7 posts tagged with "Wang Zengqi Style"

South Town's mornings are damp. Especially in April, when the willows by the river have just sprouted tender, goose-yellow buds, the mist hangs like a thin veil on the treetops and drifts into the windows facing the river.

Lin Xiaohe carried an iPhone 6 in her pocket. Not the latest model, nor any special edition, just the kind with slightly worn edges, a screen protector replaced countless times, a battery that didn't last long, an old fellow that would occasionally "ponder life" when running. Most young people on the street held shiny new phones with multiple protruding camera lenses, click-clack, taking photos so sharp they looked like they could capture your very soul. Not Lin Xiaohe. She just used this old companion, taking photos slowly.

The street she lived on had some years to it. Flanked by tall French plane trees, it offered dense shade in summer and golden fallen leaves in autumn. At the street corner was a noodle shop that had been open for decades. The owner, surnamed Wang, always cooked perfectly chewy noodles with generous toppings. Lin Xiaohe often went there for a steaming bowl of noodles with pickled greens and shredded pork. She would take out her phone and snap a picture of the bowl of noodles. No filters, no searching for the perfect angle, just a casual shot. Photos from the old phone weren't brightly colored, perhaps even a bit grayish, veiled in a haze. But Lin Xiaohe felt this was fine, like looking at things through a thin layer of steam, possessing an indescribable gentleness.

Old Wang at the Civil Affairs Bureau's Marriage Registration Office was nearing retirement. He had sat in this palm-sized place for nearly thirty years. The red booklets and green booklets that passed through his hands, if stacked up, would probably reach half a person's height. The red booklets signified celebration, their gilt characters slightly dazzling in the sun; the green booklets were a bit duller in color, like the water of a late autumn pond – no ripples on the surface, but things were pressed underneath.

Recently, a new regulation came in, saying that for marriage or divorce, looking at the hukou booklet (household registration booklet) was no longer required.

The old accountant at the university was surnamed Liu, named Liu Wenhe. His name was refined, but he himself was stout, like a freshly steamed white bun. He had managed the university's finances for decades, seeing people come and go, his hair turning from black to salt-and-pepper, ledger books replaced stack after stack. He kept a living ledger of the personnel changes within the university in his mind.

Every year come May, when the climbing roses were in full bloom, covering the red brick walls of the old administration building, and bees buzzed about, Liu Wenhe knew: Professor Qian's money would be arriving soon.

Old Wei stopped the car under a lamppost and turned off the engine. Not to pick up a fare, but to take a breather. Dusk was just settling in, the evening rush hour hadn't fully died down, and the car headlights on the street merged into a dazzling river. He leaned back against the seat, neck tilted up, eyes fixed on the patch of worn-shiny velvet on the car's ceiling. After driving all day, his back felt too stiff to straighten.

Early morning, the sky was off.

Here in Yunnan, the sky lightens late. It was past Mao hour [approx. 5-7 AM], but still dim and grey outside the window. Old Man Zhou got up, shuffled into his slippers, thinking of going to the well in the courtyard to fetch water and wash his face. He pushed open the door and froze.

Doctor Lin had lost weight recently. Her cheekbones, once rounded, now felt a bit sharp to the touch. Being a doctor herself, she knew it wasn't just fatigue; it was something weighing on her mind, draining her spirit. What was it? Her child was gone. That past summer, a sudden illness, and they couldn't save him.

With the child gone, the apartment felt empty, and cold. It had been a nice two-bedroom apartment, south-facing, with an old pagoda tree outside the window. In summer, it offered lush green shade; in autumn, its pagoda flowers littered the ground. When he was still around, he liked watching ants move their homes on the windowsill. Doctor Lin stood in the living room. Sunlight streamed in, dust motes dancing in the beams. But his laughter seemed to linger in the corners; she'd turn her head, and there was nothing. This apartment... she couldn't live here anymore.