Chapter Forty-Two
A new week.
He was speechless at her baffling actions. "What are you doing?"
"Mind your own business! Who gave you permission to peek? You peeping Tom!" she said, albeit somewhat cutely. He cursed inwardly, "Ugh, nonsense, Xiao Li."
She simply didn't want to talk to him...
Before he could finish speaking, the Chinese teacher, Ms. Cui, poured cold water on him: "Tan Yuze, what are you talking about during morning reading time?" The whole class stopped reading abruptly, and dozens of eyes turned to him.
Tan Yuze's fingers tightened around the spine of the book, and his ears quickly turned red. He had always had excellent grades, so the teacher couldn't bear to say anything harsh, only adding lightly, "Copy the third paragraph of 'Chen Qing Biao' three times to help you remember it."
Then she continued her rounds. Xu Li pursed her lips behind her textbook, her shoulders trembling violently. After the teacher had gone far away, she turned her head to the side, her bright eyes brimming with a gleaming smile, like a little mouse that had stolen some oil.
She deliberately propped the book up to cover half her face and whispered at him, "So, even the top student Tan has his day now?" Tan Yuze glanced at her, tore off a corner of the draft paper he was using for punishment, scribbled a few lines, and pushed it in front of her desk.
"You gloating little ingrate, have you forgotten who borrowed your notebook to copy yesterday?"
Xu Li laughed even harder after reading it. He drew an exaggerated smiley face on the back of the note and added a stick figure with its tail pointing skyward. He then tossed it lightly back onto his textbook.
The early spring sunlight slanted in through the window, chalk dust floating in the beams of light. Tan Yuze bent down to copy "A Memorial to the Throne".
When I wrote, “But Liu is nearing the end of his life, his breath is faint, his life is hanging by a thread, and he doesn’t know when he’ll live,” I suddenly felt a warmth spread from my earlobe to my fingertips—it wasn’t entirely out of embarrassment, but more like I’d been bumped by something light.
The bell rang abruptly, signaling the end of the second period, as if someone had shattered the glass dome hanging above the classroom. Xu Li was the first to jump up, shoving her thermos back into her drawer and grabbing the first page of manuscript that Tan Yuze had just finished copying.
"Let me admire the top student's handwriting as punishment." She pretended to unfold the paper, "Tsk, this stroke even has emotion in it, it's almost tearing the paper."
Tan Yuze reached out to snatch it, but Xu Li anticipated his move, hid the manuscript behind her back, and leaned back, causing the chair back to creak.
She smiled like a cat that had just stolen fish, her eyes curving into crescent moons: "Copy it three times, exactly the same. How about you write it for me? The price is—"
“No.” Xu Li interrupted him, her voice not loud but with a hint of a smile, “I’m afraid I’ll write your ‘Yuzhang Ancient County’ as ‘Yuzhang Ancient County’.”
Tan Yuze chuckled and was about to retort when the homeroom teacher suddenly returned, tapping her finger on the doorframe. The two fell silent instantly, as if muted. The teacher's gaze swept over them, finally settling on the stack of punishment papers on Tan Yuze's desk: "Hand them to my office when you're done."
After everyone left, Tan Yuze muttered to himself, "Did Old Cui eat gunpowder today?" He reached out and poked Xu Li's arm.
"Hey, you're really not going to help me? The handwriting you copied looks pretty much like mine." Xu Li didn't look up, but just pushed the paper that was halfway through copying the second time towards her.
Xu Li froze, a blank space appearing on the paper—he had left half a line blank, just enough to write the sentence, "Tan Yuze owes me a meal of stir-fried pork from the second floor of the cafeteria." "Deal?"
The boy tapped the blank space with the tip of his pen, a glint of light in his eyes. Xu Li stared at the words, suddenly feeling a heat rise to her ears. She grabbed the pen and quickly wrote "Deal" in the blank space.
She then drew a grinning face next to it, and before the ink was dry, she stamped it with her thumbprint. Tan Yuze looked at the blurry fingerprint and chuckled softly. After lunch, Xu Li carried her tray through the crowd and placed a plate of stir-fried pork in front of Tan Yuze.
The gravy splattered onto the edge of the plastic plate, like tiny oil droplets. She deliberately put on a stern face: "Look, the debt is paid. If you get caught again during morning reading, the price will go up to two meals."
Tan Yuze used the tip of his chopsticks to push aside the green pepper, revealing the largest piece of meat buried underneath, and pushed it towards her: "Interest."
The cafeteria was bustling with noise, and steam blurred the windows. Xu Li lowered his head to bite into the piece of meat, and suddenly remembered the redness on his ears during morning reading—so even top students can be shy.
She looked up, wanting to say something, but saw Tan Yuze wiping away the oil splattered on the table with a tissue, his movements as natural as if he had done it countless times. After that day, the sound of reading aloud in the morning would occasionally be broken by a couple of low, breathy words.
Sometimes Xu Li would push the misspelled words to him to see, and sometimes Tan Yuze would remind her that she was missing the character "兮" in her recitation of ancient poems. The homeroom teacher never caught them again, because Xu Li's textbook stood up straight, while Tan Yuze's punishment copy contained a small note that read, "Don't talk today, Old Zhou is patrolling the third row."
A late spring breeze swept across the windowsill, lifting a corner of the manuscript paper. On it were two names side by side, one with sharp strokes, the other with a round, plump tail, like vines that had secretly grown together.
Before the morning reading bell rang the next day, Tan Yuze stuffed a piece of draft paper folded into a square into Xu Li's exercise book.
"What?" Xu Li asked in a low voice.
“A dictation of the ‘Memorial to the Throne’ – this is a list of easily misspelled characters I compiled last night.” Tan Yuze’s voice was also low. “Don’t write ‘床蓐’ as ‘床絮’ again.”
Xu Li stuck out her tongue, about to reply, when her homeroom teacher, Ms. Zhou, entered the room carrying the test papers. She immediately tucked the papers into the cover and sat up straight. Ms. Zhou, however, went straight to Tan Yuze.
"The school's recommended spots are out, Peking University's Chinese Department. Have you filled out your form yet?" A soft exclamation rippled through the classroom. Xu Li nodded: "I'll hand it in before school ends today." Tan Yuze tapped his fingertip lightly on the edge of the desk.
Peking University, Chinese Literature—that was her college application, written on a sticky note but never dared to post. Amidst the sounds of morning reading, Teacher Zhou added, "Oh, and Peking University also requires a parent's signature."
"Your grandma hasn't been feeling well lately... Is she able to come to school?" Tan Yuze lowered his eyes: "I'll sign it when I get home tonight and give it to you tomorrow morning."
After the teacher left, the sound of reading continued. Xu Li noticed, however, that Tan Yuze's copy of "Memorial to the Throne" remained unopened, his fingertips gripping the corner of the book, which was turning white.
Lunch break. Empty classroom.
Xu Li spread two printed translations of the "Memorial to the Throne" on the windowsill: "I checked last night. Li Mi didn't actually succeed in disobeying the imperial order; he still went to Luoyang in the end. Look—"
Tan Yuze leaned against the window frame, his gaze fixed on the playground: "I know."
"Then why..."
“My grandma coughed up blood again last night.” His voice was hoarse. “I applied to Peking University because I wanted to go back to Beijing so I could take care of her. But if…”
Xu Li folded up the translation and stuffed it into his palm: "Isn't your grandmother in Shanghai? Besides, loyalty comes before filial piety. What your grandmother wants to see most is you soaring high."
Tan Yuze didn't speak, but simply handed her the folded note with the easily misspelled characters from the "Memorial to the Throne": "My grandmother was taken to Beijing a few days ago." It was evening, at the corner of the stairs.
Xu Li ran upstairs carrying a stack of exam papers and bumped into Tan Yuze, who was squatting in the corner, saying into his phone, "Grandma, I applied to Peking University... Yes, it's a school recommendation, so I don't need my college entrance exam score to get in... Don't worry about the money, there's a scholarship..."
He looked up and saw Xu Li, making a "shh" gesture. Xu Li squatted down and gave him half of the earphone. The old man's intermittent laughter could be heard from the phone.
After hanging up, the two sat side by side. The setting sun slanted in through the hallway window, casting long shadows. "Xu Li," Tan Yuze suddenly spoke, "if... I mean, if I really did go to Beijing in the end, you—"
“I’m going to Fudan University,” Xu Li answered quickly, waving the draft application form in her hand. “Chinese Language and Literature Teacher Training College. It’s 1,200 kilometers away from you, a four-hour high-speed train ride.”
Tan Yuze was stunned for a moment, then smiled and asked, "Then who will correct your typos during the next 'Memorial to the Throne' recitation?" "You will video call me and watch me go through each sentence."
Xu Li stood up and shoved the earphones back into his hand. "Let's go, Lao Cui is still waiting for you to hand in your application—Tan, the academic genius." The boy followed behind her, their shadows overlapping, like two vines growing side by side, finally reaching out over the wall.
At 6:30, the sky was still pale. The entire teaching building was like a buzzing beehive, filled with the sounds of students reading aloud. Tan Yuze, however, arrived ten minutes later than usual—he was carrying a bulging black backpack, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
Xu Li had already laid out the two of their "Memorial to the Throne" dictation papers side by side on the windowsill, and written a small "86" in red pen in the upper left corner, representing that there were only eighty-six days left until the college entrance examination.
"Why are you so late?" she asked in a low voice. Tan Yuze didn't answer. He put his backpack on the chair, unzipped it, and revealed a small silver oxygen concentrator.
The machine hummed softly, like a docile little animal. "My grandma had trouble breathing again last night, and the doctor said it's best to carry this with her." He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "I tried it, and the battery lasts for four hours, enough for her to use during the day."
Xu Li stared at the machine and suddenly thought: In just over eighty days, they would go their separate ways—he would go north and she would go east—and at this moment they were still reciting the same ancient text by the same window, like the last moment when two parallel lines intersected.
She took a breath, turned the dictation paper over so the blank back was facing up: "Come on, one last time." Tan Yuze laughed: "Die again? I can write it with my eyes closed."
“Then close your eyes and write.” He actually closed his eyes, and the tip of his pen fell on the paper, each stroke like carving characters.
Xu Li recited softly beside him: "Without my grandmother, I would not be where I am today; without me, my grandmother would not be able to live out her remaining years..." When he got to the last line, Tan Yuze's pen suddenly stopped, his eyelashes trembled, but he did not open his eyes.
Xu Li saw a tiny dot spreading on the paper—like ink, or something else. “Hey,” she whispered, “in eighty-six days, let’s burn this ‘Memorial to the Throne’ together.”
"Burn it?" He finally opened his eyes, his voice a little hoarse. "Yes, burn it. Just consider it burning away the 'merely' in 'not worth the trouble'."
She made an exaggerated lighting gesture, "Then—you can go to Beijing with peace of mind, and I'll go to Shanghai with peace of mind. For the rest of our journeys, we'll each go our own way, but neither of us should look back."
Tan Yuze looked at her and suddenly laughed: "Then we need to find a safe place to burn it, so as not to trigger the smoke alarm." "Behind the stadium stands, around 10 p.m., after the dormitory supervisor has finished her rounds."
"Deal." He looked down and added a line of small print in the lower right corner of the dictation paper: —Party B: Xu Li, Party A: Tan Yuze.
Those who break their promises after the college entrance exam will have to treat the other party to stir-fried pork for the rest of their lives.
Xu Li drew a stick figure next to her with a red pen, holding a flame-shaped fork, as if it wanted to burn down the whole summer. The morning reading bell rang for the second time, and the sound of reading aloud rose sharply.
They didn't speak again, each folding the paper in half, then in half again, and hiding it in their breast pockets, close to their heartbeats.
Outside the window, the first ray of sunlight pierced through the gray clouds and fell on the dust on the windowsill, like extremely fine gold dust.
Nine models.
The entire examination center seemed to have its power suddenly cut off, the buzzing abruptly ceasing. Xu Li squeezed out of the examination room with the crowd, the sunlight blindingly bright.
She instinctively reached into her pocket for the origami paper—the one filled with "A Memorial to the Throne" written during morning reading—only to find that only a corner of it remained, the rest lying in some desk crevice.
At the school gate, Tan Yuze was already waiting under the sycamore tree. He wasn't wearing his school uniform; his white T-shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, and he was carrying his black backpack. The oxygen concentrator was gone.
He gestured with his chin towards her, indicating they were across the street. Grandma, sitting in her wheelchair with a lighter oxygen tube under her nose, waved to them.
The old man wore a dark red silk shirt today, which looked like a quiet flame in the sunlight. "The doctor said I can come out for some fresh air."
Tan Yuze explained in a low voice, "She wanted to see me collect the papers with her own eyes." Xu Li's nose tingled with emotion, but she still smiled and ran over, squatting down to be at eye level with her grandmother: "Grandma, we're done with the exam!"
The old man blinked and fumbled to pull out a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket—it was the fragment of the "Memorial to the Throne" that Xu Li thought he had lost. It had been carefully pieced together with transparent tape, and the crack looked like a lightning bolt.
“Xiaoze said you should burn it,” Grandma’s voice was as soft as the wind. “But I want to keep it. I want you to read it to me together four years from now.”
Xu Li froze. Tan Yuze spoke up behind her, his voice carrying a long-lost sense of relaxation: "I've changed my mind. Rather than burning it, let it continue to live—like us."
He bent down, pulled a brown paper bag from behind his wheelchair, and handed it to Xu Li. Inside were two train tickets:
Beijing South to Shanghai Hongqiao, July 15th, two seats side by side. He wanted to go and see.
Xu Li didn't take the ticket; she just looked down at the armrest of the wheelchair. A wrinkled hand was resting on the back of Tan Yuze's hand, like a stamp of time.
She suddenly remembered the phrase "to depend on each other for life" from the "Memorial to the Throne," which not only applies to grandparents and grandchildren, but also to them now and to them in the future.
“Grandma,” she said softly, “when we read it to you together four years from now… could we add a new passage?”
The old man smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes spreading out like a fan: "Add what?" Xu Li grasped Tan Yuze's hand, palms touching, fingers interlocked.
"Add to this—'Without Xu Li, I would not be where I am today; without me, Xu Li would not be able to live out my remaining years.'" The cicadas' chirping suddenly rang out, like a seal stamping this altered oath.
Grandma blinked, pretending not to hear the young man's heartbeat, and turned to look at the June sky. In the distance, the last bus carrying students to the exam slowly drove away, stirring up a gust of wind carrying the smell of ink.
In the wind, the tattered fragment of the "Memorial to the Throne," repaired with tape, trembled gently on the old man's knee, like a leaf that refused to fall to the ground.
~~~
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