Peaches and Plums Don’t Speak – Chapter 1

Mourning the Departed

Tao Anzhi¹ didn’t know at what age other people’s memories began. Hers started very early.

For instance, she had never seen her father or mother. She only had her Grandfather². For instance, she had the best and most amazing Grandfather in the whole world. He knew everything, teaching her to write, recite the multiplication table³, and memorize ancient poems.

Her Grandfather was a retired chemistry teacher, a kind and gentle man. Life in the small town was simple, but she was very happy. When the weather was nice, Grandfather would take her fishing on his bicycle. She would sit on the back seat, her little feet dangling as she counted the white clouds in the sky.

There were few people in the village, and almost everyone was related in a way that didn’t require an abacus to figure out. The Grandfather in Tao Anzhi’s memory had almost never lost his temper. He always had a smile on his face and was well-liked by everyone. Whenever he went for a walk, people would greet him from afar, calling out, “Teacher Tao.” Even when he bought groceries, he would be given more scallions, ginger, and garlic than others.

On Saturdays and Sundays, students would come to his house for tutoring. Sometimes he would even cook and have them stay for dinner. His cooking was first-rate, and many students even begged their parents to pay extra tutoring fees just so they could stay for his meals.

Such a good Grandfather, an omnipotent Grandfather.

Tao Anzhi clearly remembered that morning. It was her first day of kindergarten. She was wearing a new dress her Grandfather had bought for her, sitting obediently at the table drinking porridge. On the chair beside her was her brand-new schoolbag. It was pink, shaped like a rabbit, with two long, floppy ears. Grandfather had asked someone to buy it for her from town.

She loved it so much she had nearly slept with it on her back.

Halfway through the porridge, her Grandfather said with a smile, “Oh, right. I forgot to get Taotao⁴ her red eggs⁵.”

According to local custom, on a child’s first day of school, their parents would prepare two red eggs for them to eat at school.

Tao Anzhi never expected that this would be the last thing her Grandfather ever said to her.

Tao Anzhi waited for a while, but he didn’t come back. Suddenly, a dull thud came from the kitchen, like something heavy hitting the floor. She called out “Grandfather,” but there was no reply. She slid off her chair and pattered toward the kitchen.

She stopped at the doorway. A bright red egg rolled to her feet. She looked over in confusion. Her Grandfather was clutching another egg in his hand, and his face had already turned a bluish-gray.

Tao Anzhi did not go to kindergarten that day.

The events that followed were a complete blur. Someone came and changed her into white mourning clothes and made her wear hemp⁶. The elders of the clan moved her Grandfather into the ancestral hall⁷.

She just sat alone on a bench in the ancestral hall, her ears filled with all kinds of sounds—crying, wailing, and people discussing the burial, cremation, and other such things.

And those people she called First Paternal Aunt and First Maternal Aunt were whispering not far away:

“I heard it was a sudden heart attack. He went quickly. When Old Yang’s family’s⁸ son came to deliver the gas, the body was already cold…”

“Poor Teacher Tao. Have they notified his daughter? I heard she’s in Beicheng City⁹?”

“Teacher Tao’s daughter? I haven’t seen her in years. Sigh, she’s so thoughtless. Had a daughter at such a young age and just dumped her with Teacher Tao. The child is already six, and she hasn’t come back to see her even once…”

“What’s the story with that, anyway? Where’s the child’s father? Why does she have Teacher Tao’s surname?”

“Quiet down, the kid’s still here…”

The voices, which had been getting louder, were deliberately lowered, turning into a rustling whisper.

Quiet and sharp.

“Giving birth out of wedlock¹⁰.” “The other party is rich, wouldn’t acknowledge the child… that’s why she was registered under the Tao family’s household.”

Although Tao Anzhi was small, her Grandfather had already taught her to recognize many words. She understood a surprising amount of what they were saying.

She didn’t make a sound.

Grandfather was lying in that “wooden box,” changed into another set of his clothes. She had seen them before; they were the ones he rarely wore, ironed perfectly straight and smooth. He had loved to smile when he was alive, but now his face was the color of ash wood, though his lips seemed to be turned up at the corners.

This way, “he passed more peacefully,” that’s what those people said.

And these people were still talking endlessly beside him.

Grandfather had told her before: children shouldn’t interrupt when adults are talking.

So she didn’t interrupt.

But Grandfather couldn’t stand up and stop them now, either.

Tao Anzhi slowly lowered her head.

She sat there, motionless, in her pale funeral garments. Her small body was like a stiff little statue.

The adults around her came and went, busying themselves with funeral arrangements. An elder noticed her and brought her something to eat.

When night fell, she wanted to stay for the wake, but she was too young to have a say¹¹ and was sent to spend the night at the home of a clan elder in the village.

The next day, Tao Anzhi arrived at the mourning hall early. Following the adults’ instructions, she offered incense, knelt, and burned paper money.

Although it was early autumn, the summer heat was still vicious. The body could not be left out for too long. It had to be taken for the funeral procession and cremation, after which the urn could be placed in the village’s ancestral hall.

Tao Anzhi’s Grandfather had lost his wife early and had only one daughter and one granddaughter. He had passed away before the age of sixty, so it couldn’t be considered a joyful funeral¹²; everything had to be kept simple.

But no matter how simple, there still had to be filial sons and daughters to wear sackcloth and mourning clothes¹³. The elder in charge asked with a hint of anger, “What’s going on? How is it that the Tao family’s daughter isn’t here yet? So unfilial! ‘While your parents are alive, do not travel afar’¹⁴! Now her parent is gone, so where’s she?”

The old man was seventy-five. He had fought the Japanese devils in his youth, served several terms as the Village Party Secretary¹⁵, and gone into business. He held great prestige in the village. The younger generation all called him “Grand Uncle¹⁶,” and few of them dared to talk back when he got angry.

Now everything was ready, except for the one person who should have arrived long ago.

The Grand Uncle was about to say more, but his gaze swept over to the kneeling Tao Anzhi, to the child’s dark, shining eyes, and to the body in the coffin that couldn’t yet be sealed. He swallowed the words he was about to say.

A family with few descendants, and not a peaceful end¹⁷.

Could anything be more tragic? the Grand Uncle thought.

Tao Anzhi still said nothing, kneeling before the coffin, once again turning herself into a small, stiff clay figure.

Just then, a woman rushed in from outside. Before anyone could react, she dropped to her knees with a thud and shuffled forward a few steps to the coffin, crying out in anguish, “Father…”

After kowtowing three times, she kept her head bowed, her shoulders trembling as she sobbed uncontrollably.

Her neck was long and snow-white. The way it drooped as she trembled presented a stunningly fragile beauty.

The surroundings seemed to fall silent at once. The only sound in the mourning hall was her thin, brittle weeping.

Tao Anzhi stared at her without blinking, watching as the surrounding aunts and ladies tearfully went to comfort her, watching as the men nearby looked on with unbearable pity. Even the Grand Uncle turned his face away.

Suddenly, the woman raised her head and looked over. Tao Anzhi met her gaze—that strange yet familiar, beautiful, and haggard face, covered in tears. Tao Anzhi’s statue-like body seemed to crack and fall apart, revealing the small child within.

The woman moved quickly, rushing over and pulling her into an embrace.

Tao Anzhi’s tender heart trembled violently. In her few years of life, she had rarely felt a woman’s embrace. This one was exceptionally soft and fragrant, and it was still trembling slightly.

Tao Anzhi thought of the mother hen her Grandfather had raised. On rainy days, it would cluck anxiously and hide its chicks under its wings.

Tao Anzhi pressed her lips together tightly. She suddenly felt like crying, even wanted to say those two words.

It was only for a very short moment. Maybe a minute, maybe only a few seconds?

But before she could properly experience the embrace, the woman pulled away.

Tao Anzhi’s little bit of courage vanished like smoke.

She stared blankly as the woman murmured to the coffin, crying until she was choking on her sobs. One pale hand clutched the fabric over her chest, as if that could relieve some pain. As Anzhi watched, she too felt a dull ache in her chest.

Teacher Tao’s daughter had finally arrived. The Grand Uncle sighed and waved for the men to prepare to seal the coffin.

Tao Anzhi, who hadn’t shed a single tear, suddenly let out a sharp howl from her throat. She threw herself forward and clung to the coffin, refusing to let them close it.

The scene was chaotic for a moment. The Grand Uncle sighed deeply again. An orphan and a widow, how pitiful.

Tao Anzhi shouted until her throat was raw, yet she shed no tears that day. They loaded her Grandfather’s coffin onto a vehicle to be taken to the funeral home in town for cremation. The woman who had been crying the whole time followed along.

The Grand Uncle’s brow twitched. According to village custom, women were not supposed to accompany the body to the cremation, especially an unmarried woman. But the muscles in his face twitched, and in the end, he said nothing.

Tao Anzhi, of course, could not go. The vehicle started up, kicking up a trail of dust.

She strained to lift her head, watching until it was gone.

That year, Tao Anzhi was not yet six years old. She hadn’t even started kindergarten. She did not yet know of parting in life, but she already understood parting by death.

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The author has something to say:

New pit¹⁸. Feeling apprehensive.

Will continue tomorrow at 8 PM.

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