The feeble morning light
of the sun rested lightly on the mountaintops that enclosed the valley—richly
verdant, poised like a fine emerald held in place by the surrounding spires—and
the not-yet-glistening river gurgled quietly as it ran under the arched bridges
of Shenling. The airy notes of what sounded like a woodwind
orchestra of melodious birdsong drifted through the morning air, discreetly
floating through the open windows and into the bedrooms of the townspeople.
The roads were of trodden soil, flanked on either side by
yellowed tufts of grass. Once could see, on the side nearest the river, worn
paths leading down to the river, which was lined with irregular clumps of
reeds. The quiet gurgle of the river was occasionally interrupted by a weak
cough—the slap of a fish returning to the water after a failed attempt at
flight. The air of Shenling was crisp and refreshing, as this small city had
the fortune of being located relatively far from major metropolitan trade
centers and the effects of rapid globalization had, for the most part, been
kept at bay by the steep mountains that enclosed it.
The houses that sit on either side of the river, opposite
the roads, have tiled roofs and whitewashed plaster walls, except for the
occasional house of bare brick, which immediately catches the eye. Glass
windows are largely absent from these homes, their spaces occupied instead by
only a mesh screen or paper shade—since the temperature never drops to
freezing, there is no need for insulated panes. Doors are mass market aluminum
with a single chain deadbolt attached to the inside.
Urged
forward by the inevitable desire to bring warmth and life, the sun’s rays had
timidly crept further down the eastern-facing mountains and were nearing the
paddies and fields on the outskirts of town. The pastoral orchestra was
beginning to take shape: the brass-like tones of the cicadas had begun to
sound, commencing preparation for their unbridled afternoon crescendo; the
rhythmic percussive beats of the few cars and work trucks in town could be
heard, at first pianissimo, then a
slow crescendo to forte, a sudden sforzando beat as they crossed a particularly rough patch, then diminuendo e rallentando as they reached the town’s borders; the lowing cattle
were the bass viols, and the various sounds of other domesticated farm animals
rounded out the rest of the orchestra-sans-conductor of the valley.
A sense of overwhelming calm and serenity was ubiquitous
in Shenling. Residents often looked weathered by a lifetime of hardship and
manual labor, but the vast majority seemed genuinely happy, and it was
difficult not to assume that a sense of conviviality united the people of
Shenling—that regardless the hardship or difficulty of circumstance, a helping
hand and a caring heart would always be within earshot. The jewel-like qualities of Shenling and the
almost immaculate beauty of nature that surrounded it seemed to have
hypostatized in the residents of this quiet mountain town who were quick to
smile, and even quicker to share dinner and baijiu.
On this Friday, November 11, 1994 at 4:19 in the afternoon, Wu Mingyun and Wu Meide gave birth to their first and only son, whom they
named Wu
Xiaohui .
