As Fang Muyang left, someone in the corridor was making tomato sauce. Summer tomatoes were cheap, but they became precious in winter when northern seasonal vegetables were scarce. People would buy lots of tomatoes in summer, wash and cube them, steam them, then pour the sauce into IV bottles, seal them tight with rubber stoppers, saving them for winter. The bottles, sterilized in boiling water, now stood in a row on the table, filled with tomato sauce. Someone was also frying small yellow croakers, the aroma filling the air.
The evening breeze rustled tree leaves while cicadas sang incessantly. A family on the ground floor had set up a table under the shade to eat dinner, gathered together as an older man dipped chopsticks in draft beer and brought them to a child’s mouth.
Fang Muyang stood at the entrance for quite a while before taking a photo. Then a girl appeared in his viewfinder, and within a minute, he took several shots in succession.
Fei Ni rode her bicycle maintaining a distance from the seat, the evening breeze sneaking into her collar, making her white shirt billow. She wore a short-sleeved white shirt with work pants—typical factory worker attire—and Warrior brand white canvas shoes, not new white but a tired white from multiple scrubbing.
She stopped her bike and immediately spotted Fang Muyang. He also wore a white shirt, top two buttons undone, long sleeves rolled to his elbows—usually, such rolled sleeves would reveal an all-steel Shanghai brand watch, but he had none, just strong forearms. He held the camera, smiling at her—a smile between generous and roguish. Fei Ni smiled back, and Fang Muyang’s camera captured the moment. She bent down to lock her bike, a mesh bag with a watermelon hanging from the handlebars.
Fang Muyang approached, and Fei Ni’s features became clearer in his view.
He pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Fei Ni. “The begonia you gave me is blooming beautifully. Without a camera, I drew it for you to see.”
Fang Muyang had originally drawn in pencil, but when subjects requested color, someone had specially bought him paint. So this begonia had color too.
From the drawing, Fei Ni could tell the weather when Fang Muyang drew it, and his watering method, because water droplets on the begonia leaves looked ready to slide off. She told him not to water the flowers from above.
“How did you know?”
“Your drawing told me. You’ve been drawing all these years, haven’t you?”
Fei Ni remembered the year Fang Muyang won a major award for his art, and his grandmother had invited classmates to their home. Fang Muyang often claimed his great-grandfather was a ragpicker, but visiting his grandmother’s house, Fei Ni discovered how vastly different partial facts could be from the whole truth. Fang Muyang’s grandmother lived alone in a small Western-style house, her sons settled overseas, and her only daughter—Fang Muyang’s mother—rarely visited, criticizing her as an unproductive bourgeois living off interest.
Fang Muyang grew up under the Red Flag when capitalists had already adopted benevolent expressions, at least superficially. Having never witnessed capitalist oppression of the masses firsthand, he couldn’t harbor deep hatred toward them, viewing them instead as potential allies, so he often visited his grandmother.
Though times had changed and his grandmother became more frugal, this merely meant dismissing the gardener and having the male servant double as one. The garden roses still bloomed magnificently, they still rode in German cars, drank coffee, listened to the latest records, maintained elaborate home décor, and most casually, hung Qi Baishi paintings alongside her grandson’s drawings.
Later, when Fang Muyang’s grandmother died, she left him the house, but before the seventh day of mourning passed, his mother donated it away. Now nobody knew who owned it. Last year, when Fei Ni cycled past that courtyard, peeking through the iron gate, she saw no roses—bees now landed on cucumber flowers, an entirely different scene.
“Could I draw before?”
Fang Muyang asked casually, but it struck Fei Ni differently. He hadn’t recovered his memory—she had misunderstood. Looking at the drawing, Fei Ni thought muscle memory ran deeper than anything; though he hadn’t recovered his memories, he had regained his ability to draw. She looked up at him, thinking this man didn’t know what sadness meant, then thought perhaps there was nothing to be sad about—he’d forgotten all his troubles, had food and drink each day, could draw, and even had extra money for taking photos and wandering around. Remembering everything might not necessarily be good.
Seeing Fei Ni staring at the drawing, Fang Muyang thought she really liked it and generously offered, “I can see the real flowers every day anyway, you keep this drawing. If you like it, I’ll draw you another.”
This pulled Fei Ni from her thoughts. “How did you come down here?”
“There were too many people in your home. I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”
Fei Ni couldn’t help laughing. “How could I miss someone as tall as you?”
“Look at all the people around—when I take photos, I can only see you. Everyone else is just background.”
Fei Ni felt his words carried hidden meaning, then thought she was overthinking and changed the subject to the camera. “Where did you get your camera?”
“Bought it at the consignment store. If you like it, once I finish this roll of film, I’ll give it to you.”
“Keep it yourself, don’t give away everything so casually. What made you buy a camera?”
“I wanted to take more photos of you.”
For a moment, Fei Ni was speechless. Fang Muyang broke the silence: “It’s so hot, why button up completely? Undo two buttons.”
Fei Ni didn’t think much of it, just said, “I’m not hot.”
Fang Muyang stopped photographing, and just smiled at her, his gaze sweeping over her like the evening breeze—others couldn’t see it, but Fei Ni felt it. The wind cooled him, but Fang Muyang’s gaze made her ears burn; she felt uncomfortable everywhere.
“Not hot?” Fang Muyang remembered a red birthmark on Fei Ni’s collarbone, now hidden by her shirt.
“I said I’m not hot, why are you so annoying?” Fei Ni stubbornly refused to unbutton it, and Fang Muyang had to let it go.
Thinking of Fang Muyang’s unpromising future, she asked, “What are your plans for the future?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Fang Muyang watched Fei Ni’s eyes through the viewfinder and casually mentioned Ling Yi. “Do you know Ling Yi?” His old classmate’s frequent mentions of Ling Yi had made him curious.
The camera captured Fei Ni’s startled expression.
“Why are you asking about her?”
“Were we close?”
“Very close, extremely close. She was your girlfriend before. You liked her so much that you gave her your university spot.” Fei Ni had heard from others that Fang Muyang had indeed given up his chance at university for Ling Yi. When she heard this, she wasn’t moved by his devotion, only thought him naive and foolish. “If you wanted to be with her then, you shouldn’t have given her your spot. If you’d gone to university while she remained a sent-down youth, she would have been grateful to marry you. But you gave her your spot—she went to university while you earned work points in the countryside, and instead, she looked down on you as beneath her. It’s not surprising she doesn’t visit you now, though it’s heartless. If it were me, I would never give up my spot to anyone. That’s not how you help people. You pushed her away yourself—if you’d kept your spot, maybe she’d be caring for you tirelessly now…”
Fang Muyang didn’t seem to think he’d missed anything important, speaking of Ling Yi rather dismissively: “I have you now, I don’t need her to care for me.”
This brought Fei Ni no comfort; instead, it angered her: “Do I owe you something? She took your university spot—she should be the one caring for you. Why should she get all the benefits while the misfort—” Fei Ni stopped herself before saying something hurtful.
Fang Muyang completely missed the point: “Did you want to go to university?”
“You’re just a fool.” Because she thought him foolish, she couldn’t help but lecture him more. “The hospital probably can’t cure you, so don’t stay there anymore. Have the Youth Office quickly arrange work and a dormitory for you. You can draw, right? There aren’t many your age in the propaganda team who draw better than you. Be firm about it—if one doesn’t work, try several times. Once you have formal work, maybe there’s still hope with Ling Yi…”
Fei Ni had a serene, refined face, but her current expression didn’t quite match her features. Fang Muyang’s camera captured this expression perfectly.
“Stop photographing me.” Fei Ni’s shirt remained buttoned to the top as she covered her face with her hand, light filtering through her fingers.
Fang Muyang poked at her face through the gaps in her fingers, smiling, “Alright, no more photos.”
“Stop being so handsy, I don’t like it.” Fei Ni turned away. “How did you find out where I live?”
“If I want to find something, I’ll always find a way. Are you free tomorrow? I’ll treat you to ice cream, at the same place as before.”
“I’m busy.” Fei Ni couldn’t help but advise him, “Save your money, it only gets less as you spend it. You’ll have plenty of places to use it in the future.”
“Your father said you’ve been busy watching movies with someone. Were they good?”
Fei Ni wanted to explain she hadn’t been busy watching movies, but what came out was: “They were okay.” She had already watched the movie with Fang Muyang; watching it again, she had no interest in the plot.
“Is that why you stopped visiting me? Because you’re watching movies with someone?”
“So what if it is?” Fei Ni detected accusation in his words. She didn’t owe him anything—she could watch movies and spend time with whoever she wanted, with no obligation to visit him.
Fang Muyang smiled tolerantly: “If you want to watch movies, I can go with you.”
The wind grew stronger, shaking leaves to the ground.
Fei Ni mentally called him a fool again, her eyes moving from one cloud to another. “Do you know how to get back to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Then go back, the cafeteria won’t have food if you’re too late.”
They stood in silence for a while, both saying they should leave but neither turning away. Finally, Fang Muyang spoke: “You should go upstairs.”
Fei Ni took a few steps forward, and as she was about to enter the building, she looked up at the sky—it was about to rain. Looking back, she saw Fang Muyang still standing there, camera in hand.
She called out to him: “Wait a minute, I’ll get you an umbrella—”
Mrs. Fei saw Fei Ni rushing upstairs and asked, “Didn’t you go buy a watermelon? Where is it?”
Fei Ni ran into the room as if she hadn’t heard, grabbed an umbrella from behind the door, then rushed to the bookshelf by the hand-cranked phonograph. She knelt to search for her father’s comic books—many famous artists were drawing comics now; just knowing how to draw begonias had no future.
She wrapped the collected comic books in newspaper and headed for the door, forgetting there were guests in the living room.
Just outside, she saw Fang Muyang standing in the stairway with his camera bag and mesh bag. He must have been there a while but hadn’t taken another step forward.
“Your watermelon.”
“Your best path now is to draw comics. Take these home to study.”
Under wall-hung garlic and chilies, they silently exchanged comics for watermelon in the narrow corridor.
“You know how to use an umbrella, right?”
“I’m not that helpless.” Fang Muyang smiled at her, opening the umbrella with a pop, holding it over both their heads—an oddly awkward scene.
Fei Ni said, “I’m going back.”
“Mm, go ahead.”
Fei Ni wanted to wait until Fang Muyang left before turning around, but he just stood there, so she had to stand there too.
With the windows closed, the air was stuffy, and the air between them seemed to stop flowing.
Finally, Fang Muyang grew impatient and urged Fei Ni to go. “Aren’t you tired of carrying the watermelon? Hurry back.”
Mrs. Fei sighed deeply watching her daughter standing at the stairway.
Fei Ni turned first, putting the watermelon in the metal bucket and adding cool water. As she entered the room, she glanced back at the stairway, just catching her second sister and brother-in-law coming up.
Fang Muyang was gone.
Mrs. Fei scolded her youngest daughter for lacking social grace: “He stayed so long, how could you not invite him to stay for dinner when it’s mealtime?”
“Weren’t you worried he’d ruin my prospects?”