Chapter 29: “Mango Umbrella” Part 2

Chaos reigned, smoke billowing everywhere.

Before Chi Buyu could react, the deafening wail of the fire alarm pierced the air from outside the window. Flames licked at the light seeping through the door cracks, their glow coming from who knew where.

She stumbled to the door and flung it open. A waiter with a disheveled pompadour rushed up, his hair a mess, and barked something in Cantonese she couldn’t understand. Then he hurried to the next room and knocked urgently.

The corridor teemed with people in rumpled clothes fleeing in all directions, their voices a chaotic roar in that same unfamiliar language.

In a flash, Chi Buyu darted back to her room. She rummaged through the sheets and blankets for the letter that had been in her arms before she fell asleep. Thick smoke was rolling in now, clouding her mind. She didn’t dare linger. Grabbing a towel, she soaked it in water, pressed it to her face, and ran out.

Outside, she staggered to her feet and looked up. Through one window, flames danced wildly. Firefighters perched on ladders, blasting huge hoses at the inferno that seemed ready to devour everything.

She had no idea what time it was, only that the gorgeous blue hour had long passed, replaced by a terrifying night. But she’d gone to bed early as a newcomer, so it probably wasn’t the dead of night. Thank goodness it wasn’t—most people had made it out.

Hong Kong streets churned with unrest, crowds of dark figures running everywhere. The night breeze hung heavy and humid, laced with unfamiliar scents.

Chi Buyu coughed until tears streamed from her eyes. Her just-woken hair was a tangled mess with no time to fix it. She wore only a skirt smeared with ash, and the new high heels she’d bought for this Hong Kong trip had snapped a heel on the stairs.

Her face and hands were caked in soot.

She held nothing else. Her mind flashed to her aunt’s letter, and panic surged. She wanted to rush back in, but then she saw a man in a bathrobe screaming hoarsely that his child was still inside. Nearby, a woman whose leg had been scorched by the flames wailed as paramedics lifted her onto a stretcher…

Chi Buyu pressed her lips together.

She hugged her bare arms against the heat waves and crouched carefully by the roadside. Tilting her head back, she watched to see when the fire would die down, staring blankly at the window of flames, wondering if it would reach her own.

People wept everywhere. They complained, they lingered in front of her, they passed by. A strange man eyed her with ill intent, and she shrank back. A kind soul blocked his view and warned her, “Miss, you can’t sit here.” She nodded dazedly, then rose slowly and stuck close to the crowd, careful not to lag behind. One by one, people were picked up by family or friends.

She had no clue how bad the fire was, only that the alarms kept spraying water while the huddled survivors thinned out—some collected by loved ones, others who’d been awake and grabbed their things right away, now checked into other hotels.

Only her.

Only she had such a carefree heart, sleeping so soundly as a total stranger that she hadn’t grabbed a thing—not even her aunt’s letter. No money for another hotel, no phone to call anyone. Though she didn’t want to call her parents anyway. It was only her first day away, and if something like this happened, her mom might freak out and demand she come straight home. Then a whole crowd would descend to fetch her, derailing her aunt and cousins’ work. And… she’d end up like a kite that flew for half a day before being reeled right back in.

But she had no money. Without it, so much was impossible. She couldn’t drown her sorrows like before with pineapple ice or rum gelato. She’d come to Hong Kong, gone straight to the hotel, read the letter, forced herself to sleep—and hadn’t even tried egg waffles, cart noodles, fried eggs, toast, pineapple buns, or Hong Kong strawberries. She knew strawberries tasted the same everywhere, but talking about them felt somehow more appealing…

Ash drifted everywhere. Car headlights swayed on the narrow road. Reporters hefted cameras past her. She wiped her face with the towel that was almost dry now, sniffling. At least if they filmed the news, her face might look a little cleaner.

But the more she wiped, the blacker the towel got. Her eyes burned hotter, as if ash had seeped in, or like endless tears welled up from inside.

“I? I’m here on a business trip.”

Until Cui Qijin sat across from her, wearing Chelsea boots and treating her to fish ball thick noodles. Leo Ku’s voice crooned from the shop speakers, “Fate even if turbulent,” and suddenly it felt perfect to chime in with, “From when I have you to keep me company, clapping hot and fierce.”

Chi Buyu bit into a fish ball.

Pretending she wasn’t waiting for the cue, she tapped her bare foot stealthily to the beat. Then, as Cui Qijin ate expressionlessly, she jumped in for real—but half a beat late.

Cui Qijin jolted, nearly forgetting to swallow her fish ball.

It took her a moment to recover. She leaned back slightly, the takeout bags rustling.

Rubbing her forehead, she said without temper, “What else do you want to eat?”

Chi Buyu patted her belly and eyed the few remaining balls. “I’m good.”

Cui Qijin stressed, “I absolutely won’t eat your leftovers. But you can’t waste them either. Save them for tomorrow.”

Chi Buyu nodded. “Okay.”

Then she kicked off her broken high heels and padded obediently across the summer night’s warm asphalt. Passing a Lan Fong Yuen, she blinked pleadingly at Cui Qijin.

Cui Qijin knew exactly what that blink meant. She started to ignore it, warning, “Buy more and you won’t finish it tomorrow.” Chi Buyu drooped, ruffling her messy hair. “Fine…”

Cui Qijin stared at her.

Then she reached over and flicked her forehead, exasperated. “This is absolutely, absolutely, absolutely the last time.”

She said “absolutely” three times—not sure if for Chi Buyu or herself.

Chi Buyu skipped happily inside and ordered an iced silk stockings milk tea and an iced lemon seven—she figured Cui Qijin would prefer something crisp. She paid with Cui Qijin’s leftover change for the frozen drinks.

Clutching the two cups, she stepped back out barefoot. The ground was wet. It must have rained. She looked up, puzzled—

Cui Qijin stood on the damp street in cool Chelsea boots and shorts that made her legs look endlessly long. Water vapor clung to her like mist or rain, red-tinted streetlights flickering at the corner of her eye. Traffic and crowds flowed by, but she stood like a tree…

One hand held Chi Buyu’s broken high heels.

The other gripped a new pair of slippers, tags still on.

–

Chi Buyu stared at the slippers draped over the wheelchair, unblinking.

Rain pelted down, drop by drop like transparent pearls from a heartbroken mermaid, splattering the gray slippers before slowly spreading.

Their owner said nothing.

This spring night, she had stopped before Chi Buyu once more—the same person, gazing at her for a long, long time.

Chi Buyu’s eyes ached, burned hot. She released her bitten lip. She’d thrown up so many times already, even water, but the cloying toffee sweetness lingered in her mouth.

She was defeated by the toffee. With no other choice, she looked up, eyes red, and called, “Cui Muhuo.”

The rain kept falling. Cui Qijin sat in her wheelchair, watching her. Whether from the chill wind or something else, her face was pale.

After a long pause.

The slippers on the wheelchair footrest shifted.

Rain mist beaded Cui Qijin’s lashes, damp and heavy, as if she’d been waiting in it forever.

She glanced calmly around, then slowly lowered her eyes to Chi Buyu. A water drop slid from her lashes.

She paused a few seconds, as if just remembering something. From the wheelchair’s storage pouch, she pulled out an umbrella. With a snap, the clear canopy bloomed open like a suddenly inflated balloon, enveloping them completely.

A big yellow mango adorned the umbrella face. Last time Chi Buyu had pushed Cui Qijin out for a walk, sudden rain had trapped them. They’d bought this clear umbrella at a convenience store, and back home, Chi Buyu had deemed the blank canopy too plain and painted the mango on by hand.

Cui Qijin had grumbled back then, “One rain and your big mango will bleed color.”

Chi Buyu had twirled it, grinning. “Perfect—then it’ll rain mango for us to watch.”

“You’re so boring,” Cui Qijin had said.

Chi Buyu leaned in mischievously. “And only we can see it…”

Mango-colored rain.

Plink, plink—

Rain hammered the canopy. Cui Qijin eyed the now garish, smeared mango and spun the umbrella deftly, flinging the dripping yellow pigment to the side.

The canopy tilted toward Chi Buyu.

Cui Qijin looked at her.

Just like that time in Hong Kong. Chi Buyu called, “Cui Muhuo?” and she replied flatly, “Chi Buyu.”

Then, cool as ever, “What’s wrong?”

Chi Buyu still hugged her arms, crouched by the road.

Rain fog blurred her vision, taillights smearing into hazy glows. The night felt too dreamlike; she couldn’t make out much—

The pattering mango rain, Cui Qijin’s rain-soaked shoulders and arms, or what lay in Cui Qijin’s eyes as she looked at her…

Everything felt surreal, like a transparent bubble encased them, filled with the kaleidoscope of 2013, the temporary truces and distances of 2014 and 2015, impulsive confusions of 2016, bizarre twists of 2017 and 2018, near-misses of 2020, chaotic shifts of 2023… every year since she’d met Cui Qijin.

Then 2024. She peeked at her own shoes, watching mango-yellow raindrops splash into puddles. Suddenly she remembered a pair of mango-yellow Vans that had once stopped just like this before her, stuffing earbuds in her ears blaring “Ordinary Friends.”

For a moment, she nearly burst into tears, but she sniffed hard, fighting them back with all her might—especially as she blurted out something utterly nonsensical.

“I might never be able to eat toffee again. What am I going to do, Cui Muhuo?”

Cui Qijin didn’t seem the least bit surprised by her bizarre behavior or her choice of such an oddly unique way to vent. She chuckled softly amid the patter of rain.

One hand kept holding the umbrella steady over her while the other rummaged through her clothes. After what felt like forever, she finally pulled something from her pocket.

Cui Qijin held her hand out in front of her. It was some kind of dark lump, but Chi Buyu couldn’t quite make it out.

Cui Qijin herself frowned ever so slightly at the sight of it. Then she looked back at her.

She let out a sigh, looking a touch troubled.

Mango-colored rain streaked down the side of the umbrella. Cui Qijin leaned forward and offered it to her: two pieces of candy wrapped in brown wrappers, folded a bit unevenly.

She gave the candy in her hand a casual shake and said to her,

“Then switch to coconut candy. Want some?”