Hating Her, While Still Having to Address Her as Mother - Chapter 9

Chapter 9: I am a Little Boat

Chapter Brief: You are the River Waves

“The reason why Jiao Xun and even Wang Guowei didn’t take Han Fu (Han Rhapsody) seriously was because they were all influenced by the Yangzhou School.”

“The ‘Wen Xuan’ faction, represented by Ruan Yuan within the Yangzhou School, emphasized the emotional nature of literature.”

“They felt that Han Fu was merely court literature used by the royals to keep up appearances—it was work, not life.”

As Su Zhixi lectured, she tossed her high ponytail back. She glanced up at her students while teaching from the textbook, only to realize they were hardly paying attention. They were whispering among themselves or looking down at their phones. Since a long National Day break followed this class, the students had no heart for studying. She simply set her book down and stopped speaking.

A trace of casualness flickered in her amber eyes. She said slowly, “It seems no one is in the mood for a lecture today. Why don’t we just chat or watch a movie? We’ll catch up on the progress after the holiday.”

As soon as she finished, a jubilant cheer erupted from the classroom.

“What movie do you want to watch?”

After a brief commotion, a few active boys took the lead to speak for the class: “Teacher, we don’t want to watch a movie. We want to chat with you.”

Youthful speech is always blunt and honest: “Teacher, you’re so beautiful. We want to talk to you and get to know you better.”

Su Zhixi had only taken over this class this semester. Usually, she was strictly professional, never engaging in small talk outside of the curriculum. It wasn’t surprising that the students were curious about her.

Su Zhixi raised an eyebrow and said easily, “Alright. What do you want to talk about?”

It wasn’t just the boys; the girls were equally curious. This beautiful and dignified teacher, who always wore a cold, composed expression and never mentioned anything personal, looked to be about their age, yet she carried a maturity refined by time.

Su Zhixi had excellent taste in clothes and an even better temperament. Sometimes, standing at the podium with a book in hand, framed by the lush ivy outside the window, she looked like a bright moon scooped out of a white porcelain bowl—mysterious and elegant, making people want to pry into her past.

“Does the teacher have someone she likes?” The class monitor asked.

Su Zhixi rarely smiled. Behind her gold-rimmed glasses, she usually projected stability and calm. But this question caused an indefinable emotion to flash in her eyes.

“If I say no, would you believe me?”

“No!” “Teacher is lying!”

Her response caused a stir. The vitality of the “kids” seemed to travel through their voices, infectiously touching her heart.

Su Zhixi looked at the students and threw the ball back to them: “Then what kind of answer do you want?”

An energetic girl raised her hand high: “We want to hear about Teacher’s romantic history!”

“Regrettably, there is none.”

The girl wasn’t satisfied. She stood up and asked, “In your youth, did you never meet someone… someone truly stunning?”

The girl’s words were like a hand reaching up to pull the string of an ancient lamp. The moment she touched that string, she pulled Su Zhixi back into a hidden memory.

Like skipping a stone across a river, the stone bounced once, then twice.

Again, and again.

In her amber eyes, a silhouette flickered.

The nature of a literato is nostalgia. When recalling the past, the first thing that comes to mind isn’t a face, but the way that person moved.

She remembered how a certain woman, when writing, would place a tissue under her hand. Even then, her pen strokes remained powerful and firm. Her writing was like a spring breeze, flowing into one’s heart like a stream—the characters were square, strong, yet gentle.

The writing mirrored the person.

It was in her personality and the way she handled affairs. These were small life details, not enough to make Su Zhixi think the woman was objectively “stunning” or “unforgettable.”

But as the memory seeped in, Su Zhixi could slowly trace that face in her mind. There was always a faint smile on that face, a very shallow dimple at the corner of her mouth. Yet, after that gentle smile, a trace of melancholy would inadvertently slip through.

The last time she saw Shen Manci was at the newly opened Four Seasons Pavilion at the Hengkou Museum. They had made a date to meet there.

“‘People come and go on the river, only loving the flavor of the perch. Look at that one little boat, appearing and disappearing amidst the wind and waves.'”

Su Zhixi stood among the cultural relics and recited the words inscribed above.

“What is this poem about?”

“Well, if I remember correctly, you are a university lecturer teaching Chinese Language and Literature. You should know better than I what this poem means, Teacher Su.”

Su Zhixi smiled. “I just wanted to hear your perspective.”

Shen Manci stepped closer and lightly flicked Su Zhixi’s forehead. “You…”

Su Zhixi covered her forehead in feigned pain. “Learning has no end, after all.”

Shen Manci looked at her pained expression and found it amusing. “This poem is simply about the people on the river who only care for the delicious fish but don’t know the hardships of the fishermen. Look, this whole pavilion is themed around the sea and the development of the fishing industry.”

“Mhm? I know that. But what I’m curious about is why you couldn’t help but recite it. Did you used to be in this trade?” Su Zhixi crossed her arms, talking nonsense with a straight face.

“No. I just think the two terms used in the poem are very evocative: Ye Zhou (Little Boat) and Jiang Bo (River Waves). Don’t you think these two words perfectly describe our current situation?”

Almost in unison, both said: “I am the little boat, and you are the river waves.”

They stared at each other in surprise. Su Zhixi spoke first: “I am the little boat caught in an unknown storm. After my parents divorced, a strange woman suddenly entered my home, saying she was to be my mother.”

“Abandoned by my biological mother for two years, I was left unasked for. Why would I suddenly need a mother at eighteen?”

Shen Manci gave a knowing smile. “But from my perspective, I was suddenly thrust into a strange, unknown family with a hot-blooded child in her prime. Tell me, how was I, at twenty-six, supposed to get along with a child that age? How was I supposed to be a ‘good mother’?”

Shen Manci tried to rest her hand on Su Zhixi’s shoulder. Su Zhixi didn’t dodge, but eventually walked forward. “I don’t need a mother anymore. You could be an elder, a friend, or… a lover.”

“Shen Manci, you can be anyone to me, except a mother.”

A chill seemed to settle between Shen Manci’s brows. The words she least wanted to hear echoed relentlessly in her ears. She sighed inwardly and replied calmly: “Su Zhixi, I can be anyone to you, except a lover.”

“Then tell me, Shen Manci, what exactly were we before?”

We held hands like lovers, we hugged, we kissed. We did all the joyful things. We spent the four seasons in each other’s eyes. Now, standing here in the Four Seasons Pavilion, you tell me none of it counts?

Even though Su Zhixi was now twenty-six—the same age Shen Manci was back then—she still couldn’t read the deep, complex emotions in Shen Manci’s eyes.

“We are both little boats caught in the storm.” Regrettably, Shen Manci only gave an answer that wasn’t really an answer.

When a blizzard finally hit Hengkou—the first major snowfall in ten years—Su Zhixi finally received an apology from Shen Mancini that spanned eight years: “I’m sorry. I’ve failed you, A-Xi.”

The dampness of the Hengkou coast still smelled like the snow from when she was eighteen.

Memories of you, wrapped in that coastal dampness, often wake me at midnight.

When my students ask if I met someone stunning in my youth—someone unforgettable—I think of you.

You are like a pager from a bygone era, like a cob of corn in a time of poverty, like the precious MP3 player in my backpack. In this constant backtracking, I remember Jizhou—the source of this farce, and the place where we first met.