Chinese Stories in English
Ordinary People 05
Stories published in 《百姓人家》(2023), 秦俑/赵建宁选编
Page citation and link to online Chinese text noted after each story.
1. A Daughter's Dancing 3. Her Final Song 4. The Boy Who Stole a Book
2. The Protagonist 5. An Uncontrollable Death
1. A Daughter's Dancing (女儿的舞蹈)
Fu Haoyong (符浩勇)
The instructor tapped on the desk with a long ruler and droned, “Quiet. Quiet. Everyone watch carefully as I demonstrate again, then every student will imitate me once. I’ll correct any irregularities one by one. Training is hard, but how can you achieve success without hard work?” Millette stared at the instructor intently.
A party to welcome Chinese and foreign children was scheduled for one evening during the World Expo. The organizers gathered all the students who were to perform at the party for intensive training every weekend. Ten parents accompanied the ten students to the training each session, and this was the sixth one. Millette’s mother usually came with her, but this day her father was doing something at the training site, so he came along with her mother.
Millette looked helpless and depressed as she listened while the instructor tapped on the desk with her ruler. She was confused and anxious in school because she couldn't learn factoring well. She also didn’t take dance lessons, but her mother seemed particularly excited when Millette was selected to participate in the training for the children's party. She advised her daughter to put her mind to it.
In recent weeks, whenever she was free at home, her mother asked her to perform the gestures in front of a mirror; listen to the music while doing the movements; go through the steps to the rhythm of the music and adjust her movements to the rhythm; and finally put it all together in a full body synthesis. After a few days, she thought she was finally doing the dance as it was supposed to be done. But when the instructor mentioned the standard just now, she was unsure again.
The instructor turned and floated onto the stage, accompanied by the soothing and familiar melody. She explained while she demonstrated, finally ending to the parents’ warm applause. She stopped and smiled, but her face was so taut it made people feel like she was crying. She said: “Although the movements of this dance are simple, the musicality is very strong and the requirements are also very high. The dancers’ limbs demonstrate flower petals falling one after another, and the falling petals remind us that our time on earth passes quickly. These movements illustrate the fleeting nature of beauty. If the dancers don't put themselves into it fully, it’s difficult to bring out the flavor of the dance.”
Eventually it was Millette's turn to perform on stage, and her heartbeat kicked up a notch. In her heart she wanted to make her parents proud, but she also feared failure and embarrassment because of the instructor’s strictness.
The instructor was obviously a little quick-tempered this time. There was nothing encouraging or affirmative in her tone of voice. First, she said that Millette’s movements were not up to standard and too rigid. Then she complained that Millette wasn’t dancing to the rhythm and lacked musicality. She didn’t bring out the flavor of petals falling one after another.
Millette stared nervously at the faces of her parents in the audience as she moved back and forth across the stage. The instructor patiently made some other points, but Millette was still anxious and it was getting harder and harder for her to keep to the rhythm of the music. She caught her father's glance from the audience, and he acted as if it didn’t bother him, but her mother looked unhappy.
Millette was covered in sweat when she came off the stage. Her father approached her and said something he loved to say to his own students. “It's okay, you've made great progress!” Millette's expression calmed right down and she continued to watch the other children dancing from the comfort of her father's arms.
Then Millette heard a shrill cry. She looked and saw that the mother of a child who’d just come off the stage was furtively twisting the child’s hip. The mother was obviously dissatisfied with her daughter's performance on the stage and had made an angry gesture of disappointment. The girl couldn’t keep quiet and burst into tears of pain, and the instructor glared at them fiercely from beneath the stage. Millette understood that the instructor wanted them to stop making trouble and go outside to cry. The mother did take the child out of the room.
Millette noticed a smile sweep past her mother’s face, indicating she felt satisfied that at least her daughter hadn't cried so disappointingly. Millette abruptly broke free from her father's arms and followed the other girl and her mother outside. She knew that she had to go comfort the girl, who was her elementary school classmate, because expressing sympathy can sometimes bolster a person's own self-confidence.
Ten students took turns mounting the stage to practice, and the instructor spoke to each one. She took special note of a woman who’d come there from the countryside and said her daughter had danced the best. The girl hadn’t missed a beat, unlike xxx (including Millette and the student whose hip had just been twisted) who had danced so carelessly and rigidly.... Those whose dancing wasn’t up to standard should work harder. There wasn’t much time before the party, and she hoped that parents would supervise their children at home and encourage them to train harder....
The woman from the countryside blushed with pride and modesty at the instructor’s praise. The other parents' eyes were full of respect for her. When the instructor asked her to speak, she hesitated. Finally, fumbling for words, she explained her experience teaching her child: if you don't dance well, you won't eat, and if you don't work hard, how can you succeed? Since she herself can't dance, she believed her child had to learn to dance well and become a famous performer.
Warm applause led by the instructor rang out in the training area. Millette noticed that her father didn't clap, which mystified her. Maybe what the woman said was right, or maybe it wasn’t. It’s easy for parents to pin their unfulfilled dreams on the next generation, but if the children fail to achieve them, they’ll bear that burden to the end of their lives.
Her mom and dad didn't say anything on the way home, and Millette didn't dare say anything either. Before they went inside, though, Millette finally said, “I didn't dance well today. How many more times do I need to practice?”
Dad kindly changed his usually long-winded way of speaking and said, “Practice as often as you want. If you don't want to practice, take a break. From now on we won't force you to do anything you don't want to do.”
The result was: In dance class, Millette's instructor praised her as her dancing became more and more exceptional.
Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 159. Translated from 商洛人文学院 at
http://rwy.slxy.edu.cn/info/2036/4256.htm (under the name 佳禾的舞蹈)
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2. The Protagonist (主角)
Liu Liqin (刘立勤)
All actors want to play leading roles. Tan Four's dream was to play the lead in Chinese operas, and he’d suffered plenty in order to accomplish that dream.
Let's put aside the difficulties of singing for the moment and first talk about physical performances. When he trained in the necessary athletic dancing moves, he flipped, leapt, pounced, tumbled, rolled and fell, often getting bruised and swollen. When he practiced the weaponry skills, he used knives, spears, swords, halberds, axes, hooks, forks and sticks, almost getting his eyes poked out by training partners several times in sparring sessions. Eventually he even underwent hardships to develop a good set of skills for compact handguns, sidearms, long poles, large blades, double-edged blades and other things, including techniques for multi-person battling, each of which was refined to a high degree of proficiency.
Such a good seedling is naturally a person who can play leading roles. Ever since he joined a troupe, however, he’d always been assigned bit parts. He’d never played even a significant supporting role.
The old troupe leader wasn’t to blame for this. He really liked and appreciated Four, even arranging for him to play the leading role in several major plays, but Four wasn’t right for them. The old troupe leader then arranged for him to play a weighty supporting role, but it still wasn’t a good fit.
How can that be explained? Off stage, Four’s performances were free and unrestrained, but once on stage, it was all over. His every move was affected, and his routines were old-fashioned and inflexible. His severe tones when singing and his rigidity when fighting were hard to endure. The old troupe leader loved opera as much as his life, so he had to harden his heart. He assigned Four to minor roles because he thought it would help him build up his confidence and maybe improve his performances.
Four had no complaints. He played minor roles on stage and practiced protagonist roles off stage. Everyone cheered his exceptional offstage performances in practice sessions, but he messed up the choreography when the bronze gong sounded and he walked on stage in living color. He wasn’t good enough even for minor roles. In his own words, he ended up failing to alleviate the old troupe leader’s dashed hopes, totally ending any chance of playing the protagonist on stage.
But he still wanted to play the protagonist.
After the troupe had been popular for a few years, he rarely acted anymore. He’d lost not only the chance to play leading roles, but even the chance to play bit parts. When the old troupe leader went on tour with his people, Four took a long vacation and stopped working.
He was able to endure hardship. He and his wife opened a cold noodle shop opposite the county government offices. He worked hard to keep the shop clean and tidy, and his steamed noodles were soft and chewy. I often went to his shop to eat, as did many others.
He made the noodles himself every time I went there. He’d put a handful each of bean sprouts, shredded cucumber and glistening noodles in a ladle filled with oily water; add three milliliters each of salt and vinegar and swish it around; then take the ladle over to a huge bowl of chilis. He’d scoop up three “single-strand noodles”, each three meters long, and dip them in the chilis so that the chili oil would jump onto the noodles and thence into the mixture. He’d add a spoonful of chilis, lift up the ladle and shake it a few times, and a plate of delicious cold noodles was ready.
I asked him, “You can even make preparing cold noodles look like performance art, so how come on stage you just... just….”
“I can't explain it,” he answered. “I did tell myself to perform well and get a little glory, but when the gong sounded, my hands and feet seemed to not belong to me. They wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do.”
I said, “That’s all right. You don't have to play a role in a theatrical performance anymore. We’re all the protagonists in our own lives.”
“I’d still like to play the leading role on stage,” he replied.
That’s what he really did want. He bought coal and rice; made rice milk; steamed, cut and blended noodles; wiped down tables and benches.... He was exhausted from working all day, but he continued to practice his singing, athletic dancing and weaponry skills.... He never slacked off on any of them, always thinking that one day he’d be on stage again and play the protagonist.
Four rejoined the troupe and continued trying to make his dream of being the leading actor come true. However, when he had the opportunity to perform on stage again, he still couldn't be the protagonist. He couldn’t overcome his problems, and further, the stage was now dominated by young people. Everything they did subverted tradition. Occasionally his turn came to go on stage in some bit part, but his performance made other people feel that something was off, and not only that -- he himself felt discomfited as well.
His wife asked him to transfer to the Community Center, but he refused. “I’m an actor,” he said, “so why should I go to the Community Center?” He still dreamed of being the leading actor while he continued to play bit parts in the troupe, as well as taking a minor role as his wife’s helper in the noodle shop.
After the troupe recruited another group of young actors, he wasn’t even given bit parts, let alone leading roles. The new director asked him to quit with pay, but Four couldn’t resign himself to giving up his dream and looked to his beautiful daughter. He wanted her to go to an art school and eventually take his place as a protagonist on the stage. How could his wife agree to that? They quarreled and he refused to listen to anyone's advice.
Later I heard that Four had left Wengcheng. There was no news of him for a long time thereafter.
More than a decade later, when people were about to forget him, Four suddenly became famous. The provincial newspaper described his deeds in a half-page article. We learned that he’d been hired as an art director for a famous art school in the provincial capital after he left Wengcheng. He trained hundreds of talented operatic artists there, including two Plum Blossom Award winners, five Super Star Audition award winners and countless leading players.... The article called him “the protagonist behind the protagonists.”
I saw him in a teahouse in the provincial capital. His voice was filled with pride and a touch of regret when he told me, “If I can't play the lead, there’ll always be someone who can do it for me!”
A beam of light shone from his eyes at that moment.
Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 161. Translated from 我爱语文网 at
https://m.51bc.net/page/24-03-02/206708.html
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3. Her Final Song (绝唱)
Hou Fashan (候发山)
Chang Xiangyu(1) finally collapsed from exhaustion after years of traveling and frequent performances. She didn't want to be hospitalized at first. She knew her disease was incurable, and hospitalization would cost money and take up medical resources. She had in fact come down with an incurable disease, cancer. She told her family, as if it were no big deal, “I'm 80 years old and just a machine. It's normal for parts to have some problems. It's okay.” Like parents all over the world, though, she didn't want her children to have any regrets. She wanted to give them a chance to fulfill their filial duties, so she eventually went to the hospital.
Many people, from leaders at all levels to ordinary people, were worried about her after the news of her hospitalization spread, and many rushed to the hospital to visit her. Those who were too far away to make it there sent flowers or fruits, or expressed their concern for her through various other channels.
Although she was hospitalized, a famous director named Zhang came to visit with an ulterior motive in mind. In addition to expressing condolences, he wanted her to participate in a major concert and offered a 300,000-yuan appearance fee. Her condition had temporarily improved at the time. She felt no pain and was able to talk and laugh, and she was in much better spirits.
Truth be told, she’d never rejected anyone in her life. She once said that people came to see her because they thought highly of her. But aside from being able to hum a few lines, what talent did she have? She told Director Zhang, “I’d like to participate, but I'm afraid I’m not up to it.”
Director Zhang said, “Just sing a little.... If 300,000 isn’t enough, I’ll go half a mil….”
“It's not the money. I really can't do it.” She knew her own body well and couldn't make things difficult for her children or the organization.
“Just come. I'll pay you the same even if you don't sing.” Director Zhang hadn’t lost hope. Truth is, she was so famous the concert would be halfway to success if she just showed up.
But no matter what Director Zhang said, in the end she still refused. She would have considered it, but she knew in her heart that it was a commercial performance, and this Director Zhang had some romantic interest.
She planned to go home to recuperate after a while, but her illness relapsed. The cancer cells spread, and blood showed up in her stool and urine. She had the best doctors, the best equipment, the best medicine…. The regretful thing was, her health continued to deteriorate.
When she learned, while lying on her hospital bed, that a performance was being held at an Olympic venue construction site to express concern for the migrant workers from Henan, she decided to perform. When she told people what she had in mind, they were all shocked and thought that the cancer cells had confused her.
“I'm not confused.... If I don't go, I'm afraid I’ll never have another chance.” She paused, gathered her strength, and said in fits and starts, “The people in my home province love to listen to my operas.... and I think of them, too.”
The doctor said: “If you sing, you’ll need some luck. There’s an incision near your pubic area that could easily get stretched.”
She smiled and said, “I’ve been singing all my life, so I can keep a handle on the proper limits.”
“Mom, you have been singing for a lifetime. Isn't that enough?!” When Little Jade spoke, tears had already welled up in her eyes.
The doctor spoke without thinking. “It's a special performance to thank the workers, so there's no appearance fee.”
She interrupted the doctor and said tartly, “I wouldn’t take an appearance fee even if there was one!”
The doctor realized what he’d said, so he quickly apologized. “You really can't perform again,” he said. Your health is more important than playing in an opera.”
“As I see it,” she responded, “opera is more important than anything else!” Since no one could talk her out of it, they had to let her do what she wanted. If they insisted on not letting her go, it would only make things worse.
She said, “I haven't sung for quite some time. I need to practice.”
Jadelike was a little angry but still patient. She said, “Mom, everyone knows you’re sick. Even if your singing is off a bit, they’ll understand.”
“No! I have to practice!” So she took some painkillers and got to it. She didn’t stop until she’d practiced several times and felt satisfied.
It was December 23, 2003, just after midwinter, and it was very cold. A norther was blowing, too. She went to the Beijing Olympics construction site against the advice of her doctors and relatives. Her daughters Little Jade and Jadelike accompanied her. Before the performance, a doctor made it clear that she should stop if she felt pain in the area of the incision and not force herself to continue.
She took painkillers, dressed neatly, applied makeup painstakingly and went onstage. Her temperament and appearance amazed the audience from the first turn of her body and the first artistic pose, and everyone was amazed when she started to sing. She performed a clip from the modern opera, “The Bend in Willow River“:
“I push a vegetable cart eastward when I get off work at the construction site.
“Commune members can eat and rest in the sunny field at the ravine’s east end.
“I push my cart there to earn some pocket money and make things convenient for them.
“I grow all these vegetables in my own yard, and they’re all clean and healthy....”
She enunciated powerfully and sang melodiously. The whole room sang along with her, but some sobbing could be heard amongst the constant applause. They knew that this was a person whose body was riddled with disease, and who’d just changed out of a hospital gown.
She wiped the sweat off her forehead after the performance and slowly walked down from the stage with the help of her two daughters. Enduring excruciating pain, she smiled and shook hands with the migrant workers who came up to her, asked about their health and took photos with them. She hadn't held on to finish the number, so she apologized to everyone. “I'm sorry, my fellows, I couldn't make it all the way through....”
Back at the hospital, her two daughters changed her clothes. Tears began to roll down their cheeks when they saw that her upper underwear was wet, soaked with sweat! The woolen pants and fleece pants on her lower body were also soaking wet, not with urine or sweat, but with blood, bright red blood! The two daughters couldn’t hold back the tears and burst out crying. “Don't cry,” she urged them, “I'm still alive.” That made the two children cry even harder.
She passed away not long thereafter. This was Chang Xiangyu, a Communist Party member, a master of modern Henan opera, and a People's Artist honored as one of the “Double Hundred” figures(2).
1/ While Chang Xiangyu was a real person, your translator can’t confirm whether any part of the story is factual. The essay reads like it was written by a propaganda committee. Sentences are injected randomly in places where they don’t fit the narrative.
2/ One hundred people honored for making huge contributions to the foundation of the PRC, and one hundred whose stories deeply move the Chinese people.
Text (edited version of original essay) at 《百姓人家》 p. 167. Translated from
新浪博客 at https://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_48fa92ea0102zcjo.html
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4. The Boy Who Stole a Book (窃书的少年)
He Junhua (何君华)
I really liked that book -- the illustrated, hardcover Journey to the West. I’d “wolf down” a few pages every time I went to the Xinhua Bookstore.
I was in junior high at a boarding in Sappanwood (note: a town in Inner Mongolia). We finished school at 5:00 p.m. every day and had study hall at 6:00. We used the hour to eat dinner and have free activities, but I had no time for either. I was the first to rush out of the classroom when the bell rang. I’d run to the bookstore on central Sappanwood Street to read the novel. The bookstore closed at 5:30, so if I didn't run fast, I couldn’t read more than a few pages before I’d have to “hit the road for home”.
I’d watched the TV series Journey to the West on our black and white TV, but it wasn’t satisfying at all. There was no sense of soaring into the heavens and plunging into the earth, or of shattering the firmament underfoot. This illustrated version was different, though. The illustrations were exquisite, fully capturing the spirit of the Monkey King, Sun Wukong.
The salesclerk at the bookstore was quite familiar with me by then. Every day when I ran in the store entrance out of breath, he’d always nod at me, or smile, or joke around: “Hey, I’d close the store if you didn't come!” I’d smile at him shyly, then rush to the innermost row of bookshelves, find the copy of Journey to the West in its place on the third shelf and start reading, making full use of every minute.
Sappanwood Junior High was more than a mile from the bookstore, leaving me less than twenty minutes to read. If you don’t know, twenty minutes is way too little time for someone who loves reading. All too soon I’d be engrossed in the story when the familiar closing call would interrupt me. I never knew how many times the salesclerk had called out before I heard him, but I’d reluctantly put the book back on the shelf the instant I did, and immediately run back to the school cafeteria to eat.
Yes, I was always the last one to rush into the cafeteria to get dinner. There was often nothing left to eat by then, but I didn’t regret it.
I really liked that book, so much so that a terrible idea popped up in my mind – I’d steal that copy of Journey to the West and bring it back to the dorm!
I discovered by chance that the latch on the door connecting the retail area to the storeroom wasn’t actually locked. Whenever the clerk went to the storeroom to get books, he’d close the door gently without locking it. Also, the back door of the storeroom was bolted from the inside. In other words, all I had to do was unhook the latch on the storeroom back door when the clerk wasn’t paying attention, then leave the lock on door into the retail area hanging loose.
At 8:00 in the evening, as soon as the bell rang for the end of the evening study hall, I couldn’t wait to rush off to the bookstore. This time, unlike the past, I went in through the back door instead of the front.
I pushed with my hand and the storeroom’s back door did indeed open! My heart was pounding as I groped my way through the storeroom. I opened the door to the retail area, “picked up” the Journey to the West from its familiar location, then gently closed the two doors and ran away without looking back.
I hid the book under my pillow back in the dorm. I didn’t dare bring it out to show to anyone.
The next day, I didn't run to Xinhua Bookstore as usual after school, but I still didn't dare to take out Journey to the West to read in front of my classmates. It was too nerve-racking. I was looking forward to the weekend so I could take the book home to read.
It seemed like ages before the weekend finally came. When Eji (Mongolian for mother) went out, driving sheep ahead of her, I took the book out from my schoolbag and started reading like there was no time left to lose.
“What’s that book you’ve got there? Where’d you get it?” I was so engrossed in reading that I didn't realize when Eji came up and stood behind me.
I was startled. When she saw how scared I was, she seemed to understand everything, so I didn't try to cover it up. I told her every last detail of how I’d stolen the book from the Xinhua Bookstore. When I finished my confession, I waited for her to thrash me with the whip she used to herd the sheep.
But the whip in her hand didn’t move for a long time. Then she abruptly collapsed to the floor and burst into tears. “What did I do to give birth to a thief!”
I knelt down in front of her, continuing to admit my mistake and begging her to forgive me. After she wiped away her tears, she took me and the copy of the novel to the bookstore.
I was too ashamed to raise my head as I faced the salesclerk who’d trusted me so much, but in fact he already knew everything. “You read Journey to the West every time you came here, then all of a sudden the book was gone, so of course I guessed who’d taken it. I was sure you’d bring it back, though....” He used the word “take”, not “steal”. My tears flowed even more.
Eji took out all the loose change she had in her pocket and placed it on the counter to buy my beloved Journey to the West. I knew the amount she paid was far more than the actual price of the book....
That illustrated version of Journey to the West is still on my bookshelf. I’ve read it many times and its pages have turned yellow, but I’m sure I’ll treasure it for the rest of my life.
Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 179. Translated from 福州晚报 (under the name偷书记) at https://mag.fznews.com.cn/fzwb/2024/20240624/20240624_A08/20240624_A08_2.htm
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5. An Uncontrollable Death (一次不受控制的死亡)
Mo Xiaotan (莫小谈)
Daybreak Hu was crushed when Possibility Zhang died. Her mind was blank, and she didn't know how it could end like that.
Possibility's fate should have been in Daybreak's hands, but Daybreak had become absolutely powerless. The sense of helplessness corroded her body slowly, inch by inch. It was the first time she’d experienced such a feeling.
Daybreak had tried to save the situation, but it was in the thirty-eighth chapter – ah, no, to be precise, it should be when the plot entered the thirtieth chapter. That was when Daybreak gradually realized something was wrong and the entire book’s plot was completely out of her control. Daybreak hadn’t originally intended that Fourth Master Zhao would marry Maize and take her away, or that Grand Qian would pack his bags and row across West River in a skiff. In the outline for her composition, Maize should’ve settled down with Grand at the stream’s bridgehead and made a living by fishing and making tea, but everything changed because Maize insisted on going her own way. That wasn’t a big deal, though. These things paled to insignificance when compared to Possibility's death. It's like the line from the ancient song(1), “My hair is black in youth, turning white as I wait for you” -- just one less pastoral couple in the world.
But now, Possibility was dead. Daybreak couldn’t accept this fact.
Possibility was a character in a novel Daybreak was writing. She didn't like this minor character very much at first, but as she wrote, she began to feel that the woman was so loveable, a true-to-life character who had clear likes and dislikes. Daybreak couldn't help but pour out her heart to Possibility late at night, just like a pair of old friends with endless things to talk about. Sometimes she’d ask: “Tell me, Possibility, what do you think Maize plans on doing? She must want to marry Fourth Master.” Sometimes, she’d talk to Possibility about her own life and ideals, or complain about a bunch of other people at work, or bring up trivial matters between her and her husband. Possibility was always a faithful and devoted listener, resting her chin on both hands and tilting her head to look at Daybreak with a smile.
Daybreak once mentioned Possibility to her husband. She told him Possibility was the most perfect character she’d ever created, but her husband didn't even look at her. “You should live with Possibility from now on,” he said. “Marry her and have another daughter, and the three of you can live together like pixies.”
Look at that, spoken like a true clod!
Daybreak also disagreed with her daughter's opinion. The girl believed that Possibility, a character Daybreak had created, was actually Daybreak herself. She said, “Mom, you’ve racked your brains to create this character, but isn't she just another you?”
No, not at all. She had nothing in common with Possibility except for her height, weight, long hair and large eyes. She told herself that her daughter didn't understand her, just like the girl’s father didn’t. “The two of you don't even understand me, so how can you understand Possibility?” She mumbled to herself.
“Possibility isn’t bothered by the trivialities of family life and doesn't worry herself about social barriers. She wouldn’t kill a living being, wouldn’t eat a box of fried leek dumplings on the bus, and wouldn't burp or fart in public. Possibility is Possibility. We’re two different people from two different worlds. How could anyone get us mixed up?” That’s what she told herself.
The book’s plot entered Chapter forty-five, the second year since Maize married Fourth Master. The two weeks of the Grain in Ear Festival is a time when people burn incense and offer sacrifices to the god of flowers. Possibility didn’t make elaborate advance plans, as Daybreak had, to build a tomb to bury flowers with tears in her eyes like Sister Lin(2). Instead, she hung herself from a ceiling beam after happily performing the “Mandarin Duck Sword” dance. She left behind no entanglements.
Everything beautiful turned to ashes along with Possibility's three feet of white silk(3). Daybreak felt that any attempt to save her would be futile and crude, so she just let her go. But that didn't mean Daybreak was relieved. Even now, she still can't accept that such a perfect person died like that. Daybreak seemed to be possessed by a demon and kept muttering to herself, “Daybreak, Daybreak, how could you be so incompetent, so selfish, so cold-blooded? You just watched her die without trying to save her!”
She mourned, her heart torn to shreds.
Daybreak once heard a writer say that the most carefree time for an author is when they reach the point where they can’t control the direction of the plot. What nonsense, complete nonsense. How can anyone be carefree when they can't even control the fate of the characters they write about? Where’s the joy in that? She suddenly burst into tears, with no end to her pain.
Her husband came into her study and when he saw the state she was in, he turned away without saying a word to comfort her. He’d long since become a stranger to her, just a passerby who happened to live near her. They had nothing to discuss all day, and he was disinclined to even engage in small talk. When he really had to communicate, he’d ask their daughter to pass on a message to her, like it's time to eat, or time to get a physical, or time to visit the grandparents.
Then her daughter came in and brought her some fruit. She asked, “Are you feeling sick, Mom? Shall we go to the hospital?” Once again, this was her father's idea. Why else would she bring her fruit? She was obviously there to get some info about her. Daybreak waved her hand to signal her daughter to leave.
She wanted to cry her heart out while Possibility's body hadn’t yet grown cold. Like the song “Bao Yu Weeping at the Bier“(4):
“Now not even a thousand cries can call her back.
“It’s hard to rise to Heaven or enter Hell to see her again.
“I lament that I
“Couldn't say a few parting words to her in life,
“And cannot bear such a large coffin in death....”
Before the song was finished, Daybreak heard her husband and daughter arguing outside the door about whether to call 120, the emergency hotline. It seemed that they’d continue to argue for a while. “Do whatever you want. You’re always wasting your time and energy on such meaningless things, and who really cares whether Possibility is alive or dead?” Daybreak thought that to herself.
(1) From “Introspection – A Long Ghostly Dream on Pass Mountain” (生查子·关山魂梦长) by Song Dynasty poet Yan Jidao (晏几道).
(2) A reference to a scene in the classic novel Dream of the Red Chamber (红楼梦) about the resolution of misunderstandings between lovers.
(3) A cord used by ancient emperors to hang ministers thought to be disloyal, now a symbol of injustice.
(4) Also from the Dream of the Red Chamber, when the protagonist learns that Sister Lin has died.
Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 189. Translated from 刊 APP 下载 at https://m.fx361.cc/news/2023/1019/23214597.html