Looking at his appearance, I thought to myself, *You keep a mistress outside, yet you won’t allow your wife to have a man of her own. That bright green watermelon you’re wearing is probably a sign that the cuckold’s hat has already been placed on your head.* Of course, I couldn’t say any of this to Wu Zhen.
What I did tell Wu Zhen was to pour the water in the basin farther away and to throw the towel into the fire if possible. Seeing that the green snake in the bottle had steeped long enough and the vinegar smelled just right, I opened the lid and pushed it toward Wu Zhen. With a serious expression, I said, “The taste might not be great, but it’s better than walking around with a watermelon for a head. Drink it all—preferably not a single drop left.”
Wu Zhen’s eyes widened, but he still trusted my words. He lifted the jar and gulped it down in one go, the little green snake sliding down his throat into his stomach.
He actually drank it in one go—I was almost stunned. I had expected him to take a few sips. He was the most death-fearing person I’d ever met, and precisely because he feared death, he downed it all at once. After finishing the vinegar-and-snake concoction, Wu Zhen chugged half a pot of cold tea before finally recovering. Only when he saw the watermelon on his head shrinking in the mirror did he fully relax.
I stood up to leave.
Wu Zhen said, “Brother, you saved my life. At the very least, I should treat you to a meal.”
I replied, “It’s not that I don’t want to go, but I don’t dare eat with you guys. Last time, I got beaten up and almost crippled. Do I still have the guts to eat your food?”
Wu Zhen apologized, “It’s not prison food. We can compensate you. Brother Xiao, you *must* come. Let’s go to a restaurant right now—I’ll pay and personally apologize.”
I thought, *Here comes another apology.* I smiled and said, “You’re the boss—how could you possibly be at fault? No need for apologies. I’m leaving soon; in a couple of days, I’ll be out of town, so no time for meals.” Bai Xuan took a hundred thousand to deal with me for Old Five Bugs, but I refused to believe Wu Zhen didn’t get a cut. So why did I save Wu Zhen? Simply because I wanted to secure a reliable backer for my parents before leaving town.
Wu Zhen grabbed me, refusing to let me go, and told his wife, Miao Qinghua, to call and arrange lunch. “I know you can’t eat meat these days, so we’ll go vegetarian. If you keep refusing, I’ll be upset.”
I said, “Fine, but Ma Yan has to come. I want to toast her three times.” Wu Zhen seemed to understand the issue now—it was Ma Yan who had angered me. He immediately called her and, after two trips to the bathroom, saw that it was mealtime and brought his wife along. The three of us headed to a vegetarian temple on the mountain near Songxi Village, a place often frequented by county folks for vegetarian meals.
I’d heard my mother mention Songxi Village—a fortune-teller had once warned Old Doctor Liu to close his practice for a year, but he refused, and that same year, one of his injections killed a patient.
When we arrived, the village chief, Song Chuxi, personally escorted Wu Zhen to the temple. Ma Yan had changed into shorts and stockings, with a short vest, and had already arrived by motorcycle.
The moment Miao Qinghua stepped out of the car, she spotted Ma Yan and looked like she wanted to tear those stockings right off her. Ma Yan, seeing Miao Qinghua and me, immediately darkened her face and called out, “Sister-in-law, you came too.”
Miao Qinghua was Wu Zhen’s first wife—she’d endured hardship raising their child before Wu Zhen became station chief and started fooling around. Seeing Ma Yan in stockings and shorts, Miao Qinghua’s eyes burned with fury. Without hesitation, she slapped Ma Yan across the face and cursed viciously, “I, Miao Qinghua, am not someone you can bully!”
I crossed my arms, watching this familiar scene unfold.
Wu Zhen grabbed his wife’s hand and barked, “If you keep making trouble, get the hell back home!” Miao Qinghua reluctantly withdrew, but her eyes continued to bore into Ma Yan.
The temple’s vegetarian dishes were surprisingly good—almost too good to be vegetarian. Take the egg noodles, for example—they were mixed with eggs, making them incredibly tasty. Strict monks abstain from eggs and dairy, but the temple likely made exceptions to attract visitors. Who’d come for pickles and steamed buns?
At the table, including Song Chuxi, there were five of us. Song had initially planned to serve alcohol, but since it was a vegetarian meal, he settled for rice wine instead.
Wu Zhen fetched a large bowl for Ma Yan and said, “Ma Yan, now you’ll toast Master Xiao three bowls of rice wine. After that, this matter is over.”
I smiled. “If Officer Ma drinks, I’ll consider it settled.” Ma Yan’s face darkened as she bit her lip. Song Chuxi, unaware of the situation, chuckled and offered, “How about I drink for the young lady?”
I stood up to leave.
Wu Zhen stopped me, slamming the table. “Ma Yan, drink or not?” Ma Yan glared at me, poured three bowls, and downed them in one go. I wasn’t out to make trouble for her—just to knock her arrogance down a peg. The conversation at the table soon turned to meaningless small talk.
Miao Qinghua wanted me to divine her son’s future, and Song Chuxi hoped I’d predict whether his son, Song Badou, would pass the civil service exam this year. I refused both.
At the end of the meal, Miao Qinghua handed me a red envelope—compensation for saving Wu Zhen and an apology. After being beaten half to death, I ended up with a 5,000-yuan envelope. What a joke.
After the meal, I said I wanted to visit the temple and pay respects to the Buddha. As Western philosophers say, every temple needs someone to bear humanity’s suffering and hopes, praying for an easier path ahead.
I’m no exception—just another mortal.
Wu Zhen and Miao Qinghua didn’t press me to stay and left first. Wu Zhen had intended to take Ma Yan with them, but Miao Qinghua wouldn’t allow it. Ma Yan waited by the roadside for half an hour before catching a motorcycle back to town.
The temple housed a few old monks and some younger ones. The younger monks, with their short, thick hair, held phones in their hands, flirting with girls hundreds of miles away, asking if they’d send a few scantily clad photos to “worship the Buddha.”
Kneeling on a straw cushion before the Buddha, I kowtowed nine times, praying for my parents’ health and long life.
As I stood up, I saw Song Xiaoshuang.
Her face flushed with emotion, she beamed at me. “Senior, I never expected to see you here—what a coincidence!” I hadn’t expected to run into her either. After she finished her prayers, we left the temple together. Noticing her troubled expression, I asked what was wrong.
At first, she wouldn’t say, but once she started, she couldn’t stop. It turned out that as a grassroots civil servant, she found it hard to get promoted. Life in a small town felt unbearably lonely compared to the city, and she longed to leave—even just moving to the county would be better.
I said, “Try pulling some strings. If that doesn’t work, spend some money.”
Song Xiaoshuang sighed. “I don’t have that kind of money, and my family has no connections. But last time, a county official came to town for a meeting and privately praised me, saying he wanted to transfer me up.”
Now I understood her dilemma. She’d come to the Buddha seeking answers—the struggles of survival and career advancement had made her desperate for a shortcut. For a girl without money or connections, the only shortcut left was her body.
I didn’t want to hurt her. Life often forced people into impossible choices. I asked, “Does he want to keep you as a mistress? Have you agreed?”
She bit her lip, unsure how to answer. Even the most worldly girls would still feel ashamed facing such a question. Seeing her silent confirmation, I advised, “Think about the consequences. If you really hate this job, quit and go to the big city you dream of.”
In the end, I didn’t know what she decided. Life’s hardships force people into all kinds of choices—who can stop them? In Song Xiaoshuang, I seemed to see a future Ma Yan.
After returning to town from the temple, Song Xiaoshuang left.
I went to the supermarket and bought my father a large Fuguang-brand water bottle—his old Golega cup had broken, and after so many years, it was time for a replacement. The cup cost 25 yuan, and I paid with a 100-yuan bill. At the fish market, I bought a silver carp and haggled for a few small fish to feed the cat. Then I stopped by Tofu Beauty’s shop for two blocks of tofu, picked up two pounds of aged liquor from the hotel, and bought half a pound each of pig’s ear and snout from the deli, along with a plate of peanuts—totaling 76 yuan. The shopkeeper, short on change, rounded it to 100.
On the way back, a neighbor on his Qianjiang motorcycle pulled over. “Xiao Qi, heading home? Hop on—with all that stuff, are you leaving tomorrow?” I hummed in agreement and climbed on.
Amid the roaring lyrics of *Love for Sale*, we sped across the stone bridge and were home in under five minutes. Little Bastard was the first to smell me, while the cat came running for the fish. I tossed one to Miss He, who expertly leaped onto the beam and devoured it in seconds, leaving only white bones behind.
Seeing my bags, my mother asked, “Leaving tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Cook something nice for Dad. I’ll go chat with him.” I took out the new cup, rinsed it with boiling water to remove the plastic smell, tossed in a handful of cheap tea leaves, and filled it with hot water.
My father, watching TV in his room, accepted the cup and praised, “Good quality. Must’ve been expensive?”
I rubbed my head. “Nah, just ten yuan.” He took a sip, unaware I’d lied. Had he known it cost 25, he’d have made me return it. Sitting beside him, we lapsed into awkward silence.
Finally, he asked, “What’s your plan now?”
I bit my lip. “I’ll go to Jiangcheng, find a stable job—maybe at a newspaper or a school.”
The worry lines on his forehead eased. “Let’s have a drink tonight. And remember—don’t aim too high or rush. As long as you keep moving forward, you won’t starve.”
I nodded.
My mother’s cooking was five-star. She prepared braised fish, homemade tofu soup, and stir-fried greens—all bursting with color and aroma. Little Bastard circled the kitchen eagerly, and Miss He, having finished her fish, was restless too.
I set up a table in the yard, placing the pig’s ear on it before reconsidering and taking it back inside. “Mom, let me show off my skills,” I said, grabbing a knife to slice the pork and stir-fry it with green peppers. The aroma filled the air instantly.
Mom brought the dishes to the table—three sets of bowls, spoons, and cups—and called me to eat. I poured two pounds of liquor, serving my parents and myself.
“Dad, Mom,” I said, raising my cup. “A toast to your health and happiness.”
Mom worried Dad would overdrink. “Go easy—I don’t want to wash your feet again.”
Dad grumbled, “Our son bought this wine—let me enjoy it!” Little Bastard licked my foot insistently. I offered it meat, but it refused. Puzzled, I poured half a cup of liquor instead. The dog took a lick, recoiled from the burn, rolled on the ground, then lapped it all up. I considered giving it more, but it staggered like a cat before collapsing into a drunken sleep.
Miss He watched from the beam, mewing—whether in delight or mockery, I couldn’t tell.
We ate until dark. Mom cleared the table, Dad went to bed tipsy, and I, slightly dizzy, packed some clothes for tomorrow’s journey to Jiangcheng.
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