The firecrackers continued to explode by the gate, sending scraps of red paper flying around like butterflies. Afraid that one of the firecrackers might come loose and fall on her head, Liu Yue rushed through the gate, nearly sending Dazheng to the ground when she let go of his arm too quickly. “Liu Yue!” Niu Yueqing cried out next to her. “Liu Yue!” She turned to wait for him, and saw that the yard was filled with people. This time she looped her arm in his and stayed as close as possible to prevent him from staggering again. “That’s good,” Niu Yueqing said as she had four people sprinkle confetti over them, immediately bathing the couple in glittering gold and silver. The escorts began transferring the dowry into cars, forming a long procession as they walked out into the yard in an orderly fashion for the sake of onlookers, who made comments about how the bride was a head taller than the groom, how she would surely be the head of the new family, and how he would soon be cuckolded. Someone countered that the groom, being the mayor’s son, must be ill tempered and would surely assert his authority and power over the bride. Another one chimed in that the groom had to wait for his pretty bride to help him onto the bed before he could beat her. Liu Yue heard every word and could not wait to get into the bridal sedan.
The wedding ceremony was held in the Xijing Hotel restaurant. When the car carrying Zhuang and Niu Yueqing stopped at the hotel entrance, they saw Dazheng and Liu Yue enter the restaurant, surrounded by a large crowd. Firecrackers went off nonstop amid loud, festive music. They were surprised to see so many people.
“The seats of honor have been reserved for you,” they were told. “The mayor and his wife are waiting for you inside.”
They walked into the restaurant to see dazzling lanterns everywhere and smiling people dressed in brightly colored clothes. Waitresses in qipaos shuttled from table to table to lay out flower baskets, fruit, pastries, melon seeds, cigarettes, tea, and soft drinks. The guests, mostly people they did not know, were making quite a din. After they each accepted a bouquet of flowers from a child at the door, Dazheng and Liu Yue were directed to walk down a red silk runner six feet wide and fifty feet long. At the end of the silk walkway was a slightly raised red-carpeted platform, encircled with pots of flowers. A microphone had been set up in front of four tables for the guests of honor. Huang Defu, the master of ceremonies, told the couple to turn around, then invited the guests with cameras to take pictures. The guests noisily called for the couple to stand closer, to smile, to raise their bouquets, for one of them to put a hand on the other’s shoulder or place an arm around the other’s waist. The couple refused to comply, but the guests would not take no for an answer; someone even went up to make them pose for the cameras, drawing laughter and loud cheers.
Zhuang paused at one end of the red walkway to read a couplet by Zheng Xie that had been copied into a book sprinkled with gold powder: A spring wind boldly combs the willows / Evening rain secretly nourishes the flowers. Next to the couplet was Respectful Congratulations to Dazheng and Liu Yue on Their Wedding, surrounded by hundreds of signatures from well-wishers. Aware that attendees at meetings and ceremonies usually sign their names on rice paper, Zhuang wondered who had come up with the idea of using a piece of silk instead, which was then turned into a walkway. As he admired the unusual and amusing setup, someone came over with a pen: “Please sign your name.” When he did, the man cried out, “Ah, you’re Mr. Zhuang Zhidie!” Zhuang nodded with a smile, and the man said, “I’m a fan of literature. I’m so happy to meet you here today.”
“Thank you,” Zhuang said and started to walk away. “Mr. Zhuang,” the man continued, “the bride was a maid at your house, so you’ve taught her well.”
“You flatter me.”
“I envy her. I have a request, a wish I hope you will grant. I’d like to be a helper at your house so I could wait on you while I’m studying creative writing.”
“We’re not hiring another helper, but thank you for your offer.”
“You think I’m no good because I’m not a woman, is that it? I can cook and do laundry.”
Seeing that Zhuang was having trouble shaking the man off, Niu Yueqing went up to talk to Huang Defu, who was introducing the guests of honor. He announced loudly, “Among the guests of honor today is the celebrated writer Mr. Zhuang Zhidie. Let’s welcome him with a round of applause. Please come join us at the head table, Mr. Zhuang.”
A loud cheer broke out in the hall amid thunderous applause, so the man had to let Zhuang go. He went up to one of the tables, where he greeted the city’s VIPs and celebrities. He had barely sat down when two girls came up for his autograph. He was waiting for them to offer their notebooks, but they stuck out their chests and said, “Here, we’ve saved this spot near our hearts for you, Mr. Zhuang.”
He took a closer look and saw that signatures had been scribbled all over their white cotton blouses. “What a shame to ruin such nice blouses.”
“Signatures from celebrities make them valuable,” they said. “It’s impossible to meet so many of you at any other time. When we heard that the mayor’s son was getting married, we thought you’d all be here. We can travel around the city with your autographs on our blouses, making them true culture shirts.”
“Then I must see who has already signed.” Seeing signatures from Wang Ximian, Ruan Zhifei, Meng Yunfang, Sun Wu, Zhou Min, Li Hongwen, and Gou Dahai, he took a pen and scribbled his name on one of the girls’ chests. The other girl wanted more: “Mr. Zhuang, we know you’re talented and quick-witted, so would you write a poem instead? Four lines will do.”
“This is not the place for composing poetry,” Zhuang said. “So what should I write?”
“You’re here for a wedding, so why not something about love?”
After Zhuang wrote one on the girl’s back, she asked her friend to read it for her:
Put a stick in the ground and hope for a red blossom;
Throw a stone into water and hope for a tail;
Place paper under the pillow and hope for a picture of a dream;
Paste a stamp on the heart and hope to send it to a woman far away.
“Are you thinking about someone, Mr. Zhuang?” The girl laughed.
“It’s called unrequited love,” he said.
“Great, that’s what I like the best,” she said. “I’ve dated a lot of men, and it never takes me long to say good-bye to any of them. There’s no one left in the world I can trust or love. Yet I need love, though I have no idea whom to love. The best kind of romance is one-sided, for I can freely love anyone in my imagination; it’s like having a key to every apartment.”
Zhuang laughed. “With that kind of understanding, you must be in love with a real person. So how can you say you don’t know whom to love?”
“It didn’t work out, so I vowed to stop loving him. I warn myself against that every day.”
“But you can never shake off your love for him, which shows you don’t know how to have a one-sided romance. If you did, you’d think about him because you can’t stop.”
“Ai-ya! You’re older than us, Mr. Zhuang, and yet you’re just like us.” She sat down in a chair next to him, looking excited and ready for a prolonged discussion. He sent her off, reminding her that the ceremony would begin soon, and it would not look good for them to still be talking. But then someone else came up and whispered to him:
“Mr. Zhuang, someone is waiting to have a few words with you outside, just to the left of the entrance.”