misty rain

Author: Qiong Yao
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2001-09-01
Features: The departure of Shuheng leaves Yiping as if standing in the desolate wilderness around her, forgetting both space and time. In this misty sky, she cannot find the lost self she has become. This is a captivating, moving, tear-inducing, and tender love story, adapted into a currently popular TV drama.
Excerpt:
It's that tedious day again. After dinner, I sit listlessly in the chair by the window, gazing at the dense, drizzling rain outside. Water droplets hang from the eaves, crystal clear and transparent, like a string of pearls. On the banana tree beside the fence, water drips from the broad leaves, drop by drop, falling monotonously and persistently onto the muddy ground. Outside the fence, a streetlight stands tall in the rain, emitting its dim yellow light indifferently, so aloof and proud, as if it had nothing to do with the affairs of the world. Well, what do the affairs of the world have to do with it anyway? I sigh and stand up from the chair. No matter what, I have to go handle my own matters.
"Yiping, haven't you gone yet?" Mom runs out from the kitchen. Her hands are still wet from washing dishes, and the blue apron with white stripes is still tied around her waist.
"I'm on my way," I say helplessly, searching for my umbrella in the corner.
"When you get 'over there,' don't get into any conflicts with them. Tell your dad that the rent can't be delayed any longer—we're already two months behind."
"I know. No matter what it takes, I'll get the money!" I say, still looking for my umbrella.
"Your umbrella is in the closet," Mom says, taking it out from the closet and handing it to me. She glances at the sky and whispers, "Come back early. If you get the money, take a tricycle back! It's going to rain harder."
I hold the umbrella and step off the tatami mat, sitting on the floor of the entryway, putting on my all-weather leather shoes. In truth, I don't have a second pair of shoes. This one was bought by Mom when I graduated from high school last year. It has now been worn for a full year and a half. The old cobbler in the alley who fixes shoes has already repaired this pair countless times, stitching and patching it. Every time I take it to him, he looks at it, shakes his head, and says, "Still this one? It's almost beyond repair."
Now, the soles and uppers of the shoes have split open again. On rainy days, every step sends mud flying inside, making a "gurgle" sound with each stride. But I can no longer bring myself to take it to the cobbler. Fortunately, the house "over there" has a stone-paved floor, so I don't need to take off my shoes. I don't have to worry about my muddy feet being seen either.
Mom sees me off to the front door, holding the door open and standing in the rain as I walk away. I take a few steps, and Mom calls out from behind, "Yiping!"
I turn around, and Mom whispers, "Don't get angry with them."
I nod and walk a little further, then turn back. Mom is still there, her thin and small figure looking so timid and alone. The streetlight casts a pale yellow hue on her pale face. I wave at her, and she turns and disappears into the door.
I watch the door close before turning back, raising the collar of my coat, and shivering slightly in the cold wind. I grip the umbrella handle and walk forward.
The distance from home to "over there" isn't far, but it's not close either—it takes about half an hour to walk, because there's no public transportation along the way, so I always go on foot. Fortunately, I only have to go once a month. Of course, this is assuming things go smoothly. If they don't, and I don't get the money on the day I go, I might have to go two or three more times.
The weather is very cold, and the wind cuts like knives against my face. Although this section of Heping East Road is paved with asphalt, after walking only a short distance, mud seeps into my shoes. With every step, a stream of mud runs out from the seams, while another stream seeps in. The cold seeps from my feet all the way up to my heart, as if my entire body is immersed in cold water.
A car speeds past me, and just as it hits a large pothole, it splashes a lot of mud. Before I can jump out of the way, all the mud lands on the green dress I had deliberately put on—the one I consider my best.
I brush my hair aside. The rain has gotten heavier, and there's a small hole in the umbrella. No matter how I turn the handle, the rain either leaks down my neck or drips onto my cheek. The wind whips up my skirt, and the rain gradually soaks it, making it cling quietly to my legs, tracing its way down my calves and into my shoes.
I bite my lips and start calculating how much money I need to ask that man I call "father" for—800 yuan for living expenses, 1,000 yuan for rent, totaling 1,800. I might as well ask for a few hundred more to cover the winter clothes for my daughter. It seems this pair of shoes can't be postponed any longer this rainy season either.