Crying with laughter, living with death as constant companion — Yu Hua, Alive.
He dreamed he was very young, five or six years old, sitting at the end of a bed. A warm radiator stood on one side; a woman leaned against the other.
He did not dare lean fully against her belly. Instead, he rested his head lightly, vainly, on her arm, clinging to an illusion of intimate dependence.
The woman was truly beautiful, no less lovely than the big stars on television. She had an oval face, fair skin, and soft, neat eyebrows.
In her hand was a tattered old book, and she was reading the story to him carefully.
She seemed poorly educated, her reading skills limited. She stumbled through simple fairy tales, often pausing awkwardly between sentences, yet she appeared quietly pleased. One hand held the book, the other rested gently on her stomach; her voice was sweet and clear, her expression calm and beautiful.
“…The children went together to the other side of the mountain and found a brook. It flowed merrily from east to west, gurgling as if speaking: ‘O foolish children, here lie fragrant pastries, golden roasted chickens, and countless sweets, hanging colorful upon the trees like stars in the sky — more than you could ever pick. But here also lurk man-eating demons, waiting to fatten you like round little lambs and swallow you whole.’”
“At first the boys dared not cross. They stayed on this side of the brook, surviving on tasteless wild mushrooms and sour, unripe wild strawberries. Then one day, the oldest boy muttered to himself: ‘I cannot bear this any longer. How wonderful it would be to taste the pastries, roasted chicken, and endless sweets across the water.’”
“He was the first to leap over the brook. He ate his fill in the beautiful woods, then returned that night, telling the others there were no man-eating demons. The next day, the oldest girl thought the same. She followed him, ate her fill, and returned with him, insisting they had seen no demons.”
“One by one, the children crossed to enjoy the fine food. A day passed, then a month — still no demon appeared. They laughed loudly at the babbling brook and settled together on the other side, wandering freely through the woods every day, feasting on delicacies and sweets. Only the youngest boy stayed behind. No matter how his plump companions shouted from across the water, he refused to take a single step forward.”
“Every day the children who had crossed called to him: ‘Come here! The brook lied! There are no man-eating monsters. Life here is paradise!’ But the youngest boy remained unmoved. He continued gathering mushrooms and wild strawberries. He remembered his grandmother’s warning before he left home: there is no free lunch in the world. Unreasonable comfort is the deadliest trap in the wilderness.”
“Suddenly one night, the youngest boy heard a terrifying roar. He jolted awake. Opening his eyes, he saw the brook had swollen violently, splitting the earth apart into a vast ocean.”
The demon’s howl echoed: “Little lambs, round little lambs… I’ll eat you in one bite! Don’t run — not one of you escapes!”
The youngest boy rubbed his eyes and watched in horror. His companions, fat and slow, were chased by a mountain-sized demon. Before they could reach the shore, they were caught and devoured one by one. All had fallen into the deadliest trap. Only the youngest boy survived, passing down the story.
The yellowed pages turned. The unfinished story ended. The woman exhaled softly, as if finishing a great task, and said casually to Wei Qian, who leaned against her:
“So, people must not live too comfortably. Once you grow fat and lazy, eating and idling away each day… you are not far from death.”
Her gentle but coarse voice was cut short by a sharp bell. Wei Qian jolted awake, eyes flying open, springing up from the bed.
It was 5:30 in the morning. Dawn had not yet broken.
Wei Qian was still trapped in the dream — half beautiful, half nightmare.
His head throbbed with sleep deprivation. He dragged himself up like a lifeless dog, slipped on his slippers, and crushed a cockroach crawling arrogantly on his bedframe. Then he hopped on one leg to the faucet, rinsed his shoe soles, and shuffled to wash his hands, rinse the rice, and cook porridge in a dented little pot.
He poked his head out the window. Downstairs, Mazi’s breakfast stall was already open, the fryer heating up.
Wei Qian let out a long whistle, not caring if he woke the neighbors, and shouted: “Pockmarked! Get brother three fried dough sticks!”
As soon as he finished, a window above opened. A fat man with a toothbrush mumbled: “Six for me — pick big, thick ones!”
It was San Pang from upstairs. Already round as a ball, he still proudly called himself a “bottomless bowl.” His mindset was truly extraordinary.
Wei Qian thought San Pang was far less heroic than Liu Gen. He tilted his head and yelled: “Pig! Out of the pen early! Very dedicated!”
San Pang’s mouth was full of toothpaste foam. He could not reply, only managed a lazy “paw” to flip Wei Qian the middle finger.
Pockmarked’s father had died long ago. He was an orphan living with his widowed mother, who sold breakfast for a living. Pockmarked got up early every day to help fry dough sticks. He was used to his friends’ noisy bickering at dawn.
He wiped his hands on his apron, said nothing, and smiled, waving to the two upstairs to signal he heard. Pockmarked stammered — he rarely spoke loudly in public.
With breakfast ordered, Wei Qian rushed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, beginning his busy, miserable day.
He let the porridge cool while getting dressed, jogged downstairs with change to pick up the fried dough sticks, then returned to wake his little sister Xiaobao. He watched her finish breakfast, carried her upstairs to San Pang’s mother, and slapped away her hand as she tried to suck her fingers.
Then Wei Qian pedaled his worn bicycle to school.
It was the day of his middle school entrance exam.
Wei Qian never knew his father — not what he looked like, not even his face. His only impression: a total bastard. That was what his mother had repeated into his ear for over ten years.
Allegedly, the shameless old man was still in prison, labeled a “rapist.” No one knew when he would be released — and Wei Qian did not care. A useless ex-con was nothing but a burden on society.
Wei Qian secretly hoped the bastard would be beaten to death by fellow inmates before his sentence ended.
One victim of that criminal was Wei Qian’s mother… and Wei Qian himself, indirectly.
Young and foolish, his mother had dropped out of school and hung around hooligans, wandering drunk late at night. She was targeted by the convict, assaulted, and then — even more foolishly — became pregnant with Wei Qian.
Logically, Wei Qian understood why she had never loved him. He thought it was only maternal instinct that kept her from strangling him at birth. A miracle of biology.
Still, she had barely raised him.
Yet despite everything, Wei Qian hated her from the bottom of his heart.
Hated her every single day, like clockwork — hated her enough to eat her flesh and drink her blood.
But… he still craved her warmth. And when she occasionally gave it, he felt overwhelming happiness. Then he hated himself even more, thinking he was born flawed, born cheap.
His mother was out night after night. Her work was ancient, traditional, and deeply shameful in China: prostitution. It brought Wei Qian endless humiliation. In her shameless words, the job’s benefit was simple: she slept with men and they paid her.
The rapist father had destroyed her youth, twisted her inside out, made her increasingly unashamed.
As her “son,” Wei Qian’s childhood was endless suffering.
His mother left every night cursing, returning only at dawn. She would dig her long nails into him, yank him out of bed. If she was in a good mood, she screamed insults at his father, ancestors, and everyone. If in a bad mood, she slapped him. Drunk, she would order little Wei Qian — shorter than the table — to fetch her food.
Many times, Wei Qian bought rat poison, ready to mix it into the rice and die with her. But he never went through with it. Because sometimes, very rarely, she acted like a mother: holding him softly, watching TV, whispering warm words in his ear.
On good nights, she would even bring him two jianbing on her way home.
Those moments were rare, but they made young Wei Qian feel cherished. In those seconds, he could not kill her. She was his mother, after all.
His mother was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen — yet that beauty brought him no honor.
But she was the only real mother he would ever have. If he killed her, she would be gone forever. He could not bear it.
So they lived: hating each other, yet dependent on each other.
When Wei Qian was five, his mother remarried. His stepfather was an honest man, poor and unskilled. He was not warm to Wei Qian, but never abused him.
When Wei Qian turned six, his stepfather sent him to primary school, driving him on an old heavy bicycle.
Wei Qian called him “Uncle.”
After Uncle arrived, his mother instantly “put down her old ways.” She stopped fooling around, washed off her makeup, tied up her long hair, quit drinking entirely, and calmed her temper.
She became a normal woman. A normal mother.
That winter, she even knitted a sweater for him with her own hands. He wore it only one winter — he grew too fast — but he kept it carefully in his cabinet. It was almost the only gift he ever received as a child.
Children of six or seven usually ran wild, but Wei Qian was obedient as a dog. He never spoke out of turn, never asked for anything. If adults did not give, he did not beg. When he needed money at school, he borrowed first, then earned it back by doing odd jobs at pool halls and game centers: picking up balls, serving drinks.
He befriended many older punks. The owners thought he was small, clever, and good at reading moods, so they kept him around like a little mascot.
Wei Qian did not mind. He was content. At school, he learned he was “a flower of the motherland.” This life felt acceptable.
He constantly feared Uncle would grow tired of him, divorce his mother, and send him back to his old hell.
When Wei Qian was seven and a half, his mother gave birth to a baby girl.
She looked exactly like Uncle — which meant plain. But the family doted on her completely.
Born in spring, his parents thought names like “Chun” or “Liu” were too common. Together, they had less than nine years of education. They spent over a week thinking, finally choosing a name they thought poetic: Song Lili.
Song was Uncle’s surname. Lili — from the “li” of “grass.” Her nickname was Xiaobao.
But Wei Qian almost never called her by that name. For her whole life, he only called her Xiaobao.
“Lili” sounded like “departure,” not “gathering.” He had never heard a family name their child so inauspiciously.
His illiterate mother and stepfather were too busy spoiling her to notice.
That unlucky name would stay with the little girl her entire life, as if foreshadowing that life and death would weave through her fragile existence from beginning to end.