Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 18

white dew

Wei Zhiheng’s tongue searched in his mouth.The roof of the mouth, the base of the tongue, the gums—the places where taste buds should be ridged—are now flat.He swallowed, his throat making a dry friction sound.There is no sourness, no bitterness, only the moisture of the rice paper after getting wet, sinking at the base of the tongue.

Huang Jinye pushed the enamel bowl over.The red oil floats on the surface of the rice noodles and condenses into a film, with the edges curled up.

“Eat.”

Wei Zhiheng picked up the bamboo chopsticks.The head of the chopstick pierced the oil film and made a cracking sound.He picked up a handful of rice noodles and put it into his mouth.The teeth cut through the starch, and the wet and waxy sound echoed in the skull cavity.slip.Just slippery.He chewed, his muscles moved, but there was no signal from his nerve endings.He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolled, his esophagus opened and closed, and the food fell into his stomach, stimulating the soreness reflex.

“It’s tasteless,” Wei Zhiheng said.The sound came out from the nasal cavity, with a buzzing sound.

Huang Jinye said nothing.He picked up the bowl and walked to the window, raising his arms back.The contents of the bowl flew out in a fan shape and hit the holly bushes outside the third floor.There was a muffled sound.Several sparrows exploded, their wings flapping loudly.

He turned around and pulled out an aluminum object from under the still life table.Rice cooker, old, with staggered dents on the surface.The power cord is wrapped with black insulating tape, and the plug is two-hole, 500W.He placed the rice cooker on the drawing table, next to Wei Zhiheng’s drawing board – four-opening, pine wood frame, stains of ultramarine blue and ocher deposited on the surface, circle by circle.

Huang Jinye took out a plastic bag from the canvas bag, with a frosted texture, and inside was bulk pearl rice.He tore open the bag, and the rice grains poured into the aluminum liner, making a crisp crashing sound.

Add water.He put his fingers in to measure the water level, and the purpura on his fingernails—the old dark red scar that stretched across Wei Zhiheng’s left hand from the tiger’s mouth—appeared swollen purple under the water’s surface.

Plug it in.The indicator light is on, red.The hum of overcurrent came from within the wall, and the tungsten wire trembled, casting shaking shadows on the ceiling.

Wei Zhiheng stared at the red light.The bleeding spot on the retina caused the red spot to spread and faint.He blinked and misperceived: it was not the indicator light, but the blood he dripped on the steps in the stairwell, which was oxidizing and turning from bright red to dark brown.He looked away and towards the window.There are water stains on the glass, and calcification forms gray-white patches.

A figure flashed outside the window.It was the janitor, wearing an orange vest and sweeping the hallway with a long-handled broom.The broom bristles scraped against the terrazzo floor, making a rustling sound that moved from far to near and then farther away.

Then there were the footsteps of two people with rubber soles and a brisk rhythm. They were students in the first year of high school. One of them said: “The canteen has free chicken legs today.” The sound penetrated the glass and became blurry and muddy.

Huang Jinye took out a small paper bag from his pocket.Kraft paper, folded into a triangle, wrapped in sugar.Granular, white, crystalline, with a few larger angular ones.He tore open the paper package and poured the sugar into the inner container.The particles hit the water surface, making a fine rustling sound.He stirred, the wooden spoon making a sharp scraping sound as it rubbed against the aluminum liner.

Steam begins to rise.White, dense, climbing up to touch the ceiling, cut by the ceiling fan, then settling, condensing on the window glass.The glass became blurred, the Green Cen Mountain outside the window turned into a gray-white shadow, and the outline of the limestone softened.

Wei Zhiheng looked at the steam and misperceived: It was not water vapor, but evaporating turpentine. The smell of spilled turpentine was coming up from the depths of his memory. It was pungent, with the bitterness of citrus mixed with resin.He held his breath and clenched his right hand under the table. His fingertips cut into his palm, and the stinging pain made him confirm that this was not an illusion.

But the sting is very weak.The platelets decrease, the capillaries become fragile, and the skin’s barrier becomes thinner.

Huang Jinye put the drawing board up in front of the rice cooker.The wooden surface of the drawing board absorbs steam, leaving dark water stains that spread from the center to the edges, forming irregular marks.

“Wait.” Huang Jinye said.

He walked to the back row of the classroom and pulled out a tin pencil case from under his easel.Open it, and there are twelve pencils arranged inside, 2B, yellow hexagonal pen barrel.He took one out and started sharpening it with a pencil sharpener.The blade scraped across the wood, making a rustling sound. The wood chips curled down and piled up on the knees, with a light yellow color.

Wei Zhiheng watched his movements.Huang Jinye’s right hand was shaking. It wasn’t an obvious shaking, but a subtle tremor in the muscles under the skin. It started from the inside of the wrist and jumped up and down to the knuckles.This is anxiety transfer.He sharpened so hard that the tip of the pencil broke once and black shards bounced up and landed on his gym shorts.

The porridge tumbles inside the aluminum liner.The bubbles burst to the surface, making a dull gurgling sound.The fragrance of rice permeates the air, melancholy and warm.But Wei Zhiheng couldn’t smell it.He could only smell the sweet rotten smell in his mouth, rotten apples mixed with rust, and the smell of ketoacidosis exhaled from his lungs and deposited on his collar.

Huang Jinye finished sharpening his twelfth pencil.Sawdust piled up on his knees.He stood up, his kneecaps making a slight scraping sound.

He walked to the rice cooker and opened the lid.Steam surged out and hit his face, and he blinked, condensation forming on his eyelashes.He stirred it with a wooden spoon. The porridge was thick and sticky, with a layer of rice oil and a light yellow film on the surface.

He scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and handed it to Wei Zhiheng’s mouth.The handle of the spoon was made of wood, with frayed edges, soaked in turpentine, and turned dark brown. It was a tool commonly used by Wei Mingyuan, and it smelled of woodworking glue and turpentine.

Wei Zhiheng opened his mouth.The vermilion edge of the lower lip where the spoon touches it is dry and cracked.When the porridge enters the mouth, it becomes hot and hot, irritating the mucous membrane.He swallowed.Wrong perception: What he tasted was not the fragrance of rice, but the astringency of normal saline, the feeling of coldness sliding across the esophagus during blood transfusion.

But then, there was a faint feedback from the end of the taste buds.sweet.Simple, direct, mechanical stimulation of nerves by sucrose.

He nodded.The movement was slow, and the cervical vertebrae made a slight friction sound.

Huang Jinye continued to feed.One spoonful, and another.As Wei Zhiheng ate, the sugar particles occasionally rolled on the tip of his tongue, and the incompletely dissolved crystals scratched the oral mucosa, causing a clear sting.It was the only thing he tasted today.

There is a fresh scratch on the back of Huang Jinye’s right hand, which was left when he hit the stone yesterday. It runs across the palm print. The blood has solidified and is dark red. When he holds the spoon, he pulls it, causing a tight pain.

Outside the window, the cleaning lady in the orange vest is back again.She stopped by the window, raised her head, and looked at the white steam pouring out of the third-floor window.She narrowed her eyes and the wrinkles on her face squeezed together.She raised the broom and pointed at the window, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she lowered her head and continued sweeping the floor.The broom bristles scraped against the ground, and the rustling sound continued.

Then there were footsteps.From the stairwell, the rubber soles rubbed against the terrazzo, making a dry sound. The rhythm was rapid and heavy. It was the footsteps of the dormitory manager Lao Zhou, accompanied by the jingle of the keychain.

Huang Jinye froze.The wooden spoon hung in the air, and the porridge dripped down, hitting the edge of the enamel bowl, making a ticking sound.

Wei Zhiheng turned his head.The fixed black shadow in the upper left corner of the field of vision spread and swallowed up the door handle.He misperceived: it was not the door handle, but the edge of the skylight, a dark opening that was bottomless.He blinked, and the doorknob returned to its metallic texture, but its shape was distorted and its edges melted.

The door was knocked open.

Lao Zhou, the dormitory manager, stood at the door in a gray uniform, holding a registration book with a plastic cover in his hand.His eyes swept across the classroom, the drawing board, the rice cooker on the still life table, the porridge stains on the corners of Wei Zhiheng’s mouth, and the pencil shavings on Huang Jinye’s knees.

“Illegal electrical appliances,” Lao Zhou said.The sound is dry and has no fluctuations.He walked in, the sound of rubber soles scraping against the ground amplified in the silence.He reached out and spread his fingers to unplug the power supply. His knuckles were protruding and there was black dirt between his nails.

Wei Mingyuan stood at the door.

Gray shirt, carpenter’s apron, turpentine and sawdust on his fingers, and a crack on the side of his right index finger, exuding tissue fluid.He was holding a stack of rice paper in his hand, open in four quarters, with cut edges on the edges. It was damp and heavy, as if it had just been fished out of the water.He didn’t look at Lao Zhou or the rice cooker. He walked straight in with steady steps and stepped on the pencil shavings beside Huang Jinye’s knees. The wood shavings made a slight crackling sound.

Lao Zhou’s hand stopped in mid-air, ten centimeters away from the power cord, his fingers hovering and his joints stiff.

Wei Mingyuan walked to the still life table and spread wet rice paper next to the drawing board, facing the steam outlet of the rice cooker.The steam hits the rice paper, and the paper fibers absorb water and expand, making a subtle hissing sound.He adjusted the angle of the drawing board to allow the steam to blow more concentratedly on the paper, leaving deeper water stains on the drawing board, shaped like rivers, with tributaries crisscrossing them.

Lao Zhou looked at Wei Mingyuan, at the pile of rice paper that was really wet, at the steam rushing towards the paper, leaving water stains, and at the sawdust and blood stains on Wei Mingyuan’s apron.He retracted his hand and scratched a mark on the registration book. The blue ballpoint pen made a sharp scratching sound.

“Next time go to Shanhailou to dry it.” Lao Zhou said.He turned around, and the footsteps sounded again, the rubber soles scraping the ground in a slow rhythm, and he went downstairs.

Wei Mingyuan didn’t move.He continued to adjust the drawing board so that the steam continued to blow against the paper.His fingers were moist from the steam, their tips white and wrinkled.He picked up a piece of rice paper softened by steam and shook it gently. The water droplets dripped down, forming dark dots on the ground, mixed with the pencil shavings on Huang Jinye’s knees, black and white, wet and dry.

Huang Jinye picked up the wooden spoon again.The porridge is already a little cold, and a film has formed on the surface.He scooped up a spoonful and handed it to Wei Zhiheng.

Wei Zhiheng eats.The sweetness is still there, but muted.He looked at his father’s back. There was a dark sweat stain on the back of his gray shirt. It was irregular in shape and blurred at the edges.

Outside the window, the cleaning staff has swept to the end of the corridor.Her broom scraped against the wall, made a final rustling sound, and then disappeared.The laughter of first-year high school students could be heard in the distance, blurry, separated by a layer of glass.

Wei Mingyuan put away the half-dry rice paper and folded it. The paper made a crisp sound.He walked towards the door, paused at the door, looked back at the rice cooker, and then at Wei Zhiheng’s hand hovering in the air.

He didn’t speak.He walked out the door, and the sound of his footsteps gradually faded away in the corridor, mixing with the sound of the electric drill coming from downstairs.

The only sounds left in the classroom were the hiss of steam and the faint sound of pencil shavings being crushed by footsteps.

Huang Jinye poured the remaining porridge into the bowl and ate it himself.Swallowing, Adam’s apple rolling.After he finished eating, he wiped the rim of the bowl with his thumb, then put the bowl down with the mouth of the bowl facing down and placed it on the drawing table. The remaining porridge flowed out and spread on the wooden surface, forming irregular lakes.

Wei Zhiheng stood up.The knees rubbed together, making a dry sound.He walked towards the door, walking slowly, and landed with his right heel first, making a dull impact.He opened the door, and the voice-activated light in the corridor turned on as the door axis turned, and pale light poured in.

He didn’t look back.As he walked down the stairs, the painting box hit his hip, making a thumping sound in sync with his heartbeat.

Huang Jinye stayed in the classroom, listening to the sound of footsteps going away, one heavy and one light, heavy on the right and light on the left, and then disappeared.

He bent down, picked up a piece of sawdust on the ground, held it between his fingers, and rubbed it.Powder leaked from between the fingers.

Until the light outside the window changes from white to golden, and the afternoon class is about to begin.