, then two steps back, then two steps forward, it finally walked into the shop in the end. I thought it must have been too exhausted to fly, so I grabbed it and tied its feet. Tonight, your Uncle Lin will come to kill it. It just so happened that you had a friend coming as well.” She said all this proudly, as if she had won a battle. The poor pigeon, with feet tied tight, was thrown into the water basin.
“I love pigeon meat,” Zhuo Ran chimed in. “Stewed pigeon tastes even better with some dried scallops, Chinese angelica, and dangshen (poor man’s ginseng)!”4W hen Uncle Lin came through the door, the startling thirst for blood in his eyes frightened me. He saw me and
smiled, saying: “Qingqing, where’s the pigeon?” Zhuo Ran
laughed out loud, recognizing the sardonic savagery in Uncle Lin’s words.
“In the kitchen, I can’t bare looking at it. Are you going to kill it now?” I asked.
“Yes, I will bring it to you for a last look. Ha-ha! Oh right, this must be Zhuo Ran?”
I really did not expect that Zhuo Ran would meet Uncle Lin so soon. I was going to bring Lin up later, so as to delay Zhuo Ran’s report to his family. Uncle Lin is the owner of the photo studio, and my mother works at his studio now. The two of them so naturally entwined is a wonderful thing. Actually, I had known Uncle Lin for quite a while. More precisely and conspicuously, it was before my father left; we met at my grandfather’s funeral. My mother asked him for a family photo shoot. He smiled at me, zooming in and out with the lens. I could not see his eyes, but I felt that his smile embodied a threat. Alongside the funeral music, it gave me chills down my spine.
He was not a bad person. If it wasn’t for him being the one who drove my father away, I would have believed that he was a perfectly amiable middle-aged man. Zhuo Ran didn’t know what to do with this sudden change in events, but his confusion held both curiosity and excitement. I hated his excitement; he could always so easily display his best side to me, and I constantly had to expose the parts I least wanted. Perhaps that was how marriage was supposed to work: no veil, two people, completely naked, aside from the alarming defects of forgivable imperfections.
Uncle Lin took the pigeon to the courtyard and untied the string. It collapsed feebly on the ground, having lost all strength.
“Give it something to eat,” I said. “That poor creature, so pretty too.”
“If it was ugly, you wouldn’t mind, would you? It’s just a pigeon, good for your health,” Zhuo Ran said.“Humph, so you haven’t had enough of those dried scallops, Chinese angelica, and dangshen? This is a life. It hasn’t done anything wrong!” I found myself getting quite upset.
Zhuo Ran stared, dazed, not uttering a word. He quietly entwined his fingers with mine. All of a sudden, my heart melted. I was more anxious, nervous, and uneasy than upset. He was innocent in this after all. Who isn’t?
“It is a homing pigeon,” said Uncle Lin. “Its feet have words written on them. Must have traveled a long way, a good pigeon.”
By then, delicious smells wafted up from the kitchen. My mother had started to prepare her best dish, the eggplant clay pot with braised yellow croaker. The rich scent of soy sauce almost brought back childhood memories. It had been so long since the house bustled with so many people. It was as if I
were in a dream. I could either relive it or look forward to it—such a lovely four-member household and simple family happiness.
“Uncle Lin,” I beckoned. “Let it go.”
5O bviously, this dinner made mother quite nervous.
She was not yet ready to chat. Perhaps that was why she suddenly wanted Uncle Lin to be present. It made me feel awkward as well. Uncle Lin kept the pigeon in the courtyard. As we ate our soy-sauce-rich dinner, it kept on pecking rice, drinking water, and cooing, which caused
a bit of a stir. My mother, though, hadn’t quite given up and kept nagging: “Why aren’t we eating such a good pigeon?” Zhuo Ran on the other hand, kept praising my kindness, obvious flattery.
Uncle Lin said to Zhuo Ran: “Qingqing has quite a temper; her moods are so changeable. But, she means well. I watched her grow up. She is very sensitive. Be patient with her as much as you can.”
Zhuo Ran kept nodding, even my mother nodded along. Mother asked Zhuo Ran: “Is it good?” And she put a chopstick-full in his bowl.
I became irritated: “He can eat by himself, no need to help him.”
“It’s all right,” Zhuo Ran said politely.
Hatefully, I thought of the “serving” chopsticks. “Good?” I asked.
But to me, Zhuo Ran’s answer would not make a
difference. “Uncle Lin is a good person; we’ve been
IT COLLAPSED FEEBLY ON THE GROUND, HAVING LOST ALL STRENGTH