He left the house too early, his morning appetite not yet awakened. Lin Song went to the Dehua Restaurant to get two orders of xiao long bao and two fried eggs, drizzling some light soy sauce over the yolks. He took the food with him in the car, ready to comfort his hollow stomach whenever hunger decided to strike.
In the summer, it seems human skin can perform photosynthesis. As long as you give it some water, you can go all day without thinking about food. The afternoon is when children are supposed to take their naps; summer afternoons are sweltering and boring. The TV stations no longer loop reruns of My Fair Princess or Journey to the West, so children can take advantage of their grandparents’ naptime to scroll through all sorts of videos on their phones.
Lin Song had to deliver goods to a client under the blazing sun. Even if it meant facing a mountain of knives or a sea of fire, nothing could stop his determined steps. Cursing the scorching summer, he stuffed a large bottle of iced tea into his backpack. It was a big Lock & Lock bottle, capable of holding a full 1000 milliliters. He had prepared the tea the night before and put it in the fridge. On every workday that required him to venture out into the heat, preparing iced tea in advance was a task he had to complete. He couldn’t let himself collapse from heatstroke on the sweltering streets.
After six hours of rattling along, Lin Song, still driving, finally felt the urge to eat. He reached for an order of xiao long bao, placed it on his lap, and grabbed one with his bare hands. He gave it a little squeeze with three fingers. The skin was firm and elastic; he judged it to be a delightful bun. If the skin is good, the filling can’t be too bad. He took a bite, and only a third of the bun remained in his hand. This is the charm of the xiao long bao—one bite grants you most of its essence. The little that remains is merely to savor and extend the deliciousness of the first chew. The benefit of eating a bun with your bare hands is that it not only satisfies your appetite but also allows your five fingers to share in its plump, sensuous form.
In the atrium on the second floor of the mall stood a piano, placed there by a music school to attract students. Sometimes, to give his air conditioner at home a few hours’ rest, Lin Song would go to the mall to play. The mall was vast and empty, so even if he played with gusto, he wouldn’t make much of a disturbance.
The last few times he’d taken the elevator to the second floor, the piano bench had been occupied. The children were on summer vacation, and to save on electricity bills, grandparents would wander around the mall with them all day. The bench had been abused to the point of being wobbly. Worried he might fall off the rickety seat, Lin Song lifted the lid and tightened the screws securing the legs.
He had just played through the E-flat minor harmonies twice when a little boy appeared on each side of him, looking like brothers of a similar age. The easiest way to tell such brothers apart is to assume the more ill-mannered one is the younger brother; you’ll rarely be wrong. The younger one immediately began to encroach upon the bass keys of Lin Song’s left hand, pecking out the melody of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with one index finger. Without even looking up, he yelled at Lin Song: “I’ve had lessons! I know how to play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’!”
Damn it. Lin Song really wanted to slap the ill-mannered brat. He mentally offered the parents his “sincerest regards,” then smiled at the two brothers. “Alright then. I’ll let you guys play.”
Lin Song stood up and gave them the bench. The younger brother deftly scurried onto it and began to smash the keyboard with his two fists, which looked like a pair of steamed buns. Nearby, the grandmother stood watching her grandsons’ “performance” with a blank expression.
At the morning market, Lin Song came across fresh lotus pods, just picked from the lake and delivered to the vegetable stall. He thought to himself that if he paired them with a box of Qiaokou’s Maozui braised chicken and brought it all to Lao Zhao, the old man would be absolutely delighted.
Lao Zhao was over eighty. His wife had passed away three years ago, and he now lived alone. His body was still holding up; he cooked two meals a day for himself and kept his old apartment tidy. Lao Zhao loved chicken; with the three or four teeth he had left, he could pick a chicken wing clean.
As Lin Song climbed to the second floor, he saw the old man sitting on a small stool by his door, leaning against the staircase railing and fiddling with his fingers. “Hey, what are you doing sitting out here?” “I came out for a moment, and the wind blew the door shut. Now I can’t get back in.”
Lin Song called Lao Zhao’s son. “Hey, your dad’s locked out of his apartment.” “Oh, Uncle Lin, could you please help him open the door? The code is 793722. Thank you so much.”
Lin Song opened the door and placed the lotus pods and braised chicken on Lao Zhao’s dining table. Watching Lin Song open the door with just a phone call, Lao Zhao thought it was a magical thing. “You just make a phone call and the door opens. That’s great, so much more reliable than carrying a key.”
On the inside of Lao Zhao’s front door was a printed A4 sheet of paper. On the yellowed page was written: “Dad and Mom, this is for your own good. Do not go outside.”