Chapter 28 Pink Silk teaches her in bed.
Lan Jia always felt that whenever she talked about such topics in front of Meng Cenjun, it was like touching some kind of taboo.
She's grown up now, and there are some things she can't possibly be unaware of, especially at such a sensitive age. Her nerves are so sensitive that even the slightest clue or vague hint can inexplicably lead people to think of Freud and sex.
Meng Cenjun is reserved and introverted. He is an older brother, a parent, and a revered figure in a Buddhist shrine. Lan Jia admits that she has many pretenses in front of him, just like a rebellious child in secret who learns smoking, drinking, and gambling skills outside, but has to pretend to be innocent and obedient when she returns home.
Actually, she was quite happy to appear innocent and naive in front of him. She had her own ulterior motives; it would allow her to get closer to him, and no matter how much she provoked or touched him, he would forgive her for her "ignorance." This was exactly what she wanted.
As puberty approached, Meng Cenjun began to deliberately distance himself from her, while Lan Jia tried every means to get closer to him. Sometimes she hated that he treated her like a child, restricting her too much and leaving her with no freedom, but at certain moments, she wished she could stay young forever.
Tonight is an exception, he's the most tolerant of her, so she can push his boundaries without restraint.
Thinking this through, Lan Jia finished tidying up and still lingered, a sweet, ingratiating smile on her face: "Brother, I'll just stay for a little while. I promise, I'll go back to my room to sleep when I get sleepy, okay?"
Her eyes sparkled, with the beautiful brilliance of jewels, irresistible.
Meng Cenjun ignored her and turned the pages of her book, having been interrupted and not finished reading the ending.
"Brother, what about my story?" Seeing that he was unmoved, Lan Jia was about to make a scene again.
"No."
"Then tell me a joke."
"Won't."
"Even a lame joke is fine."
"Are you going to sleep or not?" Meng Cenjun asked, glancing at her.
She knew he had never had a sense of humor; even the bedtime stories he told as a child were ones he painstakingly searched for and repeated over and over again. But she deliberately wanted to tease him; she loved hearing his voice.
Lan Jia rolled over and snuggled up to him. "If all else fails, can you read something to me?"
“There’s nothing to read.” He still refused, half-lying down, with Lan Jia’s arm against his thigh through a thin blanket, feeling uncomfortable.
She turned her head and glanced at the spine of the book in his hand, then saw several books piled up on his bedside table, all of which were obscure and difficult-to-understand professional books.
However, there is one...
Lan Jia suddenly straightened up, reached out to grab it, but was still a little short. She moved to the side, her arm taut, and struggled to pull out the hardcover book with its gold foil cover from the bottom.
Meng Cenjun was taken aback. He saw that most of her body was leaning over him. Although it was to get past him, she was still slightly stiff and leaned back a little unnaturally.
When he came to his senses, Lan Jia was smiling, shoving the book into his hands with a sly and domineering air: "How about reading this one? I like this one."
He glanced at the cover; it was a collection of French poems that he had casually grabbed from his study and hadn't had a chance to read yet.
He met Lan Jia's expectant gaze again and sighed inwardly. Since she intended to reconcile with him, he had no choice but to grant her wish.
"Only this once." Meng Cenjun stated this beforehand, then cleared her throat and turned to the first page.
When he was reading, his voice was much lower than usual, with a gentleness that was quite different from his usual tone. He also deliberately did not use the most formal way of speaking, but incorporated his own little habits when pronouncing words, which made his voice very distinctive and more emotional.
Lan Jia's French was never good, and her Spanish was only passable. To have a better chance of getting into university, she had to study hard. She was never a particularly gifted student and always suffered more than those around her when she was studying. Back then, she was young but ambitious and didn't want to be seen as stupid, so she preferred to study late into the night rather than ask for help from others.
Frustrated by working in isolation, Lan Jia often practiced until her tongue was tied, but to no avail. When Meng Cenjun called her during a spare moment, she would always hear Lan Jia scream in despair: "God knows how 'coin' can mean 'corner'? I thought he lived inside a coin! How could I be such an idiot who can't tell the difference between dessert and desert? Even words like 'crayon' and 'pencil' are messing with me!"
“I’ll teach you,” he said to her, crossing the entire ocean.
Lan Jia thought that it was better to lose face in front of Meng Cenjun than to be laughed at by outsiders. From then on, the two of them started making international calls one after another.
Meng Cenjun is indeed a very qualified and good teacher, but unfortunately Lan Jia is a rebellious and impatient bad student. The harmonious scene between teacher and student will not last more than three days. The two will start arguing on the phone again. In the end, the angry tears will soak the pages of the exercise book, and the class will end with a brief cold war.
Lan Jia often thought afterward that it must be because Meng Cenjun wasn't tolerant enough of her. He had never been a good-tempered person; he was always cold and aloof. That was what she hated most about him.
But sometimes, there were also strangely tender moments. He taught her again and again, reciting long, difficult sentences with a beautiful and magnetic tone. Through the receiver, Lan Jia felt a ticklish sensation in her ears, like being brushed by feathers from an ASMR soothing sound effect. Sentence by sentence, like a child learning, she pretended not to have learned them even after she had learned them. She had a selfish desire, as if bewitched, to hear them again and again.
As the call ended, Meng Cenjun's voice trailed off and eventually faded away. He fell asleep before the call was even disconnected; it was already past midnight in China.
Then it dawned on her, and she realized that Meng Cenjun had been giving her a lesson in bed. People who are extremely tired often reveal an unconscious vulnerability and tenderness. When she heard it, she was surprised and overjoyed, like flowers blooming in salt flats or rain falling in the Sahara.
Unfortunately, it only happened that one time.
But now she heard it again.
Memories of the past are like an old blanket, oatmeal-colored, made of warm cashmere, warmed by the sun, soft and formless, enveloping her without any gaps.
It turns out that sound also has the Proust effect.
Lan Jia squinted her eyes, wrapped herself in the blanket, and rolled around like a chubby caterpillar.
Meng Cenjun remained seated. Upon seeing this commotion, she asked in a hushed tone, "What is it?"
A fluffy head peeked out from under the covers, its face pale pink, its eyes sparkling with life.
"So happy!"
Her voice was sweet and clear, more like a ripe peach in early summer than she was.
Meng Cenjun's face remained expressionless, but her heart was in turmoil.
The ripe fruit fell to the ground, splashing juice everywhere.
"I want to hear more." She blinked.
He remained calm and turned to the next page.
Lan Jia lay beside him, staring straight at him, at his profile silhouetted against the lamplight, so tall and straight. Because he was looking down, his eyelashes drooped, thick yet illuminated by the light, appearing pale and long, like a resting butterfly wing, possessing a gentle and harmless air.
it's beautiful.
She silently recited it in her heart.
Such peaceful and harmonious moments are rare; there are no arguments, no disputes, and no tears.
Lan Jia sometimes thinks it's a miracle that she and Meng Cenjun, two people who are completely different, have been arguing for so many years without breaking up.
But at this moment, she felt incredibly fortunate.
Thankfully, it didn't fall apart.
She closed her eyes peacefully, longing for what seemed like an eternity.
After an unknown amount of time, the voice reciting poetry gradually weakened. Meng Cenjun stopped, picked up the water glass from the bedside table, and took a sip.
My throat is dry and parched; it's a devil that loves to torment people.
Yeah, I just love to mess with him.
He pursed his lips, suppressing a hint of his smile.
Is that enough?
He turned his head, only to find that she was not moving.
"Lan Jia?" He gently nudged her shoulder.
Lan Jia heavily raised her eyelids.
"Go back to sleep."
"Hmm..." she responded, but didn't move, her whole body feeling limp.
"Don't sleep here, be good."
She mumbled something, but it was unclear what she said.
Helpless, Meng Cenjun nudged her again.
Lan Jia frowned, finally unable to bear it any longer, and rolled over, muttering, "Don't touch me... I'm so tired, I'll just lie here a little longer and then I'll leave..."
He's being unreasonable again.
But she just can't get away with it.
He sighed inwardly, closed the book of poems, and set it aside.
He glanced at her again; she seemed to be completely asleep, her back to him, her whole body pressed against the blanket, exposed to the cold air.
I've rarely seen her asleep since she became an adult. The first two times we were busy arguing, it wasn't a deep impression, and I didn't feel it as strongly as I do now.
The light was thin and soft, enveloping her like a draped, shimmering pink silk. Lan Jia's body was curled up; her already slender frame appeared even smaller than usual with her limbs tucked in. In truth, it wasn't much different from when she was a child. When she was fast asleep, she often used this position, like a baby in the womb, curled up as if she could find the sense of security she once felt surrounded by amniotic fluid.
Because he had just cried, his eyes were slightly swollen, and he had been working long hours lately, so there were faint dark circles under his eyes. He thought of their last argument, when Lan Jia cried and accused him of never praising or encouraging her, and of treating her as a source of pride. Now, thinking about it, he felt a pang of pain in his heart, mostly guilt and regret. He felt ashamed that he was too shy to express himself and found it difficult to speak up, but at the same time, he was afraid of giving her too much and spoiling her.
He was just that kind of old-fashioned person, he didn't understand any educational principles, he was rigid and contradictory, and he wasn't much more mature than her.
To him, Lan Jia was not a greenhouse flower under a glass dome; he hoped she would be a tree growing in the wilderness, free and unrestrained, with branches reaching the sky.
He poured his heart and soul into cultivating and watering it, hoping it would grow lush, tall, and beautiful. But at the same time, he didn't want it to grow too fast; if it had grown so large that it no longer needed his intervention, what would be the point of his existence?
He craved to be needed, but he was also selfish. To satisfy his own desires, he suppressed her as much as possible, slowing down her growth. But sometimes, seeing her in such pain, like a child who couldn't get candy, crying and screaming inconsolably, he was afraid. What if he spoiled her, suppressed her too much, and ruined her?
This contradictory and conflicted state of mind tormented him for ten years. The more he struggled, the weaker he became, and the more he resembled an old man in his twilight years.
He felt he was getting too old, so he became more and more reliant on and depended on Lan Jia.
Thankfully, she grew up safely and smoothly, just as he had initially hoped—strong, brave, kind, and spirited.
He understood her predicament, her efforts, and her determination to fight for independence.
In his heart, no one could compare to her excellence, outstanding qualities, and dazzling brilliance.
She didn't need to prove anything to him, because she had always been his pride.
Meng Cenjun gave her a deep look.
She only hoped that one day she could forgive the pitiful selfishness of an incompetent gardener.
Perhaps he wasn't rational enough tonight; he was lost in thought, overthinking, and confused.
What's wrong with indulging once? No one will know anyway.
Lan Jia is right, they deserve to be remembered today.
He gazed at her longingly for a moment, then gently pressed the shutter.
The image is frozen in time, captured quickly, forever preserving the image from his eyes.
Meng Cenjun ultimately did not put that photo into the album.
He carefully tucked it into a poem.
Author's note: I inserted my sister's photo into a love poem. [Milk Tea]
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