【A Tale of a First-Class Hero】: Against the Current (3)

(III)
She resembled Guanyin Bodhisattva in paintings by a large margin, her graceful demeanor flowing with a captivating charm. Two shallow dimples
framed her sparkling phoenix eyes, and I immediately noticed her delicate features, as well as the faint traces of youthful melancholy at her temples.
************
The university I attend is located in the provincial capital, an ancient city. Although it doesn't rival the renowned fame of Beijing,
it's still considered one of the best universities in the country. Back then, my father, due to financial constraints, couldn't afford to go north and had to choose a university closer to home.
Now, I've come to this university with its rich cultural heritage, albeit with a lower admission score, simply because it's closer to home
, and most importantly, my uncle is an official in this city.
My father accompanied me to register at the university. His workplace is located in the south and north of the city, respectively, and
he took leave today to come with me. I knew that some of his former classmates and friends worked at the university, one of whom
was Professor Xu Danqiu, a renowned scholar in China. Professor Xu was a close friend of my father, and the three of them—my father, my uncle, and myself—were known as the "Three
Musketeers," a group that dominated the academic world and attracted countless admirers.
That day felt like the hottest part of summer; the sun was scorching hotter than a blazing umbrella, and everything in the world seemed to be suffocating. My
father helped me carry my luggage into my assigned dormitory, panting heavily, the veins on his forehead turning a purplish-red,
bulging out.
"It's too hot. Let's go to Old Xu's for a cup of tea." Sweat soaked my father's reddish-brown
face. He looked up at the dull clouds in the sky. "Son, you arrived a day early, and there's no one in the dormitory. Put
your things here, and let's go to Uncle Xu's for a meal."
Uncle Xu's Hidden Building was located in the southwest suburbs of the university; the house was Westernized, but inside it was a place of subtle fragrance and quiet beauty. A thought flashed through my mind
: amidst these vibrant red blossoms and lush greenery, a beautiful woman must be sleeping, whispering sweet nothings. Before the thought had even settled, a languid voice drifted from inside the room
: "You must be Teacher Lu. Danqiu has a meeting, so she asked me to wait for you at home."
The voice was sweet and slightly nasal, so alluring that my lower body tensed, my scrotum twitching—
a phenomenon I'd never experienced since adulthood.
I couldn't explain why I was so unable to control myself; perhaps the river of lust had always flowed within me
, something I was born with, primal and pure. She resembled Guanyin in paintings, her graceful
figure flowing with a captivating charm. Two shallow dimples framed her sparkling phoenix eyes, and I noticed
her delicate features, and the faint, melancholy hair at her temples.
"It seems Teacher Lu likes green tea." Her delicate hands moved deftly; the bright green leaves of pre-Qingming tea floated in the glass,
the white foam that instantly rose as she brewed it resembling the alluring, shimmering beauty of a woman in bloom. I gazed at her; she must
be a woman from the Republican era. If she wore my mother's light purple silk cheongsam, with a jade hairpin adorning her round bun
, her soft voice and gentle smile would make her a perfect subject of a delicate, pastel-painted portrait of a lady.
I simply lowered my head to savor this young woman, thinking to myself, "Her cold beauty surpasses even the snow, her lingering fragrance suddenly enters her clothes
..." I imagined this woman with an antique charm, delicate pink hues, and exquisite, dignified features...
My father, who always loved to indulge in affectation, was looking at an oil painting hanging in the center of the hall. It depicted a
water town in Jiangnan, with rich colors rendered in bold strokes, creating a misty rain scene. The shadows of trees and
people on both sides of the stone bridge seemed to be moving, and as the small boats passed by, the rhythms of Song and Yuan dynasty poems seemed to emerge. I recited softly, "The song
ends, the Songling Ferry is over, looking back at the fourteen bridges shrouded in mist." Then, pointing to the oil painting, I said to my father, "Dad,
my name is embedded in this painting."
She turned around in surprise, her eyes sparkling, "Really? Little brother, what's your name?"
My father chimed in, "Huiyan, you don't know, do you? His name is Lu Songqiao. It's a good thing this lad is quite clever, actually
recognizing the essence of the old man Songling's brushstrokes." A hint of pride appeared on his face, as if I had added to his
glory.
He didn't notice that the moment our eyes met, a hint of shyness flashed in her eyes,
her pretty face inexplicably flushed, and she quickly turned to speak to my father, "Oh, Teacher Lu comes from a family with a rich artistic tradition, truly remarkable."
My thoughts paused there, and amidst the surging emotions, I deeply inhaled the fragrance of fallen leaves in the wind, mingling with the faint,
alluring scent emanating from Huiyan. Ah, Mother, I am about to defy the ethics and morals of this world once again.
I cannot resist this pure radiance; the branches of desire sprout densely with tender leaves. Knowing the secrets of passion, my
eyes are filled with her elegant grace. So much so that when Professor Xu returned home, I only then came to my senses, feeling a slight melancholy, as if I had already
been reincarnated for sixty years.
I had seen Xu Danqiu in a framed photograph at home. He looked older in person than in the photo, in his early fifties, with fair skin accentuated by
a white shirt. His delicate gold-rimmed glasses made his slender, ruddy face appear even more refined. His voice was deep and
slow, with a distinct local accent. This air about him was unmatched by my teachers from middle school, and he
lacked the typical aloofness and clamor of Shanghainese.
"Come, come, Old Lu, I recently acquired something; come and admire it," Xu Danqiu said
, throwing down his briefcase as soon as he entered and pulling his father's hand towards the study.
Huiyan smiled faintly, "That's just how he is. When he gets something good, he always wants someone to share it with him. I
don't know much about it, but since your father is here, it's a good opportunity for him to enjoy himself." I still love her gentle smile; the hazy lines of her smile are
like moonlight through pale clouds, embracing a radiant elegance.
"I heard that Teacher Lu likes pork hock, so I bought some. Xiaoqiao, what do you like to eat?" Huiyan seemed
unconcerned by my enthusiastic gaze, smiling sweetly at me, then pretending to smile at a house outside the window.
The wind blowing in from the window ruffled her hair. "Can you help me in the kitchen?"
I was overjoyed. I was happy to be able to serve this beautiful lady, and also happy that this home-style dish was something I was good at.
In my hometown, braised pork hock is often stewed in a clay pot, often with Jinhua ham, and is called "Golden and Silver Pork Hock." My mother
was skillful and clever. She once recreated the braised pork hock from Wang Xifeng's room in *Dream of the Red Chamber*, producing a mouthwatering dish.
Its color was like rouge, exuding an enticing aroma, a fragrance with a quiet, unassuming quality—unpretentious
and understated, only releasing its full, steady scent with each bite. The first time I tasted it, however, I was reminded of the rich, yet
not greasy, pine resin from my mother's crotch, its aroma overwhelming and irresistible.
"Alright. The first step in cooking pig's trotters is removing the pig hair, I'll do it. Someone as ethereal as Sister Huiyan should
stay away from such food."
"What ethereal person? You're so sweet-talking! No manners... You should call me Auntie, you know?" Huiyan scolded
me, but her eyes held a charming allure. The sunlight streaming through the window shone on her, turning her skin a wine-red hue, exuding
a delicate and refined aura.
"Sister, you're about my age, don't make yourself sound old, or someone might beat you to death without you even knowing
it." I chuckled, walked to the sink, put the pig's trotter in the drain, and started plucking the pig hair. "Sister
, you don't know, do you? My mom is the best at cooking pig's trotters. She has so many different ways of making them, and she's even made
them according to descriptions in ancient books. Recently, she even made one based on the recipe in 'Dream of the Red Chamber,' and my dad ate
it so well... sigh, don't even mention it, I can't even describe it. When you have time, I'll ask Mom to make it for you."
Huiyan stared at me for a long time, then smiled sweetly, "You don't look like your dad, you must look like your
mom... Your mom must be very skillful."
"That's right. My mom uses one of those earthenware pots, and the pig's trotters are braised in it for a long time. The meat becomes smooth and tender, and
the meat easily separates from the bone with chopsticks, melting in your mouth. Whenever you come to my house, Sister Huiyan, there's always some."
"I told you, call her Auntie." Huiyan suddenly blushed, glanced at the study a few times, and
gently tapped my forehead with her index finger.
I smiled but didn't agree. I buried my head in tidying up the fine hairs on the pig's trotters. Though we were in the kitchen,
a faint, elegant fragrance wafted from Huiyan's clothes, a scent belonging to a moment in summer, a moment that
belonged only to Huiyan and me.
"Sister, when no one's around, I'll call you 'sister,' and when others are around, I'll call you 'auntie,' okay?"
"You've already called me that, how dare you say it again… Fine, that's fine." Huiyan's tone was calm, seemingly unconcerned.
The cicadas chirped loudly, dragging out the long, melancholic sounds of summer.
I gazed at her, mesmerized. With her delicate eyes, exquisite nose , and flawless skin, this woman should only exist in heaven; why was she banished to the mortal realm?
"Sister, do you believe in fate?" I slowly walked behind her, inhaling the fragrance of her hair. I imagined my breath
must be scorching; her body trembled, she didn't answer, but simply nodded gently.
"Your name is also embedded in the painting, isn't it?" I moved closer, pressing against her. She trembled,
leaning against the kitchen cabinet, her fragrance wafting and gently spreading before my eyes.
"I've always believed that fate has an unseen hand, always stirring up ceaseless waves of emotion." I
leaned closer to her, my tongue lightly licking her earlobe.
She suddenly turned around, pushing me away—not forcefully, but firmly.
"Don't do this, I'm your aunt." Her gaze wandered, glancing towards the study, though
the kitchen door was ajar, and the sounds of her father and his wife laughing and talking could still be heard from inside.
"I'll go get some water, you do it." She hurriedly carried the kettle out, but in her slender figure, I could see
her panic, her confusion, and a hint of shy joy in her eyes.
Sex is my addiction. It breaks free from the constraints of reality and the constraints of morality, like a dried-up fish returning to the ocean, a bird caught in a net
flying back to the forest. Especially when I was seventeen, my mother and I broke free of the shackles of morality and
escaped the prison of worldly conventions. The freedom granted by sex allowed me to cultivate beautiful flowers on the impossible granite,
flowers that, though poisonous, were still sweet to the touch.
How could I let her go? When her beautiful face was filled with astonishment, I saw
joy and a soft moan in her dark eyes. Fate had decreed that we could not escape our destined drifting, that a fiery passion would erupt between us
. Later, I reflected on my recklessness and impulsiveness, realizing it was to confirm a dream Huiyan had had. She said, "I
live as if to excavate a dream from my past life. Someone keeps calling my name in my dreams, standing
at the end of a long corridor, bright yet soft light streaming down, illuminating his radiant face. He is tall and handsome
, breathtaking."
She said I was the person in her dream.
As I put the pork hock into the pressure cooker to simmer, the sun shone brightly high in the sky. I stepped out of the kitchen and into the courtyard.
On the other side of the courtyard wall stood a love tree, and beneath it stood a stunningly beautiful woman. She wore a thin silk cheongsam with delicate white
floral patterns, her once-updo now cascading down like a waterfall, like satin. She
was tending to a pot of jasmine and a pot of magnolia, their delicate and profound fragrance far
beyond the reach of a mortal like myself. Their natural scents filled the air, making one's mind wander. I closed my eyes, feeling the surging desire
within me, a powerful urge that made me tightly shut my lips, afraid that even a crack
would utter a thousand obscene words defiling this beautiful world.
"Compared to that, I prefer the osmanthus. Its fragrance is pure and elegant when it blooms, exuding a noble air. The magnolia's scent is
too rich, and the jasmine's too strong." I came up behind her, the intoxicating aroma even more captivating. My
heart pounded, and I felt an unprecedented anxiety, helplessness, and unease.
She slowly turned her head and said to me, "Actually, I was listening to the cicadas. I like cicadas; they perch high in the treetops,
feeding on the wind and dew, untouched by worldly concerns—they are the hermits of the winged family."
I was stunned. The kind of emotion I had longed for suddenly arrived, my heart instantly filled with a piercing
ecstasy, accompanied by a sweet, indescribable thrill—a faint call from the depths of my soul.
"That's why I like summer, especially listening to the cicadas in the morning; it makes them seem even more noble. Qiao'er, you like osmanthus, you must
also like its serene imagery, right?" Her eyelashes were long and dark, carrying a seductive allure of summer fantasies and languid charm.
"Didn't a writer once say, 'Spring is like a magnificent piece of parallel prose; summer is like a quatrain
'?" I listened, following her lead—listening is an art, especially capturing the subtle melancholy in her words, a
lingering tenderness that seemed to overflow.
She simply stared at me, a hint of longing, a touch of worry, and a strange, poignant
emotion in her eyes.
"Sister, listening to the cicadas at midday is too noisy. I'll come over later to keep you company, we can take a walk and listen to the cicadas at
dusk in the summer."
"Ah, Qiao'er... Qiao'er..." She sighed softly, her breath as fragrant as orchids, appearing and disappearing before my eyes,
dissipating into poetry, like drifting smoke, trailing on the wind, beautiful yet so desolate.
"Do you know? I'm your Uncle Xu's student, and also his second wife," she murmured.
"Yes. Uncle Xu also has a daughter, she should be a senior in high school this year." I gazed at her; she had long, slender
hands, delicate fingers, seemingly born for art. I knew she majored in piano, having chosen to study
classical literature, Uncle Xu's major. Their illicit affair, a teacher-student relationship, had caused quite a stir. Not long after, Uncle Xu's first wife
died in bitterness, leaving behind a five-year-old daughter, Xu Sujun.
The flickering flames cast shadows on the osmanthus tree and her jade-like face. She sighed softly, "Don't underestimate her just because she
was young then; she still hates me to this day. She thinks I killed her mother." This scene lingered in my mind's eye;
her face softly flushed, gradually transforming into a rosy photograph. I stared at her, mesmerized, in the blazing midday heat.
"Alas, it's fate! Qiao'er, do you know? I thought I had found it..." She hesitated, then
slowly shook her head. "Let's go. They should have finished talking by now."
I stared, drawn to her sorrowful expression. In a daze, a wave crashed through the air, transforming into a sharp sword that pierced
my body. In that instant, I knew what pain was!

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