Night had fallen over Henan and the moon was high in the sky. The road unfurled into the darkness, a dull, muted grey. Shaozhen listened to the chittering of the mosquitoes and crickets, trying his best to match their rhythm as he dribbled the basketball.
He shifted the weight of his bedding and sleeping mat from one shoulder to the other, pulling his pack, bursting with clothes and worn textbooks, closer to his body. After a long and gruelling school year, he was finally heading home for the summer. Shaozhen boarded at Xifeng Junior Middle School, like many of his classmates, and only made the ninety-minute walk home for the weekends.
Shaozhen had mixed feelings about returning home. The market town of Xifeng had a few thousand people, a cotton mill and granary, actual restaurants and shops, while Hongsha had nothing but chickens and farmers.
At least school was over. His last exams had been brutal and his teacher had made him stay later than the rest of the students to complete an additional assignment. ‘You need all the extra marks you can get,’ Master Chen had observed.
Shaozhen definitely wouldn’t miss the schoolwork. Unlike when he had gone to primary school, junior middle school was very difficult and he had to study night and day just to keep up. Over the past four weeks, Master Chen had insisted he stay at school over the weekend for extra tutoring instead of going home. He had been stuck in a dingy classroom with just two other boys, cramming for exams until he thought his brains would burst.
But that was finally over and Shaozhen was free. He had better ways to spend his time than solving maths problems or reading boring history books. Like playing basketball.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Even with the heavy pack weighing him down, Shaozhen moved nimbly with the basketball. He practised lay-ups, dribbling and drills all the way home. He imagined himself as his idol, the greatest basketball legend in China: Yaoming. Shaozhen would sometimes fantasise about life as a player in the NBA – flying in private jets, signing autographs, making friends with the greats, the enormous crowds cheering him on.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The ball struck the hard dirt of the road that led to Hongsha, one of eight small villages surrounding Xifeng that were set in the valley of the Song mountains. Near Xifeng, the main road was paved, lined with humble shops, apartment blocks and some small houses. As he got closer to his village, the shops and houses gave way to sprawling fields and farmland.
On the other side of Hongsha, the road wound up the looming mountains and past some of the most remote villages of Henan, dotted along the mountainsides. Beyond those mountains lay the province of Shanxi. While the villagers went into Xifeng often, there was little reason to venture up the mountains and deeper into the countryside – they were removed enough as it was.
Hongsha seemed deserted when Shaozhen strode through the concrete gate with the words ‘Hongsha Village, Xifeng Township’ emblazoned in dull brass letters across the top. It was home to just under fifty families, most of them farmers. The village’s three shops were closed for the day, the primary school was silent, and there was a padlock across the iron bars in front of the village headquarters.
As he walked towards home, Shaozhen could hear chatter and laughter coming from the houses, rising above the loud and constant barking of some village dog. The weather was unseasonably warm, and many of the villagers were spending their evening outside on their stoops. Shaozhen weaved through the alleys. He nodded at the two old women squatting down and gossiping as they peeled vegetables and mashed ganshu, sweet potato, in a large bowl. He hurried past the billowing of smoke coming from a group of old men, smoking cigarettes and swapping stories in the dim moonlight.
Shaozhen turned the corner and stepped into the darkness of the tree-lined path that led home; the bright white light from his house beckoned at the end. A slight rustling came from one of the trees. He stopped in his tracks and pivoted slowly, seeking out its source.
A small form rocketed out of the trees and almost knocked Shaozhen off his feet.
‘Shaozhen, gege, big brother!’ The boy barely came to Shaozhen’s waist. He gazed up at him with big round eyes and wrapped his arms around Shaozhen’s skinny legs.
Shaozhen laughed and handed the boy his basketball, then picked him up and tossed him over his shoulder so that Xiaoping’s head dangled upside down across his back.
‘Wah, wow, Xiaoping! You’re getting heavy, little man!’ The boy shrieked with delight as Shaozhen took off. He carried Xiaoping to the end of the path and deposited him on the ground.
‘Are you being good for Aunty Wu?’
The boy nodded.
‘High five,’ Shaozhen offered, and Xiaoping slapped him on the palm before scampering back up the path. Shaozhen smiled and turned back to the line of houses. They were set away from the main residences in the village at the base of a hill. When Shaozhen had been young, the cluster of five families had formed their own mini-community in the village. But over the years the other houses had emptied as their residents moved away and their little cluster had diminished to just his family and Aunty Wu’s.
Hot steam drifted from the vent cut into the roof of the humble hut that Shaozhen called home. His house had thick, strong walls and a high-quality tile roof, which his family was particularly proud of. Shaozhen didn’t care for the tiles, but he was pleased that he had a room of his own. His father had built an extension when Shaozhen had turned eight after saving enough money for the materials. He had spent most of the New Year holiday stacking mud bricks and sealing up holes, working well into the night so that Shaozhen could have his own room by the morning.
Shaozhen had been ecstatic when his father showed the room to him. It was only wide enough to fit a single bed, with a small window looking out over the pigpen, but Shaozhen didn’t mind any of that, it was a room of his very own. He whooped and hollered like he had won the NBA finals. But before he even finished moving his few belongings into his new room, his father had taken his bags and rushed to catch the midday train back to Guangzhou so he could start work again the next morning.
Shaozhen quickened his pace, his arms looping the basketball behind his back. The sound of voices and clanking dishes could be heard from inside the mud walls. ‘Ma must be making something delicious,’ he thought and his stomach rumbled in agreement.
‘Lu Shaozhen.’ Aunty Wu was sweeping the front step of her house, two doors to the right.
‘Aunty Wu. Wah, what a modern haircut!’ Her white hair was done up in a fresh perm that she would have gotten in Pingdingshan, the closest ‘prefecture-level’ city to Hongsha. Aunty Wu was one of the few villagers who ever journeyed further than Xifeng.
She patted her head with pride. ‘You know how to make an old lady feel good.’ At fifty-five, Aunty Wu was actually one of the younger members of the village and she was still tough as the strongest niu, ox. ‘You’re done with school?’ she asked.
‘Until next year!’ Shaozhen declared, putting on a confident smile. The year had been particularly challenging and he hoped he had passed and could move on to the next level. He tried to forget Master Chen’s stern face and warning. There would be nothing more embarrassing than getting left behind by his peers. His best friend, Kang, had been smarter than everyone in their grade. He’d already advanced to the next level and was now one year ahead of Shaozhen.
A squeal of laughter came from the path where Xiaoping was hiding among the trunks of the tall native plane trees.
‘Xiaoping is getting big.’
Aunty Wu pressed her lips into a thin line as she watched her grandson play. ‘He is. By the time his parents come back to visit, he’ll be so big, they won’t even recognise him,’ she said in a sombre tone.
Shaozhen swallowed. Xiaoping was just three years old. How long has it been since he’s seen his ma and ba?
‘You’re a lucky boy, Shaozhen.’ Aunty Wu wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Your ma and nainai take good care of you. Don’t forget it.’
‘I won’t, Aunty.’ He bid Aunty Wu farewell and hurried to his door.
‘Ma! Nainai! I’m back!’ Shaozhen threw the door open with a sharp bang, sending a gust of wind through the room.
‘Aiyah, oh my, shut the door, you silly egg! All the food will get cold.’ The shrill scolding came from a lanky, rail-thin girl around his age.
‘Don’t be such a sourpuss, Yangyang,’ Shaozhen retorted, stomping into the room as he bounced the ball in front of him, nearly knocking over the wobbly stand that held the family TV.
‘Baobei, precious son, you’re home.’ The gentle, soothing voice belonged to Ma. Her stout form was hunched over the muhuolu, wood-burning stove, that stood next to an ice chest set up in the corner of a cluttered room; this served as the cooking area. In addition to the stand with the TV, the only furniture in the room was a single lumpy lounge chair and a wooden cabinet with a glass door that held a few framed pictures. A small folded table with a stack of wooden stools in front of it was pushed up against the wall. There was a tower of plastic basins that Ma kept for washing up. A lone fluorescent tube flickered from the ceiling, the single source of electric light in their modest home.
‘Did you pass all of your exams?’ Ma asked. ‘Master Chen said you had a lot of catching up to do.’
Shaozhen could sense the urgency in Ma’s voice. He tried not to grimace. ‘I guess so. I won’t know for a couple more weeks.’
His mother’s face crumpled but she forced a smile. ‘I hope you thanked Master Chen for all the extra time he put in.’
Shaozhen shrugged, hoping she would drop the subject, and peered over her shoulder, more interested in the delicious smell of the cooking. ‘Mutton?’ His mouth was already watering. He loved his ma’s cooking. As far as he was concerned her yucai was the best in all of Henan.
‘Your favourite.’ She used a short metal spoon to stir the sauce in the pan. She pushed away a few loose strands of her blunt-cut hair before tasting the sauce, then held the spoon out to her son.
Shaozhen licked the sauce; it was tangy with a bit of fire, just the way he liked it. He smiled wide and Ma’s bright eyes crinkled with satisfaction.
She checked the crackling wood burning beneath the stove then began scooping rice out of their electric rice cooker, one of the many gifts that Shaozhen’s father had brought them from the city.
‘Wah, what’s the special occasion?’ Shaozhen asked. The Lu family usually ate noodles, not rice, because they were cheaper and easier to prepare.
‘Your homecoming of course, my emerging scholar. You haven’t been home for a few weeks,’ Ma said gently as she ladled rice into the chipped bowls. Shaozhen bristled with pride. ‘And…I have some news. Big news. But for now, help Yangyang set up the table.’