Half a Cup of Wine - Chapter 6
Part Six: Stone
Crows cawed when Shi Qiufeng returned.
The cawing kept me awake, so I got up, grabbed a broom and dustpan, and went outside to sweep the snow. As I opened the door, I saw Shi Qiufeng’s smile.
A cold wind howled, rattling the wooden door.
I was momentarily stunned.
He was thinner, tanned, travel-worn.
His smile was as bright as ever, his eyes as sharp as before.
I had thought that even if Shi Qiufeng returned to Chang'an, it wouldn’t be for at least three to five years. I had thought that even if he did return, the light in his eyes would have dimmed, his smile would be tinged with bitterness, and his face would be etched with exhaustion. I had thought that this sharp, newly unsheathed blade would quickly be dulled by the world, its edges worn smooth, reduced to the mundane.
Yet he stood there, still carrying his father’s sanxian, his master’s narrow-bladed saber at his waist. His eyes were sharp, his gaze concealing a hidden edge.
The only difference from when I first met him was his empty left sleeve.
Shi Qiufeng smiled. “Haven’t seen you for six months, and you don’t recognize me already?”
I looked down at my snow-soaked shoes. “When did you arrive?”
“A quarter past five,”1 he replied.
The city gates opened at five o'clock sharp. It was now a quarter to six. He entered the city the moment the gates opened and came straight to my place.
We had breakfast together at the same tavern where we first met.
“Let’s go back and take a look,” Shi Qiufeng said.
People’s ability to forget is terrifying. Joys and sorrows, whether relevant to oneself or not, fade quickly, becoming insignificant.
The bloodstained ground from half a month ago was already covered in thick snow. Business at the tavern was as brisk as ever. Patrons drank and chatted, the clinking of cups and the boisterous laughter filling the air. No one remembered the people who died in front of the tavern, no one remembered the young man who drew his saber in the rain, yet spared the disciples who ambushed him, saying the ones who deserved to die were their sect leaders.
People’s ability to heal is also remarkable. No matter how many times someone turns the Jianghu upside down, when the dust settles, the Jianghu remains the same. It’s just the people within it who change.
Now, this young man had returned.
He hadn't drawn his saber again, but I knew he had returned for that very purpose.
Shi Qiufeng ordered a few signature dishes and a pot of strong liquor. The waiter trembled at the sight of the narrow-bladed saber on the table, his eyes filled with apprehension. After taking the order, he quickly scurried away.
Shi Qiufeng looked surprised. “There are plenty of Jianghu people here. Why are they so afraid of me?”
I looked at his sharp eyes. “Your aura is too fierce.”
Across from the tavern was Dr. Shen’s medical stall. A long queue of people waited patiently, the scent of medicinal herbs wafting through the air. Fang Hanhua, dressed in white, bustled about, brewing medicine, enveloped in steam, like an ethereal being untouched by the world.
When Xue Wuyi found out that Dr. Shen was treating refugees for free, he mocked him relentlessly. “Did you charge me such exorbitant fees all those years just so you could play the benevolent saint?”
Dr. Shen kicked him out. “Get out!”
Xue Wuyi turned back with a grin. “You’re still as spry as ever, old man!”
Dr. Shen’s white beard trembled with rage.
Dr. Shen had traveled extensively in his youth, living a carefree life. He settled down in Chang'an in his old age, accompanying his wife, and treating patients as he pleased, known for his bad temper. He kicked his two sons out of the house as soon as they came of age. I’d never met the elder son, but I’d seen the younger one twice. I didn’t know where he was eking out a living now.
Ten years ago, when Xue Wuyi was in trouble, no one dared to help him, except Dr. Shen.
Back then, his beard wasn't entirely white. He would sit with his wife at the entrance of the alley every day, basking in the sun, brewing medicine with one hand, teasing the yellow dog in front of their house with a willow branch in the other, as carefree as an immortal. Xue Wuyi had never met him before. When I desperately sought his help, I never thought he would actually save anyone.
Immortals don’t save mortals. Whether Buddha saves all sentient beings for their sake, or for his own sake, just as whether Dr. Shen was a carefree immortal or a grumpy old man, I never understood.
Someone, emboldened, asked him why he saved that murderous fiend.
“I like the look in the kid’s eyes,” he said.
The person stared. “That’s it?”
Dr. Shen puffed out his beard. “That’s it.”
A white porcelain cup was placed on the wooden table with a clink. It was filled with strong liquor, its color clear and bright as a mirror. Strong liquor was usually pure and transparent. Only light wines had various hues, dazzling the eye.
I snapped back to reality. The dishes had already arrived. "I don't drink," I said.
“I remember,” Shi Qiufeng said, “But what’s the harm in trying?”
I looked down at the full cup. "Some things are best left untried."
He smiled. “How would you know if you don’t try?”
The strong liquor burned as it went down, as if a knife had scraped my throat, leaving a fiery sensation in my mouth. I choked, coughing until tears welled up in my eyes.
Shi Qiufeng asked, "How is it?"
I wiped away my tears and pushed the cup away. "Not good.”
He laughed.
On our way back, we passed a wealthy household and saw a young servant boy tossing a small, black kitten out the door. The kitten's fur hadn't even fully grown in. Abandoned in the freezing cold, it would soon freeze to death.
Shi Qiufeng made a sound of surprise and went forward to ask, "Why did you throw the kitten away?"
The servant boy, sweeping snow with his head down, replied curtly, “The mother cat is a pure white pedigree. She gave birth to a litter of pure white kittens. Only one or two had a bit of color. This one is completely black. The mistress finds it unlucky, a bad omen.”
Then, he looked up and saw Shi Qiufeng. His expression changed, and he waved his broom as if swatting a fly. “Where did this beggar come from? There’s no food here! Scram! Don’t dirty our doorstep!”
The vermillion gate slammed shut with a bang.
I couldn't help but laugh.
Shi Qiufeng looked at himself in bewilderment. "How do I look like a beggar?"
Not far away, a group of refugees huddled together for warmth. There were so many beggars asking for food that Shi Qiufeng, covered in dust from his travels, could easily be mistaken for one. Countless refugees froze and starved to death every day, while a wealthy mistress discarded a kitten because of its unlucky coat color.
I looked down at the abandoned kitten.
It huddled in the snow, clinging to the only source of warmth it could find, a half-withered blade of grass. Its black fur was stark against the white snow. It didn’t look at the closed vermillion gate behind it, but stared at us with wide eyes.
It was no longer a house cat, but a stray.
Nearby, starving refugees continued to bang on the closed gates of wealthy households, crying and begging on their knees for a bowl of congee from the masters and mistresses who were playing with their cats inside. Sometimes, a person could live for decades and still be worth less than a kitten that hadn’t even been weaned.
Shi Qiufeng clicked his tongue. “This kitten is interesting.”
He picked it up, placed it in front of the vermillion gate, lifted its paw, and gently tapped the door. Then he pointed inside. The kitten looked at Shi Qiufeng’s finger, then at me, then back at the gate. Its paw hovered for a moment before it put it down. It turned away from the gate and sat back down on the steps, staring at us.
This time was different. Its gaze was no longer flitting between Shi Qiufeng and me, but fixed solely on me.
Shi Qiufeng clapped his hands and laughed. “This kitten is amusing. Even at a time like this, it still has the spirit to be stubborn.”
The kitten shivered in the cold, lying in the snow for the time it takes to brew a cup of tea. We didn’t leave, and neither did it. It didn't rub against my legs, nor did it try to jump into my arms—it didn't do anything a kitten would do to endear itself to a human. It simply stared at me intently, as if I were its last hope.
Looking back now, it was this gaze that stirred the last vestiges of compassion within me. It reminded me of Huai Yu’s gaze as she looked at the sky from her wheelchair in the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, Mrs. Fang’s gaze as she pleaded with the yamen runner, and Fang Hanhua’s gaze as she knelt in the snow and looked up at me. The same look—hopeful, yet despairing.
I sometimes wondered what Master had been thinking when he picked me up from that desolate graveyard all those years ago. Was it a whim, or a sudden surge of compassion?
I picked up the kitten. Its fur was still thin, and it couldn't withstand the cold after being in the snow for a while. It trembled in my arms, ice particles falling from its fur.
I turned to look at Shi Qiufeng, but he had already looked away.
"What should we name it?" I asked.
"You picked it up.”
“Your father was a scholar.”
Shi Qiufeng smiled. “Let’s call it Stone.”2
I glared at him. "That’s an awful name.”
“I think it’s good. This kitten is as stubborn as a stone in a latrine.” Shi Qiufeng reached out to pet the kitten, but it swatted his hand away. “Ouch! Is it really holding a grudge against me?”
I burst out laughing.
As dusk settled and the lamps were lit, Xue Wuyi arrived.
I hadn’t seen him for over ten days. His face was even paler than before, but his eyes were clear and sharp, like those of the young man he once was.
I brought out a jar of strong liquor and a jar of plum wine.
Xue Wuyi waved his hand. “I want Huadiao.”
Shi Qiufeng looked surprised. “Yan Jiu said you usually drink plum wine.”
“That was before,” Xue Wuyi said.
They drank until midnight, cup after cup, not stopping until they were thoroughly drunk.
I stood by the window, holding Stone, watching their figures silhouetted against the paper window, their laughter faintly audible through the cracks in the door.
Xue Wuyi hadn't laughed like this in years. In his youth, his laughter was open and carefree, captivating countless young maidens. Later, his smiles were mostly sardonic, tinged with mockery. Recently, he had been smiling more, so much that I couldn’t decipher what lay beneath.
The two men finished my ten-year-old supply of wine and finally passed out at the table around half past one in the morning,3 empty wine jugs scattered on the floor.
I didn't know what they talked about, or if they talked at all. But I knew that after this night, everything was settled.
I sat on the cold stone steps all night, holding Stone, listening to the two men’s snores, the falling snow, and the melting snow dripping from the eaves onto the steps, a steady rhythm throughout the night.
Stone curled up in my arms. I had just given it a bath. Its small, black body was rolled into a ball. Night was when it was most active. Its amber eyes shone brightly in the dark, darting around curiously.
Perhaps because I had drunk a cup of strong liquor that morning, my stomach felt warm.
I remembered countless late nights many years ago, when Master would sit like this, holding his wine gourd, staring blankly at the falling raindrops, facing the empty, cold night, the howling wind, completely drunk. Whether he was truly drunk or sober at those times, or perhaps both drunk and sober, I never understood.
Shi Qiufeng woke up as dawn broke.
He sat beside me on the steps, holding his sanxian. "When did you wake up?"
I replied, “A quarter past five.”
Shi Qiufeng held up his sanxian. “How about I play you a tune?”
I looked at him in surprise. "Don't you not know how to play?”
He smiled slyly. “I went back to the northern deserts and found someone to teach me.”
He wasn't good. He struggled to pluck the strings with one arm, his movements awkward and contorted, the music halting and broken. The sanxian's tone was naturally dry and raspy, like a stutterer trying to mimic someone. When the tune ended, Shi Qiufeng was drenched in sweat, his hand, usually steady as a rock when wielding a saber, trembling slightly.
He clutched the plectrum, his ears flushed crimson, his words stumbling. "Yan Jiu, I… I’ve never played the sanxian for anyone before… I…”
I smiled. “What’s the name of this tune?”
Shi Qiufeng paused, the flush on his ears fading. "Wind and Rain, Iron Horses.”
Wind and Rain, Iron Horses. Iron horses amidst the autumn wind at Dasanguan.
Shi Qiufeng looked at me anxiously. I suppressed a smile. “It was very beautiful.”
His eyes lit up. “Really?”
I nodded. “Really.”
His smile widened, splitting his face.
Shi Qiufeng put away his sanxian. We sat side-by-side on the steps, waiting for the sunrise. The sky gradually brightened, the blue turning pale. The cold night retreated, dawn broke, the sun rose, the morning light gradually tearing apart the dark sky.
Daybreak.
As the morning light bathed the world, Shi Qiufeng said, "Be careful not to lose Stone. Kittens wander easily. With Stone, you won’t be lonely.”
I turned to look at him. His face was bathed in sunlight, his features blurred, but I could vaguely make out the sharp contours of his profile. “You think I’m lonely?”
He didn't answer, only stared ahead.
“The first time I saw you, you walked into the tavern, closed your oil-paper umbrella, your hair loose, wearing wooden clogs, the heavy rain pouring down behind you. Your expression, your posture in that moment, you looked just like—”
He looked up at the snow falling silently in the courtyard.
“Just like a little black kitten.”
1 卯时 (mǎoshí): The period between 5:00 am and 7:00 am in the traditional Chinese time system. 一刻 (yī kè) is a quarter of an hour. So, 卯时一刻 would be 5:15 am, and 卯时三刻 would be 6:45 am.
2 石头 (shítou): Stone. Names for pets in Chinese culture can often be simple and descriptive, based on appearance, personality, or even just a random object.
3 丑时 (chǒushí): The period between 1:00 am and 3:00 am in the traditional Chinese time system. 丑时半 would be 1:30 am.
Comments
Post a Comment