The Sound of Spring

By G.X. Chen

The Sound of Spring is a historical love story against the background of the final months of the Cultural Revolution. It touches on China’s history and political problems in the era following the development and rupture of a love affair between the protagonists, Du Chun Ming and Fang Si Jun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.X. Chen
• Release date: Jan 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463694312

G.X. Chen

G.X. Chen, author of the Back Bay Investigation mystery series and others novels, is a freelance writer, world traveler and amateur photographer. She lives in the beautiful city of Boston with her husband, Steve.

Book preview

The Sound of Spring

COPY RIGHT 2020 BY G.X. CHEN

Smashwords Edition

G.X. Chen

1

In my dream, I heard someone calling.

Chun Ming! The door had been softly knocked on twice. It was Mother’s voice, gentle and sweet: Are you awake?

Yes, Mom, I responded happily. I sat up and reached for the sweater that was resting on the nightstand and put it over my head. Oh, what a beautiful dream! I couldn’t help but close my eyes, reminiscing what I had dreamed, and felt my cheeks grow warm. It was so embarrassing! I opened my eyes and subconsciously touched my burning face, then quickly got dressed.

The sky was already bright, and I heard the occasional horns and beeps of cars and buses. I could almost tell the scene on the street below my window: cars moving alongside with the buses and trams; pedestrians rushing toward their destinations, some carrying satchels, some having newspapers under their arms, and some biting into a breakfast sandwich while hurrying along. The shops hadn’t opened their doors yet, but the windows were dutifully displaying various colorful merchandise.

I lifted the curtain and looked down. To my surprise, the street was almost empty. Not many cars and bicycles, even fewer pedestrians. Then I remembered: it was New Year’s Day, the first day of 1976! It seemed that the holiday had delayed the morning rush. As I looked across at the department store that sat on the corner of our street, I saw the leather display window and the black shoulder bag that he carried.

Why did I always have to think about him! I blushed, quickly putting down the curtain, carefully folding the quilt, and then pulling the cover over the bed.

Is she still in bed? It was my father’s voice, accompanied by Mother’s soft footsteps and the jingling sound of utensils in the kitchen.

I grinned, opened the door, and stood in the doorway, saying loudly, Dad, I’m up!

My father was sitting in the wicker chair in his study, reading a newspaper. Hearing my voice, he took off his reading glasses, looked up at me, and smiled.

It was a habit of my childhood: I ran over, kneeled beside him, and wished him a good morning while putting my head against his to take a peek at the headlines of the local newspaper.

Go and get yourself ready. We’re going to visit your uncle after breakfast, Father said, gently pushing me away.

Today? I looked at my father with widened eyes. Now?

He nodded.

I jumped up and grabbed his shoulders. Dad, can we go in the afternoon? I begged. I’m busy in the morning.

Busy? he squinted as he looked up.

Hmm… I blushed and paused. I’ll tell you tonight. I reached over and covered his eyes. So don’t ask me now, OK?

OK, OK, Father said with a laugh. Having broken free of my hands, he turned to me and teased: Now I have to think—what could possibly make my daughter blush?

Dad! I turned and ran into the bathroom.

His laughter followed me. I closed the door and looked in the mirror. My face was so red, it looked like an apple, and my heart was jumping so fast I could hear the heartbeats.

I washed my face carefully in front of the mirror. Fang Si Jun and I had arranged to meet this morning at the bus station for a trip to the Yu Garden. I had known him for four years, but this was the first time we were actually taking a day trip together. Every time I thought of him, my heart would jump and sing. I loved him so much!

When I was having breakfast, I noticed my father had been watching me. I smiled at him. As if to express my inner happiness, I naughtily stuffed a piece of pickled cucumber in my mother’s bowl when she wasn’t looking. When she found out after a few spoonsful of porridge, Father laughed.

Already twenty-two but acts like a three-year-old, Mother said, slapping the back of my hand with a smile.

All because of you who spoils her, Father said, pointing at me with his chopsticks. But from the eyes that were looking at me, I knew he loved me even more.

I hurriedly finished my bowl of porridge and said to my mother: Mom, I won’t be back for lunch.

Where are you going? she asked.

Ask Dad! I made a face at my father. Afraid of being detained with more questions, I turned and swiftly went out the door. As I rushed downstairs, I couldn’t help wondering what my parents would say about me. My father had probably guessed, but what would my mother think? Oh well, I had planned to tell them tonight anyway, even if they didn’t ask, because it was New Year’s Day. In the new year, I hoped that everything in my life would go smoothly.

*

I lifted my wrist and looked at my watch. It was five minutes to nine. From our home to the bus station took about five minutes, and I was sure that he was there already.

The northwest wind blew against the sycamore trees, passing through skinny branches, making angry moans and whimpers as I tightened my scarf around my neck, walking briskly toward the station with my head down.

The wind was so strong that it wrapped around me, blowing and messing with my hair with vigilance. To prevent it from fluttering wildly in the wind, I raised my hands to smooth it down. While doing so, I almost slammed into a passerby.

I’m sorry, I said without lifting my eyes and continued to push ahead.

However, after a few steps, I bumped into another. I was so mortified that I apologized profusely. I let go of my hands and raised my eyes. When I looked up, I was pleasantly surprised.

I got bumped twice before getting your attention, he said good-humoredly while looking at me with his smiling eyes.

I felt happiness sweeping from my cheeks to my ears and my forehead. I lowered my eyes and said softly, I didn’t know it was you!

I waited for a quarter of an hour at the station, thinking you might’ve forgotten. Finally, I decided to let my feet carry me over to your home. He held my hand and guided me toward the station.

I leaned on him and said, You must be cold after waiting for me for so long.

No, not at all, he said. If you don’t believe me, touch my hand. He took off one of his gloves and pressed his hand against mine. When I’m waiting for you, I feel warm inside even if it’s subzero outside, he whispered into my ear.

I glanced at him and blushed.

In Shanghai, the streets were super crowded on New Year’s Day—people going out with family and visiting relatives with children, carrying pastry boxes and fruit baskets as gifts, all in festive moods and attire. One of the busiest commercial streets was Huaihai Road, where my home was. People constantly poured into the stations from all directions, squeezing into one of the buses or streetcars, fighting for a space to sit or stand under the screaming of the conductor while being carried to their final destinations.

We stepped down from a crowded bus and headed toward the even-more-crowded Old City Temple. The Old City Temple was the name used by locals for the Yu Garden Shopping Mall. Everyone in Shanghai was familiar with the narrow strips of the alleyways zigzagging through the shopping mall, surrounded by hundreds of specialty shops.

The shops were all small and novel, offering a variety of items. The window of the knife and scissors shop displayed various large and small knives and scissors, from the tiny scissors that trim the eyebrows to the wide-mouth large scissors used by the gardeners; from the small kitchen knife for cutting meat to the big butcher knife for crushing the bones.

During the holidays, the toy store was particularly prosperous. In order to meet the needs of the children, a balloon booth was installed at the entrance of the store. Two store workers were busily filling the balloons with air, and a long queue had formed behind them. The children who had already bought theirs were happy, and the ones who hadn’t stared at the colorful balloons longingly. The tea shop in the mall was usually the quietest, but when it came to the holidays, business picked up.

Women generally liked to shop the new trends and styles at the fabric and department stores; elderlies were the regulars at the walking stick and bird shops; children, besides toy stores, loved the shops with candies and snacks. The Shanghai spiced beans sold in a specialty store were famous throughout the country, and the juicy buns from Nanqian restaurant were mouth-wateringly delicious.

During the holidays, children were always the happiest. Parents who were on a tight budget wouldn’t hesitate to spend money on their children, who were dressed up like little princes and princesses, holding balloons and dolls or carrying paper wind wheels all around the mall.

We squeezed into the shopping mall, following the crowds. To avoid being separated, he held my shoulders tightly. We leaned against each other and slowly moved forward.

If it wasn’t New Year’s Day, there might not be as many people as now, I said conversationally.

He nodded and said with a charming smile, Yes, but as long as you’re by my side, the whole place seems to have nobody but two of us…

I laughed. What he said was not strange to me—I had heard it in some movie. However, repeated by him, I thought it was very sweet.

Love is so charming and yet strange. As soon as you step into its magnetic field, you’ve been captured. It makes your soul sing and your mood sparkle; it makes the poet write brilliant poems and the artist paint beautiful pictures.

When he held my waist and pointed at the two big golden characters, telling me that we had arrived at our destination, I couldn’t help but laugh because I had no idea how we got there, aiming through wall-to-wall crowds and lost in my fantasizing daydreams.

Yu Garden was built by Pan Yunduan in the Ming dynasty to please his father Pan En, with the name Yu Yue Lao Qin literally meaning pleasing my old parent.

The garden was dominated by a huge rockery, structured of rocks and meteorites, surrounded by pools, pavilions, and buildings. A flower gallery twisted and turned along the foot of the rockery. The Cui Xiu Tang, next to the flower gallery, led to a footpath and a stone carving of Xi Shan Qing Sang.

This is the handwriting of Zhu Zhishan, in the Ming dynasty, he told me quietly, pointing to the stone carving. His voice sounded a bit strange, and my heart started racing. He had stopped talking as we entered the garden, and I could tell that he had something pressing to say because he looked flustered.

I could surely guess what must’ve been on his mind, which made me a bit nervous. I saw a lily pond in front of the flower gallery. I liked to watch goldfish, so I pulled him toward it. There were several couples sitting on the benches along the flower rows inside the gallery. Some of them were whispering, and some were just sitting and looking at each other lovingly. As we sat down quietly by the pond next to the flower gallery, our past was like a blue wave appearing in front of my eyes.

*

It was four years ago when I first stepped through the factory door.

I was as excited as a child and as shy as a kitten, meeting everyone in the factory with a blush and a smile. After a short welcoming party, the head of the factory announced the workplaces where we, the new workers, had been assigned to. Soon, all had been picked up by their supervisors except me. In a large conference room, I was left alone.

Ah! Your supervisor is sick today, said Yu Shan Zhang, the director of the revolutionary committee at the factory, having stared at me for a long time before realizing something was amiss. He patted his bald head and said, Oh well, I’ll call for someone else to take you there.

Lao Yu, I am going back to the workshop; I can accompany her. At that moment, a tall, twenty-something young man walked in from an office next door.

Great! Yu was so happy that he touched his nose and beamed a big smile. He pointed to the young man and said to me, This is the talent and the backbone of our political propaganda group in the factory.

My name is Fang Si Jun, he said politely.

I thanked him, grateful that he had taken the initiative to accompany me to the factory floor. I looked up at him shyly. He was very handsome, having long eyebrows, thin lips, a straight nose, and a pair of big black eyes.

He glanced at me and then smiled generously and said, Let’s go.

In this way, I met him on the first day that I entered the workforce.

On the way, he talked enthusiastically, introducing me to every possible aspect of my new workplace, from the distribution to the types of products it produced. He talked about the Communist Party, the organizations for workers, and himself. He was promoted to the administration team after two years because he could talk, write, and paint. He was very talkative, indeed, and he kept talking until he led me to the door of the workshop.

It felt hot inside because of the large oven in the middle of the room. At the work stations, workers were holding spray guns, adding multicolored paint to the white, unfinished ceramics according to the models and various kinds of porcelain, which were sent to the oven afterward. The finished goods, pots, plates, and cups that came out of the oven, were bright, smooth, and beautiful. I was fascinated as I observed the whole process.

Because the workshop was where he had worked for two years, and he knew all my coworkers, he came to visit whenever he had time. Before long, we became friends.

He told me that his father used to be a private medical practitioner before 1949. His practice had been merged into the People’s Hospital in 1956. Because his father was a respected specialist and had achieved a high degree of skill in treating eye diseases, he became the director of ophthalmology at the hospital. He also told me he liked painting, music, and literature, and he did seem to know something about every subject that was ever mentioned. When I told him that I liked to read, he started talking about famous books from around the world—from Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina to Romain Rolland’s Jean-Christophe; from Balzac’s Père Goriot to Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris.

We argued about the values presented in the books and analyzed the actions of the protagonists. If we couldn’t finish during the lunch break, we continued our discussion on our