Chapter 29: “Mango Umbrella” Part 1

Tonight felt especially hazy. At the end of the night street, rainwater mingled with neon lights, cats darted through the shadows, and thick toffee seemed to coat everything… It all blurred together like a chaotic illusion from a spring night.

Chi Buyu felt as if two pairs of shoes had stopped right in front of her.

One pair came from the early days of spring.

It was a rainy night. The slippers were made of cotton fabric, light gray with slightly darker vertical stripes, resting gently on the footrest of a wheelchair.

In theory, they should have been spotless, brushed clean without a trace of dust. But now, rain kept pattering down, splashing across the surface and blooming into wet spots. The fabric was also marred by mud stains that had long since soaked in.

The other pair hailed from the cusp of summer.

It was a summer night in Hong Kong. Chelsea boots, black, rising to cover a third of the calf. Their surfaces gleamed so brightly they seemed to mirror the damp neon glow from the streetlights, the reflections sliding slowly across them. Chi Buyu rubbed her eyes and realized they weren’t as pristine as she’d first thought—black ash dusted them everywhere, remnants of something burned.

The owner of those shoes stood motionless before her, watching her for what felt like ages, silent.

Chi Buyu couldn’t tell if she was in Chengdu or Hong Kong. She felt like she was squatting on the asphalt road, knees hugged to her chest, peering up in utter bewilderment. In that instant, she was a wobbly water balloon, quivering silently until—pop—

It burst against the ground in her heart. Her gaze locked onto a pair of deep, dark eyes.

All the water gushed out uncontrollably, spilling in every direction, flooding her lungs and heart, her throat, the insides of her eyes. Dazed and unsteady, she called out,

“Cui Muhuo?”

“Chi Buyu.” Cui Qijin spoke her name, then assessed her condition. After a long moment, she furrowed her brow slightly. “What’s wrong with you?”

Chi Buyu crouched there on a Hong Kong street like a bird with no feet to stand on. Tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks, soaking her neck and smudging the pretty feathers she’d groomed so carefully that evening. For no reason at all, she blurted,

“I can’t afford egg waffles, cart noodles, fried eggs, toast, pineapple buns, or strawberries.”

Cui Qijin clearly had no idea what she meant. Her eyes, framed by glasses, looked a little unfocused, but Chi Buyu imagined they brimmed with bewilderment and shock.

She expected Cui Qijin to ask, all puzzled, “What are you talking about?” But she didn’t.

Instead, Cui Qijin laughed suddenly. It was a light laugh, childlike, her face streaked with the glow of neon streetlamps as it shook with mirth—like a leaf fluttering past Chi Buyu’s ear.

When the laughter faded, Cui Qijin slowly reached out her hand. It hovered over Chi Buyu’s head for a moment before veering aside. Gently, she plucked a flower petal from the midst of her hair and murmured, almost to herself,

“Then I’ll just take you to buy them, won’t I?”

And so, on that hazy summer night in Hong Kong—or what felt hazy to Chi Buyu—Cui Qijin really did take her to get egg waffles, cart noodles, fried eggs, toast, pineapple buns, and strawberries.

Chi Buyu always bit off more than she could chew, and Cui Qijin surely knew it.

Yet she bought it all anyway.

Whenever Chi Buyu was upset, she craved food. Lost in her emotions, she’d convince herself she could devour a whole cow. In truth, though, she could only manage a little of each dish—and yet she wanted to try them all.

Cui Qijin scolded her for wasting food. She teased that Chi Buyu was about to ramble on about her seven—or eight, or nine—stomachs again. She pointed out that her ruined makeup and stuffed cheeks made her look ridiculous. She warned that if they kept buying, she’d run out of hands and wouldn’t lift a finger to help…

Still, Cui Qijin bought whatever Chi Buyu wanted. She even got her the McDull special fish ball thick noodles. Chi Buyu giggled through the order, wishing aloud that the vendor would say they were out of thick noodles. Sadly, he didn’t play along. She pouted a little. Cui Qijin shot her a glance. “Boring,” she said. But moments later, she tapped the menu with a finger and added in her blunt, cool tone, “Fine, fish ball rice noodles instead.”

Chi Buyu burst out laughing, nearly toppling over as she propped her chin on her hand. “They don’t have fish balls,” she declared. Cui Qijin didn’t even look up. “Perfunctory as ever,” she replied flatly. “Then beef tripe thick noodles.”

Chi Buyu’s lips pursed again. Suddenly, her eyes went bright red with tears. Cui Qijin startled, thinking her dismissive tone had set her off. She repeated carefully, “Beef tripe thick noodles, then.”

Red-eyed, Chi Buyu shook her head, too choked up to speak.

Cui Qijin hesitated, then ventured, “Fish ball e-fu noodles, maybe?”

In an instant, Chi Buyu was crying and laughing at once. Sobbing through hiccups, she finally asked,

“Cui Muhuo, why’d you suddenly show up here?”

It was her first day in Hong Kong, starting fashion design classes.

At twenty-six, this was her very first solo trip to somewhere so far away. She was surrounded by Cantonese she couldn’t understand.

People blah-blahing away, while she mumbled nonsense right back.

But she refused to let it beat her. Children raised in endless parental love often harbored that kind of bold ambition—to break free, to brave the storms, to prove they could be fine, fully grown adults without Mom and Dad, without an aunt or older female cousin to lean on.

Chi Buyu knew she was exactly that kind of kid. From kindergarten through college, she’d never left home. Everything depended on her family. She’d even applied for a study abroad program in university, only to back out. Here she was, over twenty, still tearing up over trifles and whining whenever things didn’t go her way.

Her elementary school teacher had written in her end-of-term report: “Chi Buyu is enthusiastic and outgoing, polite, and loves group activities. However, she struggles with the hardships of collective labor and can seem a bit spoiled in her interactions with classmates. I hope she works to change this as she grows.”

Chi Buyu had read it and burst into tears. That night, her mom made her oil-braised prawns. Dad came home with a new strawberry bear plush. After dinner, You Ying from the neighborhood took her chubby hand and led her to a KTV packed with big sisters. One braided her hair into a pretty style. Chi Buyu bounced on the soft sofa seats, swinging her new braids and belting out “Fate Even If Turbulent” at the top of her lungs. One of the sisters snapped a photo that was still tucked away in You Ying’s favorites album. They all pinched her cheeks fondly. “Shuishui’er is such a good girl,” they’d cooed.

Chi Buyu. Chi Buyu. She’d stayed true to herself all along.

Right up to twenty-six.

Brimming with confidence, she’d booked her flight and wheeled two jam-packed suitcases off to Hong Kong. Inside were her prettiest little dresses and a heart full of grand ambitions.

She’d used her sleeve cuff to dab at her mom’s tear-streaked face. She’d nagged her dad—who’d been sighing since the night before—to shave. Then, just like in a TV drama, she lined up for hugs with her aunt, her older female cousin, her dad, and her mom…

She boarded the plane and gazed at the white clouds so close she could almost touch them. In that moment, she felt like a fledgling bird, bravely soaring away from their nest.

Until she touched down in Hong Kong.

She wrestled her two bulky suitcases along streets where the language and layout were total mysteries. Fumbling in her bag for her phone, she called her mom. The line crackled with noise. Uneasily, she said, “Mom, I’m here.”

The next second, someone brushed past and bumped her shoulder, then bolted without a backward glance. She stared after them for a moment, lips pursed. “It’s fine,” she whispered.

On the phone, voices overlapped in concern: “What? What’s wrong?” She tilted her head up and caught sight of a sky straight out of a Hong Kong art film. She squinted into a beaming smile. “The blue hour here is gorgeous!”

At her temporary hotel, she planned to hunt for an apartment the next day. But rummaging through her suitcase, she found a letter. Her mom had attached a note: It was from her late little aunt, written during the trip back to Chengdu, with strict instructions to hand it over at a moment like this.

The blue ink had faded on the old paper, but her little aunt’s handwriting was meticulous, stroke by stroke:

/Buyu:

I hope this letter finds you well.

I remember your eyes were so black when you were born. We all said you’d be the prettiest child in the family. Somehow, we grew especially close. When I was leaving for Taiwan, you clutched my hem and stared up at me with those dark eyes. I held out my index finger, and your five tiny ones gripped it tight. Your strength was so small, but you tried so hard.

My own grip wasn’t much stronger. Suddenly, I had you in my hold. With your parents’ blessing, I took you to live with me in Taiwan for two years. I never had children of my own, so to me, you were as good as my daughter.

Buyu, Buyu. You know I chose that name. We were all in your mom’s hospital room—cousins rushing over after school, adults and kids alike—flipping through dictionaries. This one wouldn’t do, that one didn’t fit. Finally, Buyu: We hoped you’d grow into an adult unchanged by time, forever joyful toward the world, heart burning with pure passion. No other expectations. You could become a tree, a cloud, a dandelion… anything that struck your fancy.

Now I know I won’t live to see you grown. That’s my deepest regret. I’ve asked your mom to give you this letter at a pivotal moment. I wish you a life free of hardship. I wish you the courage to charge ahead right now. I wish you remember the name’s true meaning. Buyu—stay true./

Homesickness overwhelmed her by the final word, drowning out any thrill for the new city.

Chi Buyu’s eyes were red when she finished reading. Tears soaked into her pillow. She washed her face, tossed and turned sleeplessly, wiping her eyes over and over. She longed to call her parents, but worried they’d sense something was wrong and fret from afar.

She couldn’t let them worry.

She had to be brave, just as the letter urged. Clutching the damp pages to her chest, she forced herself to sleep early and soundly on her first night.

Exhaustion from the long journey must have helped, along with all the sweat from heaving those suitcases around. After tidying up, she drifted off amid her tears.

She didn’t know when the thick smoke had choked her awake. In her panic, someone pounded furiously on the door, and the fire alarm blared. This city didn’t seem to welcome her at all—the hotel where she was staying had caught fire on her very first night.