A Moon and a Cicada - Chapter 4

Song Zhi was another person who didn’t sleep well that night. She was struggling to convince herself of the reality that her life had been but a grand dream.

Everyone and everything told her that it was just past midnight, and the date was Tuesday, February 11, 2020. The Lantern Festival had been last Friday. On her WeChat, the last message to her mother read: I’m on the subway.

If nothing else was proof enough, the central heating of Beijing and the frigid air outside the window were enough to sober her up.

It should have been the height of summer. How was this possible?

She closed the window in the hallway and, holding her IV bag aloft, slowly walked back to the ward. The other patients had drawn their privacy curtains. She tried to be careful not to make a sound, yet the iron bed still let out a piercing creak the moment she pulled up the covers.

The patient snoring across from her clicked their tongue and rolled over impatiently. She froze, waiting for the thunderous snoring to resume before gently pulling up the quilt and staring at the ceiling.

Was those four years really just a dream? Or, to be more metaphysical—a premonition?

Song Zhi looked at the briefcase on the nightstand. It wasn’t the one she had taken to Fujian. According to her old habits, there should be a power bank inside.

She reached for the bag. As expected, it was there.

As her phone charged, she felt a strange clumsiness using it. She searched Baidu: Is it possible to foresee the future?

The first result: Yes.

The more she read, the more certain she became. Many people worldwide had similar experiences—some foresaw events thirty minutes away, others up to two years. A four-year jump like hers was rare, but not unheard of.

Perhaps she was naturally gifted? A superpower? At this point, it was the only explanation that made sense.

Exiting the browser, her family photo reappeared. Song Zhi gently brushed her thumb over her father’s face. Dad, did you send me this dream? Were you trying to tell me that I’ll eventually buy a car and a home? That Mom will be healthy and my boss will be alright?

Having suddenly gained four years of dream-memories, Song Zhi recalled her “future” self, who had been unable to move on from her father’s death. Now, she could look at his photos and chat logs with a sense of peace. Perhaps this was her father’s final gift to her.

This time, she would cherish it. She would never lose these precious memories again.

Gradually falling into a slumber, she hoped that when she woke up, it wouldn’t be a dream.

When Song Zhi took a taxi from Renhe Hospital to the CP Center, she suddenly realized the firm hadn’t moved there yet. “Driver! Don’t leave, I’m staying with you!” She pulled the door back open and slid inside. “Go to Jiancaicheng West Road in Changping District.”

“Changping?” The driver had a thick Beijing accent, sounding hesitant. “You’re heading there during morning rush hour? Coming here was 140 yuan; this round trip is going to cost you 250.”

The number 250 was slang for an idiot, but she didn’t care. “Fine, let’s go.”

Seeing her in such a rush, the old driver tried to comfort her. “Young lady, being late isn’t the end of the world. Your boss won’t eat you, right? It’s not easy. My daughter is in college; she’ll be looking for a job in a couple of years.”

The driver kept talking—a typical warm-hearted Beijinger. “She insists on going far away to Shenzhen. I told her, how can Shenzhen be better than our Beijing? Right at the foot of the Emperor’s wall. So many people want to come but can’t, want to stay but aren’t allowed.”

Pride leaked from his tone, an innate sense of belonging.

To a casual observer, this city had a heavy sense of history and a “do not disturb” demeanor. It lacked the youth of Shenzhen, the glamour of Shanghai, or the vibrant street life of Chongqing. But once understood, its deep, winding hutongs, ink-splattered art districts, and ancient towers witnessing economic growth all blended into a harmonious whole.

It was an undeniably charming city. Having traveled to so many places for work over the years, Song Zhi still loved Beijing best.

“There are 3,600 famous hutongs, and the nameless ones are as many as cow hairs.” Zhuanta Hutong was one of the oldest in the city.

Early that morning, a white Porsche 718 Cayman S pulled up to the east entrance of the hutong. Hang Che got out, grabbed her things from the passenger seat, and closed the door. The morning air was crisp. An old man was doing his morning exercises, swinging his arms in front of his door. The narrow sides of the road were piled with miscellaneous items and recyclables. To the south, the “Wansong Old Man Pagoda” stood simple and elegant under the morning sun.

She walked down a small path to a vermilion door. The double doors were slightly ajar, the brass knockers polished to a shine. Two intricately carved square stone gate-blocks stood guard. On the door studs were the words “Practice Kindness and Virtue,” and the couplet read: “The way to pass down a family legacy is through kindness; the way to handle affairs is through simple sincerity.”

Inside was a two-entry courtyard house. The base of the walls showed some age-related wear. Facing the entrance was a brick-carved spirit wall. Passing through a hanging wooden flower gate, she entered a courtyard with a locust tree on both the east and west sides. Near the door of the east wing sat a stone table with four stone chairs, topped with a Go board. Beside it was a black lacquer box with a finely carved lid.

In the southeast corner was a water well, covered with a circular wooden plank, seemingly no longer in use.

The February air was cold, and the red windows of the main house were tightly shut, making it impossible to tell if anyone was home.

“Teacher?” Hang Che called out softly in the courtyard.

As she stepped forward to knock, she heard movement. The wooden door creaked open, and a middle-aged woman with glasses and a beige coat, her hair in a loose bun, stepped out.

Seeing it was Hang Che, she greeted her immediately. “I thought you wouldn’t be here for another half hour.”

“The roads weren’t crowded; it wasn’t bad,” Hang Che nodded slightly.

“Get inside quickly, the chill out here is heavy.”

February in Beijing was indeed bone-chilling. As the door opened, a wave of warmth hit her. The heating was on full blast. In the center of the front hall hung a piece of calligraphy, the brushstrokes fluid and bold, displaying Zeng Guofan’s 16-character maxim: “Respond to things as they come; do not anticipate the future; do not be distracted by the present; do not yearn for the past.” A circular moon-gate shelf separated the hall from the inner rooms, displaying ancient books, paintings, cameras, tea sets, and root carvings.

Two sandalwood flower stands held pots of Japanese Red Pine—vibrant, dense, and elegantly shaped.

A silver-haired old woman emerged from the inner room. She wore a striped shirt with a grey patterned knit vest. She looked radiant, leaning on a bamboo cane, exuding an air of quiet elegance.

“Is it cold out?” the old woman asked.

Hang Che placed her gift box on the table and stepped forward to support the woman’s elbow. “It was a short walk; it was fine. It’s been a long time since I visited. I was afraid you’d be angry.”

The old woman squinted at her. “Hmph. Would you actually be afraid of me?”

The little girl had grown up, gaining a touch of maturity and allure, but the corners of her mouth were always curved—a faint smile that could melt a pond of spring water.

The middle-aged woman handed the old lady medicine and water from a side table. The old lady swallowed them habitually. Hang Che looked at the middle-aged woman, who explained, “We found out last year her heart isn’t doing too well.”

Hang Che’s brow furrowed.

“Why tell her that? She’s just a child,” the old lady grumbled.

Hang Che helped her sit down and knelt beside her, her face partially buried in her scarf. Her tone was a mix of grievance and heartache. “Teacher, I’m not small anymore. I’m 24 this year.”

Sensing Hang Che’s low spirits, the old woman leaned on her cane and changed the subject. “I heard you won another award?”

Hang Che stood up to take off her coat and scarf. “That was back in November.”

It was only a few months ago, but by adding “last year” to it, it seemed insignificant.

“Good. To be an actor, you must be able to endure hardship and have ambition. You can’t be like those ‘stars’ who only care about fame and profit.”

The middle-aged woman moved a chair closer for Hang Che. “Mom, why are you lecturing again? Look, it’s rare for Qingqing to visit.”

Hang Che turned and smiled at her. Before the woman could finish, her phone rang. “Understood, I’ll be right there. Qingqing, Mom… the hospital…”

“Just go,” the old lady waved her off.

“I see how it is. You think I’m in the way of you talking to your favorite student.”

“If you know that, then hurry up and leave,” the old lady joked, thumping her cane.

The woman patted Hang Che’s shoulder, said goodbye, and closed the door.

“How is your mother?”

“She’s doing well. Her school starts in a few days.” Hang Che rolled up her sleeves and cradled the tea the woman had poured. Her slender fingers curved beautifully around the cup. The warmth of the tea was a salvation for her frozen hands.

“That’s good. I’m getting old; lately, I keep thinking about when you and your mother first arrived. You were only this high.” The old lady pointed to a wooden pillar by the door where Hang Che’s old height marks were carved. “Your mother was so worried back then—how could such a small, thin thing ever become a dancer?”

Recalling the scene, Hang Che lowered her head and laughed with the old woman.

“I didn’t expect you to end up acting,” the teacher shook her head.

“It’s all the same. We’re all performers.”

Hang Che remembered the gift on the table. “Teacher, I didn’t get to visit for New Year’s, so I brought this for you.”

She carefully opened the packaging and pulled out a box. It looked like a rare find. Inside was an exquisite tea set. The purple clay teapot was shaped like a gourd, elegant and graceful with simple, clean lines.

The old woman picked up her monocle, turned the teapot over to check the seal on the bottom, and peered at it closely.

“This is a work by Lu Zhihui!”

Lu Zhihui was a direct descendant of the master Lu Siting and a practitioner of intangible cultural heritage. He was a master of traditional handmade teapot techniques but had retired years ago after an accident. Since then, the “Siting Pots” made by his apprentices had never reached the same heights.

It was a priceless item, nearly impossible to find.

The old woman grew more delighted the more she examined it. Then, a hint of suspicion crossed her face. “Where did you get this?”

“Don’t worry, Teacher. I heard one was being auctioned by a Japanese collector, so…”

“A fine item. Truly a fine item!”

Her joy was evident. Hang Che felt happy but a bit shy. she took a sip of hot tea, and finally, her whole body felt warm.

At fourteen, Hang Che and her mother had come to Beijing. Through her mother’s teacher, they had rented the west wing of this courtyard house. Originally, the owner, Si Hejie, lived there with her two children. Her daughter, Chang Peiqin, lived in the east wing, and her son, Chang Yuexin, lived in the west wing. Since Yuexin had left for the UK to pursue a PhD in medicine that year, the room became vacant.

Si Hejie was getting older; her husband had passed away, and her daughter was a chief physician at Renhe Hospital who rarely came home. The old woman felt the large courtyard was empty.

It happened that a friend mentioned a student coming to Beijing to play cello for the National Centre for the Performing Arts orchestra. A single mother with a daughter—it wasn’t easy.

The old lady initially didn’t want tenants with children, as she couldn’t handle the noise at her age. But hearing the story moved her. Upon learning they were from Shandong, she agreed immediately.

Si Hejie believed that since Shandong had produced no emperors, the people from that land were loyal and righteous. As the home of Confucius and Mencius, their upbringing and education would not be inferior. She was always confident in her judgment, and her eyes had never been wrong.

Afterward, Hang Che successfully entered the Middle School of the Beijing Dance Academy, and the mother and daughter officially settled in Beijing. It wasn’t until the year before last, after earning some money, that they bought a home in SOHO Modern City and moved out.

This courtyard held Hang Che’s best teenage memories. The two families had formed a deep bond, and the old lady treated Hang Che like her own granddaughter.

As for why she called Si Hejie “Teacher” instead of “Grandmother,” there was a reason.

Si Hejie was one of China’s first generation of film directors. Famous maverick directors like Yang Lin and commercial giants like Qin Tai had consulted her when they were learning to make films in Beijing.

The old artists of that era had their own integrity. Because she refused an investor’s demand to “exploit” an actress in her crew, Si Hejie quit the industry in a fit of rage. It was called “a tragedy for Chinese cinema” at the time.

Zhuanta Hutong was the birthplace of Chinese opera. Famous writers like Lu Xun and Zhang Henshui had lived there. The old lady felt the artistic accumulation of the place and had lived there her whole life, refusing to move even for a “golden nest.”

A few years ago, Chang Yuexin had settled in the UK and constantly urged her to move abroad, but after being rejected repeatedly, he gave up.

But Hang Che calling her “Teacher” wasn’t because she taught her acting—it was because of Go (Weiqi).

In the second half of her ninth-grade year, Hang Che and Si Hejie were still just landlord and tenant. Hang Tunan, her mother, was performing more often, frequently traveling abroad or rehearsing, and coming home less.

The courtyard was left to the old woman and the girl.

One day, after an hour on the subway and a thirty-minute walk, Hang Che finally arrived home. As she passed the flower gate, she saw Si Hejie sitting alone at the stone table in front of the east wing, playing Go against a manual.

It was past ten o’clock.

Late autumn leaves were swirling. The corner lamp on the eaves was dim. The woman wore a white cotton robe, the breeze flipping the pages of her book and stirring her silver hair.

Hang Che gripped her backpack straps, her steps heavy. She had no elders in her family; she had never seen her grandparents as far back as she could remember.

Si Hejie didn’t smile much and seemed cold. She usually just listened to opera, brewed tea, and played Go.

Despite her nerves, Hang Che walked over.

A shadow blocked the light. The old woman looked up, removed her glasses, and eyed the hesitant girl. “Interested?”

From the first moment she saw Hang Che and her mother, Si Hejie had found them pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it was artists recognizing their own—a strong single mother and a polite, sensible girl.

Six months prior, Hang Tunan had led her into the courtyard, each pulling a suitcase. Tunan wore a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a linen skirt. Her hair was pulled back with a wooden pin. Beside her, the thin little girl carried a heavy backpack but stood tall in her clean blue-and-white summer school uniform. She was small, with a ponytail, looking as delicate as carved jade.

The woman nodded to the elder and squeezed the girl’s hand. Hang Che looked at her mother, gripped her straps, and bowed deeply.

“Hello, Grandmother.”

Her manners were perfect—poised and dignified.

In April and May, the locust flowers bloomed, filling the courtyard with a faint fragrance that calmed the soul.

Hearing the greeting, the old lady only looked at them briefly before returning to her Go manual.

Si Hejie had directed films for years; her eyes were sharp. The girl had an excellent bone structure. Even though she hadn’t fully grown, she was already stunning. Years of Chinese dance had given her a straight back and graceful posture. She was thin but not weak, with a touch of heroism in her eyes and a stubborn, steady aura that exceeded her years.

Hang Che looked up at her mother, biting her lip. Her mother gave her a reassuring smile.

Living under someone else’s roof, one cannot always have things their way.

After Chang Peiqin showed them around and settled them in the west wing, she explained that the old lady didn’t like interacting with outsiders—it wasn’t personal. She asked them to keep an eye on her, so they could look out for one another.

The elderly sleep less. Si Hejie usually rose at 5:00 AM for morning exercise. Hang Che left at the same time, walking 30 minutes to catch Subway Line 4 to arrive at school just in time for morning practice.

So every morning, Hang Che would bow to Si Hejie as she left, her ponytail swinging behind her.

The girl didn’t seem to talk much. After finishing her evening practice at 8:30 PM, she didn’t get home until nearly 10:00 PM.

Chang Peiqin had suggested the girl live at school to save the commute, but Hang Tunan insisted on her being a day student. She claimed it was good for a child to endure hardship, but in reality, since she and Peiqin were rarely home due to work, she worried no one would be there to watch over the old lady.

Coming to Beijing, getting a job in the orchestra through her mentor, and finding a home so close to the school at a discounted rent—Tunan reminded Hang Che constantly: never forget your roots; gratitude is the foundation of life.

But Hang Che didn’t know how to please this Go-obsessed grandmother. The old lady went to bed early. Initially, Hang Che would creep home in the dark. Once, she tripped and fell flat on her face on the stone steps of the west wing. When the old lady opened the door at the sound, the girl scrambled up and hid in her room.

The next day, though the girl tried to hide it, her limping greeting was both comical and heart-wrenching.

At least she didn’t scar her face, the old lady thought. Girls this age care most about their looks, especially dancers.

From then on, a corner lamp was installed on the eaves to wait for the girl to come home.

The corner lamp swayed slightly in the summer breeze, casting long shadows.

The girl said firmly, “Yes.”

“Come, Grandmother will teach you!” Si Hejie put down her manual and gestured for her to sit opposite.

Hang Che helped her clear the board.

The girl was a serious learner. She listened to the rules and techniques and asked questions from time to time. Soon, she mastered the basics.

During the “guessing” phase to decide who goes first, the black stones are played as a sign of respect.

“Playing Go is like being a person. It’s about character and style. These intersecting lines are the veins and meridians connecting the stones. On the surface, they are cold and hard, but when they fall, they are an army. Every move affects the whole body. You cannot be careless.”

Initially, Hang Che only thought about capturing stones and was too aggressive.

“The more you attack, the more your weaknesses are exposed.”

Within minutes, she lost a large territory.

“Defending blindly will leave you constrained. You must find the right moment, plan three steps ahead, and, most importantly, stay calm.”

By the end of the game, the girl had found the joy in it.

“Grandmother, can you teach me how to play?”

“So, the little girl wants to become an apprentice?”

“Hello, Teacher.” The girl was quick, immediately standing up, stepping back, and bowing deeply.

“Fine. From now on, call me Teacher. Calling me ‘Grandmother’ makes me feel old!”

After the elder agreed, the girl sat back down.

“Yes! Teacher, let’s play another round.”

“It’s good to be obsessed and focused, but you must know the limits.” The old lady dropped the stones back into the box. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

Hang Che smiled sheepishly. As Si Hejie stood up, the girl stepped forward to support her for the first time.

“Get some rest.”

Watching her teacher go inside, Hang Che looked up at the full moon.

Her classmates teased her for being short. Her teacher had given the lead dance spot to someone else again. She had been bumped by a tall man on the subway today. A drunk man at the hutong entrance had whistled at her.

She wondered if her mother’s performance went well.

The moonlight was as bright as a waterfall. For the first time, she thought:

Beijing is quite nice.