Chapter 27: When will an old friend be met? (II)

The rooster crowed at dawn; in the winter morning, the gurgle was hoarse, as if wailing, and each call was more mournful than the last; A Yin had packed up quite a bit ago, and was sitting at the furnace, playing mahjong with Tu Laoyao. Song Shijiu had always been diligent in the past, but today, she dallied, and no one saw a trace of her presence; Li Shiyi, at the table, braced her temple and had tea, the corners of her eyes sweeping in the direction of the securely closed door, then sweeping again; then, without making a sound, she drew her gaze back, her ring finger idly pressing against the space between her brows.

A Yin, seeing this expression of hers, held back laughter cutting a gaze at the faintly discernible bruises beneath her eyes, and tossed her tiles at Li Shiyi, saying with a smile that wasn't a smile, “Who could have imagined?”

“En?” Li Shiyi tossed the syllable at her.

A Yin let out a sorrowful sigh, and said, “Who could have imagined you’d stick to this path.”

With no more than a few obscene phrases, she’d said a thousand things to intimate partners, each time plucking out the inner heart and puncturing the lungs; knowing from early on that Li Shiyi liked hearing them, she’d had to flip through vernacular folk stories to learn a few phrases by heart to relieve her boredom for her.

Li Shiyi cast her an oblique look, the graceful lines of her shoulders and neck drawing back and forth, having the intent to continue the subject.

Just as the words were spoken, the door was pushed open, the sound of the wooden frame opening accompanied by the sound of a small cough, like the sound of an inhalation, caught and stoppered up in the throat, sounding unbearably pitiful. Li Shiyi raised her head, and saw an uncomfortable, powder-pale face, as if it had spent a while bouncing around in a facial compact, pale enough to alarm one’s heart, and even the lips were bloodless, only the distinct red and purple veins on the drooping eyelids pulsing, as if weary, exhausted sparks. Li Shiyi’s heart jumped with worry, but before she could speak, she heard Tu Laoyao ask Song Shijiu, “What happened to you?”

“Last night when I washed my hair, it didn’t dry fully; I got a headache, and couldn’t get much rest the entire night,” Song Shijiu replied, hoarse and catching, and let out a couple more coughs. She made an effort to give Li Shiyi a spirited smile, then weighed the bundle in her hand, and said, “Let’s go?”

Li Shiyi wanted to say something but hesitated, and then stood up, lifting up the luggage as well; Song Shijiu came over, putting herself to service with loose hair, reaching for the parcel, and said, “I’ll take it for you.”

The solicitous manner and the pale, sickly appearance created a distinct contrast, causing Li Shiyi to become fixed on the spot; A Yin drew a rapid breath, shaking her head and leaning close to Tu Laoyao, the corners of her mouth turning down as she said quietly, “How great.”

Tu Laoyao’s lips twitched. “What do you mean?”

A Yin gave him her analysis. “Last night was a straight punch, and today, the advance is made with a retreat; with such a sickly appearance, what sort of responsible person could speak cruelly?” Not to mention that it was the harsh-faced, soft-hearted Li Shiyi. Incredibly melancholic, she supported her cheek; her Li Shiyi, she was afraid, might not be able to be tricked into her bed anymore.

Tu Laoyao said, doubtfully, “That infant, how could she understand all these ways of yours? And where did she learn them?”

A Yin thought for a moment, and then said, “It must be an innate skill.”

Tu Laoyao was just clicking his tongue in astonishment when Li Shiyi, over there, fixed her gaze firmly on Song Shijiu, and grasped her own bags tightly in her hand; frustration flashed within Song Shijiu’s eyes, but Li Shiyi extended a hand towards her, lips parting and closing she said softly, “Give me the bundle.”

Song Shijiu pressed her lips together, her sickness-misted eyes brightening as if with a flame, and, readily following the order, handed over the bundle to her; seeing that Li Shiyi was about to leave, she lowered her head and stamped her feet, her heels hitting the flagstones repeatedly. Li Shiyi suspiciously turned to look at her, and, hearing Song Shijiu drawing weak breaths, said with a hoarse, low voice, “It seems you have a bit of a fever; your ankles don’t have any strength.”

Tu Laoyao hurried forward to carry her, but A Yin tugged at the lower hem of his jacket, her expression cast at him to hint to him to pick up on the clandestine atmosphere between the two.

Li Shiyi’s middle finger tapped gently against the cotton cloth of the bundle; Song Shijiu watched for a bit, then reached out her hand, her soft fingers^[1] crossing the distance, only barely catching one of the corners of the bundle; she said, “You leading me, would that do?” As she spoke, her fingertips tugged on the end of the cloth twice, as if a tiny request.

Alright alright alright, the innermost bits of Tu Laoyao’s heart were all trembling, the little figurines and chicks in his chest nodding as if pecking at rice.

Li Shiyi only lowered her eyes calmly, letting her pull her out the door.

The winter day’s sunlight was the most deceptive thing, plating the two figures, Li and Song, tall and short, with a layer of golden light; the warm halo leaped between Song Shijiu’s eyelashes, picking out her brows and eyes with golden, tender softness; she lazily stretched her bones, her heartbeat aligning with her steps, and her own steps aligned with Li Shiyi’s. Tu Laoyao and A Yin idly followed behind, hearing the much more spiritually recovered young lady throw out clear and sweet questions. “I’ve never seen the summer; is the summertime sun the same as the winter’s?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Let’s go back; will little Tu Laoyao have been born yet?”

“It’s still early.”

“Do you like babies? Do you want to raise one?”

“I don’t.”

“Then that’s perfectly good; I don’t want to either.”

“...”

“What madness has she caught?” Tu Laoyao eyed the young deer that had become an oriole, the endless words of an entire life tossed back and forth like a cart’s wheels.

Song Shijiu didn’t have the spare time to care about the boorish thoughts of those behind her, only clenching her little fist at the seam on the side of her pants. Keep at it, she told herself.

Only after the lesser half of a month, the four returned to Sijiucheng; the frame of Tu Laoyao’s body shook and trembled, as if with a wandering ghost’s constantly thrashing spine, all the way until he entered Li Shiyi’s courtyard house, and only then did his Shar Pei-like, wrinkled face relax, as if an arrow striking the centre of a target. Entering through the gate, the old sweeping lady hurried to insist on taking him to see Tu Saozi; but he expressed an inexplicable pretension, only standing firmly in place, wiping at his grease-shiny hair, asking Li Shiyi, “How is it, do I look dignified or not?”

A Yin let out a cold scoff, and said, “‘Dignity’ isn’t an an ancestor of yours; don’t seek to profit from familial ties.”

Li Shiyi didn’t particularly feel like speaking, and sized up the courtyard house, the black roof and white walls uncontaminated by dust, put in order and made bright and spacious and cleanly by Tu Saozi, rays of sunlight floating through the courtyard frames; at the side of the courtyard a winter-flowering plum shifted, blossoming with trembling flowers, and the senior maidservant Mrs. Chen held back a nimble smile, the feeling of soap for washing and starching laundry within it; the entirety of it was perfectly intimate, like an exceedingly warm, harmonious family. Mrs. Chen called out a greeting, and they saw Tu Saozi supporting her lower back and coming from the east court, having gained a great bump; contrasting with the ample aura of pregnancy, her face had become extremely joyful, her belly protruding a bit, making her movements somewhat laborious; she was wearing an everyday dark red coat, and her hands were wet with the water that hadn’t yet been wiped dry; seeing Li Shiyi, she looked a bit embarrassed, not knowing what she should call out, and only called out a single greeting call, not too loudly: “Guniang.”

Tu Laoyao, seeing her, was incredibly ill at ease; his toes pressed to his soft cloth shoes, and he reached out in the space between himself and Li Shiyi and made a couple circles, and then said in a loud voice, “What are you being courteous for? This is my brother.”

Brother? A Yin and Song Shijiu looked at him at once, and even Li Shiyi raised her brow.

Tu Laoyao carefully removed a word, and uncertainly corrected with, “Sister?”

This sound of “sister” made his gums a bit sore, and even his kneecaps turned inward a bit. The corners of Li Shiyi’s mouth rose, and Tu Saozi also became cheerful; having unexpectedly succeeded by a stroke of luck drove out the awkwardness, and she said to Li Shiyi with a few laughing words, “Have you eaten yet? I just rolled out noodles and boiled some paste, and if you don’t think less of it, I was making zhajiangmian.”

Song Shijiu nodded her head as if pounding garlic; Li Shiyi, glancing at her, gathered up the bundle that had been leading her, and followed Tu Saozi into the east court.

The east court was both like the front courtyard, and also unlike it; it was nothing like the residence of a wealthy family’s, but rather, it was like a peasant’s courtyard that had been put in the wrong place. The inside had a bamboo framework, with a row of differently-coloured clothes hung up to dry; beneath the clothes were a few buckets at angles, bottle gourd ladles swaying about within. In the flowerbed on the other side had been planted vegetables, and above it was a trellis for grapes, which several vines had wound around, not having yet borne fruit, so it wasn’t clear yet what they were. In the middle was a table, seeming to be the one that had been moved from the old residence. Seeing Li Shiyi’s measuring glance, Tu Saozi anxiously cast a glance at Tu Laoyao, unable to relax; usually, during the day, she liked to do farm work, but in the end it was someone else’s residence, and unfortunately Li Shiyi’s appearance was one that made her emotions hard to tell, making her nervous enough as to be tongue-tied.

“Will you eat outside?” Tu Saozi asked, unconsciously rubbing the table with her cuff.

“That’s fine as well,” Li Shiyi replied.

Tu Laoyao comfortingly patted Tu Saozi’s back, and went with her to carry the zhajiangmian out. The externally slippery, internally pliable but strong noodles were wrapped with salty, aromatic, rich black bean paste, accompanied by thin slices of fresh, tasty radish and cucumber, both light and filling; Tu Laoyao’s fingers moved rapidly, stuffing in mouthful after mouthful, filled enough as to have no room to speak. Tu Saozi saw Li Shiyi didn’t much like to speak, but still ate with relish, and her heart relaxed, and she even found time to ask them about their experiences.

Song Shijiu may have rushed to answer, but her body still hadn’t recovered fully, and after eating half a small bowl, she discontentedly pillowed her head on her arms on the table, and, speaking and halting intermittently, listened to the casual conversation.

She’d just closed her eyes and been about to relax when she heard Tu Saozi say, “I almost forgot.”

“What is it?” Li Shiyi drew her gaze back from Song Shijiu’s face.

Tu Saozi put together another bowl for Tu Laoyao, and said, “Not long after you all left, there was a young lady who came by, and didn’t answer when asked what she was doing; she came once every few days, and would only ask if you’d come back or not.”

This “you” she aimed at Li Shiyi, and Li Shiyi briefly muttered to herself, then asked her, “Do you know what her surname and name were?”

“I asked.” Tu Saozi placed the bowl in front of Tu Laoyao, and said, “She said her surname was Yan, and she was known as Futi.”

The name was very strange; Li Shiyi’s suspicions grew like a thicket, and she unconsciously repeated it.

Yan Futi.^[2]

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Translator's notes:

[1]: The raws are 凝脂 (ning zhi), literally “congealed fat”, but that doesn’t sound very complimentary in English, so the descriptor of “soft” has been used to hopefully preserve a more positive connotation. 

[2]: The Sinicised pronunciation of the Sanskrit Jambudvīpa, used to refer to the Indian cultural sphere in ancient Indian sources.