Nestled between mountains and rivers, Tingyun Town, with its lush green tiles and whitewashed walls, exudes the exquisite beauty typical of Jiangnan towns. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, the prominent Bai family of this place produced many scholars and wealthy merchants. Unfortunately, the wheel of history crushed its former glory, and the few cultural relics that had managed to survive were turned into a grotesque mess after repeated restorations. Only a few stone archways standing at the entrance of the town remained, silently bearing witness to the rise and fall, honour and disgrace of that once-mighty family. In recent years, the government had busied itself with tourism development. Yet, lacking both funds and proper planning, the attractions were scattered and low in quality, and visitor numbers remained unimpressive. As the saying went, “Flowers you deliberately plant may not bloom, but willows you never intended to grow thrive into shade.” While Tingyun Town’s vibrant artificial landscapes did not make much of a name for themselves, but the town’s pristine natural scenery attracted visitors instead. Young artists came to capture it with their cameras, old folks who yearned for country life lingered, and middle-aged families escaping the fast pace of big cities arrived in droves. The town grew lively, and sharp-eyed entrepreneurs integrated a few scattered attractions into a scenic area. Thanks to that, the surrounding homestay business also flourished. The little money Qin Mu had left, after renting a place and buying daily necessities, was already stretched thin. Introduced by the landlady, he found a job as a tour guide in the scenic area. The manager who interviewed him heard his fluent English and agreed on the spot. In truth, hardly any foreign visitors ever came here, but having someone who knew English sounded more upscale. The job was essentially that of a guide, without a formal contract. Most days, the work was done by idle farmwives from the town. The task was simple: memorize the lines and lead tourists on a walk around the town, earning fifteen yuan each time. Whether there was work or not depended on luck, so the income was unstable. Because of that, Qin Mu also found a side job helping in the small restaurant across from his lodging. Tingyun Town, close to water, was rich in fish, and its residents loved to eat it. Fresh bighead carp here were called ‘baotou1wrapped head, because of it’s rounded head‘, and they grew to remarkable size. They were chopped in half, with the gills removed and the innards cleaned. The fish head was stewed with tofu into soup, while the body was cut into chunks and braised in soy sauce—this was the classic ‘one fish, two dishes’. Tingyun Town was not short of skilled hands at cooking fish, but among them, Master Fang of ‘Old Fang’s Fish Restaurant’ was regarded as the best. Chef Fang had been cooking fish for more than thirty years. Not only was his fish head stewed with tofu famous for its milky broth and tender flesh, but dishes like sizzling iron-plate fish head, braised white fish, steamed grouper, and mixed-fish hotpot were all part of his repertoire. His restaurant was so small that its two floors could only fit six tables in total, yet it was packed every single day, requiring reservations in advance. The patrons were not only locals but also many visitors who came for its reputation. Now that Chef Fang had passed the age of sixty, his hands were no longer as nimble as before. His wife’s health was not good, and his children were all working hard in the big cities, leaving him no choice but to hire extra help. The old man was stubborn. No matter how much food prices rose outside, the restaurant’s menu had remained unchanged for more than a decade, and the portions were never reduced. Because of this, profits were quite limited. The kitchen help worked hard yet received low pay, so they rarely lasted long. The previous auntie had quit before even two months had passed, which left Qin Mu with the opportunity to step in. Qin Mu was diligent—wiping tables, sweeping the floor, washing vegetables, even handling the cash and keeping the accounts. The only thing he couldn’t do was kill fish. He didn’t know why, but the moment he looked into a fish’s eyes, he froze. If the creature started thrashing its tail, Qin Mu could just about leap straight onto the rafters and sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the rows of cured meat hanging there. Old Chef Fang once gave him a demonstration with knife flashing in his hand, every movement sharp and swift, and within minutes the half-meter-long fish was neatly cleaned. But when he turned around, the student who was supposed to be observing had already darted two meters away, his forced composure about as fake as the knockoff ‘Mister Kang2Originally written in Kang Shuaifu is a knockoff / parody brand of Kang Shifu (Master Kong), a famous instant noodle brand in China. People often use it online as a metaphor for something obviously fake, low-quality, or pretending to be real‘ soft drinks in the shops. “Come here and try one yourself,” Master Fang barked. “I still have a few tables to wipe down,” Qin Mu muttered, slipping away as fast as oil on the soles of his feet. “You brat, stop right there.” The old man was quick; he grabbed Qin Mu by the back of his collar. “A strapping young fellow like you, afraid of live fish—what a disgrace! Start small. Clean these whitefish first.” Qin Mu turned his head and saw a pool packed tight with fish, bulging eyes glaring up at him. A chill ran from the soles of his feet all the way up his spine. Just then, a leisurely voice floated in. “Chef Fang, even at your age you’ve still got such strength. Truly old but vigorous.” Shen Liu hobbled in, leaning on a bamboo cane. Qin Mu frowned. “Why aren’t you at home resting? What are you doing here?” “Got tired of lying down. Came to see you.” He limped over to the pool, peered in, set his cane aside, and rolled up his sleeves. “Come on then, darlings. I’ll take care of you.” Chef Fang raised a brow. “You know how?” “No,” Shen Liu admitted with a smile, “but I’m smarter than him. Teach me.” The old man tossed him a pair of rubber gloves, half doubtful. “Fine. But let me make it clear—I’m only paying for one worker.” “Of course.” Shen Liu agreed cheerfully, then winked at Qin Mu. “Silly boy, fetch a tall chair for your gege.” Heat rushed to Qin Mu’s ears. He turned away quickly to find a chair. And so, Shen Liu took over the job of cleaning fish. He had always been a man with a taste for refinement, particular about cleanliness; he used to carry the scent of aftershave or cologne wherever he went. Now he reeked only of fish, the smell clinging stubbornly even after washing. When he showered, fish scales still slid from his hair. Watching Shen Liu’s hunched back as he worked in an apron, limping and bent over the sink, Qin Mu didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Their lives were poor and difficult. The attic they rented barely fit a double bed. Every meal had to be counted carefully; sometimes they even packed up customers’ leftovers to stretch things out. They had abandoned their studies and their bright futures to take on menial jobs with little reward, bowing and smiling to every kind of customer, ending each day sore and exhausted, worrying about next month’s rent and electricity. But they were together. Each morning they woke in each other’s arms. Each night they drifted off in the softness of a kiss. The day’s fatigue melted under shared massages. At every meal, looking up, they saw each other’s faces. In rare moments of leisure, they leaned on the railing outside the restaurant, watching the flow of people, the shifting clouds. At night they made love, with abandon and urgency, twining around each other, demanding, surrendering. Desire surged through them like a rushing river, crashing against their young bodies. Stifled moans and low, ragged breaths spilled out of the little attic that was never soundproof, like a wild hymn sung into the vast night. Even at the height of passion, Qin Mu was careful, afraid of hurting Shen Liu’s injured leg. But Shen Liu only held him tighter, whispering against his ear, “It’s fine. Come inside.” Sometimes he indulged Qin Mu’s fierceness; other times he used his injury to tease and provoke, luring Qin Mu into shameful positions, coaxing him to take him deeper, rougher. They had nothing, and yet it felt as if they had everything. They told each other everything, except for two things they both avoided: One was the cause. The other, the future. Shen Liu never explained what had happened during his disappearance. And since leaving K City, Qin Mu had never again spoken of his dreams for the days to come. He had once imagined graduating, taking the bar exam, the two of them struggling together in K City, saving for the down payment on a tiny apartment, making a home of their own. He had even planned the decor: a massive sofa, and maybe two little pets. But he never spoke of it again. After another night’s storm had ebbed away and starlight poured through the attic’s small skylight as they lay side by side. Suddenly, Shen Liu asked, “Log, what kind of life do you want?” Qin Mu froze for a moment, then said slowly, “A pastoral life. Planting a little vegetable patch, living off what we grow, storing up in autumn and winter. A life where we don’t have to bother with other people, where if we want greens we just go out and pick them. What about you?” It was probably because the moonlight was too bright that Shen Liu closed his eyes. “I want to live the kind of life you wanted to live.” He laughed. “So cheesy.”
The weather gradually grew hotter. Qin Mu received his first month’s salary and took Shen Liu to the county hospital for an X-ray on his leg. The doctor said the recovery looked good, but it still needed more rest.
On the way home, Qin Mu deliberately stopped by the market to buy two pig trotters, saying he wanted to borrow Chef Fang’s pressure cooker to stew soybeans with pig’s feet for Shen Liu to nourish his body.
The county market was bustling. The crowd was noisy and lively, hawkers’ cries rose and fell, and the air was thick with the mingled aromas of fried stinky tofu, stir-fried rice cakes, egg pancakes, and oden. It had a clamor that was also full of warmth and closeness, the scent of everyday life. Qin Mu paused at a stall selling fried radish cakes. Just as he was about to leave, Shen Liu called him back.
“What is it?” Qin Mu asked.
Shen Liu pursed his lips toward the stall. “I want to eat that.”
Qin Mu was surprised. “Don’t you not like these? Back then whenever I bought them you never…” He stopped mid-sentence, realizing the truth. It wasn’t that Shen Liu was craving it—he just wanted to buy it for him. A warmth spread in Qin Mu’s chest, and he smiled. “Forget it, I don’t feel like eating.” Their finances were tight; they saved wherever they could.
“Just buy one. We’ll share it,” Shen Liu said.
Qin Mu looked at him, then at the radish cakes, and sighed before stepping forward. “Boss, one please.”
The hot fried cake sizzled with oil when bitten into, the fragrance so rich it felt like it opened every pore in the body. When Qin Mu handed it over, Shen Liu didn’t eat it. Instead, he leaned over just as Qin Mu took a bite and bit into it himself, their lips brushing at the corners. Qin Mu was so startled he nearly dropped the cake.
“…Are you crazy!” He lowered his voice and scolded, “We’re on the street.”
“You’re my boyfriend. What’s wrong with a kiss?” That rogue, stealing fragrance and jade, smiled with his eyes bent. “Your greasy mouth looks so appetizing.”
Qin Mu’s face flushed red as he gritted his teeth. “Do you not want your other leg either?”
“Go on, hit me. If you break it, then tonight you’ll have to do the full set all by yourself.” Shen Liu could be shameless anywhere, anytime.
“I should just break your third leg too,” Qin Mu bit into the cake and strode off.
“Murdering your husband is a serious crime. You can’t break the law,” Shen Liu leaned on his bamboo pole, following at a leisurely pace.
Qin Mu had only taken a few steps before coming back to support him, stuffing the last bite of fried cake into his mouth. “Shut up.”
“Yes, sir.” Shen Liu’s eyes brimmed with laughter.
In Jiangnan, when summer approached, rain became frequent. The sky was like a creditor who could not collect his debt, keeping a gloomy, sullen face for days on end. Qin Mu received a job guiding a tour, and hurried through the rain from the restaurant to the ticket office.
The tourist was a man, about thirty years old, holding a black umbrella.
“Please come with me.” Qin Mu led him toward the archways, explaining the history of Tingyun Town along the way. When there was nothing more to say, he made small talk as usual. “There aren’t many visitors on rainy days. You came here alone?”
“I came to find someone.” The man’s figure was tall and upright, carrying a stern and imposing presence. His steps were measured, not fast or slow, like the precise swing of a pendulum.
“Find someone?” Qin Mu carefully avoided a puddle on the ground. “Someone living in this town? What’s the name? Maybe I can help.”
“Shen Liu.”
Qin Mu stepped straight into a puddle, soaking his shoe.
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