Song Yuzhang: Extra 9 - Xiao Yingtao’s Childbirth Story Part 3
The summer he turned five, Song Yuzhang started school.
Qingxi was a small place; there was only one private school in the whole town. Xiao Yingtao paid the tuition, and Song Yuzhang slung a cloth satchel over his shoulder and went off to class.
The school was tiny, pieced together from three large tiled houses. There was only one teacher, said to be a failed xiucai who had not passed the imperial examinations. His surname was Ruan. He was in his forties or fifties, wore a pointed goatee, and clutched a ruler in his hand, his face stern and solemn.
When Song Yuzhang met him for the first time, the teacher’s two wisps of goatee shot upward. “Oh! What a pretty little boy.”
Song Yuzhang remained unruffled. He was already five and had long known that he was beautiful and adorable. Very composed, he bent at the waist. “Good day, Teacher.”
Seeing that he was both pretty and polite, Teacher Ruan was instantly delighted. Taking his hand, he led him toward the middle classroom.
Inside, more than a dozen students sat in a noisy jumble. They ranged in age, like a bundle of uneven leafy greens, laughing and roughhousing. Only when they heard the teacher’s deliberately loud, pa pa footsteps in the corridor did they hurry back to their seats.
They sat up straight in pretense, all eyes darting toward the doorway.
Teacher Ruan entered, still holding the hand of a small boy. The boy looked no more than five or six. He wore a snow-white shirt, black suspenders, and a pair of shiny leather shoes. He walked with his back ramrod straight; his profile was exquisitely delicate—altogether like a little young master.
Everyone stared, stunned.
After briefly introducing him to the gaping class, Teacher Ruan told Song Yuzhang to sit in the empty seat at the front row.
Song Yuzhang was small for his age. Once seated, half his body disappeared behind the desk, leaving only a petal-like little face, rosy and fair.
Teacher Ruan’s goatee curled upward again in a smile. In a kindly tone, he raised his hand. “Who will find this little classmate a suitable desk and chair?”
The classroom exploded into chaos, everyone scrambling to volunteer.
Amid the commotion, Song Yuzhang calmly tugged at his suspenders. Inwardly, he remained neither proud nor impatient—though there was a faint trace of satisfaction.
He knew he was likable.
Song Yuzhang was the youngest child in the entire school. Those slightly older than him were already seven or eight.
Schooling cost money. The wealthier families in town hired tutors to teach at home. Those who came to the private school were middling families—without much money, yet able to scrape together tuition starting from when a child was five. Most children only began attending at seven or eight.
Xiao Yingtao herself could not read a single character, but the child she had borne had seemed clever from infancy. She wanted Song Yuzhang to study well, so she sent him to school early.
For the first two days, Song Yuzhang lived like a little celebrity.
He was young; all his classmates regarded him as a little brother. And since he was so adorable, he naturally won everyone’s affection.
Song Yuzhang took it in stride. Whenever classmates offered him food, he refused, afraid of appearing greedy.
But after some time, the wind seemed to shift.
One day, a tall classmate in his early teens walked past his desk and shot him a disdainful sideways glance, his expression deliberately twisted in scorn.
Song Yuzhang did not see it. He was busy smoothing the bristles of his new brush.
That lesson was for writing large characters. Though Teacher Ruan taught everything in one sweep, he tailored instruction to the varying ages: each student wrote according to his level. Song Yuzhang had not studied long. With his small hand gripping the brush properly, he diligently wrote the “horizontal” and “vertical” strokes assigned by the teacher.
He wrote with complete absorption. Xiao Yingtao told him every day to study hard and pass the imperial examinations to become a top scholar.
Sweating profusely, he filled two whole sheets with neat rows of horizontal and vertical strokes.
As soon as he set down his brush, Teacher Ruan pulled the paper from his desk, held it up to the class, and barked, “Look at yourselves! Some of you have studied for years and can’t even compare to a five-year-old!”
He berated the students thoroughly.
In truth, Song Yuzhang’s writing was not exceptionally good. Teacher Ruan simply liked to scold his students from time to time, to “tighten their bones” and prevent laziness—that was his method. After scolding them, he ordered everyone to rewrite. Setting down Song Yuzhang’s sheet, he sauntered out to satisfy his craving for a smoke.
From experience, once he had frightened them with a reprimand, he could enjoy at least half a day of peace.
But not long after he left, a faint, contemptuous snort came from the back of the classroom.
It was soft, causing only a ripple among those nearby.
The ripple traveled forward, eventually reaching Song Yuzhang. He was wiping sweat from his face with a handkerchief, preparing to write a third sheet, when the seven-year-old boy on his right nudged him. “Hey.”
Song Yuzhang turned his face, long lashes fluttering twice.
The boy’s face was full of curious inquiry. “Song Yuzhang, I heard your mother’s a prostitute. Is that true?”
Song Yuzhang had often heard the word “prostitute.”
Ma Jiming liked to say it.
As for Ma Jiming’s place in the household, Song Yuzhang had always understood only vaguely. Though clever, his grasp of worldly matters was limited.
Before entering school, because he had once said he wanted to “be a prostitute,” Xiao Yingtao had tried to explain it to him.
She herself could not explain clearly. She only told him that “prostitute” was something bad.
Song Yuzhang pondered for a moment. To defend Xiao Yingtao, he answered, “No.”
The boy said, “Oh,” then turned around to speak to the classmate behind him.
Song Yuzhang turned back and realized that, without his noticing, the entire classroom was now looking at him, whispering among themselves.
Disinterested, he faced forward again, folded his handkerchief, slipped it into his pocket, and continued writing.
When school ended, Xiao Yingtao arrived in a rickshaw to pick him up.
It was high summer. She wore a light green qipao and creamy white high heels; sheer stockings glimmered faintly through the slit of her dress. Her hair was styled in a married woman’s chignon. Beneath the dark glossy hair, her round face beamed with joy. She held up a bundle of pastries and waved. “Baby, over here—”
Song Yuzhang walked over and took her hand.
“You must be hungry after school.” She lifted him onto her lap. “Mother bought you chestnut cakes.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
Xiao Yingtao leaned out and waved at the group of children at the school gate. The younger ones waved back at her; several older boys, however, stood stiff-faced, full of disdain.
After the rickshaw carried mother and son away, one of the older boys stood imposingly on the highest step and declared with absolute certainty, “His mother is a prostitute. My mother said so.”
Paper cannot wrap up fire. Facts are facts. Song Yuzhang’s denial held little weight. Very soon, all the students in the school unanimously concluded that the new classmate was no noble young master at all, but merely the son of a prostitute. The reason he dressed so beautifully every day was perhaps just an attempt to cover his ears while stealing a bell—to hide the truth in vain.
In truth, aside from those few older children, the rest of the younger ones didn’t really understand what “prostitute” meant. They only knew it was a curse word—and a very filthy one at that. It was the kind of dirty insult they wouldn’t even dare to say aloud, yet Song Yuzhang’s mother had actually done it. That, to them, was simply disgusting.
Because Song Yuzhang was still young, none of them went so far as to bully him outright. They just stopped talking to him. A prostitute’s son wasn’t worthy of being their friend.
Song Yuzhang immediately realized he had been ostracized.
From childhood until now, he had always been well-liked. Xiao Yingtao naturally adored him the most; the head cook at home, and the maids all liked him too. Even Ma Jiming had never truly beaten or scolded him.
So Song Yuzhang understood very clearly why he had suddenly fallen out of favor.
Being a prostitute was, of course, something bad. His mother had done something bad, so these people no longer liked him.
But Song Yuzhang couldn’t quite understand it.
By nature, he judged people rather than their actions. In his view, even if Xiao Yingtao had done something wrong, he would still cover for her and protect her, and would never blame her.
After all, that was Xiao Yingtao!
Song Yuzhang secretly made up his mind: since they wouldn’t talk to him, he wouldn’t talk to them either.
It didn’t take long for Xiao Yingtao to hear that Song Yuzhang had been keeping to himself at school.
Teacher Ruan had heard a bit about Xiao Yingtao’s “profession,” but he didn’t take it to heart. After all, he believed in teaching without discrimination—and money didn’t bite. Besides, Xiao Yingtao had even bought him many packs of cigarettes, hoping he would look after Song Yuzhang a little more.
When she heard that Song Yuzhang had no interaction with his classmates at all, Xiao Yingtao grew anxious. That evening, when she went to pick him up from school, she brought along quite a lot of freshly baked pastries, hoping to win the children over. She herself loved sweets, so she assumed the children would be unable to resist the temptation—after all, people who accept treats tend to soften their stance.
The rickshaw stopped in the shadows. Xiao Yingtao lifted the sunshade curtain slightly and looked toward the school gate.
Song Yuzhang was the first to come out.
He had a dull yellow cloth satchel slung across his body, one hand holding onto its strap. After a full day of classes, he still looked neat and tidy. The corners of his lips curved faintly, as though he were about to smile.
Behind him, other students came out, all pretending not to see him.
Song Yuzhang ignored them as well, standing steadily at the foot of the steps, waiting.
As the children passed by, Xiao Yingtao hid in the rickshaw, faintly hearing their voices.
“A prostitute’s son… so filthy…”
“My mother told me too—not to get close to him.”
Xiao Yingtao froze for a moment, then shrank back, not daring to show her face.
Only after most of the students had left did she slip out sheepishly, take Song Yuzhang’s hand, and, like a thief, hurry him back to the rickshaw.
Song Yuzhang trotted along behind her. As soon as he got near the rickshaw, he sniffed—he could smell an overwhelming sweetness.
Several paper-wrapped bundles were piled on the seat, wrapped in bright red oil paper—full of pastries.
Back home, Xiao Yingtao held Song Yuzhang close. The two of them skipped dinner and devoured all the pastries. Xiao Yingtao ate until she was nearly bursting, rubbing her stomach, feeling as though she were pregnant with another baby.
Of course, it was only an illusion. When she gave birth to Song Yuzhang, she had suffered quite a bit. The experienced midwife had declared that she wouldn’t be able to have another child.
Xiao Yingtao thought that was fine. One child—Song Yuzhang—was enough for her.
“Ah…” Xiao Yingtao let out a full belch, looking dejected. “Mother’s sorry.”
“Why?”
Xiao Yingtao fiddled with the lace trim of her qipao, ashamed like a child. “Mother isn’t good.”
“Not good?” Song Yuzhang thought for a moment, tilting his head. “Because you’re a prostitute?”
Xiao Yingtao gave an embarrassed smile and took his small hand. “It’s because Mother isn’t capable.”
Song Yuzhang held her hand. “Then don’t do it anymore.”
“I… can’t stop…”
She said softly.
Song Yuzhang lowered his head, swinging his little legs as he thought for a long while. Then he said, “Wait until I grow up. When I grow up, pass the imperial exam, and become successful, then you won’t have to be a prostitute anymore.”
Xiao Yingtao’s eyes curved into crescents as she smiled and nodded happily. “Alright.”
“It’s actually nothing,” Song Yuzhang comforted her. “I think you’re pretty good.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Xiao Yingtao hugged him and happily kissed the soft hair on top of his head. “Our baby is the best!”
The next day, Xiao Yingtao took Song Yuzhang to buy a new outfit and then went to a photo studio to take a picture. A few days later, when the photograph was developed, Xiao Yingtao was holding Song Yuzhang, who was dressed in a little sailor suit. She smiled gently, while Song Yuzhang looked rather solemn.
Holding the photograph, Xiao Yingtao showed it to him. “Look how handsome our baby is. Anyone who ignores you is a big fool.”
“You’re pretty too,” Song Yuzhang replied in kind. “Anyone who says you’re bad is a big fool too.”
Hand in hand, the mother and son laughed softly together, happily speaking ill of everyone else in the world, and went home together, full of joy.
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