Chris Song’s Note: Liu Yichang’s 劉以鬯 (1918–2018) short story “Lunar New Year’s Eve” 除夕 imagines the last day of Cao Xueqin 曹雪芹 (1710–1765), author of The Dream of the Red Chamber 紅樓夢, who is believed to have died on Lunar New Year’s Eve in 1765. Amid pangs of hunger and cold, coupled with the sorrow of losing his child, the protagonist was haunted by the visions of his past wealth and the despair and bleakness of his present life. In the story, Liu Yichang also tries to indirectly explore Cao Xueqing’s intent of destroying his own works and the ways to understand the ending of The Dream of the Red Chamber.
The clouds hung low, like filthy clumps of cotton, pale grey in colour, forming shapes that suggested imminent change. Gradually, the pale grey deepened into an unnoticeable duskiness. Snow was about to fall. Such weather was bitterly cold. The cotton robe he wore, threadbare from seven or eight years of use, offered little warmth. If it weren’t for the few drinks he’d had in town, his stubbornness alone wouldn’t have been enough to stave off the shivering. The suburbs lacked the bustle of Lunar New Year’s Eve, and the sparse sounds of firecrackers made the silence all the more profound. The paths in this area were littered with loose stones. He hadn’t intended to make a game of kicking them, but he wanted to dispel the gloomy oppressive thoughts in his mind. Months ago, death had snatched his son away. Already a drinker, he now drank even more. The excess alcohol made him sway and stumble as he walked the path, struggling to keep his balance. He continued to kick at stones. Lifting his leg to kick, he missed and fell to the ground. Middle-aged, corpulent and phlegm-ridden like a pig, he felt in no rush to get up. Unnamed insects chirped as they searched for food in the grass, a curiosity in winter. Then he saw a wild dog chasing its own tail, finding amusement in its own folly. (“How foolish,” he thought.) His mind, not yet fully drowned in alcohol, lingered on the dog’s antics, thoughts stagnant like a pond, occasionally disturbed by a falling leaf. Suddenly, the scene before him transformed, the desolate outskirts morphing into a dream: pavilions and towers interlaced with the delicate steps of embroidered shoes. Sneezes echoed from the upper rooms. Familiar laughter still rang through the corridors. A black cat meowed on the rooftop. The wind carried the sweet scent of flowers and herbs, and the ground was covered in petals tossed by the breeze. Butterflies fluttered among the rockery and flowers. In the lotus pond, large goldfish flickered in and out of sight among the waterweeds. He even heard a parrot calling his name. (“I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” he thought.) Was he walking into a dream? He often tried to use dreams to capture lost joys. Yet his reality was not of the present; he was a slave to memories, often dreaming, thinking it might bring some solace, but it never did. Ironically, in days when he could only afford porridge, he treated alcohol as an indispensable luxury.
He closed his eyes tightly, hoping to draw a line between dream and reality.
Upon opening his eyes again, the scene remained unchanged: pavilions, finely carved beams, trees and rocks, and secluded corridors. He even saw the pair of stone lions. Faint sounds of bells reached his ears, their origin unknown. He saw the great red-painted doors creak open, and a young man stepped out. (“Strange, this young man looks familiar, as if I’ve seen him somewhere before,” he thought.) As he pondered this, the young man stared back at him, seemingly recognising him as well. This confused him, and when confused, he would habitually scratch the back of his head. His thoughts were like a walnut, requiring effort to crack open to find the answer. That young man, it turned out, was himself.
Once again, the scene before him shifted abruptly, resembling the turning of pages in a picture album. Insects still chirped in the grass, and the wild dog continued to chase its tail. Two firecrackers sounded in the distance. He blinked and pressed his palms against the ground, lifting himself up. Although the sky was dark, it was not yet pitch black. Since moving to the suburbs, he often returned home at night, not necessarily to test his courage, but with the hope that one day he might encounter a ghost.
He often longed for time to reverse, to step back into the years gone by and be young again, to savour the bustling liveliness amid pavilions and towers, to treat the world as a playground. He imagined himself laughing unrestrainedly among beautiful girls; swinging his sleeves without care; sharing fanciful dreams with abandon; cursing and shouting with utter freedom…
The wind grew stronger, cutting against his face like little blades. His mind was still not fully clear as he continued along the path, no longer kicking stones. The surrounding darkness made it difficult to see the pebbles on the path. In the distance, a few thatched cottages with flickering lights took the edge off the sense of desolation. Of course, people lived in those cottages. Where there are people, especially on Lunar New Year’s Eve, firecrackers are to be expected. But lighting firecrackers is not always a child’s affair. In the suburbs, only children might waste small change to add to the festive atmosphere. The sparse sound of firecrackers in this area was inevitable. When there was no sound of firecrackers, the air seemed to solidify. Walking in the darkness, he felt no fear, as if he had entered another realm. “Hey, you’re back?” The sudden question startled him. He widened his eyes and, even in the darkness, saw a tree. The tree, barren and ghostlike, stood before him. Branches devoid of leaves swayed in the wind, resembling a monster with dozens of arms. Then he heard a faint tinkling sound, and a woman emerged from behind the tree. She had an oval face, with eyes that hid deep emotions, and skin so pale that it reminded him of a celestial being, thus he felt no fear. In fact, encountering a female ghost in the desolate night was something people firmly believed in. When he took a closer look at her, he noticed her clothes were very thin. “You should wear more,” he said. The woman coughed. She was someone who coughed a lot.
She walked ahead, and he followed.
“How have you been living these years far from home?” Her tone was low and sombre, piquing his curiosity further. Then, with the faint tinkling sound continuing, he found himself in a large courtyard garden. She led the way, and he trailed behind her. Everything was familiar: the flowers and trees beside the white stone paths, the scent wafting from the braziers, the birdcages hanging in the corridors with thrushes inside, and the glass tassel lamps he knew so well. He had always loved this place: the brilliant candles made the furnishings appear more luxurious—even the guardian deity couplets on the doors were new. It was Lunar New Year’s Eve. The servants had already cleaned the upper house and hung the ancestral portraits. Parrots squawked; maids idly watched the ants scatter. As he and the woman crossed the path, a yellow dog approached and sniffed him. From this alone, he knew he was not a stranger here. Here, the street lanterns shone brightly. Here, incense smoke curled in the air. People were throwing dice and setting off firecrackers, the atmosphere thick with the unique vibrancy of Lunar New Year’s Eve. It was exhilarating, like alcohol. People seemed to have been drinking; their cheeks flushed with rosiness. Then, crossing a small wooden bridge, he could see flowers and rocks scattered across the hills. A fresh scent wafted from a window, on whose sill stood a vase with wax plum blossoms. The woman lifted the bamboo curtain that touched the ground, allowing him to enter. Settling down, as was customary, a maid brought over some Longjing tea.
“Do you still live here?”
“Yes, still here.”
“How’s your health?”
“Same as always.”
“You really should take more rest, eat some nourishing food.”
“It won’t make much of a difference.”
“Do you still write poetry in your spare time?”
“Let’s not dredge up the past. What about you? How have you been living these years far from home?”
“I’ve been selling my paintings.”
“You mean, selling them to others?”
“Struggling for a meal, one has to sell their paintings.”
“I’ve always liked your paintings.”
“I know.”
“You’ve never given one to me.”
“I will give you one.”
“What will you paint in it?”
“I won’t tell you just yet.”
Tears fell uncontrollably as she lowered her head, gently dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. It was Lunar New Year’s Eve, a time when tears seemed out of place, yet here they were. Women, in times of sorrow or joy, always seemed to express themselves this way.
A sudden surge of longing sent a shiver through him. (“I’ve aged, so why is she still so young?” he wondered.) A gust of wind caused the flowers outside the window to sway. He didn’t notice, for he was lost in a search for the joys and sorrows he had lost. Another fierce wind blew, extinguishing all the candles in the room. What came from the darkness, returned to it. Everything before his eyes vanished in an instant, not even leaving a moment to say “goodbye”. All around him was darkness. It was still Lunar New Year’s Eve, but now marked by two contrasting emotions.
Rain began to fall as he stumbled forward. The droplets were fine, like powder, but the wind was fierce. His clothes flapped and fluttered wildly in the gusts, constantly fluttering. He shivered again, drawing his hands into his sleeves. The spasmodic north wind shook the treetops, sounding almost like sobbing. He continued forward, oblivious to the raindrops that were now congealing into feather-like snow. Despite the engulfing darkness, the accumulating snow around the tree roots and stones was visible, scattered in patches as if flour had been sprinkled. The snow, not a source of light, somehow twinkled in the darkness. The temperature had plummeted, urging him to quicken his pace. He should have headed home earlier. His wife was waiting for him, to have the Lunar New Year’s Eve dinner. (Lunar New Year’s Eve dinner? More likely a thin porridge.) Suddenly, a gust of wind hurled snowflakes into his face. He had to squint to see properly. The snowflakes, whirled by the wind in the dark space, looked like a room full of goose feathers caught in a whirlwind. He had always loved snowy days since he was a child. Now, these swirling snowflakes had turned into a horde of white spectres. The spectres surrounded him, forming a menacing threat. The snow fell harder and denser.
The snowy path, now muddy, had turned soft. His shoes made a faint squeaking sound as he pressed on it. His socks were wet, and the icy sensation caused goosebumps all over his body. He muttered to himself, “I hope I don’t lose my way.” Then, he heard a woman’s voice: “I’m here!” He glanced around, only to see the sky full of snow. But he recognised the voice. She was a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl with large eyes. She had once been a maid in the grand mansion, naively losing her innocence and thinking it something to be proud of. Over the years, he found himself often thinking of her.
A light appeared ahead.
The light seeped through the gaps of a wooden window. (“In the darkness, even a dim, unclear oil lamp can control everything,” he thought.) The snow continued to fall in the strong wind, forcing him to brush snowflakes off his right shoulder with his left hand, and then off his left shoulder with his right. Still slightly inebriated, he remembered his wife sitting beside the oil lamp, waiting for him to come home for dinner. He saw the small stream, where he had personally placed a few stepping stones. Anyone else crossing these stones on a snowy night, even sober, would likely fall. But he didn’t.
“I’m back!” he shouted. The wooden door opened. His wife hurried out, the light from inside the house trembling in the wind. Since their child’s death, she had ceased to smile. As she helped her husband through the gate made of tree branches, she said nothing. Entering the house, they shut out the wind and snow with a sigh of relief, but her eyes remained dull and fixed. Her expression seemed perpetually on the verge of tears, yet the tears never fell. “It’s Lunar New Year’s Eve, I cooked a pot of rice for you,” she said in a low voice that betrayed her rapidly declining health.
On the hearth, damp branches burned, filling the cramped cottage with bluish smoke that made him cough violently, his neck veins bulging.
The north wind pressed against the wooden window, creaking it repetitively, as if someone braving the snow was curling their fingers to gently knock on the windowpane.
The hearth ashes were stirred up by the north wind squeezing through the door cracks. The dim oil lamp cast a dismal pale yellow on the mud walls, so thin it felt like a punch could create a hole. Yet, on these frail walls hung several screen bars and couplets, all his own handiwork. They weren’t for decoration but ready to be taken to town and sold for money whenever he craved a drink.
The flickering light of the oil lamp, though weak, danced ceaselessly, casting shadows on the wall like a congregation of ghosts. His gaze fell upon these shadows, and memories brought unbearable pain. Recalling the laughter and clamour of luxurious mansions filled him with frustration. Swallowing hard, he struggled to suppress his restlessness. Painful memories clung to him like a sodden garment, unbearably uncomfortable. Usually, upon returning home, he would chat to his wife about people and events in the town. But tonight, he had no desire to speak. Sitting on the bed’s edge, staring at the ghost-like trembling shadows, he felt his heart tangled in past joys, longing to scream out. He was usually mild-mannered and took pride in it, but occasionally, he lost control of his reason, mostly when memories of the past surfaced.
A loud shout seemed unnecessary; a sigh might relieve some of the internal gloom. Not dwelling on the past, however, seemed only to foster the growth of his pain. These days, he had been borrowing money for drink with increasing frequency. Even living in the outskirts couldn’t free him from the entanglements of the world. That constant longing for something was confusing. Sometimes, it was only after drinking that he realised he was desperately trying to reclaim lost joys. “Eat,” said a voice coming from his right. Turning his head, he saw his wife listlessly sitting beside the rough little square table, her head lowered, like an exhausted cat ready to sleep.
Steam rose from the few bowls of food on the table. It was the Lunar New Year’s Eve dinner. Sitting at the table, he remembered the last Lunar New Year’s Eve. (It had snowed then too, he thought. Last Lunar New Year’s Eve, they also had a meal steaming hot. Last Lunar New Year’s Eve, their child was still alive.) He put down the chopsticks he had just picked up. Sighing, he went to lie on the bed. His wife watched him.
A damp branch on the hearth was emitting too much blue smoke. He coughed, his throat making a raspy sound at its worst. His wife removed the damp branch, and a profound quiet settled over the hut. It was so silent a pin drop could be heard. Snow falling on the roof usually made no sound, but now he could hear its soft rustle. The quiet of this place was sometimes terrifying. (“Such a tragic end,” he thought.) Each time he contemplated that end, his mind became agitated. (“Such a tragic end.”) His hand, almost instinctively, twisted and turned the long braid of hair, which wrapped around his neck like a rope. He thought of death. When he did, even the evergreen hills seemed unreliable. Suddenly, life felt as if it had left him. This sensation was hard to explain; yet, every time he felt it, some of his melancholy seemed to lessen. He longed for a few more drinks, to further cloud his already hazy consciousness with alcohol. A sigh broke the silence, snapping him back to reality. No matter how much he pretended not to hear, his mood remained heavy. He dared not look at his wife again. This poor woman had long learned how to accept the hand fate dealt her; she never complained; she had become scrawny. Her pallid complexion showed that she was no longer healthy.
“There can’t be such an ending!”
His voice cut through the silence like a knife, startling the suffering woman. She did not ask why he said this, although she did not understand.
A drop of melting snow fell from above onto his forehead. The wrinkles on his forehead were shallow, as he was a plump man. The snowdrop lingered on his brow, its coldness sending another shiver through him. Rolling out of bed, he glanced around, unintentionally or not, and noticed a dead rat in the corner. In this place, there was so little to eat.
“There can’t be such an ending!” he repeated.
On the wooden shelf lay a stack of manuscripts. He pulled out a portion from the bottom and tossed it onto the hearth, where the flames leaped chaotically, licking the air. He warmed his hands over the fire. He was burning his thoughts. Burning his emotions. Burning his tears. Burning his sorrow. He laughed, but this laughter did not signify joy. His wife snatched the manuscripts from his hands; he snatched them back from her. “Why?” she asked. He pushed her to the ground. Only under his pen could this subject find life. Now, he was extinguishing that life. “There can’t be such an ending!” he laughed. But the laughter could not stop the north wind’s intrusion. The door and windows rattled again, creaking and groaning. It was Lunar New Year’s Eve, yet not a single firecracker was heard. When he stopped laughing, he glanced sideways at his wife as she rose from the ground. She was thin, her eyes lifeless, like a patient just out of bed. In her eyes, he saw himself. He did not recognise himself. He felt cold, longing for a drink. With such thoughts, he could no longer maintain a tranquil mind. Even without a good reason, he wanted to scold her. These days, when he was in a bad mood, he used her as a scapegoat, venting all his pain and anger on her. She endured such wrongs, never crying. She had forgotten how to cry, just as she had forgotten how to laugh. When she took the bowls away, she just sighed faintly, like a dry leaf blown from a tree by the north wind and falling to the ground. (“Tomorrow is New Year’s Day,” he thought. “No one will buy paintings then.”) He looked around; nothing new caught his eye. Their window was just a wooden board, needing no paper covering. But without Spring Festival couplets or door gods, it hardly felt like Lunar New Year. His gaze fell on the dead rat. Suddenly, the rat seemed to dissolve like ink spreading in clear water. (“Strange, these past few days I’ve been feeling dizzy and lightheaded, for no apparent reason.”) Rubbing his eyes with his fingers, his consciousness cleared. He still had a stack of manuscripts in his hand, one page after another thrown into the hearth, watching how the flames danced. As the unfortunate endings were consumed by fire, he felt a sense of relief. (“No candied fruits, no cakes or dumplings, that’s not a problem. But without alcohol, it just doesn’t feel right. I should find a way to get some.”) He continued feeding the manuscripts into the hearth, one page after another, the fire casting his face in a ruddy glow. When his patience ran thin, he threw the remainder into the fire all at once. At first, the hearth seemed smothered by the overload, showing no flames, only rising blue smoke. After a while, the pungent smoke transformed into billowing thick clouds, dense but often pierced by fierce flames. The fire and smoke engaged in a battle, with flames attempting to break through the heavy smoke. His wife, coughing, hurried out of the room. The flames gained the upper hand, spiralling upwards, higher and higher… He laughed. His wife covered her mouth with her palm, coughing so hard she could barely breathe. The smoke dissipated, and the flames bloomed like a flower. He laughed louder. The flames gradually diminished, like a victor who dares not pursue too far and retreats with pride. Black ash fluttered everywhere. His wife mumbled something indistinctly. He was in hysterics. Suddenly, a wave of darkness swept over him, and everything ceased to exist. “Wake up! Wake up!”—the sharp calling was somewhat piercing when he came to.
(“What’s going on? I only had a few drinks in town, definitely not enough to get this drunk.”) His wife said to him, “You must be hungry. I’ll go reheat the food.” He shook his head, expressing no interest in food, only in drinking more. Another drop of melting snow fell on his face. (“Tomorrow is New Year’s Day. No one will buy paintings tomorrow. The town must be lively tonight, not everyone is avoiding their debts.”) He glanced at the scrolls and couplets hanging on the mud wall and sighed involuntarily. (“None of these calligraphy and paintings will sell. If I want to make money, I need to complete a few more pieces.”) Turning out of bed, he increased his wife’s worry. “You’re not well, you should rest more,” she said. But the urge to paint had been ignited. “I need to go back to the town.” “When?” “Tonight.” “It’s snowing outside.” “It can’t be helped.” “It’s dangerous to go to town at night, you could stumble and get hurt. Besides, you’ve just fainted. If you pass out in the snow, you’ll freeze to death!” He stubbornly spread a sheet of rice paper on the table and picked up his brush. (“Tomorrow is Lunar New Year’s Day. No one will buy paintings tomorrow.”) He poured his pent-up feelings on the rice paper, each stroke representing a new hope. For him, painting was like alcohol. As he painted, he vaguely saw many pots and cups. Then his vision blurred, a jumble of familiar yet chaotic images. Shaking his head, those muddled thoughts suddenly vanished like a mountain wind dispersing the fog. He laughed. Dipping his brush in ink, he wrote his emotions onto the paper. Then his vision blurred again. This time, it was as if he was searching for something in the void, finding nothing. Stubbornly clinging to a wish, he needed to maintain a clear mind. When he finished the painting, it was as though someone had pushed him from behind. His arm pressed against the table, half of his face resting on it. Being overweight and with high blood pressure, in his pursuit of existential value, he fell into eternity. He had left this world, like a weary bird quietly flying into the woods. His wife came out from the back, thinking he had fallen asleep. She looked at the paper; he had painted a stone, without a poem or a seal, but signed his name at the bottom left: Cao Xueqin.
How to cite: Song, Chris and Liu Yichang. “Lunar New Year’s Eve.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 9 Feb. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/02/09/luna.
Liu Yichang 劉以鬯 (1918–2018) was a Shanghai-born and Hong Kong-based writer, editor and publisher. His best-known modernist fiction works include The Drunkard 酒徒 and Intersection 對倒, which inspired Wong Kar-wai’s award-winning films 2046 and In the Mood for Love 花樣年華 respectively. Liu wrote literary columns for various newspapers for the large part of the twentieth century, edited literary publications in Shanghai, Hong Kong and Singapore, and mentored a whole generation of Hong Kong writers. Liu Yichang was widely recognised as the most influential Hong Kong fiction writer since his arrival in the city in 1948.
Chris Song (translator) is a poet, editor, and translator from Hong Kong, and is an assistant professor in English and Chinese translation at the University of Toronto Scarborough. He won the “Extraordinary Mention” of the 2013 Nosside International Poetry Prize in Italy and the Award for Young Artist (Literary Arts) of the 2017 Hong Kong Arts Development Awards. In 2019, he won the 5th Haizi Poetry Award. He is a founding councilor of the Hong Kong Poetry Festival Foundation, executive director of the International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong, and editor-in-chief of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine. He also serves as an advisor to various literary organisations. [Hong Kong Fiction in Translation.]