Old Jin City on the Wall

Chapter 4 Egg

Wu Ling stared at the winding thread of Huanhua for a long time, but still couldn't understand it.

Two motorcycle horns sounded outside the door.

The takeout arrived, and the bag was hanging on the doorknob of the teahouse.

When he came out, he couldn't even see the rider's back anymore.

Wu Ling unpacked the medicine and casually put the sugar cubes that were always kept for Grandpa Zhang on the counter into the bamboo basket.

Take another throat lozenge and put it in her mouth. It's minty and sweet; Xiao Cui should recognize it.

He looked up and saw the notes still lying on the table. He reached out to close them, but his hand inexplicably stopped.

Turn the page forward.

Only then did I notice five words pressed against the bottom right corner of the third page, the handwriting heavier than elsewhere—

Inside the teahouse, everything is safe.

Wu Ling stared at it for a while.

I closed my notebook, picked up my basket, and walked to the back door.

There is no light.

A phrase Old Zhou once uttered came to mind.

"When I'm telling a story seriously, I open the door more often. When I'm just going through the motions, I don't bother opening the door at all."

Wu Ling put down the basket and took out the gavel from his pocket.

A man, without a stage or an audience, tells stories to a closed door.

If this were told in Chunxi Road, his colleagues would laugh at him for half a year.

But he didn't care at all at the moment. He cleared his throat and started talking.

"So, on that day—"

The sound was suppressed and not released; there was nothing through the crack in the door.

Electric bikes hummed past in the alley outside, and his own voice floated above them, faint and distant.

After hearing a few of his grandfather's old jokes without getting a response, he switched to one of his own.

A traveling physician, trudging through the snow in the middle of the night, carrying a bag of medicine, walked three miles of mountain road to meet an emergency he had been waiting for for three days.

He has told this story hundreds of times in Chongqing, and he could do it with his eyes closed without getting stuck.

When the story gets to the point where the doctor stood in front of that house and pushed open the wooden door—

A sliver of light shone through the crack in the back door, a warm yellow hue, as thin as a strand of hair.

He fell silent, stunned for half a second.

In the story, when the doctor pushed open the door, the door in front of him also opened.

He didn't tap the gavel; he put it back in his pocket, picked up his basket, and went inside.

The skylight in the roof was closed, trapping the stuffy air of June inside, and the tea smoke was thicker than usual.

The waiter was still carrying the teapot across the table, but he dragged out the words "mix tea" weakly.

The chessboard was still set up, and the pauses between the clattering sounds of pieces being placed were longer than before.

The table by the window is empty.

Wu Ling looked around, but Xiao Cui wasn't there.

"Where's Xiao Cui?" he asked a tea drinker next to him.

The tea drinker gestured towards the inner hall with his lip but didn't say anything.

Old Zhou sat in his usual spot, the teacup lid resting diagonally on the rim of his bowl.

Wu Ling carried the basket over.

"What's wrong with her?"

"The fire was raging in the back."

"burn?"

"Stay up to her mother at night."

"What happened to her mother?"

"Xiao Cui's mother has been ill for some time. The two of them have been living in the back, which was left to them by the old shopkeeper."

"serious?"

Old Zhou didn't turn his head.

Wu Ling wasn't good at asking the next question.

Old Zhou pointed towards the inner room: "Go see for yourself."

The inner hall was darker than the outer hall, and the windows were smaller.

There was a low chair, and Xiao Cui huddled on it, half of her body sinking into it.

Her face was burning blue, her hair was a mess, and half of her braid was undone.

On the low table was a bowl of unfinished porridge, now cold, with a layer of skin floating on top.

Xiao Cui heard footsteps and opened her eyes.

I saw Wuling.

I remembered.

I didn't get up.

"Shopkeeper..."

My voice is even hoarseer than last time, it feels like the bellows are about to burn through.

Wu Ling squatted down and touched her forehead with the back of his hand.

It was scalding hot, like holding a piece of charcoal.

"How many days has it been?"

"Three..." she swallowed, "Three days."

"Where is the doctor?"

"I've been here before."

"What did you eat?"

"……medicine."

"Where's the food?"

Xiao Cui shook her head.

Wu Ling glanced at the bowl of cold porridge on the low table.

She was clutching a piece of cloth in her hand; it was gray and had long since dried out.

"My mom," she said, her lips dry, "inside."

Wu Ling turned his head to look further inside the inner hall.

A low door was ajar.

A medicinal smell wafted from under the door, mixed with the odor of someone who had been lying down for a long time.

He got up and took two steps toward the door.

Old Zhou followed him in from the outer room and pressed his hand on his arm.

"Don't come in yet."

"What's wrong?"

"Her mother has tuberculosis, and it's been almost two years. She's been to the Four Saints Temple, but they can't afford the medicine. Doctor Liu has been stalling. He just came this morning, shook his head, and left." Old Zhou's voice was very low.

Wu Ling gripped the basket handle tightly for a moment.

Isatis root, cough syrup, throat lozenges, sugar cubes.

I didn't bring fever reducer, antibiotics, or IV fluids.

They're all for treating minor colds.

He can treat tuberculosis, but he can't get the prescription drugs.

Besides, it's been delayed for two years, so it's probably too late.

He stared at Old Zhou.

Old Zhou didn't even blink.

After a while, Wu Ling lowered his head.

"Can I... go in and see her?"

Old Zhou slowly shook his head.

"No need. It's pointless. Just let her sleep."

Wu Ling stared at the half-open low door.

It didn't move again.

After a while, Old Zhou brought out a black porcelain bowl from the corner of the inner room.

"Medicinal decoction. A prescription left by Doctor Liu."

The bowl was dark and had a strong, unbearable bitter smell.

"Her mother's?"

"This is for Xiao Cui. To reduce her fever."

Wu Ling opened his mouth but couldn't say anything, so he could only put the basket on the ground.

Old Zhou handed over the medicine soup, which Wu Ling took; the bowl was scalding hot.

A layer of black dregs floated on the surface of the bowl, like mud stirred up from the bottom of a river.

"You feed her."

"I?"

"She acknowledges you."

Wu Ling squatted back down in front of Xiao Cui.

"Xiao Cui. Medicine."

Xiao Cui's eyelids twitched, and she opened her mouth.

He scooped up a spoonful, brought it to her lips, and she drank it, choking slightly.

One spoonful after another.

After finishing half a bowl, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, her brows relaxing slightly before tightening again.

Wu Ling opened a throat lozenge and put it in her palm.

"Hold it in your mouth when your throat hurts."

She nodded.

He placed Banlangen (a traditional Chinese medicine) and cough syrup on the low table, next to the bowl of cold porridge.

Then they placed the sugar cubes one by one on top, as if offering them as a sacrifice.

Old Zhou stood at the door watching.

"Shopkeeper."

"Um."

"What you brought was a token of your affection."

"Intentions matter too."

Old Zhou paused for a moment.

"The old shopkeeper was the same way back then."

Old Zhou's profile picture suggests he's thinking about things far in the future.

"One year, when there was heavy snow, he brought a bag of hot steamed buns from over there and delivered them to Master Liu's mother. She was very ill at the time, and after taking a bite, she laughed."

"That's it after the laughter."

Wu Ling swallowed hard.

"Master Liu was just over twenty years old then. After the old shopkeeper left, he held that half-eaten bun in his hand all night. The next day, the bun was completely cold. But he still ate it all, bite by bite."

Old Zhou looked at the row of sugar cubes on the low table, then turned and left.

Wu Ling came out from the inner hall.

The sun was setting in the west in the outer hall, and he sat down next to Old Zhou.

Old Zhou pushed his covered bowl toward him, but Wu Ling didn't drink it.

Suddenly, Master Liu spoke up: "Oranges."

Wu Ling was taken aback.

"I'll bring it next time," Master Liu said in a muffled voice, as if it were coming from underground. "My mouth tastes bland."

Wu Ling has been here so many times, but this is the first time I've heard him say so much.

The result was oranges.

"Okay, I'll bring some for you next time."

"Let's go back," Old Zhou said, "it's getting dark."

Wu Ling glanced at the half-closed low door of the inner room.

Yes, even if I don't reply, what difference will it make? I can't help at all, and I'm not in the mood to tell another story right now.

The first thing he did when he got back was to take out his phone, open the notes app, and write down two things.

Fever reducers, commonly used medicines, and first-aid kits.

Oranges, for Master Liu.

Then I went out.

As night fell in Jingxiangzi at the end of March, the air was damp and the streetlights were sparse. The neon sign of a barbecue stall shimmered red in the moisture.

The pharmacy at the alley entrance was still lit up. He went in and picked out ibuprofen, fever-reducing patches, iodine, and band-aids, totaling forty-three yuan.

The shop assistant glanced at him again while giving him his change.

I bought a pound of oranges at the corner supermarket for 6.5 yuan. The cashier was wearing headphones and didn't even look up.

Wu Ling returned to the teahouse, emptied the contents of the plastic bag, and put them into a bamboo basket.

I waited for about three minutes in front of the back door, and then the light came through the crack in the door.

This time it was much faster than last time.

He pushed open the door and went inside. It was daytime, but the teahouse was quieter than when he had been there.

The waiter was not there, and Master Liu's copper shovel was not turning. Three old men sat by the chessboard without making a single move.

Xiao Cui sat on a bamboo chair in the outer hall, wearing a plain-colored dress and a small white flower tucked behind her ear.

Wu Ling slowed his pace slightly. He sat down opposite Xiao Cui, took the oranges and medicine out of the basket, and placed them on the table.

The oranges were a bright yellow, and the medicine box was a glaring white, completely out of place with any of the other colors in the teahouse.

"Shopkeeper... my mother passed away three days ago..."

Xiao Cui's eyes fell on those things, her voice was no longer hoarse, but it was so soft that it seemed she had no words left to say.

Then she took a small cloth bag out of her sleeve.

It's made of blue cloth, faded from washing. The corners have been patched.

Place it on the table.

I untied it, very gently, my fingers trembled slightly, but I regained control.

There are four eggs inside.

The shell is brown, and the size is not large.

One of them had a thin crack on its shell.

It wasn't broken; it just bumped into something while it was stored away.

"My mom told me to keep this." Xiao Cui stared at the crack for a moment before looking up. "She told me this a few days ago when she could still speak."

Wu Ling waited.

"She said she'd keep it and give it to the new one."

Wu Ling took it from Xiao Cui's outstretched hand after two seconds.

The four eggs felt heavy in my palm.

He put them into the basket one by one, placing the cracked one on top, lined with straw paper.

Xiao Cui looked at him as he neatly arranged the items and nodded gently.

"Your mother must have met my grandfather many times, right?"

"The old shopkeeper has come intermittently over the decades, and each time he brings something." Xiao Cui's lips twitched, as if she had remembered something good. "She said that when she was young, the old shopkeeper gave her a mooncake. It was icy cold when she bit into it, but incredibly sweet. She still remembers that taste to this day."

Xiao Cui paused for a moment.

"My mom said that now that the new manager has arrived, she originally thought—"

Before she could finish speaking, she twirled her fingers over and over her clothes, where there were still traces of dried rice water on the cuffs.

"Next..." Wu Ling's voice was hoarse and didn't sound like his own, "...you're all alone?"

"My father is long gone."

"That..."

"Old Zhou and Master Liu are both helping out. The neighbors all know. The burial is in three days."

"need..."

"Shopkeeper," Xiao Cui interrupted him.

The sound was very soft.

"That's enough. What you brought is enough."

After a moment of silence, Xiao Cui spoke again.

"Shopkeeper, how far is your place from here?"

Wu Ling thought for a moment.

"It's quite far, but the entrance is close."

Xiao Cui nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

She folded the empty cloth bag and put it back into her sleeve, folding it very carefully. When she stood up, she swayed slightly, grabbed the edge of the table, and slowly walked towards the inner room.

Wu Ling watched her retreating figure for a while before walking over to Old Zhou's table and sitting down.

Old Zhou pushed a covered bowl towards him, then added water to his own bowl.

"What does my grandfather's face look like every time he goes back there?"

"It's the same as when it came in."

Which one?

"flat."

"Have you cried?"

"I only cried once."

"When?"

"I can't say."

"How many events has he organized here?"

Old Zhou didn't reply immediately.

"We've held several kinds of events. We've held weddings and funerals. There are also a few that aren't quite weddings or funerals, so it's hard to say. The earliest one was before your grandfather was even as old as you, and the most recent one was a few winters ago."

The last layer of warm gold on the window frame faded, and the sound of a copper chisel tapping a chair leg came from Master Liu's side, two very light taps.

The lights in the teahouse gradually dimmed.

"I replied."

"Take it easy on the road."

When he returned, Wu Ling put the basket on the counter and looked down to see that there was only a piece of paper left in the basket.

Where's the egg?

He clearly stacked them in one by one, with straw paper underneath, four pieces.

I looked through the padding paper, but it wasn't there.

Can't bring it back?

He put the basket back in its place.

After standing for a while, my stomach rumbled.

He hasn't eaten anything since this afternoon.

I went to the kitchen to open the refrigerator, hoping to find something to eat.

There were only a few scallions, half a carton of milk, and leftover rice from the day before yesterday in the refrigerator, covered with plastic wrap.

Wu Ling paused for a moment when he looked at Dan Ge.

It was those four eggs.

The shells are brownish in color, and the pieces are small and arranged neatly.

The top one has a thin crack on its shell.

Wu Ling's hand stopped on the refrigerator door.

He looked at it for a long time before finally taking out the one with the crack.

It's quite substantial; the crack is even clearer than it was back in the Republic of China era.

Wu Ling tapped the bowl against the crack, making a very soft sound. The shell split open along the crack, the egg white slid out first, and then the yolk—deep orange, round, and not scattering to the side.

Add some oil to the pan, slide the egg in, and it sizzles.

The aroma is coming.

It doesn't taste like a regular egg.

It's strong, almost too strong, like the kind I used to eat in the countryside when I was a kid.

He leaned closer and smelled it, then smelled it again.

A hundred-year-old free-range egg is being fried on a 21st-century stove. For a moment, he felt that this scene was even more absurd than pushing open a door.

He scooped the food into a bowl, then stood in front of the stove without touching his chopsticks.

As the egg yolk cooled, a thin film formed on its surface.

Someone walked by under the streetlights outside the window; the footsteps faded into the distance.

The bubble tea shop next door closed, and its roller shutter swung down with a "whoosh".

Someone upstairs turned on the tap; the sound of water flowing down the pipe was brief and then stopped.

The entire alleyway fell silent.

He took out his phone.

Scroll down the contacts list, and finally your finger stops on a name.

Qin Xiaowan, Note: Childhood friend / Owes me three hot pot meals, last contact was 23 days ago.

I want to call, but what should I say when I do?

He said he knew a sixteen-year-old girl whose mother had died three days ago, and who left him four eggs.

He said the eggs he brought back from the basket were missing, but they suddenly appeared in the refrigerator?

It's said that his grandfather delivered steamed buns to someone over there a hundred years ago, but the buns got cold and the grandfather was gone?

How will Qin Xiaowan respond?

"Are you out of your mind?"

This is most likely the sentence.

Wu Ling turned off the screen and put it back in his pocket.

I picked up the bowl of cold eggs and ate them one bite at a time.

The cold egg yolk slowly melts on the tongue, leaving a lingering aroma.

After he finished eating, he rinsed the bowl very clean, leaving not a single egg crumb at the bottom.

The lights are off.