Chapter 502: A Pot of Filling

Someone in the building was chopping filling. The knife hit the cutting board, over and over—audible even through two doors.

At five minutes to seven, voices came from the stairwell.

"Slowly. Don't sway."

When Shen Zhi'an opened the door, He Xiufen stood at the landing, one hand braced on the railing. Lu Jibai carried the enamel pot, one hand supporting the bottom, the other pressing the cloth over the top. He climbed more slowly than usual. The two hallway lights were out; he found each step by feel.

"We're here." He handed the pot over.

Zhi'an took it and hefted it. "This is heavy."

"I worked water into the filling. It's tough without." He Xiufen came up onto the landing and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. "These legs going up stairs—I need a rest."

She looked up at the Spring Festival couplets on the door. "You put these up?"

"This afternoon."

"The top line's half a finger too high." She pointed with her chin. "Back up and look for yourself."

Zhi'an stepped back to the stairwell and studied it. "It is a little high."

"Take it down tomorrow and redo it."

Inside, He Xiufen wiped her shoe soles twice on the mat and hung her coat on the hook by the entryway. The kitchen door stood open, heat spilling into the living room and fogging the window glass.

She came out of the kitchen with flour dusting her apron and her hands. The plain band on her ring finger had crusted with dried flour; she wiped it with the edge of the apron, but it didn't come clean.

"Put the pot on the stove."

"Leave it on the table for now. The filling needs one more mix—too early and it'll weep." He Xiufen was already heading into the kitchen. "Your cutting board's small."

"It's the only one we've got."

"Small works. Four people, two hours."

The cloth came off, and the filling went into an enamel basin: pork and cabbage, minced fine, with shrimp flakes visible throughout.

"You put shrimp flakes in?" Zhi'an leaned over.

"A handful. Minced in; you can't even tell when you're eating it."

"I can smell it."

"Even if you can, you're still eating it." She pushed the basin his way. "Go wash your hands. Lawyer Li went to her sister's today; before she left, she cleared all the upstairs files and pressed them flat—one whole drawer."

Lu Jibai set a bag of garlic on the counter, then took two knobs of ginger from another bag.

"Garlic from downstairs?"

"The stall at the intersection was still open—this was all they had." He untied the mesh bag and broke the heads apart one clove at a time, gathering the skins into his palm and tossing them in the trash without dropping a single piece.

"You brought other things too."

"Lightbulbs." He pulled a box from his overcoat pocket and set it on the shoe cabinet. "Those two hallway lights—I'll change them tomorrow. There's a ladder at the firm."

He Xiufen called from the kitchen: "Carrying a ladder upstairs, people will think you're moving in."

"Then I'll make two trips."

"I'll help you change them," Zhi'an said.

"The ladder's heavy."

"I'll hold it."

The wrappers had been pressed by He Xiufen at the shop on Zhongshan Road, covered with a clean cloth. "A jin costs two mao more than machine-made, but they're soft. First pot, we test twenty—don't rush it."

Four people gathered around the cutting board. She wrapped fast, some big, some small. Zhi'an's wouldn't stand up; they lay flattened on the tray, the edges pinched too hard, like a row of squashed things. He Xiufen picked one up and worked the edge with two fingers until it loosened.

"Don't pinch the edges dead. If you do, the inside comes out raw dough when it's boiled."

"Then how do I pinch them?"

"Leave a little gap and let it puff on its own." She wrapped one to show him, her fingers gathering the dough into a plump ingot standing upright in her palm.

Lu Jibai worked beside her. He wrapped slowly, every dumpling the same size as the last, rows even in both directions, spacing identical.

He Xiufen glanced over. "Yours are lined up neater than file boxes."

"I keep count in my hands."

"People who keep count in their hands make dumplings all the same. No fun to eat." She smiled. "But easy to cook."

"You think it's a problem?" he asked.

"Even if it is, it won't stop me eating."

The water boiled. She carried the tray over and slid the dumplings in one by one, gently. He Xiufen counted behind her: "Twenty... twenty-two." The dumplings floated up, white bellies to the ceiling, spun twice, and sank again. One split open, the wrapper torn, filling drifting on the surface.

"Whose is that?" Zhi'an craned his neck.

He Xiufen scooped it out with a strainer and tipped it into a small bowl. "None of yours sit upright. That one's definitely yours."

"Based on what?"

"Based on the fact that it's lying on its side."

Zhi'an had nothing to say. He pulled the bowl over, blew twice, and ate half in one bite.

"It's hot."

"It's not," he said, mouth full of dumpling.

The braised beef was sliced thin—a piece He Xiufen had saved from the noodle shop's old master stock. A plate of dumplings, a dish of vinegar, a dish of sesame oil, a bowl of peeled garlic, all arranged in the middle of the table. The television was on with the volume low: someone singing, someone laughing down below.

He Xiufen sat, then got up to add a ladle of water to the pot on the stove, then came back.

"What time did the shop close?"

"A little after six," He Xiufen said. "Just one day a year, the exhaust fan stays silent. Walking upstairs, I couldn't smell the scallion oil—something felt empty."

Halfway through the meal, He Xiufen set down her chopsticks.

"Your father ate noodles with his back to the door."

She held her chopsticks up.

"I'd serve it, go back for a spoon, and when I came out the bowl was empty."

Two sentences. Then He Xiufen said nothing more. She picked up the vinegar bottle and poured into her own dish, slowly, then set the bottle back down.

The table went quiet. Zhi'an tapped his chopstick tips against the edge of his dish.

"Auntie He, that table by the door downstairs—it's still there, right?"

"It is."

"After the New Year, I'll go eat a bowl there."

He Xiufen didn't answer. She dropped a dumpling into his bowl instead. "Eat more."

"The salt's light," He Xiufen said, dipping a dumpling. "Next time, half a spoon more."

"I think it's just right," Zhi'an said.

"That's because you've got shrimp flakes in your mouth."

Lu Jibai nudged the vinegar bottle closer to her hand, but didn't pour, didn't speak. She lowered her head and ate a dumpling. The first table by the noodle shop door had a chip of paint missing from the corner, showing a small patch of white wood underneath. She had eaten noodles there, and once they had shared a bowl sitting at that table.

After eight, she got up and went to the balcony to make a call. Sun Guilan answered slowly; a television murmured in the background.

"Auntie Sun, did you eat?"

"I did. I made dumplings by myself—a whole tray. Can't finish them all; I'll fry the rest for breakfast."

"After the New Year, once the office opens, we'll make a trip."

"Nothing's open right now."

"We'll go as soon as it opens. Keep that paper safe."

"It's safe. Pressed under the biscuit tin." The old woman paused. "Are you resting?"

"Two days."

"Good. You have to rest before you can run."

She hung up and stood on the balcony for a while. Firecrackers popped in the courtyard below—a string of them ending, then another string after a gap. Smoke climbed through the gaps between buildings.

Back inside, Zhi'an and Lu Jibai were clearing the table, stacking bowls one at a time and carrying them to the kitchen. He Xiufen stayed put, saying "I'll rest a minute" from the couch. Within five minutes her head was nodding, one hand still resting on her knee.

Shen Zhixia came out of the inner room with a blanket and spread it over her.

He Xiufen opened her eyes a sliver and pulled three red envelopes from the inner pocket of her coat.

"Lucky money. One for Zhi'an."

Zhi'an took it. "There's one for me?"

"I have no children. If I don't give it to you, who would I give it to?"

The second went to Zhixia; the third she held out to Lu Jibai. "Jibai, you too."

He took it, his hand pausing on the paper. "Thank you, Director He."

"Everyone who spends New Year's in front of my eyes gets one." She pulled the blanket up and glanced at Zhixia's hand. "It fits now."

"It does."

"Hands are thinner in winter. Summer, we'll see."

"Summer, we'll see."

At ten, the television was still going. She sat back down at the table, opened her notebook, wrote the date at the top of a page, set the pen down, and looked up.

"March 21st. We go register the marriage."

He Xiufen wasn't asleep on the couch; she made a low sound of acknowledgment.

"You signed your name once that day," she said, looking at him. "This time you sign a different thing."

Lu Jibai set the rag in his hand on the table. He stood still for a few seconds.

"All right."

"I'm not scheduling anything that morning."

"Nine o'clock," she said. "It opens at nine."

"I'll be downstairs by eight-forty."

He Xiufen sat up a little straighter. "For registration—do you need the household register?"

"Not anymore. Just ID cards."

"Not anymore?" She looked as if she'd misheard. "In my day, the household register and that letter from your work unit—miss one and they wouldn't do it."

"It's handled nationally now," she said. "No need to go back to the place of registration, no household register. I called the window a couple days ago to ask."

"Asking first—that's right. Only the word of someone who's asked counts." He Xiufen leaned back against the couch. "Those four copies of the charter—Lawyer Li has them under the paperweight."

"Until the office opens."

"Until the office opens." He Xiufen said. "First thing after the New Year: submit the materials."

"What day, exactly?"

"The day they open. Don't go first morning—too crowded."

"Noted."

"The purchasing point in the suburbs—when are you going?" He Xiufen asked.

"After the New Year. First trip."

"Think you'll get anything out of them?"

"Doesn't matter if I don't—I'm going anyway. The old woman made nine trips. I haven't made one."

"I'll go with you," Lu Jibai said.

He Xiufen glanced at him, said nothing, and tugged the blanket up.

"April 9th," she said after a while. "The noodle shop closes for one day."

"All right."

"I'll set the tables myself—two pushed together, seats twenty. Noodles for whoever comes, a bowl for everyone. Nothing else."

"All right," she said.

"Don't do any work that day." He Xiufen looked at her.

"What day do I ever do work?"

"What day don't you."

Past eleven, the firecrackers thickened. Zhi'an cracked the window open a sliver; cold air rushed in, mixed with the smell of gunpowder. He Xiufen woke and checked her watch. "Almost there."

"About twenty minutes still."

At exactly midnight, everything down below went off at once. The glass shook, and the flowerpot on the windowsill shifted. Zhi'an leaned over the sill to look, then turned back. "Someone's setting off those long strips down there—they keep shooting straight up."

"Close the window—it's cold."

"Wait a little."

The noise thinned to a few scattered pops, and in the distance one string kept going without pause. Zhi'an turned from the window, a tuft of hair sticking up from the wind.

"Jie, Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year."

He straightened slightly and turned to Lu Jibai. "Lawyer Lu, Happy New Year."

Lu Jibai set his cup down. "Zhi'an, Happy New Year."