Old Town Read Online Free PDF Page B

of something. I was worried that he would start some tiresome sermon, so I stole a march on him by asking, “You won’t drop this arrangement of me working with you because I’m not a Christian, will you?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I will seriously and sincerely deal with this question of faith. Let me think it over by myself. Is that all right?”
    “I’ll respect your wishes.”
    Joseph smiled as he gazed at me. And in that smile I read tolerance and sympathy. I knew that in the eyes of Christians, a person who had not accepted Jesus Christ the Savior was truly pitiable. Joseph’s dark eyes radiated a mild and tranquil luster. His eyes were so clear and pure, I felt indescribably moved, as if a mute string had been plucked in the innermost depths of my heart. I had made a living out in the wide world for so many years now and had dealt with people of every shape and shade. I had gotten used to watching the greedy and cruel eyes of jackals and wolves pursuing their prey. I always had to be on my guard, but in spite of this, I still became a tasty snack for those beasts. No, this isn’t saying it right. I too am one of those greedy jackals and wolves. I’d skin a flea for what I could get and take the meat from another person’s mouth. I am a sorry loser in the arena of life.

3.
     
    T HE TRAIN SET off with a long blast of its whistle. Chaotic feelings of kindness and grievance, love and hate, stayed outside on the platform and gradually receded into the distance along with that forest-like cluster of buildings. My thoughts cut across time and space to linger on Old Town. It wasn’t the little modern city I had seen five years ago. It was the kind you’d see in a faded old photograph, one from a more distant time in the pitter-pattering of that never-ending drizzly rain.
    Let me close my eyes and search for the first impressions of Old Town. I see my grandfather standing by the little coal stove boiling cow’s milk for me. In those days, each family could order only one bottle of milk. I often drank milk under the gaze of my cousins who were fairly drooling with envy. I didn’t like the layer of film that congealed from the milk fat so Grandpa or Grandma always used their chopsticks to skim off the film. I didn’t understand why the only bottle of milk had to be given to me. I still couldn’t grasp that I received such special treatment because my life was special. With my parents divorced, Grandpa, Grandma, and my uncles felt an extraordinary tenderness toward me, their little orphan girl. Giving me the milk had been the unanimous decision of the whole family.
    I can also recall impressions that were even earlier than those of drinking milk. I was playing by the side of the well. I wasn’t much taller than the height of the rock wall around the mouth of the well. Stretching my head forward to look down into the well, I saw the faces of a little girl and boy reflected side-by-side on the surface of the water. The little boy’s name was Chaofan. The year I turned three, Mother crossed the entire vastness of China and brought me all the way from the northwest frontier to Old Town. So I speak in a “northern guy” style. The little boy said, “This is a well. Your granny washes clothing here.” The little boy took hold of the front of my jacket and repeated, “Clothing.”
    This was the first scene I captured and held in my memory. Chaofan walks out of my hazy memories, and, true to vivid life, appears right before my eyes. I see Chaofan in his childhood years. I see his sad eyes. His sadness has enveloped my fate from the start. Even though we have broken up for more than ten years now, I still can’t shake off his presence in my mind.
    For a long time I never mentioned to anybody this man who has haunted me my entire life. Only my relatives in Old Town who still live in the past suppose we are a devoted and affectionate couple. From time to time, I get a telephone call from Mother and hear her ask,