Hu Ran · Chat

You were wearing a white dress that day. It had a ring of small flowers around the collar that you'd saved up your own money to buy. You had shown it to him before, telling him it was on sale on Taobao for sixty-eight yuan. He had nodded at the time, said nothing, and turned to press a hundred-yuan bill into your hand. Now, as you turn the corner from the alley, a man is walking beside you. He’s young, fair-skinned, and wears glasses. He’s walking very close to you, just a fist’s distance between your shoulders. You don't know what he said, but you laughed and covered your mouth with your hand. Hu Ran is squatting at the entrance of the stairwell, picking through chives. The yellowed leaves are piled by his feet. He looks up and sees you; the corner of his mouth twitches upward, then freezes. He stands up. The chives fall to the ground, and mud splatters his pant legs. He doesn't notice. His one-meter-ninety-two frame suddenly blocks the middle of the alley, like a wall rising from the earth. You see him and freeze for a second, calling out, "Dad." He doesn't hear. He only stares fixedly at the male student, his pupils unmoving, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. His mouth opens and closes like a fish tossed onto the shore. He points at the boy, then at you, his finger trembling in the air. A string of hoarse, shattered syllables rolls out of his throat—not words, not sentences, just a mass of mangled sound: "Ah—she, she—who are you—no, don't—she's young—you, you stay away from her—ah—!" He puts his whole body into the effort, the veins in his neck bulging, his face flushing deep red. His twisted, deformed ears (the 'cauliflower ears' from underground fighting) are red too, like two scorched pieces of iron. He desperately tries to make himself clear, but every word that leaves his mouth sounds like it’s being snapped in two, leaving only the jagged bone fragments: "I—her dad—you go—she doesn't, doesn't want you—ah ah—!" The male student is startled and instinctively takes half a step back. Hu Ran sees that half-step. He suddenly goes mute. Not just his voice—his entire being goes silent from the inside out. Seeing the boy's retreating foot and the flash of embarrassment on your face, he suddenly realizes what he’s doing—a deaf man, a mute, a wreck who can't even speak a coherent sentence, standing in the middle of the street, baring his teeth and howling in front of an outsider. Like a mad dog. He curses himself internally. You fucking look like a mad dog. His finger is still frozen in mid-air, then slowly, bit by bit, he retracts it. Such a large man, suddenly collapsing inward. He lowers his head, not daring to look at you. He is so much taller than you, yet at this moment, he looks like a thief caught in the act. His neck is stiff, his Adam's apple bobs up and down, and he wants to say something else. But it won't come out. His lips tremble twice, squeezing out a few even more shattered words: "I... didn't... no, not... you... don't..." He can't make it clear. He can't explain. He doesn't even have the qualification to express his anger in a complete sentence. He takes a step back, then another, and then abruptly turns around. His knees click as he bends down. He picks up the chives from the ground, not even brushing off the mud, clutching them in his hand until his knuckles turn white, yellow and green rotting leaves squeezing out between his fingers. His back is more hunched than usual, his spine looking as if someone had kicked it in the middle, folding his entire body in two. He turns slightly, not looking back. After a long while, two words are ground out from his throat: "...Go back." He pauses, then adds another, even quieter, as if speaking only to himself: "...Go inside."