Seeing Qin Ziwen, Qin Ziheng stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and glanced around. It struck him all at once, this was the village, and the village had no trash cans, and just now, without noticing, he’d dropped a good number of cigarette butts on the ground.
He crouched down, picked them up one by one, wrapped them in a tissue and tucked them into his pocket, then walked over to Qin Ziwen.
“Is the chicken done stewing?”
Qin Ziwen nodded. “Mm. Mom and Dad have everything ready. When they saw you hadn’t come back, they sent me to find you.”
“Let’s head back then.”
On the way they passed the Liang family that brewed liquor for the village, and Qin Ziheng went in and bought a catty.
It was rice wine the villagers brewed themselves, strong-smelling and sharp to the nose, clear as mineral water, without a bubble when poured into a cup. City folk couldn’t take to it, but the village elders loved it, and it cost only three yuan a catty.
In the old days, when Grandpa Qin was worn out from work, he had to drink a bowl every night to fall asleep. But after Qin Ziheng started school, he rarely bought it, only picking up a catty at New Year and the festivals to wet his mouth. When the craving got bad, Grandpa Qin would pat his Bao Wa’er’s head and say, “Bao Wa’er, when you’re grown, will you buy your grandpa liquor to drink?”
And every time, Qin Ziheng would nod hard and say, Mm, I’ll buy lots and lots for Grandpa.
Grandpa Qin would hold him tight and laugh, looking utterly content.
Every Qingming, Qin Ziheng would buy some liquor at the Liang house. At first the villagers didn’t understand, muttering that Qin Ziheng was unfilial, a salary in the millions, a new car every year, a big house bought in Beijing where land was worth its weight in gold, and yet he came home unwilling to spare even a bottle of good liquor for his grandfather.
It took an older villager to set them straight: What do you know? Old Qin had a taste for this stuff. He used to say it all the time, that once his Bao Wa’er graduated and had a job, he’d drink his fill.
But he never got to enjoy a single day of it. He died without so much as a mouthful of the liquor he’d longed for.
Never mind that Bao Wa’er couldn’t let it go all these years, even outsiders, thinking of old Qin, could only shake their heads and sigh.
Widowed young, poor in his old age, he’d never had a single good day before he died.
When they got home, Liang Jinlan had the offerings ready. There wasn’t really much to bring, just some of the fruit Qin Ziheng had carried back, along with incense and candles, firecrackers, chicken, glutinous rice, disposable cups, and a little salt.
These were for sweeping Grandpa Qin’s grave. Qin Ming brought his wife and sons over too, and everyone took up hoes and sickles and set off into the hills.
Grandpa Qin was buried on the slope to the left of the village.
The whole way, Qin Ming and Lu Meiyan kept trying to strike up conversation with Qin Ziheng, but he didn’t respond to any of it.
His feelings toward Qin Ming weren’t complicated: he hated him, and he resented him.
As for Lu Meiyan, Qin Ming and Tang Juan’s divorce had nothing to do with her, but his impression of her wasn’t good either. In the old days, on the rare occasion the family came back, Lu Meiyan always looked at him with a gaze full of envy, grievance, and bitter resentment, and never spoke to him. Even at the New Year’s Eve dinner, when she sent her sons to fetch Qin Ziheng, what she said wasn’t “Go call your big brother to eat”, it was “Go call that one to come eat.”
Lu Meiyan didn’t count him as family, so in her mouth he didn’t deserve a name. He was that one.
If it had only been that, Qin Ziheng wouldn’t have disliked her so much.
In 2006, to scrape together Qin Ziheng’s tuition, Grandpa Qin sold the ox he’d raised for six years, over four thousand yuan.
He hadn’t originally meant to sell it. He’d called Qin Ming and asked him to send some money home, five hundred yuan, not a lot, not a little. Qin Ming had a bit of money then and had agreed at first. But when Lu Meiyan found out, she refused. Learning that Grandpa Qin had sold the ox, she went to the trouble of coming all the way back from Guangdong and pressed Grandpa Qin to hand over two thousand five hundred.
She said it with utter conviction: “That child is your grandson, well, aren’t my Xiao Li and Xiao Ran your grandsons too? Dad, you were always telling Qin Ming to hold the bowl of water level [1]meaning: treat all his children fairly and equally jQuery('#footnote_plugin_tooltip_2954291_1_1').tooltip({ tip: '#footnote_plugin_tooltip_text_2954291_1_1', tipClass: 'footnote_tooltip', effect: 'fade', predelay: 0, fadeInSpeed: 200, delay: 400, fadeOutSpeed: 200, position: 'top center', relative: true, offset: [-7, 0], });. How is it that when it’s your own turn, you can’t hold it level?”
But how could it be held level?
If the son couldn’t hold it level first, how was the old father to? He could only hold it level if he had the means, but he was old, with no idea where to even earn money. He didn’t have it in him to hold it level, all he could do was put his Bao Wa’er first.
The second and third boys had a mom and dad to love them. His Bao Wa’er had no one, only one old man.
So he couldn’t hold the bowl of water level.
Lu Meiyan’s words were ugly, but Grandpa Qin had no choice, he gave it. And once he’d given to the eldest son’s family, he couldn’t very well not give to the second son’s.
Over four thousand yuan, and in the end only four hundred was left.
Grandpa Qin sat by the low kitchen stove, so wretched that the tears kept falling.
That hunched-over figure of his stabbed at Qin Ziheng like needles, not a fatal wound, but a dense, all-over ache that soaked into the marrow of his bones.
That was why he couldn’t forget this woman.
Qin Ziwen idolized his cousin Qin Ziheng. Every time Qin Ziheng came back, if there was no work to do, he’d trot along at his heels, and this time was no exception. He chattered away, “Big brother, my last few mock exams have all been around four-thirty. Do you think a score like that can get me into a second-tier school?”
“The undergraduate cutoff for the sciences is a bit lower than for the humanities. If you perform normally, that score should do it. Last year the second-tier line was four hundred sixteen, the year before that, four hundred eight. Even if this year’s is different, it shouldn’t be off by much,” Qin Ziheng said.
“Mm, that’s what my homeroom teacher said too.” Qin Ziwen added, “Big brother, where do you think I should go to study?”
Qin Ziheng looked at him. “That depends on where you want to go, what major, what school you choose.”
“Then, big brother, which majors have better job prospects these days?”
Qin Liang and Liang Jinlan looked over.
Qin Ziwen understood none of this, and his parents understood even less. Which major a child should choose so his studies wouldn’t be wasted, so he could land a good job, on that, they were completely in the dark. The majors they’d heard about, construction cost estimation, electronic information engineering, accounting…
Accounting, Qin Ziwen and his parents understood. But things like construction cost estimation, what did you even study, and were the job prospects good after graduating? That they didn’t know. Opinions online were mixed, and at a time like this, having someone to ask, someone to give advice, was extremely important.
Choosing a major was much like the college entrance exam itself: choose right, choose well, and you could rest easy ever after [2]meaning: nothing left to worry about jQuery('#footnote_plugin_tooltip_2954291_1_2').tooltip({ tip: '#footnote_plugin_tooltip_text_2954291_1_2', tipClass: 'footnote_tooltip', effect: 'fade', predelay: 0, fadeInSpeed: 200, delay: 400, fadeOutSpeed: 200, position: 'top center', relative: true, offset: [-7, 0], });.
Qin Ziheng had been through it all and naturally knew the ins and outs. He talked Qin Ziwen through it the whole way. Listening, Lu Meiyan grew more and more heartsick, and more and more regretful. If only she’d been more broad-minded back then and shown some kindness to this child the first wife had left behind, by now she might well be in Beijing, and her own two sons might have gotten some coaching from him, instead of ending up as they were now, too proud for the low and too weak for the high.
Haah…
Village graves weren’t laid out in neat rows like the cemeteries in the city, they were one here, one there, some without even a headstone. When Grandpa Qin’s grave was built, Qin Ziheng had hired someone to make a stone marker, carved with words, and even affixed a photograph.
There wasn’t much grass on the grave. Once the offerings were laid out and the incense and candles lit, Qin Ziheng set off two firecrackers and told Grandpa he was back to have a meal.
After reaching the grave he said nothing more. When the rites were finished, he took the rice wine in its mineral-water bottle and told everyone to gather their things and head back first, he stood before the grave a long while alone.
The disposable cup from the offering was still there. He knelt on the ground and poured a little wine into it, and said, “Grandpa, I’ve come to see you. Try this wine, does it still taste the same as before? Grandpa Liang passed last year too. This wine was brewed by Uncle Liang, I don’t know if it’s the same as what you used to drink. Have you met Grandpa Liang over there? I burned plenty of money for you just now. If he’s brewing wine over there, and you’ve got no burden like me dragging you down, then when you feel like drinking, just buy some. Don’t… don’t be sparing about buying it anymore.”
His voice grew choked. In the photo, the old man’s brows were very long, his hair gone white, his skin dark, the wrinkles on his face like the gullies of a valley scoured for years by rain, line upon line, all the traces of time. This was Grandpa Qin’s memorial portrait, the one Qin Ziheng had had taken and printed, the only photo of Grandpa Qin in existence.
Back in 2004, town shops didn’t sell smartphones yet, only Nokia button phones, and even so, few could afford them.
The photo studio in town wasn’t cheap to use, and Grandpa Qin had never gone. It was only when the government sent people down, something like a charity drive, to take free photos of the village elders.
Memorial portraits, they were.
That was the first time Grandpa Qin had ever had his picture taken. Sitting on the stool, he was awkward and nervous, not knowing where to look. The photographer was a conscientious sort and kept telling him to relax, taking several shots without being satisfied. In the end it was Qin Ziheng, coming home from school in town and hearing about it, who went over to watch. Grandpa Qin, sitting on the stool, saw him and immediately broke into a delighted smile, saying: Bao Wa’er, you’re home.
The photographer caught that very moment, quick-eyed, and snapped it.
In the photo, Grandpa Qin was smiling with great tenderness, looking at Qin Ziheng.
“Grandpa, I… I really miss you. Only you… only you never thought me a burden. Only you… were willing to raise me. Only you never looked down on me. Grandpa, you always said that once I made something of myself, you’d enjoy a good life. But you… why didn’t you wait?”
To live in this world, a person needs something to hold onto, someone to long for.
In the old days, Grandpa had been the one he held onto, the one he longed for.
After Grandpa was gone, it was as though there were nothing left in this world worth clinging to. Home was no longer home, Grandpa was gone, and even the earthen house where he and Grandpa had lived so long was gone.
Sometimes Qin Ziheng would often think: if he hadn’t gone to school, would Grandpa’s whole life not have been so bitter?
Maybe it was even better that he’d died, dead, he no longer had to be dragged down by him, no longer had to toil under the blazing sun day after day, cutting grass.
If not for him, why would Grandpa’s late years have been so grueling? He wouldn’t have had to fret, even with his mind gone, about selling the ox to send him to school. If not for fretting over that, perhaps he wouldn’t have gone so soon, wouldn’t have died without a single kin at his side.
Self-blame and remorse wrapped around him like a tide, dragging him into a black whirlpool he couldn’t struggle free of. Ten years, and he still ached, still felt his eyes sting whenever he thought of that little old man.
All these years, Qin Ziheng hadn’t dared stop for a single day. He’d wanted to bring his grandfather honor, to make good on all those years of the old man’s sacrifice.
But now that he’d truly done it, he suddenly no longer knew what else there was to do.
“Grandpa, in your next life be reborn into a good family. Don’t suffer and toil anymore, and don’t run into a burden like me again. When my hundred years are up, I’ll come find you.” He raised a hand and wiped at the photo, the old man was still smiling so brilliantly, his brows and eyes gentle and kind.
Coming back to fetch the machete, Qin Ziwen saw from afar Qin Ziheng standing before the headstone, head bowed, the hem of his coat rustling in the spring wind. He didn’t seem to feel the cold, he just kept his head lowered, holding that pose.
Qin Ziwen watched for a good while, then turned and left.
Qin Ziheng brought the machete back. By the time he got home, Liang Jinlan and Qin Liang had the meal laid out. After eating, Qin Ziheng said he had to head back.
Qin Liang objected. “You drove through the night to get here, won’t you rest a bit before you go? You’ll be driving. What if something happens?”
Liang Jinlan added, “That’s right! I’ve already made up the bed for you, sleep a while before you go. It’s not so urgent it can’t wait a bit.”
“It’s fine.” Since joining his company, overtime and all-nighters had been Qin Ziheng’s daily bread, sometimes, in the thick of it, he’d get barely two hours of shut-eye a day. Just now Liang Jinlan had mentioned Tang Juan had come by, she’d told her Qin Ziheng was still up on the mountain, and Tang Juan had said she’d come again later.
Qin Ziheng didn’t want to see the woman, and had no mood to deal with her, he wanted to leave sooner.
Unable to talk him out of it, Qin Liang could only sigh, and he and Liang Jinlan quietly packed things up for him.
Knowing Qin Ziheng was coming back, Liang Jinlan had killed three chickens the night before and gathered a box of free-range eggs. The chickens had been put in the deep freezer and were now frozen solid, they wouldn’t spoil left in the car overnight.
Every year when he came back, they’d pack up some of their own chickens and ducks for Qin Ziheng to take away, always feeling that home-raised was healthier to eat, and tastier too.
Qin Ziheng didn’t refuse. After a few words with his uncle and aunt, he left.
At Qingming, there is always a fine drizzling rain.
It had been overcast just now, and sure enough it began to rain, not heavily, not enough to affect the drive. The wipers swept back and forth across the front windshield. There was hardly anyone on the country roads, especially in the rain. So when his phone rang and Qin Ziheng glanced over to find it was an old friend calling, he assumed something was up and reached for it.
And in that very instant, a person suddenly darted out from the roadside, arms spread wide, apparently trying to stop his car, coming straight at it. The car wasn’t going all that slowly just then. Qin Ziheng cranked the wheel hard to the right, and with a shrill cry, the car plunged off toward the roadside.
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