Chapter Three: Mid-Autumn

Once, I was a healthy and robust child, but I became frail and sickly. My grandfather made me a protective talisman, instructing me to wear it until I turned eighteen. He told me to avoid graveyards and stay away from places heavy with yin energy. He carefully explained what counted as such places. During traditional festivals like the Ghost Festival, Double Ninth, Mid-Autumn, and Qingming, I was told to stay indoors and not go anywhere.

Within a year, my grandfather passed away. After his death, I went to the city with Aunt Yan and Uncle.

Until I came of age, I remained weak and often ill. I was hopeless at sports and couldn’t even climb trees to raid bird nests. I had no choice but to focus on my studies, and so I excelled academically. From a top middle school to a top high school, and then to a prestigious university, my path was smooth and unimpeded.

Uncle and Aunt later had children of their own, but they always regarded me as their pride.

After I turned eighteen, the dark mark on my chest faded away, and my health improved dramatically. I was no longer the sickly boy I had been for years.

With my newfound vitality, the urge to make up for lost time grew irresistible. University life was less restrictive, and I became more unruly. I ran with a wild crowd, indulging in food, drink, and entertainment, skipping classes and getting into trouble.

Eventually, I became bold enough to try “skating” with others—a reckless thrill that nearly ruined me. The second time, I was caught red-handed by the police and detained for fifteen days. With my previous record, the university expelled me.

After more than a decade of diligent study, I ended up stumbling at the university stage.

When I returned to pack my things and go home, Uncle unexpectedly gave me a severe beating. It was as if he had stored up all his anger since my first major infraction at university, and now it exploded in full force.

“We worked so hard to send you to university! We wanted you to become a decent person, to have a future—not to go astray! How could you do this to your grandfather, to Yan Jie?” he shouted as he beat me.

Hearing him mention Grandfather and Yan Jie filled me with regret and pain. I truly regretted how things had turned out.

“Get out! Leave! Don’t come back!” After the beating, I was thrown out of the house.

I wasn’t angry. I understood their fury. Those fifteen days in detention had sobered me up and made me realize many things. If I kept living like this, I’d end up in prison, a worthless bum for life.

I cut off all contact with my wild friends and, like many other young migrant workers, headed to Guangdong. I worked several jobs, each more dismal than the last, and finally grasped the harshness of reality. No wonder those classmates who left school early to work always regretted not studying harder when they had the chance.

I lamented my own foolishness even more. If I had simply finished my degree at that top university, I wouldn’t be in such a sorry state now.

Fortunately, I later met Wen, and with him, opened a coffee shop, which finally brought some stability to my life.

Wen was someone I met after starting university—the only worthwhile connection I made during those two misguided years.

We met at a bar. Wen had gotten into a dispute with a few local toughs. I happened to know the leader, and seeing that Wen didn’t seem like a bad person, I helped him out of the situation. That’s how our acquaintance began.

He was a senior then and has since graduated. Wen came from a well-off family, never needing to worry about food or drink. He owned two apartments—living in one and renting out the other—and his successful older brother supported their parents. Even if he never worked, he’d never go hungry. Running the coffee shop was just a hobby.

The shop catered mainly to university students, with a good location and steady clientele. But Wen was not much of a manager, and business was always mediocre. After I joined and made some changes, things improved significantly, and I became the assistant manager.

“Luo, will you come with me to my grandmother’s for Mid-Autumn Festival?” Wen suddenly asked.

I was browsing the shop’s bookshelves, considering what new titles to add. I looked up and said, “Mid-Autumn is a big family reunion for you. Wouldn’t it be awkward for me to tag along?”

“What reunion? You know my family situation. It would be awkward for me to go alone.”

Though his family was well-off, things were complicated.

Wen’s mother and father were both on their second marriage. His father had a child with his first wife, divorced her, and then married Wen’s mother and had Wen. Later, Wen’s mother died of cancer, and his father remarried his first wife.

So the original family of three was reunited, leaving Wen in an awkward, almost extraneous position—a living reminder of his parents’ past estrangement.

His grandmother’s house was really only his grandmother’s; only he would visit her.

“Why not bring a girlfriend?” I teased.

“If I had a girlfriend, would I need to ask you?”

“There are three stunning beauties working at our shop. With your charm as manager, you can’t attract even one?”

“Forget it. They’re all taken. So, will you help me or not?”

Before I came, there were already three female staff members, all tall and attractive, and I’d wondered how Wen got so lucky. Turns out, each of them was already attached—one was even dating our barista. Wen’s luck was something else.

“If the boss asks, how can the humble assistant say no? But let’s be clear—there are some things you know I avoid.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain to Grandma in advance about the food.”

I’m not suited to being a guest in other people’s homes because I don’t eat poultry. It’s not an allergy, just a strong aversion. I also can’t stand cilantro! But both are staples during holidays, and while I can voice my preferences at home, it’s awkward to impose on others.

Since he didn’t mind, I had no objection.

Wen’s grandmother lived in Foshan, not far away. We went the day before Mid-Autumn Festival.

Her house was in an urban village. I don’t know what Wen said on the phone, but when we arrived, several relatives came out to greet us, delighted. When they saw me, they were momentarily stunned, followed by visible disappointment.

Inside, his uncle asked, “Wen, didn’t you say you were bringing your girlfriend?”

“I said I was bringing a friend, not a girlfriend.”

Wen always misses the point; no wonder he’s still single, unlike everyone else at the shop—except me, who arrived later.

At least the meal was well considered. The table was set with pork bones, pork stomach, pig’s brain, pig’s feet—not a single poultry dish or trace of cilantro. I was about to praise their thoughtfulness when I learned his eldest aunt is allergic to poultry and his second aunt to cilantro. So these two things were never going to appear from the start!

As we ate, the family chatted, asking Wen about his life in recent years, what he’d done after graduation, and about my background.

“These days, everything’s changed so much. Life’s better, but homes are smaller, and the family rarely gathers together. It’s not like before, when everyone would be so lively,” Wen’s grandmother sighed. Though advanced in years, her mind was sharp. “When I was little, at Mid-Autumn, all the village children would play together.”

“Grandma, what did you play?” Wen’s young cousin asked.

“We invited the Basket Lady. We’d get a bamboo basket, light incense, sing songs to call her, and then ask her anything we wanted to know.”

“Could I ask her about my test scores?”

“Of course, you can ask her anything. The Basket Lady knows everything.”

“Grandma, teach me! Then I can ask her about my grades!”

Wen’s grandmother waved her hand, “No, no, that’s for girls. Boys don’t play that.”

“So what do boys do? Can they ask questions too?”

His eldest uncle said, “Enough, I’ve bought you so many toys and you still want more? Eat your dinner.”

The little cousin pouted in dissatisfaction.

After dinner, the adults gathered in the living room to chat while the television played a mindless variety show that no one watched. The children all went outside to play.

Wen and I, caught between childhood and adulthood, could have joined the grown-ups’ conversation, but Wen showed no interest. So we chose to act like “children” and headed outside.

Once away from his big family, the outside was chilly and quiet—the usual mood for a city holiday. The little cousins had disappeared somewhere. There weren’t many streetlights in this urban village, and the yellow light made everything seem dim. One lamp in particular kept flickering, making it even more unsettling.

We wandered aimlessly through the village. That flickering light was so irritating that we walked in the opposite direction.

The further we went, the quieter it became, until there were no more pedestrians at all.

“If we keep going, we’ll be out of the village. Let’s head back,” Wen said.

“Wait, do you hear something?” I asked.

“What sound?” Wen was puzzled.

I told him to listen carefully.

There was a rhythmic sound, like a group of children reciting aloud.

“You’re right! Could there still be someone in the kindergarten?”

“There’s a kindergarten here?”

“Yes, over there.”

Nowadays, everywhere people gather, there’ll be a kindergarten.

We had nothing else to do, so we decided to check it out. At this hour, it was impossible for children to still be at school. Yet, the voices sounded like quite a crowd.

The urban village wasn’t large. As we drew closer to the kindergarten, the chanting grew clearer. We could make out the words: “Lost child, lost soul’s formation, please, Master, descend to play a while. The big brother tends cattle and burns incense—for you, for others, you for them…”

The chant repeated over and over. Just as I thought it would go on endlessly, it stopped abruptly.

I had been concentrating so hard on the sound that, when it ceased, a sudden hush fell all around, broken only by the autumn wind blowing back and forth. A chill ran through me.

Soon afterward, a Cantonese opera melody floated through the air—melodious and haunting, unmistakably sung by a child. It was a piece from “Wang Zhaojun Goes Beyond the Frontier.”

Moments ago, there had been a chorus of children reciting together. Now, suddenly, someone was singing opera.