Red and White

Fiction

By Cheng Huizi （程惠子）

Translated by Dylan Levi King

Illustrations by Fengzheng Yisheng

Afraid of missing the bus， I set an alarm for 6：30， but when I woke up， it was not yet 6. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and lay in the dark， listening to my mother shuffling across the kitchen floor in her slippers. The next things I heard were the sound of water boiling in a pot and my mother whisking eggs with chopsticks. After I got up， she watched me slurp up the eggs poached in brown sugar syrup.

There were all sorts of people on the bus. One man pulled his mask down to his chin and stuffed himself with a fried dough stick. Beside him， an older man， perhaps his father， with gray hair sticking out from under his cap， smacked his lips and ate a sticky rice and chicken dumpling. He meticulously licked up stray grains of rice from the steamed lotus leaf that the dumpling had come wrapped in. As we came up to an intersection， the driver slammed on the brakes， and the chicken and rice fell into the mans lap. When the son heard his father choking， he hurriedly poured soybean milk down his throat. The woman seated behind them noticed that her daughters pink mask had slipped down and rushed to pull it back up.

The bus left the skyscrapers behind， entered and then exited the expressway， with the landscape becoming progressively more desolate. Before we reached the station， I saw smoke on the horizon， as if fields were being torched. When we got closer， I saw that it was a rich cloud of incense rising to the sky.

Out the window， I saw an archway with three gates， four pillars， and five roofs， and beyond it a wide square， on which sat the magnificent main hall. Around the square were several censers as big as water barrels， each one full of incense sticks of unequal heights. In the crowd assembled in front of the main hall， each person， whether they were bowing or holding up their hands to pray， clutched the incense. Up front， the driver shouted， “Longmu Temple！ Grab your things and get off！” My mother nudged me and I turned to see the rice scattered across the bus seat.

Before you pray to Longmu， the Mother of Dragons， you must first wash your hands and face. The rule is that you must touch the dragon-shaped faucet three times. The stream from the faucet was not a gushing torrent， but neither was it a trickle. My mother filled her hands with water from it and bent down to wash her face. The hair at her temples was wet when she was done. She wanted me to wash， too， but I didnt feel like it. She was unhappy. She didnt want to upset me， though， so she only said， “We got here with plenty of time. Go wash up. You cant pray with dirty hands！” When I saw there was no way to dissuade her， I went over and took a quick scrub with a wet towel.

After washing our faces， we went into the main hall to pray at the statue of Longmu. The father and son from the bus were ahead of us in line， as well as the younger mans wife， who was holding a little girl in her arms. Father and son knelt and kowtowed， tapping their foreheads on the floor three times. The son helped his father up. The older man stood shakily for a moment， then started moving， still not particularly steady， toward a table nearby. On the table were two long boxes that each contained two more boxes that were filled with expertly folded paper flowers. One box had red flowers， the other had white flowers. White flowers were to pray for a son. Red flowers were to pray for a daughter. The box with white flowers was already almost empty. The young man chose a white paper flower and handed it to the woman. He took the child from her arms. Taking offerings from her bag， the woman knelt and kowtowed three times to Longmu. I could hear her muttering the address of the family home. She hoped for a son in her womb this time. The girl， restless in her fathers arms， called out for her mother. When the woman stood and took the child， she grew peaceful again.

When it was my mothers turn to pray， she took from her bag six apples and a bunch of grapes. From her pocket， she produced seeds and fruits—jujubes， peanuts， longan， lotus seeds—whose homophones in Chinese spelled out a phrase that meant “give birth soon to a son.” She held these things above her head and kowtowed. A bit slower than my mother， I knelt and kowtowed， too. I caught sight of the back of her head and found myself shocked by the bald patches with only a few stray gray hairs draped across them. My mother stuffed a hundred-yuan bill into the collection box， leaned back， and prayed： “Please bless my daughter by letting her give birth to a son soon. Let it go smoothly. Let everything be perfect. I will come back each year to offer incense.”

When it came time to choose the paper flowers， my mother asked for one of each color， but the man minding the table told her that she could only choose one. My mother told me to choose， but I said that I wouldnt. She stood for a time in front of the table and then finally chose a white paper flower. She told me to hold it against my body and pray again to Longmu.

I looked up and saw Longmu above me， poised with all the grace of a maiden， her crowned head， pale face， and bright red lips framed by a heavy curtain. To her left and right stood two children. It was impossible to tell whether they were boys or girls. She gazed straight ahead， not deigning to look at those kowtowing at her feet. Her expression was peaceful. People took it as compassionate. When I entered the room， I had looked at the stone tablet that related the legend of Longmu： She was born to poor parents， and when she was still a baby， they put her into a basket and set it adrift in the river， abandoning her to fate because shes a girl. Fortunately， she was astute and the journey didnt end in disaster. The basket was eventually swept by the river alongside a fishing village. She was adopted by an old man who was casting nets there， and her spirit blessed him with greater catches than he had ever known. Longmu grew up. One day， after the old man brought carp home to feed her， she choked on a bone and died.

Now， it is forbidden to eat carp before going to pray to Longmu.

She is a god， but she is also an abandoned child.

As I kneeled on the pad in front of the statue， I thought back over the past couple of weeks. I could not remember my mother serving fish even once.

I dont know whether my mother came to pray to Longmu before she gave birth to me. I heard from others that she had a difficult time. She struggled to conceive and some people told her it must be a boy. They were disappointed. I heard that my fathers mother broke down and sobbed when she found out that I was a girl. When my mother divorced， she told anybody who asked about me that she was going to raise her daughter like a little boy. Right until I finished my graduate degree， she made sure I went to the best schools and made sure I took the same approach to work and marriage. She was pleased to learn that I made more money than my husband. She said I was just as good as a boy and I had made her proud. I knew that when I was in school， some friends had advised her to have another child， even if it meant hiding out in the countryside to avoid the enforcers of the one-child policy. She didnt do it. She said， “My girl is better than any boy.”

After leaving the main hall， you are supposed to put joss paper and the incense you held in front of Longmu in one of the censers on the square. Each stick of incense only sends up a tiny， curling thread of perfumed smoke， but as countless people plant them in the censers， they create a billowing cloud. I noticed the family that went before us to Longmu in the square， too. They planted their incense and then bowed in each of the cardinal directions. While the woman held her daughter， the husband helped his father to bend at the waist. The woman， with the girl balanced on her belly， struggled but did her best to bow. I noticed then that she was pregnant and almost at full term.

My mother bowed in each direction， too. I stayed where I was， not moving.

During the Lunar New Year， my mother-in-law said： “A life without children is meaningless.” My mother heard her. It was not the first time that she had heard remarks like that. After eight years of marriage， the remarks came intermittently， like scattered showers. But after turning thirty， the comments， voiced and unvoiced， seemed to come from all directions. It was as if the rain only grew heavier and harder， drenching me to the bone. Still， I didnt feel like my life was meaningless. My husband said the same.

But for some reason， I couldnt escape the feeling that I had a new burden. It even made it hard to sleep. Neither of us said anything out loud about having children， but， tacitly， we came to a decision.

My mother told me to bow. I held the white paper flower in my hand. It felt as if there was a belt of thorns around my middle， and I could not bend. “You wish I had been a son， dont you？” I asked.

My mother was stunned. She stared at me for a long time. She could not speak， as if she had a fishbone caught in her throat. At that moment， a bundle of incense in the censer crumbled to ash. I walked away， tears streaming down my face. On the bus home， I didnt see the family from the temple. The dropped grains of rice were still there， turning gray in the dust on the floor， trampled by countless feet.

My mother sat beside me and remained silent for the entire trip. We had already been to pray at many temples and shrines together， but there were no results and I had already given up hope. After my mother heard that a woman in her fifties who prayed at the Longmu Temple got pregnant， she dragged me there with her. She heard that three sets of prayers to Longmu over three years would grant any wish. She was probably ready to go back there every year to make offerings.

I walked my mother home. She lived alone in a small apartment. I washed my face and was about to leave. She called me back.

“I never regretted having a daughter，” she said. “I never thought you must have a boy.” She handed me a box. Her eyes were red. “I told Longmu the same. I think having a girl is great. Its much better than having a boy.”

She went on： “But today， I saw that woman in front of us in line， pregnant， with nobody to look after her. I was worried that if you had a girl， everyone would push you to have another one. You would suffer. Once your daughter had a little brother， she would suffer too.” Tears fell from her eyes and she wiped them with the back of her hand. “I want you to have an easy life. I dont want you always comparing yourself to other people. I dont want you to feel pressured. I dont want you to have a tough life like I did， always being chided by other people.”

When I looked at the box she had handed me， I saw that it was full of red paper flowers she had folded herself， a gesture definitely not authorized by Longmu.

I ate dinner with my mother. Even though her small room was always tidy， and there wasnt much need， I helped her clean up. I started sweeping in the kitchen and my mother started in the bedroom. We met in the living room and mixed our dust together.

On the way home， I tossed the garbage into a trash can by the road， along with the white paper flower. As the moon shined bright overhead， the sidewalk glowed as white as snow. I wished with all my heart that the woman from the temple would give birth to a son.

Cheng Huizi?程惠子

Born in 1996 in Xian， Shaanxi province， Cheng Huizi is currently a PhD student at Beijing Normal University， specializing in contemporary Chinese literature. She has a masters degree in modern literature from Peking University. She writes both fiction and non-fiction. Her short stories and essays have been published in several literary magazines， such as Shanghai Literature， Youth Literature， and more. Cheng was awarded the Best Short Story Prize at the 6th Youth Literature Awards in 2020.

Authors Note：

Last summer， on my way to Zhaoqing， Guangdong province， I stopped at Longmu Temple to get a peak of the booming traffic there. Who would have thought that the goddess， known for blessing worshipers with children， was once an abandoned infant herself？ In Beijing， Yonghegong， or Lama Temple， is now a popular destination among young professionals praying for career success. Meanwhile， on the distant southern coast， small-town people drag their whole family to the temple， hoping for a male heir. What a peculiar scene， where traditional beliefs and modern predicaments coexist on the same piece of land.

Evening Breeze

Essay

It is usually around Xiaoman， which is the eighth term in the traditional solar calendar， coming around the middle of May， that the rains assault the Lingnan region. Rain in that season is often overwhelming and violent. This is the time when dragon boat races take place， so people call these the “dragon boat rains.” The dragon boat rains come quickly， without much warning. They soak the world below with streams of water as thick as a hemp cord. Anyone walking on the street， even if they have an umbrella， will find themselves drenched. The vegetation slurps up the water and grows like crazy， becoming thick and lush overnight. The downpour usually only lasts half a day before the clouds break， allowing the shining white sun to peek through， warming up those drenched pedestrians and steaming a vicious humidity out of the ground below.

In Lingnan， people often say： To children， the dragon boat rains are the immortals draining their bathtub. Children are innocent. They dont mind the humidity. The heavy rains are an excuse to play. All they care about is having fun in the water. To those a little bit older， on the verge of adulthood， however， the rains are unwelcome. The torrential downpour rakes the eaves and adds to their problems. The rains come， after all， at the same time as a major event in life： the college entrance exam.

A month before the exam， Liangliang told me， “Teacher， I cant sleep.” After quitting my job， I became a private tutor and Liangliang was my student. She was in her final year of high school. I asked if it was the entrance exam that brought on her insomnia. She thought for a moment and said she didnt think so. At first， she suspected mosquitoes， since they were buzzing in her ears in the middle of the night， but her family put up a mosquito net and gave her a pair of electric mosquito repellent boxes. Later， she decided that maybe it was the heat keeping her up， but cranking up the air conditioning couldnt alleviate the lingering feeling in her chest. They bought her an electric fan with a cooling function and she left it blowing on low power against herself.

Eventually， she blamed her insomnia on her pillow. The buckwheat pillow， reliable for so many years， suddenly gave her neck pain， left her dizzy the next day， and kept her awake all night. Her family went out and bought a latex pillow from Thailand， wrapped in a silk cover. Liangliangs mother secretly put an amulet that she had collected at a temple under her bed， hoping that it would help her sleep.

After all that， Liangliang still appeared in the morning class with black circles under her eyes. She said that the sound of the dragon boat rain had kept her awake. Without speaking， I pulled out her stool and sat beside her while she yawned and sipped her coffee. We talked for a while about her schoolwork; then she rested her chin on her hand and admitted feebly that perhaps her insomnia was because of the exam.

How should I describe my mood when I heard her say that？ At first， it struck me as peculiar and amusing， but I also understood this anxiety that strikes young people. It has been around ten years since I took the college entrance exam， and I am now almost ashamed to talk about those distant memories. People who have already been through the college entrance exam can say that it is only a small hill compared to the peaks that one will eventually have to scale in life. Compared to the frustrations， setbacks， tough times， and unexpected situations to come， the exam is scarcely worth mentioning. I admit this is true—but it is disgraceful to treat these matters with the cruelty and arrogance that is only possible once one has gotten through them. Who among us didnt sleep at eighteen years old on a pillow of tangled-up dreams？

I didnt talk to Liangliang about my own experience preparing for the exam， but instead told her what happened afterward. After my results came， my mother and I took a vacation to Xiamen， Fujian province， to relax. We took two other mother-and-daughter pairs with us. The three mothers were the same age and acquainted with each other. Their daughters were of different ages. One girl was a sophomore at university and the other was in middle school. I expected to do well on the exam and get into Peking University， but I ended up six points short.

Looking back at twenty-seven years old， I realize that this isnt a poor result， it was actually quite outstanding， but at eighteen， I could not free myself of regret over those six points. On the trip， while everyone napped on the bus， I was pressed against the window， sobbing. Listening to the waves lapping on the reef， and walking through Gulangyu Island， alive with color， I felt that I was the unluckiest person in the world.

The older girl who went on the trip with us was studying information technology at a decent school selected for sponsorship and improvement under the governments Project 211; the younger girl was still years away from her exam. I didnt want to show anyone that I was unhappy with my result， since I thought they would suspect me of putting on a show out of pride. I forced a smile throughout the entire trip， absorbing against my will all the kind words of well-wishers. Still， in a secret corner of my heart， I was going over the results， considering that if I had not blown two multiple-choice or one long-answer question， the result would have been different. It was hot and humid that summer in Fujian， but a cool wind blew off the sea at dusk; the evening breeze dispelled the mugginess of the day， but it could not touch my disappointment. My heavy heart was like the reef， full of the crabs of regret.

As far as my eyes could see was magnificent scenery， with the ocean meeting the sky. It seemed empty to me， though， meaningless， and completely unenjoyable. It was too vapid to make up for those six points.

For a time， I made up my mind to retake the test， but I finally gave in to my teachers， family， and friends persuasions to give it up. Carrying a secret anguish and defiance with me， I went to Nanjing University. I decided that the rest of my life would be marked by compromise and cynicism. Unexpectedly， however， four years in Nanjing reshaped my value system， let me walk out of the shadow of the exam， find my interests， and stop worrying about a point or two dragged out of the examination machine.

Nanjing University promoted a composed， scholarly atmosphere. Even the flora and fauna on the campus have a gentle and magnanimous temperament. Relationships between students were friendly. Teachers never put their charges under too much pressure. This made my four years at the school go by relatively smoothly. When I went to Peking University for graduate school， I looked back fondly on the cozy library， delicious iron pan rice， and even the days of going to class and studying with friends. When I told Liangliang all of this， she was not convinced. “Nanjing University is a pretty good school，” she said， “and you ended up going to Peking University eventually. If it hadnt turned out like that， would you still be able to get over the exam so easily？”

Her question was reasonable. I had thought about it before. If I hadnt gone to Peking University for graduate school， would I have ended up regretting my time at Nanjing University？ I dont think so. When it came time to choose a graduate program， going to Peking University was no longer particularly important to me. I knew that there were other choices available. That proved that my years at school were not wasted. Unlike in middle school， at university， I realized， as did many other students， that I didnt need to repeat my youth when I had put so much pressure on myself only to check the right boxes on an exam paper. I could begin to explore more possibilities for myself—and even if they were limited， they were more important than six points on an exam.

It was not that my university years were spent trying to deal with the regrets of my college entrance exam， but rather that I had the time to let those wounds heal. One day， the thought of my disappointment occurred to me; it had been so long since I had recalled those regrets that I realized I had moved on. The wounds may have left scars behind， but the four years of reading and writing in Nanjing opened up a brighter landscape， so I was sure that there would be no lingering pain.

The dragon boat rain stopped at noon. Outside the window， the sky slowly brightened. Liangliangs expression was a mixture of belief and disbelief. She was earnest but adorable. I told her that no matter what she scored， no matter what school she went to， she would regret it， even if she must take it as good fortune. There is no way for us to take all the roads available to us， I told her. We will always have regrets. Is it worth losing sleep over them？

Liangliang had narrow， long eyes， and when she was unhappy， her eyelids drooped across them. As class came to an end and I got up to put on my shoes， she stopped me to ask， “If I dont do well on the test， is there a chance I wont be able to make things right？”

“No，” I said， “you will have many chances.”

“If I dont get a good score and I cant go to grad school，” she asked， “Ill have a mediocre life， wont I？”

I thought about this for a moment. “Actually，” I said， “Most people live mediocre lives.”

Liangliang glanced up at me. Her expression was soppy. She unconsciously reached out to pat the reed-wrapped rice dumpling hanging from the light switch cord （this was one of her mothers ideas， since the Chinese word for this type of dumpling sounds like the word for “getting into a top school”）， perhaps trying to break the uncomfortable， expectant mood. “Im worried that I wont do well on the test. If I cant get a good score， will you look down on me secretly？”

I almost laughed at these juvenile words as I stood there on the threshold. Twenty-seven-year-old me would never have used that tone or phrase， but I suppose I would have at eighteen. I used to toss and turn the same way in bed at night， and to go around uneasily during the day， with the same desire to speak my true feelings. I imagined her as I was at eighteen. I took her hand. “Dont worry，” I said， “youll do fine.”

The next three days were a mix of torrential rain and sunshine， with black clouds over the city one moment and clear skies the next. Liangliang， and countless other Liangliangs， were all hard at work in exam rooms. The exam would determine their fate. The exam would have no bearing on their fate.

Three days later， the evening after the exams were done， the storm clouds raced away and the sky was piled high with magnificent sunset clouds， dense cumulus streaked purple and red by the rain， joining the waves at the end of the road. The summer breezes finally ended their long journey; the humidity that swirled around the ground for so many days was gently swept away.

I sent a WeChat message to Liangliang： “Congratulations on entering the world of adults. Dont waste the evening breeze.”

Authors Note：

The college entrance exam， or gaokao， should have faded in my memory， with almost a decade having passed， but my student reminded me of the event. My old obsessions finally became stories that can comfort others. This story is by no means a reconciliation with the experience： Only those who experienced it can understand the subtle melancholy and the sadness of growth behind the story.