Can Xue - Vertical Motion

I looked: the old woman was sitting in the outbuilding.

When Little Zheng and I walked over to her, she held out her hands. Each of us took hold of one hand and stood there waiting for her to speak.

“You can’t cheat people,” she said with her shriveled mouth.

Little Zheng and I nodded our heads earnestly.

We thought she wanted to say something else, but she seemed tired of talking. She just lowered her eyes again and started snoozing. We were still holding her hands. I was afraid my parents would return and question us, so I had to urge her to leave my home. As soon as I made this clear, she opened her eyes and angrily called me “fickle.”

Then my parents came back. They looked at the old woman sitting at the table, but said nothing. Weary of hanging around, Little Zheng went home.

When it was time for dinner, the old woman ate with us. My parents didn’t seem to think this was unusual; it was as if the old woman were part of our family, not the vendor from two streets away. After eating, she rose to leave. When she reached the door, she suddenly turned around and said to me: “Every day, I sleep and dream amidst the cotton candy.”

As she spoke, her breath and body both smelled sour. When I watched her walk into the distance, I was still tasting her words. Right up until Mother called me.

“You finally have some ambition. We feel reassured,” Mama said.

This time, Father broke precedent and didn’t scold me; rather, he stared at me questioningly for a long time.

The next day was another bright, sunny day. After I fetched water and dried vegetables, I walked over there. From a distance, I saw a long line of children, but the old woman wasn’t at the head of the line. I saw Little Zheng again; he was sitting where the old woman used to sit. He and the children were exchanging knowing looks. He beckoned to me, and I sat side by side with him on the bench. One by one, the children came and solemnly smacked our palms. Although they didn’t give us money, I felt utterly content. Little Zheng, the children, and I were immersed in daydreams about the multi-colored cotton candy. One after another, the honey jars in the depths of our memories were opened up: the strong fragrance overflowed into the air.

Mei lived on a small, lonely side street in the downtown area. The five-story building had been constructed in the 1950s. Mei and her husband Jin lived in a three-room apartment on the first floor.

Mei’s home was a little unusual: except for the kitchen, all the appliances and furniture were covered with cloths of various colors, as if the two of them were about to go traveling. It was only when they wanted to use these things that they uncovered them. For example, at mealtimes, they removed the heavy tablecloth, and when they drank tea, they uncovered the tea table and sofa. Even the two large mirrors hanging on the walls were covered with embroidered cloths. Only when they looked in the mirrors did they uncover them. Because of these cloths, the rhythm of Mei’s daily life was much slower than that of ordinary persons.

Mr. Jin seldom took off these covers, for Mei handled everything for him. All day long, he lay on a chaise lounge — the only piece of furniture that wasn’t covered with a cloth — and read a thick book, A Collection of Illustrations of Wild Plants , and looked repeatedly at the pictures in it. Lying on the chaise lounge, he was staring with his left eye at the book’s illustrations of humid euphorbia while at the same time glancing sideways at the shoe rack. He said loudly, “The cat has pulled the cloth on the shoe rack down to the floor!” From the kitchen, Mei heard him and rushed over to re-cover the shoe rack. Jin was obviously a sensitive person, too.

In the small garden outside, Mei grew neither flowers nor trees. From strips of bamboo and plastic film, she created an awning — a long one which looked ridiculous. Inside the plastic awning, she raised a strange plant from seeds that Jin had bought through a relative who lived in another place. The seeds were a small, purple crescent shape. Jin dug a furrow one foot deep and buried these seeds in it. He told Mei that this plant was the rare “underground plant.” None of it was on the surface. After the seeds were buried, they would grow straight down. He also fertilized and watered their plants, and then Mei covered them with the plastic awning. Jin said, After this, you don’t need to tend them. You only need to keep this plastic awning in shape, that’s all. When this plant grows underground, it makes strict demands of the environmental conditions. In short, the less environmental change the better.

“Mei, what kind of treasure are you growing?” the neighbor Ayi asked.

“The China rose.”

“Why don’t I see any buds?”

“They grow downward, and the flowers also blossom underground. It isn’t the China rose that we’re accustomed to seeing. The flowers are only as large as grains of rice, and the petals are stiff.”

Mei blushed. She was repeating what Jin had told her. In her own mind, she didn’t have a good grasp of it. With her goldfish eyes bulging, Ayi looked at her for a moment and then silently entered the apartment.

Mei told Jin that their neighbor Ayi didn’t believe they were growing the China rose. Jin was shaving just then, and lather covered his face. Blinking his little triangular eyes, he said he hadn’t believed it either, at first. Whether people believe it or not has no bearing on the China rose’s growth. With that, he went into the bathroom. Holding a mop, Mei stood there thinking. Presumably, Jin had a clear understanding of this. When the seeds were seen under lamplight, they did look like a singular variety. She remembered that two nights ago the two of them had put their heads together and taken stock of these seeds. She bent over and mopped the floor. When she reached the desk, she noticed a seed that had been left next to a leg of the desk. She quietly picked it up, wrapped it in crepe paper, and put it in the kitchen cupboard.

In the afternoon, Jin napped on the chaise lounge. As for Mei, she sat on the sofa. She could rest just by leaning against the back of the sofa and dozing a little. When her eyelids grew heavy, she heard someone knocking on the door. Twice. Not continuously, but with an interval between them. Who would knock this way? Was it a child playing a prank? She didn’t open the door. She heard Jin snoring softly. After a while, just as her eyelids were growing heavy again, the knock came again — this time, twice in a row. Still light and hesitant. Mei had no choice but to go to the door.

Ayi was standing outside. Her face was pale, as if she’d been frightened.

“I’d also like to grow a little of that variety — that variety of China rose. Do you have any extra seeds?”

“No. Old Jin brought them back through a relative. If you want some, we can ask someone’s help again.”

Ayi looked terribly disappointed. Then her expression changed to spiteful probing — she impertinently stuck her head in and looked into the room. Mei generally did not invite neighbors into her home. Ayi’s unusual behavior made her a little nervous.

“I just remembered. I still have one seed. Do you want it?” She looked almost ingratiating.

“You have one? Sure, I’d like it. Let me have it.”

Taking the seed wrapped in crepe paper, Ayi gave Mei a hard look.

When Mei turned around to close the door, what she saw in the room startled her: a rat was sneaking back and forth under the tablecloth on the dining table. There had seldom been rats in their home. Was it really a rat? Pouncing, she covered the tablecloth with her hands, but the little guy still slipped away. She had pounced on air. She looked on helplessly as the gray rat climbed up the window and glided outside. Shaken, Mei stood in the room and said, “Rat.”