Wula, whose real name was Wuna, was not spoken to in Mandarin by the villagers. All her Mandarin was localized and dialectized, thus becoming Wula in the mouths of the people on the street. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, so let's call her Wula.
Zun first met Wula at a mahjong table. To call it a mahjong table wouldn't be accurate. That was more than ten years later; at the time, it was always a dining table, sometimes covered with a cloth, and sometimes, when they were in a hurry, they'd just start playing directly, with a crisp, decisive clatter, no dallying.
The person who brought him to play mahjong was named Xiao Jianhua. Looking at the name, it was clear it was given by a cultured person. That's right, his father had been a soldier, then became the village head after returning, and now raised pigs in town.
How the pigsty stank. The first time he followed his parents to town to see the house they were building, he had lunch at Jianhua's house. The pigsty was right next door, and over a dozen pigs were squealing hungrily, their long, powerful snouts constantly rooting through the straw mixed with pig dung. Waves of thick stench rolled over like heatwaves, making even the bluebottles dizzy. They ignored the swatting hands of humans and pounced uninhibitedly onto the bowls of food, onto the chopsticks and bowls smeared with food scraps, onto the sweat-soaked arms and foreheads that dripped with salt. This was their carnival, their feast.
Zun's stomach churned with the pigs' rooting. It was hot and scalding, and he felt as if it would erupt from his mouth at any moment, to be poured onto the pigs' heads, and then – eaten by the pigs. "I'll eat the one on your head, and you eat the one on my big ears."
His mind felt a bit hazy. The squealing of the hungry pigs and the buzzing of flies were more chaotic than a classroom without a teacher, disturbing his thoughts.
At this moment, the old village head's voice sounded:
"Teacher Yuan, this place can't compare to a school. The smell is a bit strong. You might feel nauseous the first time you're here, but you'll get used to it. Once our house is built, we'll all be better off."
The village head seemed to want to deliberately show off this "good habit." He took several large mouthfuls of rice, smacking his lips, looking like he was enjoying it immensely, finding it very tasty.
He felt ashamed of the discomfort he'd shown. Clearly, he was a guest in someone else's house, eating at their table. Although the food was a joint venture between the two families, it was ultimately built on the foundation they had laid. They had put up this shed, establishing a place to dwell, which then allowed their family to have a foothold to build their own house.
"Yes, we should all thank the village head. Once the house is done, our two families will host a proper banquet to show the villagers the village head's capabilities," his father said ingratiatingly.
This made him feel even more that his previous offhand display of emotion was so inappropriate. He had disappointed both the old village head and his parents. They were laying the groundwork for him in such difficult environments and conditions, and he still showed a look of aversion. Where was the basic human gratitude?
He ate more than usual that meal, stuffed himself to the point of discomfort, all to prove that he could endure hardships with the older generation and understand their kindness. Many years later, when he was steeping a tea called "Duck Shit Fragrance" in his office, he would always recall that lunch laden with the aroma of "pig shit fragrant."
Like father, like son. Although he was an old village head, he had been a soldier and seen the world. As the head of the village, he had interacted with important officials in the township and was knowledgeable in all aspects. His son's insight and demeanor were indeed different from other villagers'.
He clearly remembered that when he was in elementary school, he would walk for about half an hour to reach Niu'apai Street. There was a bluestone path in the middle. Although it was impossible to distinguish the types of cow dung, pig dung, dog dung, chicken dung, goose dung, and duck dung trampled by passersby, it was at least the straightest road in the village. On both sides were houses belonging to the Xiao family. The outer steps were parallel to the road, and the inner courtyards were more than half a person high. Seeing them squatting on the steps, eating or chatting, made them seem superior.
Jianhua's house was on this street, the very first one on the south end, next to a large, dusty, open area for drying paddy. To be honest, he didn't interact much with Jianhua because Jianhua was two grades below him. His best friends were the Xiao Chun family, who lived three or four houses away from Jianhua's: they were in the same class. Xiao Chun's aunt had married into the Yuan house in Dongshuikeng, becoming one of the 'aunts' he called. Yes, she was one of those aunts who whispered about his private parts, and she was the protagonist.
Xiao Chun and Jianhua's family didn't get along well. It was nothing strange; few neighborly relationships were good. Since he was good with Xiao Chun, he couldn't be too good with Jianhua, otherwise, their friendship wouldn't last. However, because Zun's academic performance was outstanding, many classmates were willing to talk to him, hoping to learn some "study tips."
But Jianhua's approach to him didn't seem to be for the purpose of learning; rather, it seemed like showing off. Once, it seemed to be around noon, Jianhua's father, or perhaps Jianhua himself, repeatedly invited him for a drink of water (this was also common). However, perhaps he was particularly thirsty this time, or perhaps it was a strange impulse; in any case, without a hundred percent certainty, he finally stepped onto their steps to go and drink water. Although it was cold water from a clay jar, it was sweet. And with the teaching of "a drop of kindness should be repaid with a gushing spring," he became familiar with Jianhua.
In his impression, Jianhua had a very open smile, more open than most classmates. He showed him photos of their family, placed behind transparent glass, hung high on the wall, in the most conspicuous place, on either side of the altar. He took it down and told him, "This is my father, wearing a military uniform and a military cap." He couldn't remember if his father was carrying a gun; perhaps not, otherwise, he would have had an extremely deep memory, because in his mind at the time, a gun could traverse a mountain and blow up a house on the other side. Even without a gun, he looked incredibly imposing. He knew this was not an ordinary family.
But compared to Jianhua's sister, Jianhua's smile seemed a bit unruly, like a pumpkin flower by the roadside, blooming freely, trampled or pecked by cows, chickens, and ducks. Her smile was like the roses by the pond. Below the old hall was a large pond where a cluster of lush roses grew, their branches hanging into the water, swaying with the ripples. The flower buds swayed in the breeze, just like her smile.
She was tall and slender. Although she was only a few years older than him, he felt she was much older. She often wore clothes with a white background and red flowers, clean and pure. Amidst a group of people in blue cloth clothes, she was particularly eye-catching. Calling her a crane among chickens would be no injustice to those chickens. Therefore, he had never spoken to her.
However, seeing her always reminded him of the tinkling sound of trickling streamlets. This made him feel ashamed, yet he couldn't help himself. So, every time he saw her, he would blush uncontrollably, his heart would race, and then he would turn and leave, blaming himself for his own dirtiness, baseness, and unbearable shame.
This matter, in the end, as a famous saying goes, "Without accumulating small streams, one cannot form rivers and seas." If anyone is to blame, it is still her younger brother. His insights left a lifelong impression on him.