Ding Ling Collection - Everyone's Little Collection

Author: Ding Ling / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features:
Today is December 24th, and the wind is blowing again! Before dawn, I was woken up by the wind. The boy ran in to light the stove. I knew then that I couldn’t sleep anymore, no matter how hard I tried. And I knew that if I didn’t get up, I’d get a headache. Lying in bed was too conducive to thinking about all sorts of strange and bizarre things. The doctor said it was best to sleep more, eat more, and avoid reading or overthinking. But I couldn’t do that—every night I’d stay awake until two or three, and then wake up again before dawn. On windy days like this, it was impossible not to think about many things that made me anxious. And when it was windy, I couldn’t go out to play. Stuck in the house with no books to read, what else could I do? Could a person just sit there, waiting for time to pass? I waited every day, longing for winter to end. If the weather got warmer, my cough might improve. Then, if I had to go back to school, I would. But this winter was just too long.
When the sun shone on the paper window, I was heating the third glass of milk. I had heated it four times yesterday. Even though I heated it so many times, it wasn’t necessarily because I was hungry. It was just a way for a person to pass the time on a windy day and avoid frustration. It could take up a little time, but sometimes it only made me angrier, so for seven whole days last week, I didn’t touch it. But until I came up with another idea, I couldn’t help but rely on it, like an old person patiently passing the time.
When the newspaper arrived, I started reading it, going through the domestic news with large headlines in order, then the international news, and finally the local news—education, party-oriented education, the economy, the 96 bond market… I read it all, and then had to reread the advertisements for recruiting male and female students, the notices for lawsuits over inheritance disputes, even the ads for things like 606, 100-machine, beauty tonics, Open Bright plays, and True Light movies. Only then did I lazily put the newspaper down. Of course, sometimes I’d come across new ads, but they were usually just things like discounts for silk shops on their five- or six-year anniversary, or obituaries with poor wording.
After finishing the newspaper, I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I sat by the stove, angry. The things that made me angry were the same every day. Every time I heard the voices of the residents shouting for the boy from the corridor outside the window, my head would ache. Those voices were so rough, loud, hoarse, and monotonous: “Boy, open the kettle!” or “Facial water, boy!” Anyone could imagine how unpleasant they were. And the phone downstairs was always filled with people shouting loudly near the switchboard. When there was no sound at all, it was terrifyingly quiet, especially those four white-washed walls. They stared right at you no matter where you sat: if you tried to escape to bed, the same white-washed ceiling would press down on you heavily. I couldn’t find a single thing that didn’t make me dislike it. Like that boy with a pockmarked face, the meals that smelled of rags, the dust on the window frames that couldn’t be swept away, the mirror on the washstand—a mirror that could stretch your reflection to over a foot long. But if you tilted your head just slightly, your face would look so flat that even you would be scared of it. All of these things made me angry again and again.
Maybe only I felt this way. But I would rather find some new unhappiness or dissatisfaction; it was just that everything new, whether good or bad, seemed so far away from me.
After lunch, Wei Di came. As soon as I heard the distinctive, hurried sound of his shoes on the corridor from the other end, I felt as if I’d taken a breath of fresh air and felt comfortable. But I wouldn’t show it, so when Wei Di walked in, I just quietly watched him. He thought I was upset again and squeezed my hands tightly, calling out, “Sister, sister,” over and over. I, of course, laughed! But what did I laugh at? I knew! In those eyes that only looked at me below the level of my eyes, I was sure of what was hidden beneath their eyelids, what they didn’t want anyone to know! How long had it been since you, Wei Di, had been in love with me? But had he ever caught me? Of course, I couldn’t blame him for that; a woman should be like that. In fact, I was quite considerate; I didn’t think another woman would tease him like this, and I truly pitied him. Sometimes, I couldn’t help but want to point it out to him: “Wei Di, can’t you change your approach? This only makes me unhappy.”
Right, if Wei Di could be a little smarter, I might like him more. But he could only be so loyal in showing his sincerity! When Wei Di saw me laugh, he was very satisfied. He jumped over the bedside to take off his great coat and his big fur hat. If he had turned around to look at me then, I’m sure he would have seen some unhappiness in my eyes. Why couldn’t he understand me more? I always wanted there to be someone who understood me completely. If they didn’t understand me, what was the point of all that love and tenderness? But my father, my sister, and my friends all loved me so blindly. I really didn’t know what they loved about me; did they love my arrogance, my temper, my tuberculosis? Sometimes, I’d get angry or sad over it, but they would only be more tolerant and loving, saying comforting words that made me even more inclined to hit them. I really wanted someone to understand me at those times—even if they scolded me, I would have been happy and proud.
When no one paid attention to me or looked at me, I’d either miss them or resent them. But when someone did come, I didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed either. That was just how it was.
Recently, I had been trying to discipline myself, often biting my tongue when words were on the tip of my mouth, afraid of accidentally hurting someone’s feelings—even if it was just joking. Because of this, I could imagine how I was sitting with Wei Di. But if Wei Di stood up and said he was leaving, I’d feel lonely and regret him. Wei Di knew this well, so he didn’t leave until ten o’clock at night. But I wasn’t lying to anyone, not even to myself—I was honest. Wei Di staying wasn’t good for him, and it only made me feel that he was too easy to control, or even more pitiful for his poor love-making skills.
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