Once the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month passed—the Minor New Year—the festive atmosphere of the Spring Festival began to permeate the air.
Today was payday at the county transport team. A long queue snaked in front of the small window of the finance department, but this time, no one complained about the cold. Hunched over, stamping their feet to keep warm, each face wore a smile.
Qin Gang stepped out clutching an envelope. Inside was his fixed monthly wage, plus subsidies for long-distance trips and overtime pay for helping repair the team’s vehicles over the past period. Altogether, it amounted to over sixty yuan.
According to the Lao Qin Family tradition—a habit Qin Gang had maintained for over a year now—this money, hardly warmed in his pocket, would be handed over in full to the household manager, Li Guilan, upon returning home. Then, depending on her mood, Li Guilan would give him two yuan to buy cigarettes.
Standing at the main gate, Qin Gang stared at the several “Great Unity” bills (ten-yuan notes) in his hand, his rough thumb rubbing repeatedly over the corners. The north wind howled, stinging his face, but his heart was churning with inner conflict.
These past few days, his wife Zhao Hongmei had truly been exhausted. During the day, she tended to the yard full of radish strips, cooked for the family, fed the chickens, and cleaned. At night, she still had to prepare Brown Sugar Fermented Rice Wine Eggs for her mother-in-law, who not only offered no help but constantly found fault.
Last night, Qin Gang woke up once around midnight and saw Zhao Hongmei sitting under the lamp mending clothes. Her hands were covered in red, chapped cracks like carrots, especially the backs, where the cold wind had roughened the skin until it looked raw and painful.
At that moment, Qin Gang said nothing but kept the sight firmly in mind.
Gritting his teeth, he separated a portion of the money, tucked it into the inner pocket of his shirt, and stuffed the rest into his trouser pocket. Then he mounted his 28-inch bicycle. Instead of heading straight home, he took a detour and pedaled directly to the county department store.
The department store was packed with people shopping for New Year’s goods. Behind the counters, salesclerks knitted sweaters while rolling their eyes, annoyed by the noisy crowd. Qin Gang, a grown man, stood out awkwardly squeezed among clusters of young women and married ladies.
Being tall, he spotted at a glance the scarves hanging from the overhead wire racks.
There were plaid ones, gray ones, and even some made of dacron fabric. But Qin Gang’s eyes instantly locked onto the pure wool scarlet scarf right in the center.
That red was vibrant, bright—like the newly risen sun, or like the chili oil Hongmei had made before. Just looking at it warmed his heart.
“Comrade, let me take a look at that one,” Qin Gang pointed at the red scarf.
The salesclerk didn’t even lift her eyelids. “That one’s expensive. Pure wool, eight yuan and fifty fen. No bargaining. Pure wool, fixed price set by the department store station.”
Qin Gang touched the money in his inner pocket—his full attendance bonus and subsidies for the month. In the past, he wouldn’t have dared spend it even with three times the courage. Li Guilan would nag him about it until next Dragon Boat Festival.
But remembering Hongmei’s frost-reddened hands and her gentle demeanor that night when she brought the Fermented Rice Wine Eggs, Qin Gang slapped the counter, his voice rumbling, “Get me one! Wrap it up!”
…
On the way back to the village, the weather turned foul. Snowflakes began to drift down just after leaving the county town. By the time he reached the village entrance, the snowflakes had turned into goose-feather flakes, blanketing everything in white. The wind whipped against his face like tiny knives.
Qin Gang pedaled furiously, clutching the package containing the red scarf tightly against his chest, afraid it would get even a speck of snow or dampness.
The courtyard was quiet as he entered. Li Guilan was probably visiting the neighbors, but the west room was lit.
Qin Gang propped up his bicycle, not even bothering to brush off the snow from his clothes, and strode to the door of the west room just as Zhao Hongmei lifted the door curtain to come out and dump water.
Zhao Hongmei was wearing that old cotton-padded jacket, washed so many times it had faded to a pale color. The cotton around the collar had hardened and no longer kept out the wind. She was hunching her shoulders, her face pale from the cold, her lips dry. Seeing Qin Gang covered in snow, she paused. “Why are you back so late? You’re covered in snow—come inside and brush it off.”
Qin Gang didn’t move. His face, tanned dark from years of wind and sun, now held a trace of inexplicable nervousness and awkwardness. He stood blocking the doorway like a wall, shielding her from the wind and snow behind him.
“Wife,” Qin Gang called out, his throat tight.
“What’s wrong? Why are you just standing there?” Zhao Hongmei reached out to pull him inside.
Qin Gang suddenly took half a step back and, as if performing a magic trick, pulled out a fiery red bundle from inside his coat. Without any preamble or sweet words, he clumsily and directly wrapped it around Zhao Hongmei’s neck.
Zhao Hongmei only saw a flash of red before her eyes, and then the fluffy scarf, still warm from the man’s body heat, enveloped her neck.
It was the unique thickness of pure wool—soft, substantial—instantly blocking the cold air that had been seeping into her collar.
Qin Gang had no idea how to tie a scarf properly.
His hands were large, his fingers thick. He was skilled at gripping a steering wheel or handling a wrench, but fumbling with this soft, delicate thing left him at a loss. He haphazardly wrapped it around twice and finally tied a tight knot, covering half of Zhao Hongmei’s face, leaving only her clear, bright eyes visible.
“This… what is this?” Zhao Hongmei reached up to touch the scarf. A wave of warmth spread from her fingertips all the way to her heart.
“Got my wages,” Qin Gang said, looking at her and grinning, revealing two rows of white teeth. “I saw all the women at the department store wearing these. We’re no worse than them. This color suits you.”
Zhao Hongmei looked at the big, simple man before her. The heavy snow fell in flurries behind him, frost clinging to his eyelashes, his nose red from the cold, but his eyes sparkled, reflecting only her.
In those days, a scarf costing eight yuan and fifty cents was truly a rare luxury.
“You spendthrift,” Zhao Hongmei scolded, but her voice trembled slightly, and her eyes grew hot instantly. “It’s so expensive. If Mom finds out, won’t she tear the roof off?”
“It’s fine,” Qin Gang chuckled softly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his movements gentle as if afraid of breaking something. “I told Mom the wages were delayed and not fully paid yet. This money was from my private savings—she doesn’t know.”
At that moment, the ice in Zhao Hongmei’s heart melted completely.
In her past life, Qin Gang had been a good man, but a foolishly filial one. He had listened to his mother his whole life, and even though he cared for his wife, he never dared to openly say “no” to his mother.
But now, to buy her this scarf, this honest, simple man had learned to lie, learned to hide private savings, learned to put his wife before his mother.
This wasn’t just a scarf—it was this man’s burning heart.
Against the backdrop of the red scarf, Zhao Hongmei’s originally somewhat pale complexion gained a rosy glow, as delicate and vibrant as a red plum blossom newly opened in the snow.
“Silly you.” Zhao Hongmei sniffled, not bothering to undo the unsightly knot. Instead, she buried her face deeper into the scarf. “What are you still standing there for? Come inside. I made pickled cabbage with pork for you.”
Qin Gang responded cheerfully and followed his wife into the house.
Inside, the charcoal fire burned brightly, filling the room with warmth. Zhao Hongmei couldn’t bear to take off the scarf and kept admiring herself in the mirror. The woman reflected there smiled with joy in her eyes, the touch of red brightening up the otherwise dull days.
Sitting on the edge of the kang, Qin Gang watched his wife’s delight, feeling sweeter than if he had eaten honey. He silently vowed to work even harder in the future, striving to buy her leather shoes and a woolen coat, making all the women in the village envious.
“Gangzi,” Zhao Hongmei suddenly turned around, fingering the scarf’s tassels. “I won’t wear this scarf out today. I’ll wear it when we visit my parents for the New Year. That way, even my mother won’t be able to find fault.”
Qin Gang was taken aback for a moment, then understood his wife’s intention. She was saving face for him and sparing him from being caught in the middle.
“Whatever you say, it’s all up to you.” Qin Gang took Zhao Hongmei’s hand and rubbed it gently between his palms.
Outside, the snow fell heavier and heavier, blanketing the world in white. Yet from the small window of the west room, a warm, golden light shone through, slowly simmering the bitterness of life into sweetness.