Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 5

After Pure Brightness

The tail end of the school bell was still rusting in the stairwell. Wei Zhiheng stood behind the security bars of the third-floor corridor, watching the crowd below pour out of the square’s various exits. He counted seven seconds from the time the bell rang until now. His heart hammered to pump blood upward, and his ears were filled with the sound of blood flow, like an underground river changing its course.

He turned toward the stairs, his right hand gripping the railing. The iron pipe had been polished bright by ten million hands, coated in a patina of grease so slick it was hard to hold. On the way down, he avoided the seventh step—there was a scratch there made by a limestone specimen, crossing with dried blood to form a crucifix.

The entrance to the second-floor cafeteria was already crowded. Boarding students sprinted from the direction of the dormitories, their footsteps creating a dense drumming in the stairwell: the dull thud of forefeet landing, the crisp snap of heels striking, and the high-pitched shriek of plastic soles rubbing against terrazzo. Someone dropped their lunch box; the aluminum lid rolled away as three rice balls tumbled out, bouncing across the floor before being flattened by the feet behind them, pressing glutinous rice into the cracks of the floor tiles.

Wei Zhiheng moved against the base of the wall, his left shoulder pressing against the limestone wall tiles. The dampness of the wall left a white frost on his shirt, the powder embedding itself into the fabric fibers. He caught the scent of his own cuffs—not sweat, but a metallic smell of rust exhaled from his lungs and deposited on his collar, the taste of bleeding gums.

A plastic curtain hung at the entrance of the second-floor cafeteria, blue and white stripes with frayed edges that exposed the fiberglass skeleton inside. Pushed by the airflow, the curtain slapped against the doorframe with a rhythmic popping sound. Wei Zhiheng lifted the curtain, and a mixture of odors surged out: the humid heat of steam, the fermented stench of sour bamboo shoots, the greasiness of pork bone soup, and the hypochlorous acid scent of disinfectant. The smells hung at floor level; one had to bow their head to breathe them in.

He wove through the queuing crowd. The line in front of the fresh-pressed rice noodle stall folded into three rows. Students held stainless steel lunch boxes or plastic meal cards, leaning forward with their heels off the ground. Behind the counter, three aunties wore white uniforms with their hats pulled low. The auntie on the far left held a long-handled strainer, lifting rice noodles from the boiling water. Steam rose, condensing into water droplets on her plastic gloves that ran down her wrists and into her sleeves, forming a dark ring of moisture at her cuffs.

Huang Jinye sat in a window seat. It was a four-person table, but he occupied the long side with his body, his left leg stretched out to brace against the plastic stool opposite him, forming a barrier. Two enamel bowls sat on the table, their blue-rimmed edges chipped in three places to reveal black iron beneath. The rice noodles in the bowls were still steaming, white and slick. One bowl was piled high with red chili oil, while the other was a clear broth topped with pickled vegetables and chopped green onions.

Wei Zhiheng walked over. Huang Jinye did not look up; he was using a pair of disposable chopsticks to scrape grease stains off the tabletop. The chopsticks were cheap bamboo, covered in burrs, making a rasping sound as they scraped the congealed oil film into white flakes. The tabletop was a cream-colored plastic veneer covered in circular burn marks and carved graffiti. One carving read “422 days until the Gaokao,” the final stroke of the “2” piercing through the veneer to reveal the particleboard beneath.

Sit, Huang Jinye said. The voice squeezed out from deep in his throat, raspy with the vocal cord congestion that followed training, like sandpaper grinding on wood.

Wei Zhiheng pulled out a plastic stool. It was red, made of polypropylene, with four legs of unequal length that wobbled against the floor. When he sat, the seat collapsed and sank in the center while the edges flared up, forcing his body to lean back and creating an unnatural angle between his spine and the backrest. This instability traveled to his abdomen, and gastric acid surged upward. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tasted the bitterness of bile.

No spice, extra sour, Huang Jinye said, pointing at the bowl of clear broth noodles. A pair of chopsticks rested on the rim, the tips pointing left at a forty-five-degree angle. That one’s yours.

Wei Zhiheng picked up the chopsticks. The bamboo bore the marks of sulfur fumigation and felt coarse to the touch. He picked up a clump of noodles. They had been lifted from the boiling water less than three minutes ago, and the rising heat scorched his fingertips. The noodles were slippery, covered in a layer of starch paste that slid between the chopsticks, requiring extra force to hold steady.

He put them in his mouth. His tongue first encountered the temperature—scalding, stinging. Then the texture—slick, like swallowing a length of rubber tubing. Then the taste—bitter. It wasn’t the sourness of the bamboo shoots, but a metallic astringency, like the taste of blood lingering at the back of the tongue.

Wei Zhiheng’s chewing muscles paused for a moment. He tried to dilute the bitterness with saliva, but his saliva production had decreased and his oral mucosa was dry. Instead, the bitterness concentrated, clinging to the root of his tongue. He opened his mouth to breathe, trying to dissipate the strange aftertaste, but a scent of rust surged up from his throat, mixing with the steam of the noodles and drifting toward Huang Jinye.

As he lowered his head, a strand of hair fell onto the rim of the bowl. It hadn’t snapped; it had fallen out entirely, the root tipped with a white dot like a miniature tooth. Wei Zhiheng stared at the strand of hair as it landed on the surface of the noodles, curling from the heat before sinking into the broth.

Huang Jinye’s nose wrinkled. He smelled it—not sweat, but the metallic sweetness of rust, like blood. He stared at Wei Zhiheng’s lips, noticing a crack in the center of the lower lip caused by dehydration that must have stung at the slightest touch. He looked at Wei Zhiheng’s right hand holding the chopsticks; the fingernails were tinged with a faint purple, and the nail beds looked as if they were stained with purple ink—purpura from subcutaneous bleeding.

Bitter? Huang Jinye asked. It wasn’t out of concern, but confirmation.

Wei Zhiheng nodded. He set down his chopsticks, the bamboo clicking against the rim. Two-thirds of the noodles remained in the bowl, the white strands tangled together under a congealing film of oil as the temperature dropped. The slices of sour bamboo shoots sank to the bottom, grayish-yellow with fermented, decaying edges, emitting a stronger pungent stench like rotting vegetables mixed with vinegar essence.

Can’t eat, Wei Zhiheng said. His voice was dry, producing a coarse sound as his vocal cords rubbed together.

Huang Jinye reached out. The movement was direct, without asking. He pulled Wei Zhiheng’s bowl toward him. In the process, the back of his right hand brushed against Wei Zhiheng’s left wrist. Skin met skin, and temperatures exchanged—Huang’s hand was hot, as if he had just held a cup of boiling water; Wei’s wrist was cold, his blood vessels constricted.

Huang Jinye placed the two bowls of noodles side by side in front of him. He began to eat Wei’s leftovers, thrusting his chopsticks to the bottom of the bowl to lift the noodles. The slurping sound grew louder, and broth splashed onto the table, mixing with the old grease stains. He made a wet, mushy sound as he chewed, his teeth cutting through the noodles while saliva mixed with starch to form a paste that churned in his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a heavy, gurgling sound as he swallowed.

Wei Zhiheng watched him. Huang Jinye’s masseter muscles were well-developed, his jawline prominent, and his Adam’s apple moved with a large range of motion as he swallowed. He noticed Huang Jinye’s right hand was shaking—not a blatant tremor, but a subtle vibration of the muscles beneath the skin, starting from the tendons on the inside of the wrist and pulsing through to the knuckles. This was the tendon tremor caused by gripping barbells; the muscle fibers had not yet recovered from violent use, resulting in involuntary spasms while holding the chopsticks. The noodles trembled and slipped between the chopsticks, so Huang Jinye used his left hand to press down on his right wrist, forcing it to stabilize before continuing to eat.

Don’t you dare leave leftovers!

The voice exploded from behind them in a heavy Guiliu accent, the ending tones rising with sharp plosives: Damn you! Are both these bowls yours? If you can’t finish them, don’t order so much! What a waste of food!

It was the auntie who had been holding the strainer. She stood by the table, her white uniform stained with oil, her plastic gloves still on. She pointed a splayed finger at the second bowl in front of Huang Jinye. Her knuckles were thick, and the cracks in her skin were embedded with black grime—oil sludge formed from long-term immersion in noodle broth. Wei Zhiheng smelled her: the rankness of lard, the sourness of sweat, and the medicinal scent of skin ulcerations caused by chronic contact with bleach.

Huang Jinye looked up. The corners of his mouth were stained with red chili oil like a wound. He didn’t defend himself; he simply lifted the empty bowl to show the auntie. A few strands of noodles and some sediment of pickled vegetables remained at the bottom. Then he picked up Wei Zhiheng’s bowl and continued to eat, his chopsticks scraping against the porcelain.

The auntie’s strainer pointed at Wei Zhiheng: And you? You’re giving your food to him? Where’s your sense of hygiene? Getting your spit all in there, how disgusting!

Wei Zhiheng’s right hand trembled under the table, the purpura on his fingernails appearing darker in the shadows of his palm. He pressed his hand against his knee, the hardness of the plastic stool conducting through his school trousers into his palm. He opened his mouth to speak, but a surge of rust-flavor rose up. He clamped his mouth shut, his teeth biting into the crack on his lower lip. A bead of blood seeped out, salty, mixing with the bitterness in his mouth.

Huang Jinye finished the second bowl. He turned the bowl upside down and slammed it onto the table; the remaining broth flowed out, spreading across the plastic veneer. He stood up and walked toward the stall. His gait was uneven, his right knee making a faint grinding sound as bone rubbed against bone.

Another bowl, he said. His voice was calm. Extra spicy.

The auntie’s strainer hung in mid-air, dripping broth: Are you crazy? You can finish that? You’re a damn glutton!

I can finish it. Huang Jinye pulled a meal card from his pocket, the plastic card covered in worn stickers. He pressed the card against the reader; the machine beeped and the green light flashed.

A third bowl of noodles was served. The bowl was hot, fresh from the disinfection cabinet, and it made a faint sizzling sound as it touched the table, melting a layer of grease. The noodles were piled into a peak, the surface covered in red chili oil. Huang Jinye sat down, picked up his chopsticks, and began to eat.

Wei Zhiheng watched him. Huang’s stomach was already distended to the limit, his rectus abdominis tight like a drum. Every swallow was accompanied by a slight gag reflex as his cardiac sphincter spasmed under the pressure, but he forced it down, continuing to stuff the food into his mouth. His chewing slowed, the angle of his jaw opening and closing narrowing. Sweat seeped from his forehead, sliding down his nose and dripping into the bowl to mix with the broth.

Huang Jinye’s right hand shook even more violently now. The chopsticks slipped in the bowl, so he used his left hand to pin his right wrist down, forcing it still as he continued to lift the noodles. Swallowing became difficult, as if something were stuck in his throat. He forced himself to finish the last bite until only red oil and pickled vegetable residue remained. He set the chopsticks down, the bamboo forming a perfect ninety-degree angle with the rim of the bowl—a forced, obsessive verticality.

He leaned back against the chair, the plastic stool letting out a dangerous groan as its structural integrity neared its limit. His distended stomach pressed against his diaphragm, making his breathing shallow; every inhalation was accompanied by a faint wheeze. He burped, a dull sound rising from deep within his stomach, carrying a sour, putrid odor. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, his knuckles turning white and the veins beneath the skin bulging like blue rivers.

The auntie stood not far away, arms crossed and strainer propped on her shoulder, watching Huang Jinye. She muttered under her breath: Glutton. Forcing it down like that. It’ll be an even bigger waste when he throws it all up later.

Wei Zhiheng stood up. His plastic stool screeched as it dragged across the floor. He walked around the table toward Huang Jinye, his steps controlled but his knees weak. He reached out, his right hand hovering ten centimeters above Huang Jinye’s stomach. His fingers splayed, feeling the heat and the tremors radiating from there—the spasms of the stomach muscles. The stomach felt as hard as that limestone specimen, a weight so heavy it made it impossible to stand straight.

He froze. His hand hung in mid-air, as if paralyzed. Huang Jinye looked up at him, chili oil still staining the corners of his mouth, his eyes unfocused, fixed on the wall behind Wei Zhiheng. Wei Zhiheng’s fingers curled in the air before he withdrew them, shoving his hand into his pocket. He touched the slip of paper that had been softened by sweat; the paper crumbled in his palm, the fibers snapping until it turned to pulp.

Let’s go, Wei Zhiheng said.

Huang Jinye nodded. He stood up slowly, the weight in his stomach shifting his center of gravity forward. He braced himself against the table, the plastic veneer denting under the pressure to leave five distinct finger marks. The two of them walked toward the stairs, their paces staggered, Wei in front and Huang behind, maintaining a distance of one meter.

Huang Jinye’s footsteps grew heavy, each step accompanied by the sloshing sound of his stomach contents. They reached the first floor, and the noise of the cafeteria was sealed away behind them.

The sunlight outside was blinding. Wei Zhiheng’s pupils were slow to contract, and the light formed halos on his retinas, turning his vision white. He squinted, seeing Lucen Mountain looming in the mist like a giant block of limestone, its surface reflecting the white light.

Huang Jinye stood beside him, his hand pressed against his abdomen, fingers sinking into the soft tissue. His breathing was heavy, carrying the scent of acid reflux, each exhale forming a white mist in the air. Wei Zhiheng smelled that sour rot mixed with Huang Jinye’s natural scent of sweat and stone dust, creating a turbid atmosphere.

Huang Jinye pulled a piece of eucalyptus candy from his pocket. The tin foil wrapper with green stripes had already softened and deformed. He tore the packaging with his teeth, the foil making a ripping sound. The candy was exposed to the air, a translucent amber color. He handed it to Wei Zhiheng.

Keep it in your mouth, he said. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper.

Wei Zhiheng took the candy. His fingertips brushed Huang’s palm; the skin was damp with sweat. He put the candy in his mouth, and the pungent sting of eucalyptol stimulated his taste buds, masking the previous bitterness. He tasted a hint of coolness, but it was fleeting; the pathology of his taste buds turned the sweetness into a vague, stinging pain.

They walked toward the teaching building. Huang Jinye’s stomach was so heavy he couldn’t straighten his back. Wei Zhiheng’s fingernails dug into his palm inside his pocket, and the old wound at the base of his left thumb split under the pressure. Beads of blood seeped out, staining the fabric red.

Behind them, behind the windows of the second-floor cafeteria, the auntie was clearing the table. She stacked the three empty bowls, the porcelain clinking sharply. The grease at the bottom of the bowls left circular marks on the tabletop, oxidizing and turning from milky white to a pale yellow.

Lucen Mountain stood tall in the distance like a massive limestone monolith, its surface shimmering in the sun. And on the tabletop, the oil stains left by the three empty bowls were settling like organic matter forming in geological strata, waiting to be weathered away.