RBCT Chapter 17 Don’t move
Chapter 17 Don’t move
The moment the door opened, Wu Ling knew something was wrong.
The smell of water.
It's not charcoal, it's not Sanhua (a type of Chinese tea), it's the smell of leftover milk foam from the milk tea shop next door fermenting in the trash can.
He didn't close the door; he stood there for a while, smelling the swill.
In the past, when faced with this situation, he would repeatedly push the switch, then turn it off, then push it back on.
Maybe next time it will work; this time he didn't push a second time.
Because he knew that it wasn't that the door was broken, but that the door no longer recognized him.
From making glutinous rice cakes to Xiaoyu Video going viral, he has lost count of how many days it has been since he last pushed open this door.
He noticed a dark patch in the lower right corner of the mural, but he forgot about it when he got busy.
But they won't forget.
He walked back, stood in front of the mural for a while before going upstairs, lying down and staring at the ceiling.
Wu Ling remembers that for a period of time, he would wake up in the middle of the night and hear faint sounds coming from the mural.
There's absolutely no sound coming from downstairs.
Around 2 a.m., Wu Ling went down again to push the light, but there was still no light.
In the following days, he continued to brew tea, serve dishes, and greet guests during the day, and would push open the door once in the evening.
They're all back alleys.
The murals grew darker day by day, as if someone were slowly covering them with a cloth.
Wu Ling couldn't help but glance at it whenever he passed by. Once, he was so engrossed in staring at it that he didn't hear the guest call him twice.
When he opened the door at closing time that day, it was still the back alley.
Wu Ling didn't close the door; he simply sat on the threshold.
The alley was silent. One of the streetlights was broken, leaving only the one at the far end lit, its light not reaching this end.
Something furry rubbed against his calf.
It's that orange cat.
His belly was still round and plump, his tail was draped over his feet, and he was squinting.
Mr. Zhang once said that this cat had been with his grandfather for several years.
Wu Ling glanced at the kitchen; there was still half a box of pickled fish left from the takeout he ordered at noon. He took it out and placed it on the threshold.
The orange cat lowered its head and ate. After it finished eating, it didn't leave but squatted on the threshold and watched the back alley with him.
Grandpa is gone, but the cat still comes.
The door won't open, but the cat is still there.
He reached out and stroked the orange cat's head. It turned around and nuzzled his palm, purring softly.
Wu Ling leaned against the door frame, his legs stretched out.
From now on, I'll call you Copper Coin.
Copper Coin swept his ankle with his tail.
When Wu Ling stood up, he didn't leave immediately. Instead, he placed his hand on the door and whispered, "I'm back."
It was rejected.
Warm yellow light shone through the crack in the door.
It's the familiar smell of charcoal and the aroma of Sanhua tea.
His eyes welled up with tears.
That night he sat there for half an hour, without telling any stories, just making tea.
Old Zhou sat in his usual spot, glanced at him, and asked nothing.
The video's popularity waned in the second week.
Ninety-three people was the peak.
However, Wu Ling still tells a story every afternoon at three o'clock.
Just as Granny Zhao sat down that day, Su Wangqing lifted the curtain and came in.
"Teacher Su, you're here early today."
"I heard you talk about it every day now? I'd like to listen to one."
She sat down by the window and ordered a bowl of three flowers.
Wu Ling looked around the teahouse—eighteen people, that's about right.
He walked onto the stage and struck the gavel.
"Today I'll tell you about a person from over a hundred years ago. She was from Chengdu. Her surname was Chen, but nobody remembers her given name; everyone called her Chen Mapo."
The audience fell silent.
"Wanfu Bridge. Do you know where Wanfu Bridge is? It's at the North Gate. Once you cross the bridge, you're outside the city. Who lives outside the city? Oil carriers, firewood carriers, manual laborers. Covered in sweat, with two legs, they carry things from outside the city to inside every day."
Wu Ling tapped the corner of the table with a gavel.
"There's a restaurant at the bridgehead. It's called a restaurant, but it only has three tables and two benches, and no sign. There's a big iron pot and an iron ladle at the entrance. The person in charge of cooking is this Chen Mapo."
"She was a widow. Her husband died early, leaving her this shop. The shop was in such a dilapidated state that there was a hole in the roof beam, and on sunny days, a beam of sunlight would shine directly into the pot. On rainy days, it was even worse; she had to cook while simultaneously using a basin to catch the leaks."
Someone laughed.
"The porters who carried oil would cross Wanfu Bridge every day after work, their legs so weak that they would sit down before they could even put their carrying poles down properly. They would put a piece of tofu in their pockets and a small pinch of minced beef in their hands, then put it in her pot and say: 'Chen Mapo, cook this for me,' and leave a coin on the stove."
"Chen Mapo took the tofu without even glancing at it, cut it in one stroke, and there were sixteen pieces, each the same size. The iron wok was heated until it was smoking, and then rapeseed oil was poured on top..."
He paused for a moment.
"Then comes her skill. First, she adds fermented soybean paste, which she started drying in the winter of the previous year and only used in the spring. Next, she adds chili powder that she pounded herself until it releases oil, turning a fiery red color. Finally, she adds Sichuan peppercorns."
Wu Ling's voice slowed down.
"She only uses Sichuan peppercorns from Hanyuan, the kind that's almost purplish-red. If you bite into one, half of your tongue will be numb for 45 minutes."
The gavel struck again.
"Put the tofu in the pot, stir it a couple of times with an iron spoon, but don't stir it too much, or it will break. Put the lid on, and add some firewood to the stove. The firelight from the stove reflects on her face, showing the pockmarks on her face one by one, and she squats in front of the stove waiting."
"As soon as the pot lid was lifted, the steam rose up to the roof beams, and the whole bridgehead could smell it."
"The porter picked up the bowl, and at first it was too hot; he pulled his lips back as soon as they touched the rim. He took another bite, and it was spicy, burning from the tip of his tongue all the way to his throat. The third bite was numbing; half his face went numb. After finishing the bowl, he had more sweat on his forehead than he had done carrying oil all day."
"After putting down the bowl, he asked only one question: 'Boss, is there any more for tomorrow?'"
Someone in the audience laughed out loud, and Grandma Zhao nodded.
"And then what? More and more people started taking advantage of her. Some people said, 'Why don't you raise your price? What can you do with a penny?' She said she wouldn't raise it. Then someone else said, 'Well, why don't you patch up that hole in the roof beam? The tofu gets soaked when it rains.'"
He stopped.
Did she get it repaired?
"No. Because tofu tastes even better on rainy days than on sunny days. The rain splashes when it falls into the pot, the oil bubbles are broken up, and the aroma of the chili peppers is even stronger than usual."
At that moment, the curtain was lifted.
Sunlight streamed in from outside, cutting a bright line across the ground.
Two people stood in the light, wearing dark blue jackets and work badges pinned to their chests.
The man held a form in his hand, and the woman held a metal measuring tape, which glittered in the sunlight.
Of the eighteen people in the audience, some turned their heads, while others did not.
Wu Ling saw it too, but didn't stop.
"Later on, everyone in Chengdu knew about Granny Chen at Wanfu Bridge. The shop was still the same dilapidated shop, and the hole in the roof beam was still the same hole. But whether you were an official or a porter, if you wanted to eat there, you had to go to her shop. Some people advised her to move. They said her location was bad, the bridgehead was dusty, and the people coming here were too mixed. She should move to the city, find a decent shop, and her business would double."
The audience fell even quieter.
She only said two words.
Wu Ling slapped the gavel.
"Don't move."
He paused for two seconds and then placed the gavel on the table.
"It's been over a hundred years, and her shop is long gone. Wanfu Bridge has been rebuilt three times. But when people all over Chengdu mention Mapo Tofu, they don't mention any particular shop, but rather the pot, the stove, and the woman with pockmarked faces."
"The shop is gone. But the taste remains."
The applause started, but it wasn't the loud, boisterous kind; it began slowly and deliberately.
Grandma Zhao took the first picture, then several regulars next to her, and finally Su Wangqing took a picture as well; this was the first time she had ever heard storytelling.
The two people who had just entered stood at the door and waited for the applause to stop before going inside.
The man walked to the counter.
Wu Ling stepped down from the stage and put the gavel into his pocket.
"Boss Wu?"
"Hmm. From the neighborhood committee?"
"We're conducting a preliminary registration for the old city renovation project in the Chama Lane area."
The man opened the form and placed it on the table.
Do you have a business license?
"Here it is."
Wu Ling pulled out a copy from under the counter and handed it over; the original was still hanging on the wall.
"It's 210 square meters, two stories, and we own the property. You can look at whichever part you want."
The woman took a few photos with her phone, showing the storefront, the counter, and the stairwell. Then she unrolled a measuring tape and walked around the base of the wall, presumably to verify the area.
She stopped when she reached the wall with the mural. The measuring tape was hanging over the edge of the mural without being attached, so she rolled it up and walked around it.
The two then went upstairs. Wu Ling heard them walk around upstairs, the floorboards creaked a few times, and they came down about five or six minutes later.
The man closed the form. "We'll let you know if there are any updates."
"Is it definitely going to be demolished?"
"The plan hasn't been finalized yet. Cha Ma Xiang has been on the list three times. The scope was adjusted the first two times, but this time the scope is larger than before, so it's highly likely that it will be demolished."
"I'm not moving."
The man looked at him for two seconds, wrote a line on the form, and then left.
Grandma Zhao placed the fifteen yuan on the table and touched the armrest of the chair.
As I walked to the door, I turned back and glanced at the chair.
The curtain was lowered for a while and then lifted again, and Boss Zhang poked his head in.
"Boss Wu, you've been here?"
"I've been here. How about yours?"
"They showed me a compensation offer." He leaned against the doorframe. "I might sign it next month."
"Once you leave, I'll be all alone in this alley."
"That's why I came to tell you." Boss Zhang looked around the teahouse and then at the murals. "That Chen Mapo you just mentioned... your grandfather back then also had two words: 'Never move.' Just like you."
He left, and the remaining guests gradually dispersed as well.
In the end, only Su Wangqing remained in the teahouse.
She didn't touch it from beginning to end; the notebook had turned to a new page and was full.
"Teacher Su, here's a hot bowl for you."
"No need." She picked up her iced tea and took a sip. "Boss Wu, please have a seat."
Wu Ling sat down opposite her.
"Is the Chen Mapo you just mentioned real?"
"It's true. It was near Wanfu Bridge during the Tongzhi era."
"You glanced at the people from the neighborhood office while you were speaking."
"Um."
"When you say 'not moving,' are you referring to her or yourself?"
Wu Ling did not answer.
Su Wangqing didn't ask any further questions, and took out a photocopy from her bag and placed it on the table.
"I found a copy of the 1935 photo that I mentioned in the voice message I sent you last time. It's from 'Old Photos of Chengdu,' the Rare Books Room of Sichuan University Library."
Wu Ling took it and looked at it.
He had seen this storefront before.
The plaque, the door frame, the steps—it's exactly the same place he stands every day.
Wu Ling stared at the person in the photo for a long time, his fingers gripping the corner of the photo until his fingertips turned white.
He had seen this standing position before.
It's not in the photo, but on the other side of the door.
But he couldn't quite place which time he opened the door, though he remembered someone standing there like that.
He stood sideways, his hand resting on the doorframe, looking down into the alley.
It felt like they weren't waiting for customers, but rather checking if the alley was still there.
He couldn't recall who the person was, but his body remembered.
"Boss Wu?"
"Um."
"What did you figure out?"
"The way this person is standing... I feel like I've seen him somewhere before."
"Do you know him?"
"It's not that we know each other. It's... the way we stand."
Su Wangqing took out another piece of paper from her bag.
"Let's wait until you're sure. The carbon-14 results for the bronze censer are in. It dates from the late Western Han Dynasty to the early Eastern Han Dynasty, confirming it's genuine."
"Is it confirmed?"
"It's confirmed, Mr. Wu. If you ask me, you have a Han Dynasty bronze stove, a Warring States period pottery shard, and a mural of unknown age. This teahouse is good enough to apply for status as an immovable cultural relic."
Su Wangqing laid out the test reports on the table.
What will happen if I apply?
"The district cultural relics department will send people to investigate on-site. After the determination is made, demolition and renovation must go through cultural relics approval; the developer cannot make direct changes."
Wu Ling clenched his fingers under the table.
"The investigators will ask where those things on the counter came from?"
"The focus of cultural relic protection identification is on buildings and murals, which are immovable cultural relics. We look at their historical value, not their provenance. Bronze censers and pottery shards are movable cultural relics, and the lack of clarity about their provenance does not affect the identification of buildings."
"But what if we don't apply?"
"When the bulldozers come, they won't ask you what's painted on the wall."
"...Will you help me write a report?"
"I'll handle the materials. We completed part of the preliminary record of the murals last time, and we have the bronze incense burner test report and photos. All we're missing is a cultural relic value assessment, which I'll write."
"Will it be useful for your thesis?"
Su Wangqing smiled.
"It's useful. But that's not a reason for me to help you; that wall shouldn't have been torn down."
"Let me think about it for two days."
"No rush."
She walked to the door.
"By the way, Mr. Wu. You mentioned earlier that you've seen that person's stance in the photo before. Where have you seen it before?"
"I don't remember. It was just a feeling."
"Hmm." She glanced at the mural. "The person standing at the door in 1935, and what your grandfather said on the note, 'The teahouse is older than you think'—maybe it's the same thing."
After Su Wangqing left, Qin Xiaowan came out of the kitchen, wearing an apron and with flour still on her hands.
"Has Teacher Su left?"
"I'm gone."
"Has the neighborhood committee come by? I heard them coming from behind."
"They've been here. They took the measurements."
Qin Xiaowan took off her apron and draped it over the back of the chair.
"Wu Ling, 210 square meters, Qingyang District, do you know how much it would cost according to the previous standard? More than four million yuan, plus housing subsidies. We can still open a teahouse in a different place."
"Teacher Su said we can apply for cultural relic protection, and once it's recognized, the developer can't touch it."
"Cultural heritage preservation?" Qin Xiaowan looked at him. "Are you trying to preserve the murals because you don't want to demolish them, or are you using the murals as an excuse because you don't want to demolish them?"
"The murals really cannot be removed."
"The murals can't be torn down, but you can't be forbidden from being torn down along with the murals. Do you know what four million means? You couldn't save that much even if you ran a storytelling performance your whole life."
"I didn't say it was free."
"So what do you mean? What if the cultural relic protection certificate isn't approved, and the developer demolishes the buildings next to it, leaving only your building standing there, with all the water, electricity, and gas cut off? Who can you sell it to then?"
Wu Ling didn't answer; what she said wasn't unreasonable.
"The murals are only murals in this teahouse; if they're removed, it'll just be a broken wall."
"Fine, it's your teahouse, you're in charge."
The door closed very quietly.
Wu Ling was alone in the teahouse.
The alley outside was dark, but the light in Boss Zhang's shop next door was still on.
He said he'd sign next month, and once he did, the light would go out, and the alley would become even darker.
Wu Ling turned off the light, went upstairs, and lay down, thinking of Chen Mapo.
She recognizes that pot by that stove, but what does he recognize?
It's not a stove, not a counter, and not a bronze incense burner.
It's that wall, and the door behind that wall.
Three or four million wouldn't buy this door.
He turned over and closed his eyes.
Qin Xiaowan left the teahouse and stood in the alley for a long time until Boss Zhang's milk tea shop closed and the iron curtain was pulled down.
Then he turned around and walked back, without entering through the main entrance.
The back alley was narrow and dark, with trash cans placed at the base of the walls.
She walked to the front of the back door.
That door.
Wu Ling went there every day, sometimes standing there alone for half a day.
She asked him once, and he said it was the back door, it was the back door.
Qin Xiaowan looked at the door.
I reached out and pushed the door; inside was a teahouse, outside was a back alley, and there was nothing else.