Lin Yutang Selected Works - 60 Literary Masters of the Century

Author: Lin Yutang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-10-01
Features: With a cigarette in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, Bo Ya leisurely walked out of "Prince's Garden" in the suburbs of Northeast City to accompany his good friend Lao Peng for dinner, which had become a habit. The route was quite desolate, requiring him to cross several barren areas. October in Beijing usually had a dry and pleasant climate, and the evening breeze carried a slight chill, much like the time before the war broke out. The autumn sun had baked the soil into a dry gray hue. It was now dusk, and the azure walls and roof tiles, bathed in a soft light, merged with the bare ground, quickly enveloped by the darkness that blurred the distant outlines. The surroundings were eerily silent, with only a few street lamps yet to be lit. A few crows cawed nearby, breaking the tranquility. If one listened closely, they could hear the faint, distant, whispering, and harmonious sounds of a city that was slowly dreaming. Bo Ya walked a quarter of a mile into the twilight, encountering only two or three poor people returning home. They lowered their heads very low, walking silently like him, carrying oil lamps and dinner wrapped in lotus leaf bundles in their hands. A police officer in a black uniform, looking weary, stood at the corner and spoke kindly to him. The stillness was terrifying, like peace; yet peace and the scent of death were so similar. But he liked to take walks at this time, enjoying the sharp coolness of the night wind and the pleasure of gradually surrounding and deepening the mysteries of city life around him. Only when he reached South Xiaojie did he see signs of life. The street lamps were arranged in long rows, and the oil lamps of the small snack stalls, set up specifically for the poor, shone brilliantly in the darkness. It was a long and narrow alley, unpaved, only ten to twelve feet wide, running north-south and parallel to Hada Gate Street. Lao Peng's home was nearby, not far from Dong Si Pai Lou, in the residential street further south, most of which was now occupied by the Japanese. Several rickshaws moved slowly along the way, some with their lights off, resting by the roadside. To save fuel, the drivers only lit the lamps after the passengers hired the rickshaws. Turning left, he arrived at Lao Peng's home. The alley was so narrow that even a rickshaw could hardly pass through. It was very dark all around, and he nearly stumbled on the doorstep upon arrival. He knocked on the iron ring of the gate and soon heard coughing from inside. He knew it was Lao Peng's old servant. "Who is it?" the servant called out. "It's me." "Is it Young Master Yao?" "Mm." A series of violent coughs followed, and the door lock slowly opened. "Is the master home?" Bo Ya asked. "He left this morning and hasn't returned yet. Come in. It's really cold at night in autumn. He'll be back for dinner." Bo Ya crossed the courtyard and entered the living room. The simple furniture made the room quite spacious—a cheap painted wooden square table, a few bamboo chairs with dark blue cloth cushions, and a wobbly old armchair, clearly second-hand from the Islamic market, bought for dozens of yuan. Every time Bo Ya sat on it, the springs would creak and sink to one side. The fabric cover had several cigarette burn holes, and whenever he shifted his position, he could feel the steel inside moving. Whenever Lao Peng needed to relax, he would sit in this chair. A few Xiang Fei bamboo