Song Yuzhang: Extra 14 - In Those Bygone Youthful Years [featuring Song Xiaosheng and Xiao Yingtao]
Zheng Liang lost his mother at six. Before a hundred days had passed after her death, his father had already taken a new wife. His stepmother was capable and shrewd; in one breath she bore two sons. The two younger brothers seemed to grow like balloons being inflated. From their tender little mouths sprouted sharp teeth, gnawing away at the family’s meager rations, crying all day, “Hungry, hungry, hungry!” Zheng Liang was hungry too. He grabbed the thin arms of his two half-brothers and shoved them aside. Go! This was his home. This was his food. No one was going to snatch it from him.
His stepmother saw and widened her slanted eyes, her voice shrill. “You black-hearted little brat, bullying your brothers! Let’s see if I don’t discipline you for your father!”
She seized a broom and chased him all over the courtyard of his own home. The bamboo joints whistled through the air. Zheng Liang fell to the ground, but she was not satisfied and kept beating him. He curled up, clutching his head, the backs of his hands burning with pain. The two little bastards happily stuffed food into their mouths, waving their skinny hands along with their mother, smacking the back of his head as they sang, “Hee-hee-hee, big brother’s bad, beat big brother!”
When his father came home, Zheng Liang, covered in bruises, went to complain—only to receive a loud slap across the face.
“To hell with you! Your mother already told me. You’re old enough not to be expected to take care of your brothers, and yet you bully them first, and you still dare to complain!”
With a stepmother came a stepfather. Zheng Liang had long heard those pitying words from others, but he didn’t believe them. Blood was blood. He refused to believe his father could be so heartless. His ears rang. Staggering step by step, he walked out of the courtyard and crouched outside. The autumn wind chilled him to the bone. He turned back. Inside, candles were lit. Their dim yellow glow was like the warm sun at dawn. On the paper-pasted window, the silhouettes of a harmonious family of four swayed gently.
Zheng Liang spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva.
This home—he didn’t want it anymore.
He took nothing, brought nothing—only the flesh and blood he had been born with. He walked and ran, never looking back. From this day on, Zheng Liang was dead.
An eight-year-old child, tumbling and scraping his way through the mortal world. He ate wild greens, hunted rabbits. When he entered the city, he begged for food and stole to survive.
“Kid, stop running—!”
The man ran fast, powerful as a tiger. A large hand descended from the sky and seized him like an eagle snatching a chick. Zheng Liang covered his face, desperately chewing the steamed bun he had stolen. His cheek was pinched and twisted upward. He glared back without fear. The broad-faced man’s anger faded. Instead, he laughed. “You little thief—you’ve got a fine pair of eyes.”
The man took him back to a large courtyard filled with children about his age. One held a knife, another a spear. One boy by the wall had his leg stretched up to his head, howling in pain.
The man was a master of an opera troupe.
He made Zheng Liang kneel and asked about his background—his surname, his name.
Kneeling on the ground, he said he had sprung from a stone. His surname was Song—his mother’s surname was Song. As for a given name, he had none. Cat, dog, pig, rat—call him whatever you liked.
The man burst into laughter, then stroked his lip thoughtfully. “Those angry eyes of yours are rare. You were born to eat this bowl of rice… ‘Hair bristling in fury, by the railing, the drizzling rain has just ceased…’ Xiaosheng. From now on, you’ll be called Song Xiaosheng.” He patted the boy’s head, the gesture carrying a kindness he had not felt in a long time. “Song Xiaosheng. My good disciple.”
Eight was already considered old to begin opera training. Song Xiaosheng was the oldest boy in the courtyard and the first disciple the master formally accepted. The first had to be an exceptional seedling—only then could more disciples be taken in gradually.
Song Xiaosheng was a bad boy.
He trained the hardest, as if staking his life on it. At eight, to loosen the sinews meant risking everything. The master said he had a pair of bright, piercing eyes—sharp enough to make hearts tremble. With those eyes alone, he could become famous. But to become famous, nothing else could lag behind—voice, posture, form. In this lowly trade, there was only one path: either become famous, or go beg on the streets. Song Xiaosheng had tasted the bitterness of begging. He forced himself to succeed.
He trained day and night. He got along with no one in the troupe. The eldest senior disciple was vicious, stealing others’ food. Anyone who refused would suffer tricks and heavy losses. Almost everyone had been schemed against by Song Xiaosheng. They were truly afraid of him.
The master liked that Song Xiaosheng was a bad boy. If he weren’t bad, how could he survive in this world like a fish in water? He taught him how to restrain what he once flaunted—how to hide the anger in his eyes deep within his pupils, and let it flash only at the most perfect moment, stunning the entire audience.
After two years in the troupe, Song Xiaosheng changed. Ordinary people could no longer see his anger or his wickedness. At ten, he was tall and slender, wearing a gentle smile. Yet now and then, a glint of mischief slipped from his eyes. At his core, he was still that wild boy who had fled home in the night.
One day, he was training. In the bitter cold of winter, he had stripped off his shirt, revealing a lean, bare torso. The other boys despised and resented this eldest senior brother, but they had to admit he was willing to endure hardship and had real skill.
The master returned.
Song Xiaosheng trained in the corner without lifting his head. He held little reverence or worship for the master—unlike the other monkey-like boys, who swarmed over the master upon his return, vying for favor. Song Xiaosheng cared about no one. He cared only for his skills. Those skills would help him rise above others. Everything else was false—fake. Even blood ties meant nothing. What, then, was real?
Today, the atmosphere seemed different. Song Xiaosheng lowered his leg and pulled his shirt over his shoulders. The master had already approached, holding the hand of a thin-faced, round-eyed little girl. She wore a slender braid. Her features were delicate; even when not smiling, her eyes curved gently. She stared blankly at his bare shoulder.
Song Xiaosheng flushed instantly and tied his shirt shut.
“Master.”
“Xiaosheng, come. This is Xiao Yingtao—Xiao Yingtao. Your first junior sister. You must take good care of her.”
White steam rose from his body after training. Wiping sweat from his brow, he said coolly, “This isn’t a brothel. How am I supposed to take care of a girl?”
The master pushed the girl toward him. “Qianqing Garden has taken in a new dan actress. She’s very popular. Whoever partners with her benefits too. Don’t be ungrateful.”
Song Xiaosheng looked down at her. The little girl tilted her head up at him and smiled, her eyes clean as a winter sky reflected in a clear stream.
He turned his face away, irritated by those innocent round eyes that seemed never to have suffered.
The troupe slept on a large communal platform bed. All boys—long arms and smelly feet kicked and sprawled everywhere. One quilt per person: in winter it covered you, in summer it cushioned you. When the cotton thinned and hardened and lost warmth, you’d sneak into someone else’s quilt and pick out a few tufts. Every winter, fights broke out over stolen cotton.
No one dared steal from Song Xiaosheng. He was the eldest senior brother. He was a rotten seed. He demanded cotton outright—one handful from each person. Refuse? Then step outside and compare skills. Lose? Then you were finished. The eldest senior brother would “take care” of you, adding extra training until you cried for your parents—while the master would praise Song Xiaosheng for being a responsible senior.
With no choice, they handed over cotton like tribute. Song Xiaosheng’s quilt was the warmest in winter. When the weather turned hot, he returned the cotton. Even used as padding underneath, it didn’t feel stifling.
Detestable eldest senior brother.
“You sleep here.”
Song Xiaosheng slept by the wall—the best spot. One less person pressed against him; it was cleaner and less crowded. He ordered the junior boys to shift left, freeing the wall-side space he had occupied for Xiao Yingtao.
After all, she was a girl. It wasn’t appropriate for her to sleep among a pack of boys.
Song Xiaosheng slept on her left. With him blocking the way, no one dared cross over.
The troupe had been all boys. Suddenly, there was a girl. They were ecstatic. Everyone wanted to talk to the little junior sister, tease her, touch her braid, catch the scent on her.
But beside her stood the eldest senior brother. Whenever they approached, his eyes—curved with ill-intentioned amusement—would follow. Whoever dared reach out would certainly suffer.
Song Xiaosheng began stretching Xiao Yingtao’s sinews. He pressed her leg up against the wall. Xiao Yingtao burst into tears.
Song Xiaosheng had a heart of stone. Coldly, he said, “What are you crying for? You came here to sing opera, not to enjoy comfort.”
Xiao Yingtao kept crying, sniffling and mumbling under her breath.
Song Xiaosheng had sharp hearing. Focusing for a moment, he caught what she was saying—she missed her mother.
He sneered inwardly. Who here didn’t miss their mother? Once you came to this place, you had no father, no mother—only yourself. You could rely only on yourself.
Xiao Yingtao lay down trembling, wrapped in her thin quilt. Her body was cold and aching. She cried quietly. She still missed her mother.
Lying on his side, Song Xiaosheng grew impatient at the sound. “Stop crying.”
Xiao Yingtao sniffed and answered softly, “Mm.”
The silence lasted only a moment before the muffled sobbing reached his ears again. Annoyed, Song Xiaosheng flung back his quilt and yanked Xiao Yingtao straight out of hers.
The junior disciples weren’t asleep either. They were startled—everyone knew the eldest senior brother showed no mercy. The little junior sister was going to get beaten.
Song Xiaosheng dragged her into the courtyard.
“If you want to wail, go home and wail for your mother!”
With a flick of his hand, he shoved her forward. She staggered several steps. Blood stained the dirty white snow on the ground—she had stepped on her own frostbitten foot. The sores had split open, raw and festering. Wiping her eyes with one hand, she spoke in a thin, plaintive voice that was oddly pleasant to hear. “Senior Brother… I was wrong…”
Song Xiaosheng strode over and scooped her up in one motion.
A boy of ten had strength. He ate well and trained hard; lifting Xiao Yingtao was like lifting a small cherry indeed.
He carried her to the back kitchen, rummaged through the stove, and dug out a piece of cold charcoal. He lit a fire and boiled water. Xiao Yingtao sat in his arms warming herself. Once she felt the heat, she stopped crying. She stretched her hands toward the flames, gently blowing warm breath into them. She smiled.
“Why did you come here? Where’s your mother?”
“There’s no food at home anymore,” Xiao Yingtao said softly. “I’m hungry. Mother is hungry too.”
“And your father?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Song Xiaosheng lowered his head, eyes widening.
But Xiao Yingtao wasn’t afraid of his fierce glare. She blinked her round eyes. Tears had washed them even clearer. “Father seems to have died.”
Song Xiaosheng said flatly, “My father’s dead too.”
When the water boiled, he mixed in some snow water and began washing her feet.
Her feet were small, mottled blue and purple. The frostbite had burst; pus and blood oozed out. Song Xiaosheng scrubbed without mercy. Xiao Yingtao endured it without making a sound.
“Crying is useless,” he said. “Save your strength for training. When you grow up, you’ll be able to eat your fill.”
Xiao Yingtao gave a small “Mm,” then added softly, “Thank you, Senior Brother.”
He carried her back. The heads stretched out from the communal bed quickly withdrew.
Feeling the quilt by the wall, Song Xiaosheng turned Xiao Yingtao around and tucked her in. The bedding was icy cold. She shuddered.
He climbed into his own quilt and lay down.
Xiao Yingtao sniffed. Her feet didn’t hurt as much now, but she was still terribly cold. Her hands and feet were naturally icy, and with only a thin quilt, it felt like sleeping in an ice cellar.
Her eyes wide open, she was cold and hungry and missed her mother. But missing her was useless. Her mother had sold her.
Beside her, Song Xiaosheng turned over. She felt a rush of air from that side. Then a pair of hands pulled her feet over, pressing her soles against a thin but burning-hot chest. A thick quilt wrapped around her snugly, sealing out every trace of cold.
“Go to sleep.”
His voice came from near her heels. Xiao Yingtao murmured, “Mm.” For some reason, she felt happy. After lying there for a while, she reached out a hand into Song Xiaosheng’s quilt and pinched his foot.
His foot jerked, brushing her hand away.
“Senior Brother.”
Her thin voice drifted up. Song Xiaosheng frowned. Sternly, he said, “What now?”
“Your feet don’t smell.”
A muffled “pfft—” broke out.
The boys who had been eavesdropping snickered one after another. Song Xiaosheng’s face gradually flushed red. He barked, “All of you shut up and sleep! Whoever’s still awake tomorrow—I’ll stretch his sinews!”
That did it. Silence fell at once.
Everyone was afraid of the eldest senior brother.
Xiao Yingtao stopped talking too—but she wasn’t afraid of him. Her little feet rubbed lightly against his chest. Warm.
----------
If you like my translation, please support me by buying me a coffee:
0 comments: