“Zzzzt—zzzzt—”
The opera blaring from the loudspeaker sounded as if it had been scraped with sandpaper—shrill, grating, and mixed with static, drilling relentlessly into one’s skull.
Zhao Hongmei’s eyes snapped open, her mind buzzing. Instinctively, she reached for the blood pressure medication on the nightstand, but her hand found only empty air, landing instead on a stiff, slightly damp cotton quilt made of coarse cloth.
The sight before her sent a jolt of shock through her heart.
This wasn’t the dim, single room of the nursing home where she had lived for decades, nor was it the creaky iron-framed bed. How many years had it been since Qin Gang passed away? Ten? Twenty? She couldn’t remember clearly. She only recalled that on that final night, the caregiver had forgotten to take her blood pressure, and when she closed her eyes, there wasn’t a single living soul within reach.
What met her eyes was a ceiling pasted with newspapers, an old-fashioned red double-happiness washbasin stand hanging on the wall, draped with two half-worn towels. The window paper had a hole in it, letting the cold late-autumn wind whistle through.
Where was this?
Before she could gather her thoughts, the door curtain was yanked open violently. A gust of cold wind, heavy with the smell of cheap tobacco, rushed in.
“Still sleeping! Are you dead or what? It’s chaos outside, and you have the nerve to hide in here and laze around!”
A small, elderly woman in a dark blue side-buttoned tunic stormed in, pointing at Zhao Hongmei’s nose and starting to scold. That face—Zhao Hongmei would recognize it even if it were reduced to ashes. This was her mother-in-law, Li Guilan, who had been sharp-tongued her entire life.
But the Li Guilan before her, though her hair was streaked with gray, was full of energy, not yet the lifeless figure who would later lie bedridden, dependent on others for care.
Zhao Hongmei looked down at her own hands. The backs of her hands were smooth, though somewhat rough, with no age spots or the wrinkled, dead skin she remembered. Nor was there the scar from the burn she later suffered in the state-run restaurant’s kitchen.
Had she… gone back? Returned to her younger days?
The commotion outside grew louder—children crying, adults shouting, and the clatter of dishes and bowls unique to rural banquets, all jumbled together in a chaotic din.
“I can’t go on living like this! This life is unbearable!” After berating Zhao Hongmei, Li Guilan plopped down on the threshold of the main room, slapping her thighs and wailing, “What kind of lousy cook did we hire? He’s trying to drive our Qin family to ruin!”
Zhao Hongmei’s mind went blank, and suddenly, she remembered.
1988, late autumn. This was the day of the full-month celebration for the second cousin’s newborn nephew. According to tradition, the Qin family branch was also expected to contribute, and the banquet was set up in the large courtyard shared by both families.
In her previous life, this day marked the beginning of Zhao Hongmei’s nightmare.
The cook in charge that day, Wang Dapang, had raised his price on the spot, complaining that the ingredients the Qin family provided were too shoddy. He insisted on an extra twenty yuan before he would start cooking.
The two sides were deadlocked. In the end, the banquet was delayed, the relatives cursed on empty stomachs, and the dishes were either undercooked or unbearably salty.
The Qin family became the laughingstock of the entire village. Her mother-in-law vented all her anger on Zhao Hongmei, the newlywed, claiming she had a jinxed fate that brought misfortune to the family. Her husband, Qin Gang, crouched cowardly in the corner, smoking, not daring to utter a word.
From that day on, she never held her head high in the Qin family, enduring a lifetime of resentment.
Zhao Hongmei took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the era’s distinctive scent of burning coal and the crisp, cold air. She threw off the quilt, ignored Li Guilan who was wailing dryly on the floor, and strode out.
In the courtyard, a blue rainproof tarp canopy had been set up, flapping noisily in the wind. Over a dozen square banquet tables were crammed together, the ground littered with melon seed shells and cigarette butts that felt soft underfoot.
The most eye-catching was the makeshift stove set up right in the middle of the yard.
A man with a rough, fleshy face and a bulging belly under his greasy apron sat brazenly on a long bench. He held a cigarette between his fingers, his legs shaking like a sieve, with a thoroughly shameless expression.
This was Wang Dapang, the famous chef from all the nearby villages.
In front of him, Qin Gang—a man over six feet tall—was now hunched over, holding a pack of two-cent “Economy” cigarettes, offering them with an apologetic smile. “Master Wang, please calm down. The auspicious hour is almost here, the relatives are all seated. Could we light the fire first? As for the money… we can discuss it later.”
“Discuss my ass!” Wang Dapang waved his hand, knocking the cigarettes Qin Gang offered to the ground.
The pack fell into the muddy water and was instantly soaked.
Qin Gang froze, wanting to pick it up but feeling humiliated. His hand hung stiffly in mid-air, his face flushing a deep purplish-red. The relatives sitting around cracking melon seeds burst into mocking laughter, the kind that relished the drama.
“Qin Gang, don’t try that with me.” Wang Dapang blew a smoke ring and pointed with his cigarette-holding hand at the pile of ingredients on the chopping board. “Take a look yourself. What kind of stuff is this? Pork intestines, pork lungs, pork blood… and this heap of random scraps.
“You want me to make a banquet out of this dog food? How am I supposed to keep my reputation if word gets out? If you want me to cook, add another twenty yuan! Otherwise, I’m taking off this apron and leaving right now!”
“That’s… that’s too much…” Qin Gang’s Adam’s apple bobbed with difficulty, his voice weak. “Didn’t we agree on thirty yuan before?”
“Think it’s too much? Then cook it yourself!” Wang Dapang sneered, making a show of untying his apron. “I’m done here!”
The Qin family was indeed poor. To afford this banquet, they couldn’t buy proper cuts of meat and had to cheaply haul a cart of unwanted offal from the slaughterhouse. They had hoped the chef’s skills would cover it up, but Wang Dapang had seized on their weakness.
People around began whispering to each other.
“Oh dear, the Qin family is so stingy, serving offal?”
“Exactly, this isn’t a banquet—it’s like feeding beggars.”
“This wedding doesn’t seem right. Ever since this new bride entered the family, nothing’s gone smoothly for the Qins.”
Zhao Hongmei stood under the eaves, listening to these words and watching the man in the crowd, flustered and unable to straighten his back.
In her past life, she had watched just like this, too scared to come out of the house, and in the end, she had seen Qin Gang swallow his pride to borrow money, scrape together enough to pay Wang Dapang, only to end up with a table full of slop.
The cold wind blew into her collar. The atmosphere in the courtyard had frozen to a breaking point.
Li Guilan sat on the threshold, her trembling hand reaching deep inside her tunic. There, sewn into a hidden pocket, was the burial money she had saved over half a lifetime. Her calloused hands fumbled at the hem of her clothes for a long time, her eyes red and brimming with heart-wrenching pain.
There’s no other way, the whole courtyard full of relatives is watching.
Auntie from the old Wang family on the east side is cracking melon seeds, her eyelids drooping, a hint of mockery hanging at the corner of her mouth; Zhao Er’gou from the west courtyard is squatting on the ground smoking, glancing toward the stove from time to time, waiting to see how the Qin family will handle this mess.
If the feast really can’t be served, or if a table of pig slop is made, then the Qin family might as well bury their heads in their pants from now on when walking around the village.
“Alright… I’ll give it…” Li Guilan gritted her teeth, her voice trembling, as if the words were being forced out from the back of her throat. She shakily pulled out a handkerchief bundle wrapped in several layers and began to count out the money.
Wang Dapang sat on the long bench, one leg crossed high over the other, his toes swaying back and forth.
Seeing the handkerchief bundle come out, his greasy, plump face broke into a triumphant, sneering grin. He flicked the ash from his cigarette and boomed in his loud voice, “That’s more like it! Auntie Guilan, wouldn’t it have been easier to bring it out earlier? Why make everyone wait around with nothing to eat?”
Qin Gang stood to the side, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.
He was a man of six feet, usually a capable worker, but now, faced with this scoundrel, his dark red face was filled with stifled frustration. His lips moved, but not a single word came out.
Just as Li Guilan was about to hand over the still-warm bills,
suddenly, a hand shot out from the side, firmly pressing down on Li Guilan’s wrist.
The hand wasn’t large or thick, but its grip was surprisingly strong. Li Guilan was startled and looked up to see Zhao Hongmei, who had just come out of the house.
“Mom, put the money away,” Zhao Hongmei said, her voice not loud but carrying a firm resolve.
“You wretched… aren’t you ashamed enough already!” Li Guilan panicked, trying to pull her hand back but finding she couldn’t break free. “Let go! We’re in a desperate situation here!”