Here it comes again, here it comes again!
Gan Ling and I were like in a tug-of-war with bizarre rules. I said it was my fault and pulled the rope toward my side; she said it was hers and yanked it back. We opposed each other, using every trick in the book, leaning back with our biceps bulging high. We were also like two red-eyed bulls on a bullfighting arena, horns locked, nostrils flaring and spewing white steam, fighting over the blame for Zheng Ningning’s death. The difference was, when it was my turn, I also allowed Gan Ling to admit it was her fault. But Gan Ling was extreme in her actions—she was convinced it was her fault, so I had zero blame, it had nothing to do with me. She kicked me right out of the arena with one foot.
This wouldn’t do.
But when I tried to organize my words, sort out my thoughts, and open my mouth, my defenses crumbled. My tongue seemed to tie itself up in knots without my control, leaving me stammering, furious and on the verge of tears: “You… you… don’t say things like that… I…”
More you-you I-I-ing went on without end, so I simply shut my mouth.
Gan Ling scratched her hair again, and her gloomy face suddenly turned from overcast to clear. She abruptly looked away, gave a reserved chuckle, stretched out her arm, and like the claw of a claw machine, picked me up from the floor and plopped me onto the sofa.
This sofa was like the negotiation table between Gan Ling and me—countless clashes had happened here with sparks flying. As soon as I sat on the sofa, I sank in a bit, crossed my legs, picked up a glass of water from the coffee table, and offered it to her ingratiatingly. Gan Ling waved it off: “If you want to listen… then do you remember what the topic was just now?”
I racked my brain, like searching for the end of a tangled ball of yarn, fully immersing myself in memories to find a key that could unlock Gan Ling’s words. Finally, I got it: “Oh, I asked you, that thing—why do you say you’re the villain.”
“Because I don’t get along with anyone.”
Gan Ling gave that short reply, and then we just stared at each other with big eyes.
“Then… for example?”
“For example, my mother-in-law, Ningning’s grandma. I can’t stand her.”
I nodded, but Gan Ling went silent again.
If I were a journalist trained in interviewing, I probably still wouldn’t have any way to make Gan Ling speak. She clearly had words sitting under her tongue, ready to spill out with just a slight opening of her mouth, but she clenched her teeth and refused to let them out. She spoke when she wanted to and stayed silent or changed the subject when she didn’t, always holding the initiative in the conversation.
But I’d always known shame and propriety since I was a kid. When faced with topics others didn’t want to discuss, I’d naturally slide away down the slide without any urge to pry. Even though I knew Gan Ling was doing it on purpose, I just couldn’t bring myself to ask.
I’d open my mouth, close it, stammer half a sentence, then swallow it back. I was like a carp fished out and dumped into a basin, gasping for air nonstop, thrashing my tail and making the plastic basin slap-slap.
I gave up and stood to gather the keys: “Let’s go downstairs for dinner.”
I just wasn’t cut out for asking questions; I could only hope Gan Ling would volunteer it.
Gan Ling said, “You ask.”
“I don’t know how to ask. My head is full of questions.”
Gan Ling thought for a moment too, realizing she was indeed putting me in a tough spot. Before heading down for dinner, she spat out a few more tidbits: “For example, I don’t get along well with Ningning either. I don’t get along with her dad, and I fight with the neighbors every day—”
I’d already heard these from her before; I wanted something new. It was like Gan Ling had read the table of contents and slammed the book shut. She stood up matter-of-factly, ending the topic.
The brown soup held chewy, smooth wheat gluten noodles with great bite. Cilantro dotted the fried tofu and braised eggs beside it. The noodles had distinct ridges, thin and translucent at the edges. Gan Ling picked up a chopstickful, shook off the minced meat, slurped it into her mouth, eating faster than me. She pulled out her phone and transferred me eight yuan.
I said the bowl was seven yuan, so Gan Ling reached over with her chopsticks and snatched the uneaten braised egg from my bowl, making it eight.
Even by the pop psychology I’d heard secondhand, this person was odd. On one hand, she told me nothing and kept her guard up, seeming extremely closed off. But in her actions, she had little defense against me—she’d eaten my pickled veggies right from the start, later used my bowl without hesitation to eat my cucumber shreds. Even with COVID around, she wasn’t afraid of catching germs from me. Yet this same person wouldn’t answer a single question, often snapping with “Mind your own business,” “Here we go again,” or “What’s it to you?”
After finishing the noodles, we waited for the scalding noodle soup to cool. I rubbed my hands together, thinking how to broach it.
Gan Ling had already started sipping the soup, blowing away the cilantro bits on the surface, taking a mouthful with some pickled veggie shreds before saying: “Some things… I haven’t figured out how to tell you. If I explain in detail, it’ll sound so pretentious, and I have no standing to…”
Her attitude softened; the enemy was tired, so I struck: “It’s fine. I want to know everything.”
“I should talk more about Ningning… Raising a kid is different from other things. Once the child is born, she automatically grabs hold of your entire life and ties it all together. You can’t raise the kid in isolation from the world… I, you know, have to reflect… relive the process from when I gave birth to Ningning until her death… It’s just too, too cruel. I’d rather go be a murderer.”
Gan Ling was practically baring her heart and lungs. I buried my face in the bowl to drink soup, briefly averting my gaze.
Still, I could only say: “Don’t kill anyone.”
“I know.”
I lowered my head to drink more soup again. Steam rose, like I was wearing invisible glasses, my vision going white in waves.
Why? The murderer kills, and human laws deal with him. Once he’s out of jail, he can righteously say he’s already been punished and it’s over. But the innocent keep suffering endlessly. Though not dead, they endure pain day and night, like being slowly sliced to death, with no end in sight.
Killing the murderer still wouldn’t sate the hatred, yet here I was advising against killing.
Did heaven really have justice? If it did, let that murderer break out in rotten sores all over, get bullied in prison, lose all his hair and teeth, slur his words with a crooked mouth. After release, let everyone despise him, trample him underfoot, rot in a stinking ditch and be eaten by wild dogs. Let him cry to the heavens with no answer; after death, down to hell, trembling at the sight of Zheng Ningning, shouting he’d been wrong, shitting and pissing himself in agony, screaming in pain as flames scorched him until the end of the world.
But what use were my curses? I’d abandoned God, so I’d abandoned the justice God promised too—the hope of heaven and hell severed by my own hand. From then on, I only believed in what I could do myself. And I couldn’t avenge by killing, nor would I let Gan Ling do it. To learn the cruel truth, bear a life on her conscience amid suffering, with sin and injustice coexisting—I couldn’t bear it, I wouldn’t allow it.
“Memories… memories aren’t all painful.” I felt like I was talking nonsense.
But once I said it, images suddenly flooded my mind. The steam from the soup blurred Gan Ling’s expression; unable to see her clearly, I spoke as if to myself, my words flowing smoothly.
“If no one else remembers Zheng Ningning, only you and I do… I want to record it while we still remember. What if I forget what she was like at kindergarten someday? Then you’d never know what she was like at Plum Kindergarten. Likewise, if you don’t tell me, what if… I want to know what else she was like. When she was alive, I didn’t get to look at her more. Commemorating her after death is useless, but I want to know. I don’t know where to start. If you won’t say, then I’ll go first.”
Gan Ling set down her empty bowl, chopsticks neatly aligned along the rim.
“Once, she took a day off—she rarely did. That time, it seemed like she had a cold? Anyway, she came alone. It happened to be the day she was out, and I was teaching the little kids to write the character ‘horse.’ She took out her notebook and copied it herself. She didn’t know the stroke order, so she just drew it, starting with the horse’s back, then a vertical stroke, not knowing how to continue. I saw it, held her hand, and showed her: first the horizontal fold, then vertical fold with hook, then horizontal—super simple. She learned quickly, wrote four or five lines. At first, they were ugly, but soon they were good.”
I tossed out a brick of memory.
After a hesitant pause, it drew out Gan Ling’s jade.
“She didn’t get sick easily; I remember that time. She wanted to eat canned fruit, so she pretended to be sick. I don’t like kids lying. Her grandma scolded me, saying what’s wrong with a kid wanting canned fruit—buy it. Actually… never mind, I just can’t stand that old lady. I wanted to pick a fight with her; I hate her guts. I said Ningning’s teeth weren’t good, she couldn’t eat sweets. Ningning had lied and didn’t dare admit she wasn’t sick, just kept saying she wouldn’t eat it.”
Gan Ling thought back, smiling helplessly. “Then her grandma accused me of abusing the kid and we argued all the way to the street. Thinking about it now, what could the kid do? Was she supposed to want to eat it or not? Neither was right. I cussed out the old lady; I couldn’t swallow that anger. In my mind, I thought I’d buy the canned fruit, educate the kid first, see if she’d be honest. If she behaved, I’d give it to her. I just stepped out, and the old lady took the kid away, saying to buy canned fruit. But she’s stingy, loves a bargain—must’ve gotten it from some neighbor. Orange canned fruit; normally, it’s fine if it’s old, but that stuff was obviously bad. I came back, and the kid said she’d already eaten it. I checked the can—2002 vintage.”
Gan Ling told her story, and I pictured that old woman, substituting her face into it. Gan Ling’s expression still held some displeasure.
“I ended up arguing with the old lady again. I said, ‘Can you give this to a kid to eat?’ The old lady said she’d eaten more salt in her life than I’d eaten rice, and how could she let the child suffer? She insisted I was stirring up trouble, being unreasonable, picking fights, bullying an old woman, fighting with her all day long—it was clear I didn’t want to live in this house anymore. I got so mad I stood in the street cursing her out. The neighbors said, ‘Why get worked up with an elder? Just give in a little.’ I wouldn’t, so we argued again. That evening at the dinner table, the old lady started schooling Ningning right in front of me, saying, ‘Your mom just loves picking fights. She ate it and nothing happened, right? She just won’t let you eat canned food, she has to curse you out, she doesn’t like anyone in this house, she’s wanted out for a long time.’”
As she spoke, Gan Ling rubbed her face: “At the dinner table, I got so angry I didn’t eat. Then the kid’s dad came home, and his mom complained, saying I was bullying the elder. Then he started lecturing me, saying I was unfilial. I said she’d make the kid sick, so he dragged Ningning in—look, no problem, her tongue isn’t even yellow. The kid wasn’t sensible, just obediently repeated that line about me wanting to run off with someone. He lost it and started fighting with me. He called me this shameless thing who didn’t keep to a woman’s place, I called him a dumb donkey, pots and pans went flying, he yelled once and I yelled louder, he hit me once and I smashed the TV, whatever he cared about, I smashed it, he came at me with a knife—we went at it half the night. The old lady rushed in, pounding the ground crying that she couldn’t live anymore, her son and daughter-in-law were like this, she’d go kill herself.”
Gan Ling’s eyes were glistening: “Then, for his mom’s sake, he went easy on me and went to bed. For Ningning’s sake, I softened up and cleaned up the mess.”
I hadn’t said a word the whole time; the noodle shop was buzzing with noise.
Gan Ling grabbed a napkin: “Ningning asked me, ‘Why do you always have to smash things? Why can’t you just not smash?’ I said I couldn’t beat him. Ningning said, ‘Why not just listen to him?’ I said I didn’t want to. Ningning got mad and said it was all because I smashed things that Dad got angry and didn’t come home, and because Dad didn’t come home, Grandma thought I was bad…
“I was young back then, strict with the kid too. I told her if she said that again I’d smack her. Her dad was so good to her—whenever I wasn’t around, he’d fold paper airplanes for her, take her out for treats, give her pocket money, never lost his temper with her. When I heard that, I got furious and smacked her hard twice.
“Ningning cried all night, muttering that her mom was a demon who always hit her, hoping I’d divorce her dad soon so she could live with him and leave me forever… I shouldn’t have said harsh words to the kid, shouldn’t have hit or cursed her… I see other moms being all reasonable and gentle… I can’t, I’m not good enough, I don’t have it in me.”
Gan Ling rubbed her eye sockets.
