Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 8

Start of Summer

Around four in the afternoon.

Wei Zhiheng stood before the security door of Unit 3, Building 6, Room 601 in the Faculty Housing. His left fingers hooked around a plastic bag containing freshly pressed rice noodles bought at the school gate, the scent of sour bamboo shoots seeping through the thin film. His right hand gripped a key, the metal teeth digging into his palm, pressing against a purpura that had yet to fade. A scent drifted from the gap beneath the door: first, the chemical tang of wood glue, like a mixture of hospital disinfectant and citrus peel, settling at floor level; then, the faint sweetness of boiled corn silk water floating in the upper air. The two scents formed layers, unmixed.

The key entered the lock and turned. The bolt retracted with a dry, rasping sound. As the door opened inward, the silhouettes of stacked books were the first things to flood his vision.

The living room had been reclaimed by books. From floor to ceiling, the four walls were hemmed in by pine bookshelves. Wei Mingyuan had built them himself using mortise and tenon joints, without back panels. The spines of art history books were a deep brown, test prep materials were a jarring bright yellow, and Su Huiqin’s music theory books were an off-white yellowing with age. The piles of books formed a second level on the floor, rising and falling in height, making the walkway rugged and requiring one to step over them.

Wei Zhiheng stepped over a stack of A History of Chinese Art on the floor. The dust on the top of the spines was disturbed by his pant leg, sending powder swirling into the air to suspend in a shaft of light. He walked to the center of the living room, where an Eight Immortals table stood. The tabletop had been cleared to hold Wei Mingyuan’s woodworking tools: a plane, a chisel, and a bottle of wood glue.

Wei Mingyuan was squatting by the window with his back to the door, repairing a picture frame. The newly planed surface of the pine glowed a pale gold, the wood grain uneven. He held the frame in his left hand and a tube of wood glue in his right. The glue squeezed from the nozzle in a milky white spiral, landing on the mortise and tenon joint. The glue was viscous and stringy, making a soft “pop” as the strand broke.

“You’re back,” Wei Mingyuan said without looking around, his voice carrying the scent of wood shavings.

Wei Zhiheng placed the rice noodles on the table, avoiding the puddle of wet glue. There were already three dried glue stains on the table, a transparent amber color that felt hard to the touch, like resin embedded in the wood.

Su Huiqin emerged from the kitchen carrying a glass jar. Inside were soaking corn silks in a pale yellow liquid, the roots suspended within. She set the jar on the table. Steam condensed into droplets on the outer glass wall, sliding down the curve to form a small puddle on the table, adjacent to but not mixing with the wood glue stains. She used her fingers to pluck a strand of corn silk stuck to her apron and flicked it into the trash. The movement was light, like removing a strand of white hair.

“Huang Jinye is here,” Su Huiqin said, a few more strands still clinging to her coarse cotton apron. “He’s upstairs, delivering something.”

Wei Zhiheng looked up at the stairs. The faculty housing was a top-floor duplex; Building 6, Room 601 occupied the sixth and seventh floors. The seventh floor was an attic with a slanted roof, used as a studio. The stairs were wooden, the treads worn and the edges rounded. The handrail was an iron pipe, silver-white metal showing where the green paint had peeled away.

Footsteps came from the stairs. Rubber soles met wooden boards—first the dull thud of the forefoot, then the light tap of the heel. Huang Jinye came down from the seventh floor, carrying a canvas bag in his right hand. The bag was bulging and heavy at the bottom, swaying with his steps and bumping against the stair railing with a muffled thud, as if it were filled with stones.

He stopped halfway down the stairs, his gaze passing over Wei Zhiheng’s head to land on the wood glue on the table. The glue bottle was transparent, its label torn off to leave a ring of residue. Only a third of the milky white glue remained inside, appearing translucent in the light.

“Auntie Wei asked me to bring this.” Huang Jinye walked down the last three steps and set the canvas bag on the floor. The bag tipped over, revealing its contents: a fragment of marble with a white base and gray veins. The fractured surface was sharp, exposing white crystals that reflected the light from the window, cold and hard.

Wei Mingyuan set down the picture frame and turned around. Wood glue was stuck to his fingers, the milky white substance stringing between his joints before breaking and drifting onto his pant leg, sticking to the fabric. He bent down to pick up the piece of marble, his thumb rubbing against the cut surface. Stone powder adhered to his skin, mixing with the wood glue to form a grayish-white paste.

“A paperweight,” Wei Mingyuan said. He pressed his thumb against the rough side of the stone, the powder embedding into his palm lines. “I just happened to need something heavy.”

He placed the stone on a corner of the picture frame. The frame was a four-cut size, and the pine was light, easily moved by the wind. The marble was heavy and dense; the moment it was pressed down, the frame vibrated slightly against the table. The stone and the wood formed a contrast: one cold, one warm; one from the interior of a mountain, the other from the skin of a plant.

Wei Zhiheng looked at the stone. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the surface and making the gray veins stand out. He had a visual hallucination: he mistook the stone’s veins for the purpura forming on the back of his hand, thinking the stone was bleeding. He blinked, and the texture returned to the cold gray of minerals.

“Corn silk water.” Su Huiqin handed Huang Jinye a glass. It was tempered glass, thick-walled with a ring of wear around the rim. The liquid sloshed in the cup, pale yellow and nearly transparent, with a few silk roots settled at the bottom.

Huang Jinye took it. His fingertips touched the glass wall; it was warm, slightly above body temperature. He took a sip. The taste was light, almost flavorless, with only a hint of sweetness at the end, like chewing on the tips of straw. The water slid down his throat, washing away the taste of dust in his mouth.

Wei Zhiheng sat on a bamboo chair by the table. The bamboo strips were loose, letting out a soft groan under his weight. He extended his right hand. Medical tape was wrapped around the webbing between his thumb and forefinger where he had cut himself sharpening a pencil three days ago. The edge of the tape was peeling, revealing the dark red scab beneath. He tried to touch the marble, but his hand hovered in the air, stopping five centimeters from the stone’s surface.

The movement stopped.

His fingers hung suspended, his joints stiff. His hand was shaking—not a conspicuous wobble, but a minute tremor of the muscles beneath the skin. It started from the tendons on the inside of his wrist, a rhythmic twitching that traveled to his knuckles. It was a symptom of thrombocytopenia; his capillaries were fragile, and his muscle control was failing.

Huang Jinye noticed the hesitation. His gaze shifted from the corn silk water to Wei Zhiheng’s hand, seeing it hovering over the stone as if wanting to grasp it, yet also wanting to avoid it. He saw Wei Zhiheng’s fingernails: the nail beds were a faint purple, like bruised blood from being caught in a door, or like the gray veins on the marble.

Wei Mingyuan picked up the wood glue again and applied it to another corner of the frame. The glue squeezed out, strung, and broke. The smell grew stronger, the volatile substances of the chemical molecules irritating the nostrils. Wei Zhiheng smelled it and perceived it incorrectly: he mistook it for the scent of blood, thinking his gums were bleeding again. He licked the roof of his mouth with his tongue; his mouth was dry, but there was no blood.

Su Huiqin began tidying the tools on the table. The plane was placed into a wooden box, the curled wood shavings piling up. She picked up the bag of rice noodles and walked into the kitchen, the plastic bag rustling. The sound of a faucet came from the kitchen, water hitting the aluminum sink with a hollow echo.

Huang Jinye stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by stacks of books. He observed the space: the strata formed by book spines, piled from floor to ceiling in tight rows, with dust accumulating on top to a thickness of about a millimeter. The air held the musty smell of old books, the scent of decomposing paper cellulose settling at floor level and mixing with the chemical smell of wood glue to form a turbid, organic, basement-like atmosphere.

This was different from his home. The Huang family villa was in the new district of the county seat—three stories, empty, with loud echoes. The Wei home was a top floor with a pressing slanted roof and squeezing piles of books; the space was narrow but warm. Huang Jinye felt a sense of oppression, like being wrapped in a cocoon.

Wei Zhiheng stood up and headed for the stairs. His knees felt weak, and he had to hold the railing to go up. The coolness of the iron pipe seeped through his palm—unlike the icy chill of the marble, this was a metallic cold, carrying static electricity. He reached the seventh floor and pushed open the studio door.

The studio had a slanted roof, three meters at its highest point and one and a half meters at its lowest; one had to stoop when walking to the edges. Old newspapers were spread across the floor, with an easel standing upon them. On the easel was an unfinished sketch, a limestone still life—the same batch as the stone from the first chapter. There were marks of revision on the paper, frayed edges from an eraser that looked like geological faults.

Huang Jinye followed him up, his footsteps creating a booming vibration on the wooden stairs. He stood at the studio door. Above the doorframe hung Wei Zhiheng’s childhood awards, the edges of the paper curled and faded to a pale yellow.

“The stone,” Wei Zhiheng said without turning around. He stood before the easel, his right hand hovering over the paper, holding a pencil. The tip was sharpened, but it did not descend.

Huang Jinye pulled the piece of marble from his pocket. He stepped forward, not to hand it over, but to place it on the windowsill next to the easel. The windowsill was concrete and rough; the stone made a crisp clatter as it was set down, like bones colliding.

Wei Zhiheng turned to look. Sunlight shot in from the skylight, illuminating the stone and making the gray veins bulge like veins. He reached out, and this time there was no hesitation; he touched the surface of the stone with his fingers. It felt icy, like bone. He perceived it incorrectly: he thought he was touching a tombstone.

“Heavy,” Wei Zhiheng said. His voice was dry, producing a raspy sound as his vocal cords rubbed together.

“Yeah.” Huang Jinye stood behind him, about fifty centimeters away. He smelled the scent on Wei Zhiheng: it wasn’t turpentine, but a sweet, rotting odor like spoiled apples—a sign of ketosis. He didn’t frown; instead, his jaw pulled back and the tendons in his neck tightened, like an animal’s instinctive recoil upon sensing danger.

Wei Mingyuan’s voice came from downstairs, calling for Su Huiqin: “The glue is dry. Come help me hold the frame.”

Su Huiqin replied from the kitchen over the sound of water: “Wait a moment, the corn silk is still boiling.”

Wei Zhiheng picked up his pencil and made a stroke on the paper. The line trembled, an irregular wave that didn’t match the straight lines of the stone. He stopped and looked at the erroneous line. He didn’t use an eraser to fix it; instead, he let it stay there as a record.

Huang Jinye picked up the marble from the windowsill. He walked to the easel, his movements direct and without asking, and pressed the stone onto the upper right corner of the drawing paper. The paper was pinned down and no longer wobbled, like a stabilized geological layer.

“Like this,” Huang Jinye said. His fingers pressed against the stone, his knuckles turning white, the veins beneath the skin bulging in blue-purple branches. He applied pressure, the stone making a slight rasping sound as it met the paper.

Wei Zhiheng looked at the stone pressing down on his drawing. The white paper, the gray stone, and the black lines formed three layers. He felt a sense of pressure—from the weight of the stone, from Huang Jinye’s fingers, and from the lurking illness.

He picked up the pencil and drew again. This time the line was a bit more stable because the paper was held fast and no longer slid. He drew the outline of the stone, his strokes mimicking the marble’s texture. The gray lines extended across the paper like blood vessels, like cracks.

Huang Jinye did not move his hand. He maintained his posture of pressing the stone, his fingers in contact with the stone and Wei Zhiheng’s paper, forming a triangular support. His breathing was heavy and coarse, echoing in the slanted studio like the roar of an underground river.

Su Huiqin shouted from downstairs: “Come down and drink some water. The corn silk has cooled. And the rice noodles—if you don’t eat them now, they’ll get soggy.”

Huang Jinye let go. The stone remained on the paper, leaving a shallow indentation. He turned and headed downstairs, his footsteps gradually fading on the wooden stairs.

Wei Zhiheng remained alone in the studio, looking at the stone pressing on his drawing. He reached out, attempting to move it, but his hand hovered over the stone and stopped once more. The stone was too heavy, or perhaps his hand was too light to lift it.

He withdrew his hand and looked at the lines on the paper. Those trembling, erroneous, irregular waves were pinned down by the stone, becoming part of the strata, becoming the sediment of this Start of Summer afternoon.

When he went downstairs, Huang Jinye was sitting at the Eight Immortals table with the bowl of freshly pressed rice noodles in front of him. Wei Zhiheng’s bowl was also there; he had already eaten a few bites, and half the noodles remained, the sour bamboo shoots settled at the bottom in a turbid broth.

Huang Jinye didn’t take his own bowl. He picked up the bowl Wei Zhiheng had left, his chopsticks dipping to the bottom to lift the noodles. The sound of slurping grew louder, broth splashing onto the table and mixing with the previous wood glue stains. He made a wet, mushy sound as he chewed, his teeth cutting through the noodles as saliva mixed with starch to form a paste. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed with a heavy, gulping sound.

Wei Zhiheng watched him. Huang Jinye’s masseter muscles were well-developed, his jawline prominent, and his Adam’s apple moved significantly when he swallowed. His right hand was shaking—not a conspicuous wobble, but a minute tremor of the muscles beneath the skin. It started from the tendons on the inside of his wrist and traveled to his knuckles. This was a tendon tremor from gripping barbells; the muscle fibers had not yet recovered from violent use, causing involuntary spasms as he held the chopsticks. The noodles trembled between the chopsticks and slipped; Huang Jinye switched to using his left hand to pin down his right wrist, forcing it to stabilize, then continued to pick up the noodles.

Su Huiqin came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of corn silk water. She saw Huang Jinye eating Wei Zhiheng’s leftovers but said nothing, merely placing the glasses on the table. The bottom of the glass made a light clink as it met the wood.

Wei Mingyuan was using a damp cloth to wipe away excess glue from the picture frame. He looked up briefly, then lowered his head again to continue wiping.

Huang Jinye finished eating. He turned the bowl upside down on the table. The remaining broth flowed out, spreading across the tabletop to form a three-layered stain with the wood glue and the corn silk water, the liquids refusing to merge. He stood up and walked toward the door, picking up the now-empty canvas bag.

“I’m off,” Huang Jinye said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper.

Wei Zhiheng gave a soft “mm” and stood by the stairs, his right hand gripping the railing. His fingernails scraped against the metal, making a faint sound as the metallic chill seeped into his fingertips.

Huang Jinye pushed open the door, and the afternoon light flooded in, illuminating him. He stepped out, and the door closed behind him with a dull thud.

Wei Zhiheng walked back to the living room and sat on a bamboo chair. He reached for the glass of corn silk water, but his hand trembled as he touched the glass. A droplet slid down the side and fell onto the back of his hand, icy cold. He looked down at the drop, which formed a tiny circle on his pale skin.

Outside, the light of this Youth Day afternoon was changing, turning from white to gold as it slanted through the window. It shone on the Eight Immortals table, on the marble Wei Mingyuan was using as a paperweight, and on Wei Zhiheng’s trembling fingers. The stacks of books remained silent and heavy in the corners.

Wei Zhiheng picked up the glass and took a sip of the corn silk water. The taste was light, nearly flavorless, but he caught a hint of rust rising from his throat, mixing with the faint sweetness of the water. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a heaviness that mirrored the way Huang Jinye had swallowed the noodles.

The stone pressed down on the picture frame. Upstairs, separated by a floor, it was heavy.