Chapter 1 Liu Mei
Pu Zhihe is no stranger to this lecture hall.
Crystal chandeliers, blood-red curtains, cherry wood steps, and even a rugged organ are missing, it's a 19th-century oil painting.
She recently served as an assistant teacher for a friend's elective course. Before class, she would always hide in this gloomy Western-style building to listen to the Heart Sutra and watch the courseware on the History of Buddhist Art.
One time I fell asleep while lying on my stomach and was woken up by a noisy crowd. I thought I had arrived at the Great Leiyin Temple, but it was just the student union election.
Today, the curtains of the entire row of floor-to-ceiling windows on the left are all open, making the room bright and spacious. It is said that this was a special request from the guests.
At this moment, she didn't care about the spring outside the window. Her eyes were only focused on the protagonist of this mission and the guest speaker on the stage - Hang Liumei.
Pu Zhihe, who had been assigned to the Cultural Heritage College after her college entrance exam, was familiar with Hang Liumei. She was a legend in this unpopular industry, having been assigned to Dunhuang before her twenties and spending most of her life painting at the Mogao Grottoes.
The popularity of Dunhuang studies has not diminished in the past two years. Later storytellers made documentaries and published autobiographies for the pioneers who were willing to work hard back then, finally making outsiders pay attention to the painters of gods and Buddhas in the northwest desert.
Sixty-nine-year-old Hang Liumei looks younger than Pu Zhihe had imagined.
She exemplifies how, at a certain age, a person's temperament overshadows their appearance. Her drooping eyes appear compassionate, and the nasolabial folds on either side of her nose naturally divide her cheeks. Her energy and spirit derive half from her sharp eyes and half from her still plump cheeks.
Her naturally curly hair, which reached her ears, had been freshly dyed, leaving the roots a neat black. She also wore a light application of eyebrow powder and lipstick. Her clothes were not the old lady's usual maroon and deep purple gowns and short jackets embroidered with gold and silver, but rather a well-shaped woolen coat, shirt, and trousers. While not as pristine as her hair, they had a distinctly ironed quality.
Her thin body sat upright on a high cushioned stool, her back straight, legs together. Pu Zhihe looked her up and down, unconsciously lowering his crossed legs.
The host was the newly elected student union president from last time.
"Wind and frost cannot conceal half a lifetime of sincerity and passion, and the brush can reproduce the thousand-year-old splendor of this treasure! Today we have invited Mr. Hang Liumei, a master who once worked at the Dunhuang Academy and engaged in mural research!" He was already very excited just after reading the first two lines of the poem.
Hang Liumei had already put on her reading glasses and was facing the audience. Upon hearing this, she turned to look at the young student union president.
She didn't push her glasses up to the tip of her nose like other elderly people would do, glancing away through the gap between the lenses and her face. Instead, she took off her glasses with both hands, smiled and said to him, "Thank you, classmate. But you can call me Grandma Hang Liumei or Teacher Hang Liumei."
After hearing what she said, the person on the other side turned to the audience and continued his passionate speech: "Teacher Hang, 'Sir' is a respectful title here, which means that you are a master in our hearts!" He was very satisfied with himself for explaining this thoughtful intention on behalf of the people below.
"I know, young man," Hang Liumei turned her head and slowly put on her glasses, "Grandma Hang Liumei, this is better."
Hang Liumei feels a little uncomfortable today.
This hair dye was making her scalp itch constantly, and if she scratched twice more, her blow-dry style would fall apart. She also had a stomachache, which she blamed on her for making do with leftover steamed buns and porridge for breakfast.
She hadn't been in public for so long that she was a little nervous—even though she'd never been in public much in her life. She tossed and turned in bed until three last night, wondering if she'd disturbed her grandson, Xiaomai.
Hang Liumei looked at Mai Xu who was sitting in the first row of the audience.
He had taken off his coat, revealing the "Three Rabbits with One Ear" printed short-sleeved shirt underneath, which was a Dunhuang peripheral product he had bought when he accompanied Hang Liumei to an event.
"This kid just won't listen to the saying 'cover up in spring and keep cool in autumn,'" Hang Liumei muttered to herself. "Forget it, it's a warm spring anyway."
The host hadn't finished her opening remarks yet. Hang Liumei continued to wander, "I really chose the name Xiaomai. A child born in April, Mai Xu, Mai Xu. To be continued."
Xiaomai, who was born in Chunxia, is already nineteen and a half years old. According to the older generation's calculation, she is twenty-one in terms of age. However, Hang Liumei is very strict about this issue because she is not ready to turn seventy. So she is sixty-nine and Xiaomai is nineteen. This matter must be based on facts.
Since puberty, Xiaomai had been growing like a shovel in the sky, perhaps all the nutrients went into growing taller, as he'd never gained weight. Even after entering university, he'd secretly grown another two centimeters.
Xiaomai had been given the same beautiful eyes and nose as her mother in the womb. Her eyes were slightly upturned, her double eyelids were fan-shaped, and a mole on her nose was the finishing touch. Her mouth was not the thin lips of a typical boy, but a slightly pouty one.
With the upper half of his face covered, he looks more like a girl. His plump mouth and square chin make him handsome and somewhat amorous, but his eyes are too honest and straightforward, suggesting he's not likely to be a playboy and could easily be deceived.
"You used to have fair skin when you were little. When did you become so dark?" Hang Liumei only then noticed the results of Xiaomai's crazy holiday fun. "You have long arms and legs, a long neck and a long body. You're stuck straight in the folding seat like a stick insect!"
She made herself laugh when she came to this conclusion, and the host took this as a compliment and approval from her, causing everyone to applaud again.
Popularity from the world of the living is indeed what Hang Liumei urgently needs right now.
Two years ago, her husband, Lao Jiang, passed away. From the time he was diagnosed with cancer to his passing, only a few months elapsed. Hang Liumei and him were a match made in heaven, having met, fallen in love, and gotten to know each other in Dunhuang. Over the decades, they'd argued no more than twice, some of which would have been considered mere bickering in other families. The more this lingered, the harder it was to move on. Fortunately, Hang Liumei found refuge in painting bodhisattvas and listening to Buddhist sutras, finding a place to escape her sorrow. Whenever she thought of him, she began to paint, realizing that the four elements were empty, and that life could continue.
This happened half a year ago.
Hang Liumei and Lao Jiang's early years in Dunhuang were difficult. After giving birth to their son, Jiang Yunyi, they suffered a miscarriage due to overwork and never conceived again. With their only child, they hoped he would live a carefree life, influenced by the hundreds of murals in the caves, and perhaps even develop some of the spiritual wisdom of Jia Baoyu.
Who knew this kid was the reincarnation of Lu Zhishen, the Monkey King? His mischievousness never ceased. He wasn't a student from childhood, his pretentiousness was all for show. As an adult, he divided his energy between studying cars and his romance with his wife, Mai Sui. Even in middle age, he still caused more worry than his son, Mai.
Jiang Yunyi joined a local motorcycle team, and they would often get together to race over the mountains. Among them was an old man named Song Jiang, nicknamed "Timely Rain." He would rush to the front whenever any of his teammates had any problems, and he and Jiang Yunyi got along very well. Upon asking, it turned out that he was only ten years younger than Hang Liumei.
Jiang Yunyi went home and used him to teach Hang Liumei, "Mom, if you have nothing to do, go out and exercise more often. Tai Chi, tennis, or anything else is fine. The important thing is to enjoy life and exercise your body." Old Song is not much younger than you. He travels all over the world every day. We went hiking together in the valley last week, and he's already diving in Thailand today.
Perhaps hoping to infect his mother with the vitality of this "timely rain", Jiang Yunyi invited Song Jiang to his home. Unexpectedly, Song Jiang, who had been widowed for many years, had his own plans. He fell in love with Hang Liumei at first sight and began a six-month pursuit.
It was all about eating, walking, and chatting. Song Jiang was interested in arranging a coffee and movie date for the young couple, but Hang Liumei flatly refused, insisting their relationship would remain strictly just a friendship. So, let's just start as friends, Song Jiang didn't mind.
The first time, Song Jiang invited Hang Liumei out for lunch under the pretext of asking her advice on art. They hiked early in the morning and returned to a lakeside restaurant at the foot of the Qinling Mountains in time for lunch. Song Jiang rented a small boat and, after a lengthy and gruff negotiation with the owner, finally secured permission to move the dining table onto the boat, where he rowed while she ate.
Facing the beautiful scenery of lakes and mountains, Song Jiang recounted the strange and unusual things he had seen during his travels: crossing forests and snowfields; encountering whales while sea fishing and wild horses on the grasslands; seeing weasels worshiping the moon in the mountains and listening to the teachings of masters in ancient temples.
Hang Liumei was like a hibernating animal awakening, bewildered by the spring flowers and autumn moon. While people outside were reveling, she was in her shell, oblivious to the Wei and Jin dynasties, let alone the Han dynasty.
The second time, Hang Liumei insisted on asking him to go back. Song Jiang said that if that was the case, it meant that Hang Liumei didn't like him. Hang Liumei said that she didn't like him anyway, so it was fine if she didn't want to eat. Song Jiang pretended to be reluctant to agree.
This time, they'd booked a restaurant in the sky, dining on a balcony extending from the building's rooftop. Below the glass windows, they could see the neon-colored bustle of traffic. Song Jiang stopped talking about the vast world and turned to Hang Liumei for advice on family matters: his eldest daughter, still unmarried at her age, and his second daughter, who had been staying home since giving birth.
You are the best son because you can play with me. The only regret in my life is that I don’t have a son, he said.
You treat my son as your son? But my son treats you as his brother, she thought.
The meal revealed a hidden agenda, and Hang Liumei called a halt. She returned home feeling somewhat regretful. He was an interesting person, but why did he keep wanting to find a partner? She had been happy in her previous marriage, but that didn't mean she had to spend the rest of her life as a nanny to an old man.
It was Song Jiang who took the initiative to break the ice for the third time. He said that he was going to take the Sichuan-Tibet line and might not return to his hometown after this trip. He was going to his second daughter's house to help take care of his grandson and wanted to have a farewell dinner with Hang Liumei.
Before going to the banquet, Hang Liumei was tying her silk scarf in front of the mirror. Her right eyelid kept twitching, but she couldn't remember which one was which, "twitching for disaster" or "twitching for wealth".
The Portuguese restaurant they booked for dinner was right at the intersection of Hang Liumei's home. It had been open for more than ten years, and the family was tired of eating there. But Song Jiang said that it had the best baked snails in the area, but this was the only dish Hang Liumei had never ordered.
At nightfall, the restaurant turned off the main lights and lit candles on every table. The flames on the colorful mosaic glass candlesticks flickered, and Hang Liumei's right eyelid also twitched.
Song Jiang, over the saxophone music playing in the restaurant, recounted his story of being sent abroad as a young man and getting a hunting rifle from a local. Seeing that Hang Liumei was losing interest, he skipped to the most thrilling part.
"That thing was so heavy in my hand. I held it in my arms like this, with the muzzle pointing to the sky, and just like that—" He became more and more excited as he spoke. He started to gesture, but suddenly it got stuck. His face turned ugly in an instant, his eyes widened as if they were about to pop out, and his two hands were still maintaining the posture of imitating holding a gun, clasped tightly around himself. Then he fell straight to the ground with a "bang".
Hang Liumei was horrified, unsure if he was having a stroke or possessed by an evil spirit. In a panic, she stuffed a towel into his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue. She knelt down and pinched his philtrum, even trying to help him up. The restaurant was dim and quiet, but the commotion attracted a crowd. Hang Liumei felt the heat and noise all around her, sweat breaking out on her head, and her chest felt so stuffy she could barely breathe.
I don't know who called 911, but he died before he could even get to the hospital. The doctor said it was a pulmonary embolism. It was that simple. He was so full of life just a moment ago, and now he's gone.
"Left eye twitching means good fortune, right eye twitching means disaster." Hang Liumei thought of this while sitting on the bench in the hospital waiting area.
Even painting couldn't save her this time. They say, "Death is like the extinguishing of a light," and she finally understood. Some are like the extinguishing of a light, some like the setting of a sunset, some like a downpour, thunder and lightning. God doesn't care about that; it happens in a flash, leaving no time for a single extra word.
Hang Liumei had been lying at home with a chill for several days. When Lao Song's funeral was approaching, she got up weakly and wrote a mourning couplet for him. The scenes of Lao Jiang and Lao Song before their death kept appearing in front of her eyes, which made her mind confused. She had to look for inspiration in books.
"Sitting upright and meditating on the truth, this is the Tathagata."...
"How can one dwell in emptiness? Emptiness is also dust."...
"The whole world only knows how to lament the passing of water, but no one understands the meaning of Wukong's flower." ...
Hang Liumei turned the pages mechanically, the words jumped into her eyes, and she glanced at them unconsciously.
In the past two years, she has always felt that time has passed very quickly. She has not lived long, but she has become so old, with her body cracked as if she were covered with rust.
One day, she dreamed she was walking and collapsed to the ground, disintegrating into a pool of blood and flesh. Her family surrounded her and cried, but she stood beside them, unnoticed. When she woke up and told her son and grandson about it, they advised her that dreaming of death could actually increase her lifespan. However, the anxiety and fear she felt had become a sore in her heart, festering within her.
Death is inevitable. No matter how you live, the end will be the same. I can't remember what I just read, but a line from a poem I memorized as a teenager suddenly popped up in my mind: "Life is like the flow of water, a fleeting dream."
I've spent half my life in Dunhuang, my career, friends, and family all drifting apart, and I've gained and lost over the decades. Life is just like this.
I came as one person, I left as one person, but I am another person again.
What did Jin Yong say? "Life is about making a big fuss and then leaving quietly."
The series of farewells and declining health over the past two years had made Hang Liumei forget how serious she once was about life. There was still so much unfinished business, and it was too late; she was going to make a scene. Hang Liumei tossed her book aside, flicked on the desk lamp, and quickly wrote down her "bucket list."
First, he had to find the successor to his artistic research career; second, he had to resolve the knot with the "Feng Lazi" Qi Xiuchun who had broken off his relationship with him; third, he had to help his son get his daughter-in-law Mai Sui back and give his grandson a complete family.
The last one, she was afraid, would never happen in this life, but the arrow was on the string and she could not stop writing - to create a perfect porcelain work.
She originally wanted to study porcelain, but by chance she ended up in the Chinese painting department. After arriving in Dunhuang, she was assigned to copy murals. Unexpectedly, she would never have the chance to fulfill her dream.
After arranging all the tasks before her death, Hang Liumei finally slept peacefully that night.
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