The Remaining Third Chapter Twenty-One: The Purest Flavor in Life Is Steamed

The greatest flavor in life is the taste of steaming.

Hou San could no longer recall where he’d first heard those words. He only remembered the woman who said them—a woman named Ahong, with her tempestuous bosom, her hair braided into two thick plaits, dressed in a bright red floral cotton jacket, swaying before his eyes.

Whether it’s a person or a thing, when they’re always within your sight, you seldom treasure them. You assume they’ll always be there, until one day they’re gone, and the pain cuts to the bone, regret gnaws at your heart.

Hou San would forever remember that summer fourteen years ago. He was in the fields, pulling up the roots of the rapeseed plants. The seeds had already been harvested, but the stalks needed to be cleared as well—first, they could be taken home and used for firewood, and second, the land had to be cleaned for new crops. The old stubble needed to be gone.

Though sweat poured off him, Hou San felt content. He was calculating how much money he might earn from pressing oil out of the rapeseed from his one-and-a-quarter-acre plot. Ahong had been complaining for ages that her sewing machine was broken. She’d asked the repairman, but he’d said there was nothing to be done—it was beyond fixing; only a new one would do. For a man, when his wife wants something, he ought to find a way to provide it. Yesterday, he’d borrowed two hundred yuan from Zhu Dachang. With that, and the proceeds from the rapeseed oil, he could just about afford a new sewing machine.

Suddenly, behind him, a woman’s voice called out, “The steamed buns are ready! Take a break, have a couple, then get back to work. There’s no rush…”

Hou San turned and saw Ahong standing on the ridge, holding a basket. He waved her away, unconcerned. “Take them home, take them home. I don’t have time to chew on buns now. I’ll eat when I’m done.”

Pouting, Ahong set the basket down on the ridge and turned to go. “Eat or not, up to you. I’m going back to sew shoes…”

Hou San glanced at Ahong’s swaying hips, swallowed, and muttered, “They say wide hips mean easy childbirth. But it’s been more than a year and her belly’s still flat. Could it be my problem…”

Shaking his head, he bent down to keep pulling up the roots. Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, just as he yanked out the eight hundred and forty-seventh stalk, the earth began to shake violently for ninety-six point five seven seconds. Hou San landed hard on his backside, dropped the plant in his hand, and cursed under his breath, “Who the hell is digging a foundation now, so rough the ground’s shaking…”

Before he finished, a series of deafening crashes erupted all around. One by one, the tiled houses collapsed in clouds of dust.

Hou San’s eyelid twitched; a sense of foreboding flooded his chest. He looked toward his own yard. His house was shuddering madly, then the sound of tearing and breaking split the air. Hou San bolted toward home, shouting, “Ahong, get out! The dragon’s turning over the earth!”

Inside, Ahong had already sensed something was wrong. Hearing his shouts, she frantically flung open the iron door and rushed outside.

Hou San saw one of her feet step out through the doorway and breathed a sigh of relief—she’d made it. He was just about to say something when, with a crash, the iron door slammed down on Ahong, and the cement slab and wall above it collapsed in turn, burying her beneath broken bricks, one hand reaching out toward Hou San.

Stumbling over, Hou San knelt on the ground, grasping for her hand, eyes red, screaming her name.

“San-ge, why are you grabbing my ass…”

A coarse voice sounded in his ear. The scene vanished. Hou San blinked and saw his hands were indeed clutching Zhu Dachang’s backside. He immediately let go and lay back down, coughing awkwardly. “You bruised my butt, so what if I grab yours?” He glanced at the big, white steamed bun in Zhu Dachang’s hand and licked his lips. “Where’d you get that?”

Zhu Dachang pointed at the steamer on the stove in the corner and grinned. “Found a bag of flour in the cupboard and made a few myself.” He handed Hou San another untouched bun. “Want one?”

Hou San took the bun. For some reason, Ahong’s figure flashed before his eyes again. He sniffed hard and took a big bite. “Eat… Like the saying goes, even if you don’t steam buns, steam up your courage. This time, I’m going to make something of myself!” Suddenly he remembered the repairman and asked, “Where’s that bastard?”

Zhu Dachang smacked his lips. “I tied him up and threw him in the storeroom out back. Just checked on him—he’s awake, but don’t worry, I knocked him out again.”

“No need to keep bashing his skull…” Hou San’s eyelid twitched. “When I’m a bit better, we’ll leave this place. If we don’t deal with that bag soon, the stuff inside will go rotten…”

Zhu Dachang thumped his chest confidently. “San-ge, I’ve already taken care of it. No way it’ll rot.”

“How’d you deal with it?” Hou San asked warily.

“I rubbed everything with salt, just like curing pork,” Zhu Dachang pointed beneath the window of the little shed. “See? Spread it all out by the window there, for ventilation…”

Hou San smacked the back of Zhu Dachang’s head, cutting him off. “Ventilation, my ass! Are you trying to show it off? Put it away, you fool…” He sighed. “Better stash it in the trunk, lock the car. Even if someone smells something, they can’t open the car to look. That’s safest.”

Mouth half-open, Zhu Dachang gave a soft “oh,” then went to the window, picking up the pieces of meat one by one and putting them back into a black tote bag.

Hou San propped himself up, sniffed the air, caught a whiff of meat, glanced at the steamer on the stove, then at the meat in Zhu Dachang’s hand, and swallowed. “What’s in your steamer now?”

“Meat,” Zhu Dachang replied without looking up.

Hou San gagged, spat out the bun in his mouth, and asked with a trembling voice, “What meat?”

“You’re hurt, so I wanted to get you something nourishing, but there’s not a scrap of meat in this shed. I had to catch two little fish by the river,” Zhu Dachang looked up and grinned. “Found some soy sauce—steamed them!”

Hou San let out a long breath, picked up the big, white bun again, and gnawed on it. “Steamed is good—pure flavor, delicious…”

“Not only that, steaming preserves the nutrients in food,” Yang Qingqing said, gesturing with her chopsticks at the steamed hairy crab in front of her, addressing the man across the table, dressed in designer suit. “My palate is rather light—I prefer dishes that are steamed. Will you be able to get used to it?”

The man raised his wine glass, swirled the red wine a few times, and took a sip. “A lighter diet’s good for you,” he said with a wicked smile. “But, do you want to try something a little more exciting later?”

Yang Qingqing lifted her glass with poise, took a small sip, her cheeks flushing. “What do you mean by exciting?”

“Come with me and you’ll see…” The man set down his glass, his gaze burning as he looked at Liu Qingqing.

Many people have a driver’s license but can’t really drive, just as many have watched certain vigorous films but never actually gained any practical experience.

Yang Qingqing was just such a person. She had always thought those bedroom activities were vulgar—sticky, dirty. So, when the man brought her to a hotel and pushed her onto the bed, a feeling of aversion welled up within her. Yet, thinking of his handsome face, she forced herself to suppress the feeling.

Unexpectedly, the man didn’t strip her clothes away. He simply looked at her coldly, eyes open, muttering a countdown under his breath.

Yang Qingqing suddenly felt a sense of alarm. She opened her eyes, sat up, grabbed her high heels, and, not bothering to put them on, hurried to the hotel room door, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I think I’ll be heading home. I just remembered my mother is coming back from out of town today…”

The man looked at her, half-smiling, half not. “She’s not coming back…”

Yang Qingqing froze, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing…” The man raised his right hand, glanced at his watch. “This stuff is useless…” he muttered.

Cold sweat prickled at the nape of Yang Qingqing’s neck. She grabbed the door handle and twisted, but the door wouldn’t open. Her panic mounted; frantically, she yanked and pushed at the handle, but the door remained shut.

The man made no move to stop her, only smiled on, like a beast watching its prey’s final struggle.

“Damn!” Yang Qingqing’s chest heaved as she cursed under her breath. She turned to speak, but suddenly the world spun and she collapsed to the floor.

When she woke, her whole body was freezing with cold—literally cold, for she was soaked in a mixture of ice and water.

It was pitch black all around, save for a faint glow from a square glass panel set into the iron wall overhead. She dragged herself onto a metal rack in the center of the tank, stood on tiptoe. She wanted to scream—only screaming could vent the terror in her heart. But she feared the man might hear, so the tears rolled down of their own accord.

Just then, she heard the man’s wild laughter.

He stood in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town, staring at the massive, rusted iron tank before him, a strange smile twisting his lips. “The greatest flavor in life is the taste of steaming…”

At that moment, a woman’s hand suddenly slapped against the glass above the tank. Yang Qingqing’s terrified face pressed desperately to the pane, pleading silently.

The man pulled a lighter from his pocket, lit a cigarette, took two fierce drags, then flicked the butt onto an oil stain. A snake of fire shot straight for the great iron tank. He turned and walked away without looking back, climbed into his car, picked up a phone in a case studded with pink rhinestones, and dialed three numbers.

“Hello, 110? I’d like to report a fire… There’s an abandoned chemical plant on the outskirts, and I think there’s still someone inside…”