The open space outside the parking area fuses into the mainroad, with no clear boundary other than a vest-sized road sign. I did not see the parking area itself, which is roughly beyond a crossbar at a corner. However, should any major event occur, the open space would doubtlessly be filled with cars at all.
Steps away from the roadside, the ground revealed its unpaved state. Scattered stones and sandy soil that I was never able to identify spread out, interspersed with patches of undemolished tiles measuring two or three metres square, all covered by a layer of dust to prove that this belonged to the outdoors. Unlike the usual view where the twilight sky and greyish ground are separated into two horizontal layers, the unobstructed air and uplit skyscrapers standing in attendance (reminding me that the city was still nearby) possessed a certain elegance. The sensation beneath my feet constantly recalled my of the stones; I felt at one moment as though I had returned to my hometown.
As a child, I used to walk along dirt tracks every week with Laodhah. Sometimes Laodhah called it cāxiá, „taking a shortcut“, otherwise we called it a walk. I felt as though I could converse with the shifting gravel and withered branches. I assumed the presence of uncovered tiles meant the area had been demolished not long ago and would soon be rebuilt: a child’s sense of time is cramped. I could no longer find the original spot, but not because the perceived reconstruction was finally done. All that would be added was a low hedge.
My follow list was permeated with beauty influencers. I know they exist on a completely different plane to me; their every gesture and smile sets them apart from ordinary folk. I imagine they have been showered with positive reinforcement from those around them since childhood, an experience as mysterious to me as those of an extraterrestrial. Yet standing here, I feel I understand them a little better, and even a few less envy:
They are runway aborigines, while I am a ruin aborigine.
Addendum: The food court
In the first hour of New Year’s Day, on a whim, I ordered a bowl of liángpí, opting for collection. I knew it would be ready in no time; the shopkeeper simply need to pack the liángpí and accompaniments separately (that is probably why the shop stay open late, and why I felt comfortable bothering them at midnight), but I still delayed setting off for a while. Around one o’clock, I was shivering in the cold wind, unable to locate the food court on the map. I walked back and forth half a circle at the bend in the pavement before spotting the shop on the staircase hidden behind a small side door to the west.
The food court was nothing more than a dim corridor with grease-stained advertisements hanging in the stairwell. The shops left their doors unlocked at night; the stall I was looking for faced an open space with dining tables, with only a small lamp left on at the stall end, casting a greyish glow over the dining area. The worn-out tables looked as though they had been half-heartedly wiped clean, yet still bore the marks of wear and tear; each was laden with plastic bags of soup and crooked wooden chopsticks, leaving me to imagine how, just a few hours earlier, groups of diners had gathered in a daze to share the last meal of the year.
The owner was scrolling through his mobile. He did not seem particularly surprised when he saw I had opted for collection, and after checking the order number, he fell silent once more. Judging by the order number, I had only managed to snag his fourth order of the year. I tried to stammer, greeting the owner or wishing him Happy New Year, but never found the chance. A delivery rider, wrapped up tight, shared none of my hesitation; he went straight to the counter, picked up the fifth and left. Riding past the biting cold and streetlights, which marked no difference from any other day, I rounded a three-way junction identical to the one back home, utterly deserted.
Ever since then, the dreamcore have felt painfully familiar.
Postscript: Some people seemed to think I was criticising the shop’s condition. In fact, I frequently ordered there and the shop was usually quite clean — the ageing stairwell is another matter — I just happened to see it after the diners had left. Besides, no matter how unhygienic small shops and wet markets may be, I find them more welcoming than trendy districts; the latter seem like a place I could never be able to fit into, forever belonging to some sort of higher-class crowd. What saddens me about this is that both exist in the same world (of essentially no different functions), yet from childhood we are taught, „work hard, and you belong here; or, you belong there“.
Addendum: Ruyqiuan the ever-land
Earlier this year, I stopped by Ruyqiuan Tutoring Centre. It was the place I frequented as a kid, though for not the lessons but hanging out with classmates. We had chat perpetually, pretending to live in a fictional world (which is our co-creation), even on our way there.
One teacher taught math but also handled odd jobs. WeChat official account, for example (the teacher had at least some writing talent, publishing poems and stories back then, though the enthusiasm had waned). The teacher also organised public lectures on Water Margin or Journey to the West to attract would-be customers, while we only wanted to play Rubik’s Cubes. In the office the teacher usually led us in, a note reads ‘We must become elite professionals who strike fear into the hearts of others’. The character for wind was replaced with an ‘@’-like symbol. We showed no respect by calling him by name, since another teacher shares his surname.
When I have grown to study in another block, I assumed Ruyqiuan had shut down. It had not — I just visited at the wrong hours. If it seemed empty, I felt uneasy entering. It remained exactly as I remembered, though posters were faded, an epidemiological tracing QR code lingered by the door, and the furnishings were untidy. The winter floor cannot be perceived muddy, but dust swirled with each step. The transport partition by the door, labeled ‹Reception Room› (in English — only Media Department was marked in Chinese), reeked.
At 8 PM this day, the entire three-story building was filled with parents waiting for their children. Disheveled, clad in dumb coats stiffened by the cold, some played TikTok videos loudly. Two women chattered freely about a neighbor’s wedding and ages of children.
I had not noticed before that classrooms were partitioned by steel panels. This enabled easy reconfiguration — The office for ‘professional elites’, along with the large conference room for the Four Great Novels talks, were divided into normal classrooms. I had to locate for a while. The wall posters no longer featured corny brain teasers but instead displayed SMART principles (how SMART principles can guide curriculum planning?). The furnishings were neither new nor old. In unused classrooms blackboard remained un-erased, strewn with discarded printouts.
Classes ended by unspoken norm (there used to be a hyperbolic bell). Two boys dashed out first, bickering over who managed to leave first. In another classroom, the teacher stood in the doorway, making students recite ‘I, you, she, he…’ one by one, letting each pass after their turn. Two trash bins were quickly filled with gaudy snack wrappers, the most conspicuous (plum candies?) being one labeled ‘Serves You Right!’. It felt like the name alone won kids over. A girl begged for an ink sac; her father replied, ‘Didn’t we just buy one?’
Broken tiles in the stairwall protruding from the wall formed a horizontal line spreading from foot level. As people descended the stairs, the line rose overhead. Every time I thought exactly that as a child — a memory that has now surfaced.
The past is not as beautiful as memory makes it, and the place never belonged to me. The Centre bustles with people coming and going, with no circumstances remained. Of course, the teacher is nowhere to be found. At least I understand now: even if he did not become an elite, he could not have stuck with the menial jobs for ten years anyway.
Back in old Ruyqiuan was written in 17 February 2024. Ruyqiuan is colloquially known as Cambridge, a flamboyant name frequent in minor cities — I used the secondary brand for clarity. All pieces above were originally in Mandarin.