Chapter 41 Has Spring Arrived?

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The Beginning of Summer, 1973.

Southern Yunnan, Xishuangbanna.

Dayu Village, a remote little settlement beside the Lancang River.

The damp, sweltering weather was like an enormous steamer, mercilessly roasting everyone who lived there.

“Chirr, chirr, chirr—”

“Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit—”

The clamorous cries of cicadas drifted out from the deep, emerald-green primeval forest. Now and then, several vivid green frogs leaped from a small pond floating with algae and lotus leaves, puffing out their cheeks and filling the air with croaks.

The brigade clinic.

Xiaofang held a fan woven from banana leaves, flapping it against herself again and again. The humid heat had soaked her clothes with sweat, and her face was flushed crimson.

Life in the countryside of southern Yunnan was dull and monotonous. Primeval forests stretched in every direction, and backward Dayu Village was wrapped within them, like a little fish on the verge of being swallowed whole by some monstrous beast of the forest...

Perhaps only the ten-year-old Xiaofang would happily burrow through the primeval woods, trembling at poisonous insects and snakes, yet eagerly anticipating every strange and wonderful plant she encountered...

“I really wonder how long we’ll have to live like this. Perhaps it will only end when the old man’s communism is truly realized—when the proletariat of the entire world is united and liberated. After all, Dayu Village is such a remote place... When will spring finally come...?”

Amid the roar of an engine, a large truck appeared before Xiaofang. It seemed to be transporting not goods but a load of bewildered, helpless young educated youths, as though they were being escorted under guard.

Among them, a tall, fair-skinned young man caught Xiaofang’s eye...

The wheels of fate began to turn...

...

“Heh...”

Yang Shuan furrowed his brows, his brown eyes fixed intently on the rows of neatly arranged manuscript pages before him. There was not a single typo to be found.

The opening line read:

“Why is there no spring? Because... there has never been any spring.”

Yang Shuan did not know how to describe what he felt.

For a remote mountain village in southern Yunnan, what was spring?

Was it the policy of sending educated youths to the countryside?

For Xiaofang, the village Party secretary’s daughter, who had received an education, what did spring mean?

Song Jingming, who had come from the capital?

His name suggested bright spring days. Was he spring itself?

Yet the author declared at the very beginning that spring had never existed. Did “spring” refer to Song Jingming?

Or was it a metaphor for something else?

“Looks like Editor Zhang was right!”

After reading only the opening few hundred words, Yang Shuan grew increasingly certain of the author’s command of language.

He had read no more than the beginning, yet he had a premonition that this was a tragedy.

Still, Yang Shuan was in no hurry. He weighed the manuscript in his hands, its substantial heft giving him an unusual sense of security.

Then he continued reading.

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...

On the night of the Beginning of Summer, the cicadas sang without end. To welcome the educated youths, Dayu Village held a grand bonfire celebration, and everyone sang and danced.

Late that night, after returning home, Xiaofang caught a cicada just as she had when she was a child. She imagined that by catching it, she had caught the whole summer.

She believed that she would bloom in the height of summer—brilliantly, magnificently, dazzlingly, beautifully.

But she had forgotten that she was not a flower.

She thought the spring of her life was about to arrive, never realizing that spring did not belong to her—or belonged to her only briefly—or perhaps had never belonged to her at all.

Spring merely passed by in haste, leaving behind the faintest breath of wind that brushed against her slender blade of grass.

...

Before he knew it, the entire morning had passed.

Yang Shuan was moved by the false yet genuine love between Xiaofang and Song Jingming. He was also stirred by the youthful passion of the educated youths, who devoted themselves without regret to construction work—planting fields, digging reservoirs, building roads and bridges, and joining forces to fight epidemics.

In that height of summer, the youth, passion, and regretless devotion of all those young people were rendered in vivid detail. At that moment, they bloomed.

Before long, autumn arrived.

Yang Shuan’s heart tightened inexplicably, and he hurried on.

It was night. Because they were underage, Song Jingming and Xiaofang held a hurried, makeshift wedding.

Song Jingming began thinking about returning to the city. Beside a small stream that flowed into the Lancang River, the two of them sat on the grass as they had in the past.

Song Jingming sang a song in a lovely voice, the melody beautiful:

“There’s a girl in the village named Xiaofang,
Pretty and kind, with eyes so bright,
And a beautiful pair of big eyes,
With a thick, long braid...”

Xiaofang thought it sounded wonderful and joined in.

Song Jingming said that he had not finished writing it yet; it was only a rough draft.

Time passed slowly. Then a new policy came down from above: they could return to the city.

Everything began with the implementation of the national policy. Spring had begun with it, and it ended with it as well.

One beautiful thing after another was overturned, and tragedy after tragedy came rushing in.

...

Outside the window, darkness was settling over the sky. Far away, the riverside dock was ablaze with lights, while the engines of the boats droned across the water.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock...”

“Clang, clang, clang—”

In the editor-in-chief’s office, an old mechanical mantel clock rang out crisply.

“Click...”

“Editor Yang, it’s already six in the evening. Why are you still in the office...?”

The door opened. Chen Shanshan, a young editor who had graduated from Wuhan University, heard the sound and pushed her way inside.

She was on duty that day, responsible for cleaning. As usual, she was making the rounds of every office, checking the power supplies, lights, appliances, doors, and windows.

She had not expected to see a middle-aged man of forty or fifty sitting behind the desk, clutching a manuscript in his hands, his face haggard and withered.

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Chen Shanshan was startled.

Editor Yang was still in the office?

That meant he had been there all day, from morning until now, without ever leaving—not even to use the restroom, eat, or rest. The office door had not opened once.

Chen Shanshan approached slowly, bending forward as she peered at him cautiously.

Yang Shuan had a nearly extinguished cigarette butt pinched between his fingers. The smooth, polished redwood desk was covered with cold ashes and burning tears. He was still murmuring:

“Thank you for the love you gave me; I will never forget it in this life. Thank you for the tenderness you gave me; it carried me through those years...”

“Editor Yang? What’s wrong? Did you get so absorbed in the book that you started crying?”

Chen Shanshan glanced at the thick manuscript in his hands and formed a few guesses.

Hearing the movement beside him, Yang Shuan frowned.

“Didn’t I tell you to knock first if you need something?”

He hated being disturbed while reading manuscripts.

Chen Shanshan wrinkled her delicate face and said aggrievedly, “Editor, it’s already six in the evening. I’m on duty today. I have to inspect every room according to procedure. You haven’t stepped outside all day, so we all thought you’d skipped work ages ago.”

“What?”

“It’s six in the evening?”

Yang Shuan turned pale with shock and sprang to his feet.

In a flash, he launched into motion—one sharp front kick, one sweeping step—and dashed out of the office.

He shot away like a gust of wind.

Seeing how fast the editor ran, Chen Shanshan was left dumbfounded. She muttered, “Is his wife really that terrifying? She’s just a woman from Sichuan and Chongqing, isn’t she? Is he going home late and getting made to kneel on a washboard? What a henpecked husband!”

...

A little over ten minutes later.

With his briefcase tucked under his arm, Yang Shuan opened the door to his home.

“Shufen, I’m back. Something came up at the editorial office and held me up.”

“All right, just wait... Dinner’s almost ready.”

A middle-aged woman in a red apron poked her head out from the kitchen.

Hearing that, Yang Shuan breathed a sigh of relief and sat down at the dining table. His daughter and son were seated side by side, gnawing on chicken legs.

“Has spring finally come? Has it or hasn’t it? Tathagata!”

Yang Shuan thought for a moment, then took out the manuscript and continued reading. He became so absorbed that, just as he was waiting for spring to descend upon that little blade of grass, a tearing pain shot through his ear.

He did not know whether spring had come for the little blade of grass.

But he knew that his own spring had not.

“Ah... It hurts, it hurts, darling! Let go!”

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