Chapter 185

Arriving at the village, Zheng Tan had to lead the way, otherwise Er Mao wouldn't know where to go to find someone.

Around here they were repairing the road again, preparing to lay a smooth path in front of each house; Zheng Tan and his group arrived at a bad time, just as construction had just begun, the surface stones etc. had been lifted, so there was more mud. In places with standing water, one could only step on the deliberately placed stones to get across.

Hey, black coal, call out when you get there, don't let me walk past you. Er Mao said.

After passing that muddy stretch, the road surface improved a little, at least having a small path paved with gravel and bricks; this time Zheng Tan really had to come out of his backpack to lead the way.

After a few steps, his paws were completely covered in mud; there was no help for it, not wearing shoes is just like that; Zheng Tan couldn't possibly get rain boots like Er Mao.

It had just rained, and moreover this time period wasn't a peak for going out, so few people passed by. Originally Zheng Tan worried that the villagers who had seen him during the New Year would recognize him, but those few villagers merely glanced over here and then paid no more attention. Perhaps, to those villagers, such a cat wasn't anything special—it wasn't a rare or expensive breed; stray cats are everywhere, and a somewhat stout black cat isn't remarkable either.

Sometimes one shouldn't take oneself too seriously; that is Zheng Tan's realization.

When passing the Jiao Family's old residence, Zheng Tan saw the gate closed, estimating that the old couple had gone to town and would probably return only after the surrounding road was repaired. This made Zheng Tan feel more at ease.

After the rain, the smell of soil rushing into the nostrils—using Jiao Ba's words—is the scent of actinomycetes.

Perhaps due to Er Mao's influence, as they approached the old woman's small tile house, Zheng Tan felt a bit nervous. Although he knew the person Er Mao was looking for was that old woman, she always gave Zheng Tan a strange feeling, not as easy to fool as the Jiao Family's old couple.

Is this the place?

Er Mao looked at this rural cottage, pushed open the bamboo fence gate, and walked in.

With no one making noise around, Zheng Tan and Er Mao could both hear the opera sounds coming from inside the small tile house.

Taking a deep breath, Er Mao stood before the wooden door with a rustic style, about to knock, but the door opened from inside.

A fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl carrying a basket. Seeing Er Mao standing at the door, she jumped in fright.

Er Mao's first thought was: "Hey, there really is a Little Lin!"

The girl's appearance was not bad, although a bit dark. Her attire was no worse than that of city kids. But judging solely by looks, she was actually quite passable.

Zheng Tan looked at the girl; she seemed a little familiar, probably someone he had seen during the New Year. But she definitely wasn't from this household—the old woman lives alone. In this area, it's not uncommon for girls who finish junior high to stop schooling.

Before Er Mao could ask, the little girl shouted into the house: "Grandma, someone's looking for you!" Then she picked up her basket and left; she was just coming to deliver something, and since people often came to see Grandma here, she assumed this person had the same purpose and didn't pay much attention.

From this it was clear she belonged to another family—otherwise, seeing a guest she wouldn't have run off. Er Mao sighed inwardly; it was different from what he imagined, still "Grandma". After the illusion of "Little Lin" faded, Er Mao lost much of his enthusiasm.

The tile house wasn't large; the main room was visible at a glance, with only one bedroom, obviously where the occupants were.

Zheng Tan hesitated a moment, then lifted his paw and followed Er Mao inside.

Inside, no lights were on, and the small window at the back was also shut, letting in little light; the opera singing from the radio dispelled much of the gloom's oppression. The radio was somewhat old, and along with the opera singing came some crackling sounds, giving a feeling of age.

It was still that wooden recliner, with a person lying on it, covered with a thin blanket, appearing to be sleeping or resting with eyes closed; but because she had her back to the window, Er Mao couldn't make out the expression on the person's face in the recliner.

The three-legged cat glanced at Er Mao, then turned its attention to Zheng Tan; it obviously recognized Zheng Tan, but had no intention of moving, shifted its pose, and continued to nap on the old woman's leg.

Zheng Tan felt a bit ill at ease and shifted; the atmosphere was somewhat strange. Neither of the two spoke, only the radio's crackling and the indistinct opera singing could be heard.

Er Mao was still pondering what to say first; small talk is usually the first sentence in interpersonal relations, but the situation was different—normally he would just casually bring up some topic, but this time he had come to find "Little Lin"; if he couldn't find her, finding a peer or junior would also do, he wasn't here to seek ancestors, more elders meant more supervision, and Er Mao already had a headache from the several elders at home, who constantly told him what he should and shouldn't do or boasted about other people's children; moreover, with Wang Bin as a contrast, Er Mao had become, in the elders' mouths, a "good-for-nothing rascal" or "someone who won't amount to anything".

If it were someone else, by now they would have decided to get down to business and recognize kin; after traveling so far, driving, squeezing onto buses, trudging along muddy roads with difficulty to get here, isn't it just to find relatives? But Er Mao isn't like that.

Er Mao isn't exactly a good person; while drifting about outside, he's seen all sorts of people from various walks of life, and his thoughts differ greatly from those of the other family members.

Before coming, he had already decided to first observe the person and then decide whether to acknowledge kinship; speaking bluntly, in Er Mao's mind, following this pendant to find someone was merely an excuse to divert his worries, to find something to do and change his mood.

Zheng Tan observed from the side Er Mao and the old woman on the recliner. These two weren't simple-minded people, especially the old woman; to say her hearing is poor and she didn't hear the little girl's shout earlier or Er Mao's footsteps—Zheng Tan didn't believe it.

Er Mao's final strategy was to respond to change with constancy—whether to acknowledge or not, the choice was in his hands, no rush. Without "Little Lin", things would be boring, and simple; what's there to see about the old woman! Er Mao dragged over a chair from the corner, sat, crossed his legs, and looked around with a bored air.

The radio played one opera piece after another; Zheng Tan yawned. On the table was a packet of pastries wrapped in paper. During the New Year period Zheng Tan had seen such local specialties. He jumped onto the table, sniffed the pastry, detected no odd smell, lifted his paw to tear open the wrapping. Let those two continue their standoff; I'll fill my stomach first.

Half an hour later, the old woman lying on the recliner moved.

Er Mao felt a flicker of joy inside, hehe, old lady, comparing patience with the young master, you can't hold out, can you?!

The drowsy Zheng Tan also looked over there.

All that could be seen was the old woman letting out a soft sigh, then bracing herself on the recliner, slowly and with apparent difficulty sitting up, her hand reaching into her clothing pocket, fumbling about, and pulling out a porcelain bottle. Being elderly, her hands weren't steady; when taking things, they trembled a bit. She pulled the stopper out several times before succeeding.

Zheng Tan watched, his heart trembling; he feared that if the old woman were unsteady she might fling the porcelain bottle from her hand. Moreover, as an observer, Zheng Tan felt anxious watching her pull the stopper—if it were an impatient morning, he'd have gone to help.

Er Mao could endure more. He didn't go to help, presumably also knowing that the elderly person before him, in her seventies or eighties, was no simple figure, so he remained in a state of observation. Seeing the old person's every move betray difficulty, her hand still trembling, Er Mao furrowed his brow, yet still didn't move or speak.

The old woman rubbed her eyes, then carefully poured out small round pellets one by one into her palm, looking like some kind of medicine—say, a quick-acting heart pill or a compound Danshen drop pill, etc. —which Zheng Tan had seen many people take, and these looked quite similar.

With age come many ailments; during the New Year Zheng Tan had seen her play the erhu rather smoothly, but now she seemed like a candle in the wind, nearing the end of its life. Still, a slight illness in an elderly person can be dangerous, and such a great change in mental state is understandable; added to the present situation and the surrounding atmosphere, there is an overall sense of desolation and sorrow.

Her trembling hand made everything a bit more difficult; Zheng Tan watched her swallow about ten of those little pellets, then half-rise to pick up a cup of water resting on the nearby wooden stool, take a sip, and then let out a long sigh.

The radio was now playing a segment of opera, whose singing was a bit easier to understand than before.

"Helpless, the flowers fall; as if we have met before, the swallows return."

Within the murmured lyrics lay a deep sense of helplessness and sigh; the relentless flow of time, the endless hardships of life. In this feeling, this scene, this situation, plus the possible blood relation, a sentimental person could directly feel their eyes sour and tears well up.

Even Er Mao felt he had gone a bit too far; after all, it's just not seeing "Little Lin"—what's there to quibble with an old person about?

Thud! Gurgle-gurgle-gurgle——

As the old woman was capping the porcelain bottle to put it back into her pocket, her hand shook and the bottle fell to the ground; fortunately the surface was uneven earth, not concrete, and the bottle seemed sturdy enough not to break.

Zheng Tan flicked his ears and looked toward Er Mao.

Er Mao pursed his lips, still got up, walked over, picked up the bottle that had rolled under the table, wiped off the dust clinging to its body, saw no explanatory text on it, thought a moment, then pulled the stopper and sniffed.

Then Er Mao's face twisted into a strange, almost grimacing expression as he nearly gritted his teeth and asked, "Old lady, what miraculous elixir is in this bottle?"

The old woman, reclining again on the chair, replied in a calm, slow tone: "Huahua Dan."

Zheng Tan: "……"

If I'm not mistaken, this so-called Huahua Dan is just that kind of leisure snack!

People born in the eighties are somewhat familiar with this snack, also called "chenpi dan" or "mouse droppings"; in Chu Hua Shi such snacks are now rarely seen.

Zheng Tan's mood right now—even an alpaca couldn't calm his urge to flip the table.

Damn it, a lousy little snack packed in such a high-end porcelain bottle! Eating a snack and yet making it look so desolate and sorrowful!

Er Mao, holding back a bellyful of resentment, handed the bottle to the old woman.

After receiving the bottle, the old woman also asked Er Mao, "Want to eat? It tastes pretty good."

Eat… eat shit!

Zheng Tan tugged his ear again; facing such an old lady, it wasn't something that could be summed up with just "helpless".

As if not seeing Er Mao's expression, the old lady continued: "No taste in the mouth, at this age, living another day is a gain; taking medicine is not as good as eating snacks." Suddenly thinking of something, she raised her hand and pointed, looking very generous: "Oh, there's also a box of pure milk under the bed; if you're thirsty, help yourselves, it's a good brand, often advertised on TV, not those knockoffs, I drink it every day."

Zheng Tan, Er Mao: "......"

No amount of idioms could capture Zheng Tan and Er Mao's complicated feelings at this moment. (To be continued...)

ps: (3.8)

By the way, Qidian is holding a character design contest; interested friends can give it a try—some readers have already submitted entries, and the artwork is quite good. For details, see Qidian's homepage: "2014 Qidian Character Design Contest is now hotly underway!"