Apricots Bloom Southward

Early spring, 1953. Liao University.

Tan Xixing first became famous because he had put his sweater on backward. While writing on the blackboard, a loose thread poked out over his shoulder and swung back and forth with his arm. A buzzing laugh rose from the class below. He held out for three minutes, writing three characters as if he were embroidering them, then slunk away without even wiping the blackboard.

His second claim to fame came from asking everyone he met about a female student with "clear eyes." He earned himself the title of lovesick romantic.

Nobody knew who he was talking about. On a campus of more than three thousand people, there were at least a hundred girls with big eyes, long skirts, round faces, and short statures. After hearing his description, the veteran teacher Wang Hua seriously asked if he was craving potatoes.

He drew the girl's face on paper, but what he came up with looked like a twig stuck in a potato. He drew again, more than a dozen times, but none of them looked right. In the end, he stacked the papers and tucked them into the deepest corner of his drawer, telling no one.

But he remembered two things: she called him "Mister," not "Teacher," and when she ran off, the hem of her black skirt caught on a broken willow branch, leading to their next meeting.

It was spring. The willows had just begun to bud.

Later, he bumped into someone outside the dining hall. Their papers spilled everywhere. The other person crouched to pick them up, and so did he. Their hands touched, and both pulled away.

He looked up and saw a pair of eyes as bright as a pool of water.

It was her.

He wanted to say something, but opened and closed his mouth. In the end, he handed her the papers he had picked up and said, "I'm sorry." She took them and said, "It's all right," then left.

Once again, he hadn't gotten a clear look at her face.

But he remembered her name. Third row, seventh name on the class list: Li Zhulan. He read through the list from beginning to end three times before daring to be sure those were the three characters. It wasn't that he couldn't recognize them. He just wanted so badly to get them right.

He arranged to meet her by the flower beds on campus. Calling it an "arrangement" was generous. Really, he'd nervously waylaid her on her way back from class and said, "Classmate, there are some books I'd like to ask you about." As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. They were too false, too contrived. Even he didn't believe himself.

But she came.

She arrived with a book of poems in her hand, its cover wrapped in newspaper, just like his copy of The Trial Collection. She stood beside the flower bed. The wind blew her wispy hair against her cheek, and she reached up to tuck it away. He couldn't help taking another look.

She noticed, and her face turned red.

They started talking about poetry. They talked about Hu Shi, Xu Zhimo, and lines he might not fully understand but was willing to read for her. She said she liked, "The moonlight is still the moonlight of youth." He said he liked, "All nine regions are one color, still the frost of Li Bai." They both laughed after saying it, because the lines weren't even from the same poem.

But they didn't care.

"Comrade Li Zhulan, why do you smile like a flower?"

The willows beside the flower bed turned from tender green to deep green, then from deep green to withered yellow. They met many times. Every time, they said it would be the last, and every time, there was another. He didn't know if it counted as love. He only knew that whenever he passed that willow tree, he would stop and glance toward the flower bed.

She never told him that before each meeting, she would stand in front of the mirror in her dorm for a long time, change skirts three times, then put the first one back on. She also never told him that she wrote every one of his words in a notebook the size of her palm, including, "You can borrow this book. There's no rush to return it."

Later, she tucked that notebook into the page of the poetry book she read most often.

In the autumn, his grandmother fell ill.

His parents sent a letter through someone. It was a thin sheet of paper with just a few lines: "Your grandmother is gravely ill and wants to see you. Come home at once."

When he read the letter, he was grading papers. His pen paused, and a little blot of ink spread across the page. He put down his pen and began packing. His bag was light: a few changes of clothes, The Trial Collection, and a stack of papers covered in willow drawings, the potato pictures he'd disliked but couldn't bear to throw away.

He waited a long time outside her dormitory.

It was completely dark when she finally returned. She paused when she saw him, then smiled and asked what he was doing there. He didn't smile. He wrapped the scarf in his hands around her neck, once, then twice. His fingers touched her chin. It was cold. He wanted to say so many things: Wait for me to come back. There are so many things I haven't told you yet. Don't forget me.

But what he said was, "I need a little time. I'll come back for you. When I arrive, I'll write to you. If I miss you, I'll write to you, too."

She nodded and said, "All right."

He turned and left. After a few steps, he looked back. She was still standing there, the scarf wrapped high around her, leaving only her eyes visible. He opened his mouth, but in the end said nothing. He turned around again and walked into the night.

That was the last time he saw her.

It rained heavily that day. The road was slippery, and the darkness was so thick he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. The car skidded on the mountain road and tumbled into a ditch. He never made it to his grandmother's bedside, and he never wrote that letter.

His bag was soaked through. His lesson plan was stuck together with rainwater and could never be opened again. The papers covered in willow drawings had turned into a blur of ink, nothing legible.

Only one name remained. The rain had made the ink swell, but it was still recognizable: Li Zhulan. Three characters he'd written on a slip of paper in his drawer, the one he'd kept together with The Trial Collection. The paper was wrinkled from the water, but the characters hadn't washed away.

Later, the university received the news. Wang Hua cleared out his desk, gathered all his belongings into a box, and put it in the corner. Dust settled on the cardboard box. Nobody ever opened it.

She waited for several months.

No letter came.

She wanted to write to him, but didn't know his address. She went to find Wang Hua, but Wang Hua didn't know either. She went to his office. The door was locked, and through the window she could only see the empty desk and the dusty box in the corner.

She didn't go in.

She stood outside the window for a long time. The wind blew, and a willow branch brushed her shoulder. She reached out and touched it. It was dry and withered.

Spring passed. Summer passed. Autumn passed, too.

She never received that letter.

In 1956, Li Zhulan graduated. She returned to her hometown in the south and, through an introduction, met a man. He also had the surname Tan, wore glasses, spoke gently, and liked to read.

She married him.

On her wedding day, she wore red, not black. She stood in the courtyard, and someone called her "Mrs. Tan." She paused, then answered.

She had a child. On the day the baby turned one month old, she took out an old book of poems, its cover wrapped in newspaper, which she had brought back from Liao University. She opened it and found the little notebook inside, filled from cover to cover with his words.

"You can borrow this book. There's no rush to return it."

"I think we could discuss some meaningful topics together."

"Comrade Li Zhulan, why do you smile like a flower?"

"I need a little time."

"If I miss you, I'll write to you."

She read it for a long time, then closed the notebook, put it back in the poetry book, and tucked it into the deepest corner of the cabinet.

Later, when her child grew up, they asked her what the old book was. She said it was nothing, just an old colleague's book.

She never told anyone that her husband had the surname Tan. She also never told anyone that whenever someone called her "Mrs. Tan," she thought of someone else.

Many years later, she passed a willow tree. Its branches hung low, swaying in the wind. She stopped and watched for a while, then suddenly remembered that many years ago, someone had asked her by the flower bed which poem she liked.

She'd recited a line. He'd answered with the next.

They weren't from the same poem, but they hadn't cared.

The wind blew, and the willow leaves rustled. She stood for a long time, then walked on.

What she didn't know was that on that rainy night, many years earlier, the last thing he'd thought was: Once I arrive, I'll write to her.

The letter was never sent.

But she'd waited for it. For months, and for a lifetime.

There are apricot blossoms in the south, and there has always been good fortune.

But fate has never been so kind.

Theme: Love is the courage of the timid