Descendants

Author: Da Tao
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: Song Yimeng is going to the Anzhan Office to report, waiting by the roadside for Bus No. 44. A half-blooming lotus, swaying, caught Song Yimeng's eye. It was half a lotus, spewing curved fine threads, holding tiny flower buds, pale and slightly yellow, tinged with a touch of sorrow. The spring wind in Beijing swirled, carrying sand and blowing it over, making the half-blooming lotus blurry, and people's memories also blurred. This half-blooming lotus was pinned to the chest of a middle-aged woman. She wore a thin chiffon scarf on her head and a blue checkered vinylon top with a slightly ironed gray rayon pants. She was tall and straight, with a pale complexion and deep-set eyes. Her demeanor was calm, but her expression seemed tired and heavy. The half-blooming lotus on her chest gave her a unique elegance. She held her hands out to shield against the wind and sand, anxiously looking into the distance. This woman looked so familiar. Song Yimeng finally remembered—it was Long Guihua, a classmate from middle school, two years older than him. When Song Yimeng was in his senior year, Long Guihua had already graduated. She was quite famous at school, so Song Yimeng knew her. But she didn’t recognize Song Yimeng, and they had never spoken to each other. Long Guihua was now middle-aged, and her appearance had changed greatly, but Song Yimeng still remembered her vaguely. Several years ago, when Song Yimeng returned home from the vast northwest for a visit, he had once passed her in a lane. Back then, Long Guihua was still young, with a slightly rosy complexion and high, firm breasts, walking with a slight tremor, full of elasticity. A woman’s spring is so fleeting—it hadn’t been many years, yet Long Guihua had changed almost beyond recognition. The Long Guihua before him seemed to have just come out of a mill, drenched in sweat and covered in dust. Who could have imagined that this tired Long Guihua was once a flower in the school. Song Yimeng remembered that year at the bonfire party, Long Guihua’s performance of the Xinjiang solo dance stunned the entire school. Everyone stared at her, not daring to speak. That night was hers alone—besides the music, the only sound in the venue was the rhythmic sound of her footsteps. Under the night sky, a pile of flames burned, flickering with the rhythm. Long Guihua spun swiftly, her face flushed red under the firelight, her entire body glowing red. Many boys with burgeoning youth were daydreaming, trying to show their affection whenever they got the chance. A young male teacher, to commemorate that unforgettable performance, privately wrote a diary. Later, that diary somehow circulated among the students. In it, Long Guihua was described as a crescent moon, and it said that some deity would one day be lucky enough to pick this spring osmanthus. A rogue, a former gangster who had once paid homage to a boss on the Xuanwu Gate tower, also fell for her. He would carry a silver spoon to the school gate every day, claiming to want to be friends with her. The classmates were worried about Long Guihua, always surrounding her and protecting her during dismissal time. One rainy day, the classmates were negligent, and Long Guihua left the school alone. The rogue held an oilcloth umbrella and approached her, trying to strike up a conversation: "Long Guihua, today I