assistirfilmes Chapter 7 New Year, Mother in Hong Kong
Chapter 7 New Year, Mother in Hong Kong
The year 1995 happened at a good time, with the first day of the Lunar New Year falling right at the end of January.
Li Si'an rode his old, beat-up bicycle to his maternal grandfather's house. Leaving the school, he headed west along the South Road of the Nationalities Institute, passed the north gate of Zizhuyuan Park, and turned a corner to reach Wanshou Temple.
It's less than three kilometers in total, a ten-minute bike ride. The cold wind, like tiny knives, kept getting into his collar, so he pulled his scarf up a bit.
On the gate of Grandpa's courtyard, there are couplets written by the old man himself. After retiring, the old man had no other hobbies but practicing calligraphy. He wrote each stroke carefully, the ink falling on the red paper, and his posture was quite impressive.
The jujube tree in the yard was long gone, and the branches still had a little snow that had fallen last night, but no one had bothered to clean it up.
"Si'an's here?"
His aunt, Ma Xiaoqin, poked her head out of the kitchen, her apron smeared with flour, and she was clutching a dumpling that she hadn't quite wrapped properly.
Aunt.
"Come inside quickly, your uncle and your grandfather are playing chess."
A stove was burning in the main room, the coal briquettes glowing red, and a wave of heat hit your face.
His maternal grandfather, Zhou Nianshen, sat in that rattan chair, holding a chess piece called "Xiang" in his hand, which hovered above the chessboard for a long time without being placed down.
Across from me sat a middle-aged man, around forty years old, wearing a dark gray wool sweater, with neatly styled hair and a regular face, bearing a resemblance to his mother, Zhou Weilan, to about five or six points.
"uncle."
Zhou Weidong turned around, his eyes lighting up: "Si'an. You've grown taller again!" He stood up and gestured with his hand to indicate the top of Li Si'an's head. "You came here last year, and you're here this year. Over 1.8 meters tall now?"
"82".
"Okay. You've inherited all the good genes from your parents."
Grandpa slammed the elephant piece onto the chessboard and muttered, "Checkmate." Only then did he raise an eyelid to glance at him. "You're here?"
"Um."
Happy New Year, Grandpa.
"Your mother didn't come back again this year."
The room fell silent instantly. Suddenly, the sound of Aunt chopping dumpling filling in the kitchen grew louder. Zhou Weidong glanced at his grandfather: "Dad, it's the New Year." Grandpa didn't reply, pushed the chessboard aside, and got up to warm himself by the stove.
Zhou Weidong patted him on the shoulder: "Come on, let's help your uncle move the table."
The New Year's Eve dinner was set up on a table in the main room. A disposable plastic tablecloth was laid on the round table, and bowls were used to weigh down the four corners. The dishes included dumplings, braised fish, four-happiness meatballs, braised pork knuckle, and garlic broccoli.
His cousin Zhou Yu, who is sixteen years old, sat next to him and ate with great gusto. His chopsticks left trails of light between the plate and his mouth, as if he hadn't eaten for a century.
Zhou Weidong opened a bottle of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor), poured himself a glass, and poured half a glass for him as well.
"You're sixteen now, you can drink a little."
Li Si'an picked up the glass and took a sip. It was spicy, burning from the tip of her tongue all the way to her stomach, but a warm feeling also rose up afterward.
"Uncle, I heard you used to be a prostitute?"
Zhou Weidong had just picked up a dumpling when his chopsticks paused.
"Who told you that?"
"I forgot, maybe my mother mentioned it in a letter before."
Zhou Weidong chewed the dumpling and swallowed it. "That happened a few years ago."
Who have you mentored before?
Zhou Weidong picked up his glass and took a sip of wine. "Cui Jian, Zang Tianshuo, Na Ying, Mao Amin. I've brought them all."
"Cui Jian?? Mao Amin?" Li Si'an put down her chopsticks. "The one who sang 'Missing You' on the Spring Festival Gala?"
"Yeah. She wasn't that famous back then."
Do you know Wang Xiaojing?
"I know him. He's the CEO of Star Disc Records. We used to do gigs together back then." Zhou Weidong glanced at him. "How do you know Wang Xiaojing?"
"I saw it in a magazine; it said he was Cui Jian's mentor or something."
Zhou Weidong didn't ask any further questions.
Li Si'an swirled her wine glass. "Uncle, since you've mentored such big names, why did you quit?"
Zhou Weidong remained silent for a while.
We lost money in 1990.
He spoke quite casually, then picked up a piece of braised pork knuckle, not intending to elaborate further.
Just then, my aunt came in with a plate of freshly cooked dumplings. Hearing this, she put the plate on the table.
"He was so worried back then that he would sit on the edge of his bed at three in the morning, smoking one cigarette after another. I told him to stop smoking because the room was full of smoke, but he wouldn't listen."
My aunt wiped her hands. "Later, we sold the car and the mobile phone to fill the hole. Now it's better. I go back to the cultural center and get 420 yuan a month. I go to bed at nine o'clock. It's much more peaceful than in previous years."
Zhou Weidong didn't retort, but picked up a dumpling and dipped it in vinegar.
Li Si'an raised her glass and clinked it against Zhou Weidong's. "Uncle, if you're going to do business again in the future, please take me with you."
Zhou Weidong looked at him and chuckled. "You little rascal, you're only sixteen, what are you thinking about doing business with?"
Sixteen is not young anymore.
Zhou Weidong didn't respond and downed his drink.
While staying up late on New Year's Eve, Zhou Yu set off firecrackers in the yard outside, while his aunt was tidying up the dishes in the kitchen.
Grandpa was dozing in his wicker chair. The volume of the Spring Festival Gala on TV was turned down to the lowest setting. Zhao Benshan and Fan Wei were performing a skit, and their laughter leaked out of the screen, mixing with Grandpa's soft snoring.
Li Si'an and Zhou Weidong sat by the stove. The coal briquettes were burning brightly, their red glow illuminating their faces.
"Uncle, what's my mom's phone number now?"
Zhou Weidong looked at him, a hint of surprise in his eyes.
"Want to give her a call?"
"Um."
"When?"
"Let's do it tonight, it's New Year's Eve after all."
Zhou Weidong pulled a small phone book from his pocket, flipped to a page, and handed it over. It contained a Hong Kong number, preceded by the international dialing code 00852.
"She'll be thrilled when she answers your call."
"Um."
Li Si'an took the phone book and stood up. Grandpa was still dozing off, and the Spring Festival Gala on TV had already moved on to a medley of songs.
He walked into the courtyard.
Zhou Yu had long since finished setting off his firecrackers, leaving a trail of red paper scraps buried in the snow. Fireworks exploded in the night sky, near and far, turning a large patch of the western horizon red. The cold air filled my lungs, carrying a whiff of gunpowder.
Grandpa's telephone sat on the table in the side room—a beige rotary dial phone with a plastic casing worn smooth and shiny. Li Si'an sat down, her fingers pressing on the dial, dialing numbers one by one.
00. 852. Then her home number.
The phone rang four times. Five times. Six times.
He thought no one would answer.
With a click, a woman's voice came through the receiver, thousands of kilometers away, her Mandarin mixed with a touch of Cantonese.
"Feed?"
Li Si'an gripped the microphone.
"Mom. It's me."
There was silence on the other end for a long time. He thought the connection had been lost.
Then the voice rang out again, much softer than before, as if afraid of startling something.
"Si'an?"
"Um."
"You—" Her voice choked, "Why did you suddenly decide to call Mom?"
Li Si'an leaned back in her chair, gazing at the fireworks outside the window.
In the original owner's limited memories, the image of this woman dragging her suitcase without turning her head was like a thorn stuck in her for over a decade.
But he wasn't the original owner of this body. He felt neither hatred nor love for Zhou Weilan. A sophisticated egoist, naive and spoiled, she abandoned her son to marry a young British nobleman and ran off to Hong Kong—that was her choice. It had nothing to do with him.
But this person is useful.
The wife of a senior executive at HSBC. A dance teacher at the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts. The Chinese wife of a British aristocrat.
After Hong Kong's return to China in 1997, the significance of these identities increased exponentially. He needed a foothold in Hong Kong from then on. This woman was that foothold.
Happy Chinese New Year! Wishing you a Happy New Year!
A very short, breathy sound came from the other end, indistinguishable as either laughter or crying.
"Wait, wait—James, it's Si'an, it's my son—"
There was a string of English chatter on the other end, and then a man took over, his British accent incredibly thick, and said in broken Mandarin, "Happy New Year."
Li Si'an replied in English: "Happy New Year."
The stepfather laughed on the other end of the line, and then the microphone was handed back to his mother.
"Si'an, how have you been these past two years? How's Grandpa's health? Your uncle—"
"I'm fine," Li Si'an said. "And you?"
"Hello, Mom. Your stepfather got a promotion last year, and I'm teaching dance at the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts now. My students are all very hardworking..." As she spoke, her voice changed again, "Si'an, Mom is so sorry—"
"mom."
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"What's past is past."
He spoke slowly, each word barely escaping his lips. It wasn't about forgiveness, nor reconciliation. It was simply that the past was past and could be left behind. Not out of magnanimity, but because the future was far more valuable than the past.
"Do you want to come to Hong Kong this summer? Mom will handle the paperwork for you. You can come and stay for a while, and I'll show you around—"
"We'll see. The school might have some arrangements for the summer vacation."
"What about winter break? Winter break is fine too—"
"Let's decide later."
Neither refuse nor agree. Leave a door open. You may not need it now, but you'll need it sooner or later.
They chatted for a few more minutes about Grandpa's health, the weather in Beijing, and the festive atmosphere in Hong Kong. His mother's voice gradually calmed down from its initial excitement, even taking on a slightly cautious, ingratiating tone.
"Si'an, you can call your mother more often from now on."
"Okay, I'll play often from now on."
"Okay, okay. You can call whenever you want, Mom will be here."
"Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year, Si'an. Mom..." She paused, "Mom misses you so much."
Li Si'an hung up the phone.
Another cluster of fireworks rose outside the window, a bright green color, exploding into countless sparks that slowly drifted into the darkness.
He sat at the table in the side room, his fingers still resting on the telephone. The sound of firecrackers in the courtyard gradually subsided, and the tune of "Unforgettable Tonight" came from the television. And so, the Spring Festival of 1995 passed.
He stood up and pushed open the door to the side room.
In the main room, Grandpa woke up and was playing his second game of chess with Zhou Weidong. Aunt sat on the sofa eating sunflower seeds, while Zhou Yu lay on the floor flipping through a copy of "Story Collection".
Two more coal briquettes were added to the stove, and the flames licked the coal surface, casting a reddish glow that projected the shadows of everyone in the room onto the walls, swaying gently.
Zhou Weidong looked up and glanced at him.
"You hit him?"
"I hit him."
"Is she happy?"
"Happy."
Zhou Weidong nodded and said nothing more. He placed a chess piece with a soft thud, but it didn't land properly.
Grandpa suddenly spoke up.
"Your mother isn't a bad person. She just takes herself way too seriously."
No one answered from inside. The sound of his aunt cracking sunflower seeds stopped for a moment, then resumed. Zhou Yu turned a page of his book.
Li Si'an sat by the stove, stretching out her hands to warm them. The firelight made her palms glow red, and the warmth crept up her fingers and up her arm.
In his mind, he put the three words "Zhou Weilan" into a new folder—not "Mother," but "Hong Kong Resources."
No rush. Let's nurture this line slowly.