48: Chapter 48 Braised Meat Buns Squeezed into Luggage

Chen Yang stood at the kitchen entrance with his packed black sports bag on his back. The collar of his white T-shirt was stained with oil splatters from the braised pig trotters he'd eaten last night, looking like an unwashed canvas, and the knees of his jeans were worn to frayed edges. He kicked his silver suitcase with his toe, the wheels making a faint "creak" on the concrete floor, but his eyes couldn't help but glance at the clay pot—the braised pork knuckle inside gleamed with a bright red luster, the skin cooked to a translucent tenderness that looked incredibly soft.

"You really don't need to see me off. I can just take the bus to the train station; it's only two stops away." Chen Yang said it again, his voice a little softer than usual. "If you let this braise simmer any longer, it's going to burn. The coal stove flame is strong; you have to keep an eye on it."

Chen Jie didn't look up, just added a spoonful of rock sugar to the pot. The amber-colored sugar melted slowly in the boiling braising liquid, causing even finer bubbles to rise in the dark brown broth, coating the tumbling pork knuckle as it wobbled. This kid had been stubborn since he was little, he mused. He remembered the first time Chen Yang went to college in another city, also standing at the doorway with his bag like this. Even though his eyes were as red as a rabbit that had just been crying, he had stiffened his neck and said, "I don't miss home at all; school is freer than home." But on the first weekend after school started, he had secretly made a half-hour phone call to complain to him, "The cafeteria food doesn't taste as good as your braised meat."

"Wait, it'll be ready in a second." Chen Jie turned down the damper on the coal stove, and the flame instantly shrank, licking the bottom of the pot with a faint orange-red glow. He turned and rummaged through the top shelf of the cupboard for a glass jar—it was one that had previously held honey, washed clean, with a yellowish ring of honey stain still left around the rim. He used chopsticks to pick up the freshly braised chicken feet and pig ears, arranging them neatly in the jar. The skin of the chicken feet was wrinkled and coated in braising liquid, and the pig ears were sliced to a uniform thickness, with the fat slowly congealing into a thin film at the bottom of the jar, radiating an alluring, oily sheen.

Chen Yang leaned over to help pass the chopsticks, but as soon as his finger touched the rim of the glass jar, he hissed in pain and quickly pulled his hand back. A small spot on his fingertip turned red, like a cherry scorched by fire.

"Clumsy, just like when you were a kid." Chen Jie put down the chopsticks, pulled his hand over, and patted some cool water on the back of it—the water just drawn from the tap carried a hint of chill, but the touch was as light as dusting off ash, exactly the same as twenty years ago when Chen Yang had burned his hand stealing a steamed bun fresh out of the steamer. Back then, Chen Yang was only five, wearing split-crotch pants, tiptoeing to reach the white steamed bun in the steamer. As soon as his finger touched it, he cried from the burn, and while crying, he stuffed his scorched finger into his mouth. His saliva mixed with tears smeared all over his hand, sticky and messy, but looking at his younger brother's aggrieved expression, he couldn't feel any anger at all. He could only blow on it while coaxing, "It doesn't hurt anymore, it doesn't hurt anymore. Brother will get you a cold bun."

When the glass jar was stuffed into Chen Yang's suitcase, it collided with the books inside, making a crisp "clatter." Chen Yang quickly padded the bottom of the jar with a light gray T-shirt and covered the mouth of the jar with a soft cloth, muttering, "Such a big jar, it takes up so much space," though the corners of his mouth were curled high, unable to hide his happiness. "Oh right, Brother," he suddenly remembered something, pulled something out of his sports bag, walked quickly to Chen Jie, and shoved it into his hand. "This is for you, I picked it up on the way."

It was a polished, shiny pebble, the size of a chicken egg, its surface smooth enough to reflect a person's silhouette. On the surface of the stone, a smiley face was drawn crookedly with a black marker—the eyes were two circles, the mouth was a curved line. The ink had been soaked by rainwater and turned a bit blue, with the edges blurred, looking a bit clumsy but exceptionally cute. "I picked it up by the river yesterday," Chen Yang scratched the back of his head, his ears turning a bit red. "It looks like that jade stone in your backpack, just not as bright, and it doesn't have as many patterns. If you don't like it..."

"I like it." Chen Jie squeezed the stone, the cold sensation climbing up through his fingers, carrying a bit more of the warmth of human life than the dark green jade stone in his backpack. He recalled how, when Chen Yang was little, he always loved picking up "junk" to bring home: broken glass shards, rusty screw caps, discarded toy parts—he hid them all in an iron box like treasures and would secretly brag to the neighbor's kid, "My brother is amazing; he can fix all of these into new ones." Back then, he felt that what his younger brother was hiding wasn't junk, but his trust in him.

"Let's go, if we don't leave now, we'll miss the bus." Chen Yang pulled the handle of his suitcase, the wheels rolling over the sycamore leaves at the door, making a "rustling" sound like stepping on a pile of shredded paper. Chen Jie followed behind, the jade stone in his canvas backpack digging into his waist, a bit heavy, yet it reminded him of the scene when he fixed the dormitory fan for Chen Yang yesterday—that fan was always dropping its blades. Chen Yang had squatted next to him watching for an entire afternoon, asking every now and then, "Brother, is this screw loose?" or saying, "So it can be fixed this way," his eyes shining like a curious little beast, exactly the same as when he watched him dismantle the radio as a child.

At the bus stop at the entrance of the alley, Chen Yang placed his suitcase by his feet and gripped the railing of the station. The bus hadn't arrived yet. He suddenly turned his head and shouted at Chen Jie: "Brother, if the fan in my dormitory drops its blades again, I'll mail it back for you to fix! You fix them sturdier than the school does!"

"The postage for mailing it back would be enough to buy a new fan, you silly kid." Chen Jie walked over and stuffed a bag of freshly roasted pumpkin seeds into his pants pocket—just like every time Chen Yang left home, he always liked to pack some snacks, afraid his younger brother would be hungry on the train. "Send me a message when you get to the train station, and check your luggage again before you get on the train. Don't leave anything behind."

The bus pulled up in front of them, splashing water from the roadside, the body of the bus still stained with mud. The door opened with a "hiss," and the conductor's shouts could be heard. As Chen Yang lifted his foot to board the bus, Chen Jie suddenly saw a piece of white cotton string exposed on the side of his sports bag—that was the one he had specially tied to the lid of the glass jar yesterday, worried that this kid wouldn't be able to find the can opener. The other end of the cotton string was tied to a small can opener, hidden in the bag, completely unnoticeable unless one looked closely.

The bus slowly drove away. Chen Yang leaned out the rear window and waved, his white T-shirt swaying like a small flag among the crowded passengers. His mouth was open, probably shouting, "Brother, you go back," but the sound was drowned out by the engine, and Chen Jie didn't hear it clearly. He stood where he was, still clutching the pebble with the smiley face, suddenly feeling that this stone was heavier than the jade stone in his backpack—perhaps it was loaded with too many words left unsaid, containing both Chen Yang's reluctance to leave and his own concern.

On the way home, passing Wang Lei's braised meat stall, the braised food in the iron cabinet was steaming, and the aroma of cinnamon and meat wafted over with the evening breeze. "Did you bring braised meat for your brother?" Wang Lei used chopsticks to pick up a piece of braised liver and shoved it into his hand. "This kid is cut from the same cloth as you, stubborn on the outside but soft on the inside. He was just asking me, 'Which braised meat of yours does my brother love the most?' wanting to buy some for you, but I stopped him, saying you definitely stewed it yourself."

Chen Jie didn't speak, taking a bite of the braised liver. The fragrance of the braising liquid spread in his mouth, but it tasted a bit bitter. He touched his canvas backpack; the jade stone inside was still cold, but his heart felt as if it had been soaked in the braising liquid from the clay pot, warm and cozy—perhaps this is what family is: you don't need to deliberately say "I miss you" or "I care about you." It's just like this old braising liquid; you don't need to rush to add ingredients. You simmer it slowly, and as time passes, it naturally develops a flavor so rich it cannot be dissolved.