Chapter 21 – Li Jiangluo 1.0

I was exhausted, but incredibly happy.

It felt like it had been ages since I last laughed heartily; at least three or four months.

Bolin and I had never had such carefree fun before his passing. Now, Brother Baichuan and I squeezed out of the crowd, drenched in sweat, as if all our troubles and miseries had washed away with the perspiration.

We sat at the bar for a while longer, finishing off our cigarettes and draining our glasses, then we left that noisy, illusory world behind.

“I think I’ve got tinnitus,” I rubbed my ears, laughing at him.

Brother Baichuan was the same, shaking his head and smiling, saying, “What did you say?”

We burst into another fit of laughter, going on for a while before finally calming down.

The truth was, after the excitement came an even greater emptiness.

That world of revelry didn’t belong to us, nor did we belong to it.

Back in reality, I was still the pitiful creature who had lost his lover, and Brother Baichuan was still the good brother who had lost his sibling.

We leaned against the wall outside the bar, neither of us speaking, watching the men and women pass by.

After an unknown amount of time, I started to feel sleepy and asked him, “Shall we go back?”

He nodded, stepping ahead of me, walking in front.

The alcohol was starting to hit me; I had drunk too much earlier, partly to drown my sorrows.

I had never truly gotten drunk before, just like how I used to not understand why people would smoke when they were troubled.

I had really wanted to experience being completely wasted once, perhaps to wake up the next day in utter embarrassment, but at least there would be some temporary joy.

Suddenly, I recalled Bolin’s letter, where he had said he betrayed me under the influence of alcohol.

Did getting drunk mean someone could avoid responsibility for their actions?

Could it also be interpreted as, once drunk, claiming intoxication is an excuse for anything?

My thoughts were muddled, knowing I shouldn’t indulge in such wild speculation, yet unable to stop.

I thought about Bolin, his death, his smiling face looking at me, his arms around me as he whispered unclear promises, and then I also thought of him drunkenly embracing someone else, collapsing onto our bed.

I couldn’t allow myself to think any further; I’d barely recovered, I couldn’t fall back into the same trap.

I repeated these words to myself over and over, but as soon as I returned to the room, I rushed to the bathroom and vomited.

My mind was filled with images of Bolin pressing someone else beneath him on our bed, intense and shameful.

My brain was no longer under my control, until I vomited bile, and a glass of water was offered to me.

I looked up, and the sight of that face broke me.

I slapped the cup away with my backhand, panicking and retreating, tears streaming uncontrollably as I said, “I hate you, Xing Bolin! Get lost!”

I screamed those words with all my might, my mind a haze, feeling light-headed.

Before I collapsed, the only thing I remembered was the creased brow of the person opposite me, then I wanted to apologize, because only then did I realize that wasn’t Bolin, but Brother Baichuan, who had been so kind to me.

When I woke up, it was already daylight, the sun shining through the thin curtains, making me squint.

“Jiangluo, how are you feeling?” I followed the voice, seeing Auntie in her pajamas, wrapped in a blanket. She pulled a chair beside the bed, standing up and patting Uncle, who had been sleeping beside her, with her hand.

Seeing her worried expression, I knew I’d messed up again; I really didn’t understand why I acted this way—the more I tried not to cause trouble, the more trouble I ended up causing.

My nose felt particularly stuffy, but I couldn’t cry anymore; it was pathetic, embarrassing, and would only make them suffer along with me.

I made a silent vow never to drink again.

I did remember last night, it was just that the alcohol clouded my judgment and blurred my vision, making me momentarily think the person beside me was Bolin.

But I had to admit, the sentence I yelled in my drunken state was indeed what I truly wanted to say.

I felt guilty, indebted, pained, and sorrowful.

And resentful.

I wished I could confront him face-to-face and ask what he had been thinking when he betrayed me.

Because of him, all my love and efforts had become a joke; why couldn’t I blame him?

My mind wandered between forgiveness and hatred every day, even feeling guilty towards Uncle, Auntie, and Brother Baichuan for harboring resentment towards Bolin.

No one knew the burden I carried on my shoulders; I was truly about to break under the weight.

But I couldn’t truly collapse, because I needed to reassure them.

Perhaps family really did transform a person. I believed that spending more time with them would make all my resentment disappear, and one day, I might even be grateful to Bolin, because it was thanks to him that I had the chance to encounter such a warm home.

Uncle stood up, looking at me anxiously, patting my shoulder and saying, “I’ll get you a cup of hot water.”

I quickly sat up, wanting to tell him it wasn’t necessary, that I could do it myself, but Auntie held my hand, concerned, saying, “You drank too much last night, do you have a headache now?”

I shook my head hastily, “No pain, I’m fine.”

Uncle brought the water, “Be careful, it’s a bit hot.”

I thanked him, taking the steaming cup, embarrassedly saying, “Sorry, I made you worry. Did you not sleep well because of me last night?”

Auntie stroked my hair, saying tenderly, “Silly child, you almost scared us to death.”

I felt even more ashamed, not daring to look at her.

“I’ve already scolded Baichuan, knowing your stomach isn’t good and still taking you drinking. You two didn’t smoke much, did you?” Auntie said unhappily, “Young people these days, none of you take care of your health, ignoring the doctor’s advice, only to regret it when you’re old!”

Steam from the cup wetted my eyes.

Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to hug Auntie and cry, just like when I had hugged my mom back then.

There was noise outside, and Uncle said, “Baichuan must be back. Jiangluo, drink some hot water to warm your stomach. I’ll go see what he bought.”

Uncle left the room, and Auntie sat on the chair beside the bed, earnestly saying, “Jiangluo, you still harbor resentment towards Bolin, right?”

I hurriedly shook my head, “Not at all…”

“How could you not be resentful? Don’t think Auntie doesn’t ask or say anything, but your Uncle and I understand the situation.” She looked at me, her gaze reminding me of my mother, “I don’t blame you for hating him, but I do blame you for not talking about it. No matter what it is, speak up; we’re a big family, we can overcome any difficulty together, don’t you agree?”

After she said this, I lost all control, tears streaming down my face again.

I hadn’t cried in the past two months, never expecting to be so weak now.

“Auntie,” I stared at the water in the cup, choking on my words, “You’ve been so good to me, I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You’re really silly,” Auntie took a tissue to wipe my face, treating me like a child, “Baichuan told you, you’re already part of our family, my son. What’s this talk of repayment between mother and son? Are you trying to make me angry on purpose?”

I didn’t know what I did to deserve meeting them. Perhaps God took pity on me for having such a terrible life for over twenty years, extremes begetting opposites, sending these few warm souls into my life now.

I was overwhelmed with gratitude, wishing I could stick by their side forever.

The drunken night served as a small interlude in our stay in Polar Village. Since we couldn’t see the Northern Lights, and it was too cold there, we planned to set sail back on New Year’s Day afternoon.

Before that, of course, we prepared for New Year’s Eve.

In previous years, December 31st was either spent with Bolin or alone at home.

This year, I had family by my side, and even in the freezing weather, I didn’t feel the chill.

In the evening, that chatty tour guide led us to the square, where preparations for the bonfire party were already underway. A pile of wood resembling a small mountain was stacked, and rows of chairs were arranged.

Some local middle-aged and elderly folks were singing and dancing nearby. As soon as we arrived, Auntie and Uncle were pulled away by them. Brother Baichuan and I tried to join in, but they wouldn’t let us participate at all.

Helpless, we decided to wander around aimlessly.

A stage had been erected in the center of the square; apparently there would be a performance later.

I normally had no interest in such things, but given the unusual circumstances that year, I suddenly found myself looking forward to it.

The bonfire party started at eight o’clock, by which time we’d already eaten our fill. Watching these people sing, dance, and play, we actually didn’t feel the cold.

Brother Baichuan, concerned about my health, specifically brought out a blanket. Seeing him struggling with it, drawing unwanted attention, I called him over to sit in a corner.

The blanket was large enough to serve as a seat cushion and cover our legs when pulled over.

We dodged the crowds, chatting casually.

“I’m really sorry about last night,” I didn’t really want to bring up last night’s incident; after all, mistaking him for Bolin wasn’t a good thing for either of us.

“It’s alright,” his tone was nonchalant, revealing no emotion.

I fell silent for a moment, then said, “I woke up Uncle and Auntie, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” he turned to me, smiling, “With your drinking habits, I really won’t dare let you drink in the future.”

Embarrassed, I lowered my head, staring blankly at the distant stage.

A girl was dancing up there; I couldn’t see how well she was doing, but the atmosphere below was heated.

“Are you cold?” Brother Baichuan suddenly asked me.

“I’m okay,” I said, “Thankfully you brought the blanket, otherwise, I wouldn’t dare sit down randomly when I’m tired.”

He chuckled, opening his mouth to exhale forcefully, then said, “I feel like ice chips come out whenever I speak.”

I was amused by him. He was like this; often making people wonder if he was really a hardworking young entrepreneur, clearly he was just a playful big kid.

But he was no big kid; he was nearly thirty.

Looking at the stars flickering far away, I suddenly realized that Bolin would forever remain at twenty-nine.

He never reached the age of thirty.