On the afternoon of New Year's Eve, when I heard the sound of a motorbike, I had a premonition that this particular vehicle was bringing news to our family. I was right. It stopped in front of our gate. Jiaojiao and I ran out to open it and were greeted by the sight of Huang Bao, as nimble as the leopard he was named after, walking towards us with a bundle woven of hemp. We took our places on either side of the gate to welcome him like Golden Boy and Jade Girl, the Taoist attendants. Whatever was inside the bundle gave off a strong smell. He smiled and struck a pose that was part cordial, part cool and detached and part respectfully arrogant. He was a man who carried himself well. His blue motorbike, which resembled its rider—cordial, cool and detached, respectfully arrogant—rested by the side of the road. Mother came out of the house as Huang Bao reached the middle of the yard. Father followed a half dozen steps behind.
Mother smiled broadly. ‘Come inside, Good Brother Huang Bao.’
‘Good Sister Luo,’ he said, exuding courtesy. ‘The village head has sent me with a New Year's gift for your family.’
‘Oh, we can't accept any gifts,’ Mother said, her nervousness evident. ‘We've done nothing to deserve a gift, especially from the village head himself.’
‘I'm just following orders,’ Huang Bao said as he laid the bundle at Mother's feet. ‘Goodbye and have a wonderful Spring Festival.’
Mother reached out, as if to keep him from going, but by then he was already at the gate. ‘Honestly, we can't…’
Huang Bao turned and waved, then left as speedily as he'd come. His motorbike roared to life, just in time for us to rush to the gate and see white smoke spurt from its tailpipe. He headed west, bumping along the pitted road until he turned into Lan Clan Lane.
We stood in stunned silence for at least five minutes, until we saw the roast-pork-peddler Su Zhou bicycling our way from the train station. His beaming smile meant that business had been good that day.
‘Lao Yang,’ he shouted to Mother. ‘It's New Year's, you want some roast pork?’
Mother ignored him.
‘What are you saving your money for,’ he bellowed, ‘a burial plot?’
‘To hell with you,’ Mother shot back. ‘Burial plots are for your family.’ Having got that off her chest, she dragged us back into the yard and shut the gate behind us.
She waited till we were inside and then opened the wet wrapper of Huang Bao's bundle to reveal an assortment of red and white seafood on ice. Mother took out each item, describing it for Jiaojiao and me, since we were curious and her seafood knowledge was broad; though none of the rare items she took out had ever made an appearance in our house, she was familiar with them all, and so, by all indications, was Father, though he let her be the seafood guide, content to crouch by the stove, to light his cigarette with a piece of charcoal he picked up with the tongs and sit on his haunches, smoking.
‘There's so much…that Lao Lan…’ Mother's cries were more like a lament. ‘A guest speaks well of one's host, and a receiver of gifts respects the giver.’