By ZHOU HAILIANG

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Father Next Door

By ZHOU HAILIANG

WHEN I opened the door for Father, I was on the phone. The call was from a friend inviting me to lunch. Cradling the handset between my shoulder and head, I freed my hands to receive a huge cardboard box from Father.

Father put on his slippers, choosing the most frayed pair in the array, and asked if I was going out. I replied I would be dining out with friends, but not immediately.

I opened the box, and saw baked wheat buns with golden crusts packed to the brim. I then remembered the Double Seventh Festival (the seventh day of the seventh lunar month) was approaching. The custom in my hometown on this day is to bake buns of leavened dough. After I moved to the city, Mother would make this golden mouthwatering pastry a few days in advance, and send Father to bring them to me. My hometown was a mere two-hour drive from the city where I lived, but it seemed I was seldom able to find time for a visit.

After some time spent drinking tea together, my phone rang again. I suggested that my father also come with me to eat.

He panicked, “How can I, a rustic peasant, dine with friends of your cultural clique?”

I assured him this would not be an issue, and that I looked forward to introducing him to my friends. But he grew more anxious and said, “No, no. That’ll just make me uneasy, and your friends too.”

“How could I let you leave on an empty stomach?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll grab some lunch once I’m back in the countryside.”

Then I suggested we eat at home, and I would prepare the food and cancel the appointment.

My father immediately objected, “You must keep your word. It’d be rude not to show up after telling them you’re coming. Go have lunch with your friends, and I’ll head back to the village. I’ve a lot of stuff to do there.”

But I insisted I would not go out without him, “Our village folk would point fingers and throw stones at me. How could a son not provide a meal when an elder travels all the way to the city to bring him baked buns? Anyway, I’ve long wanted to take you out for a meal.”

After a verbal tug of war we both compromised. I would book a small private room for him in the restaurant my friends had invited me to. After spending some time with the friends, I would join him in that room.

Father nodded grudgingly, but insisted that I order only two dishes of jiaozi (dumplings). “One for you and one for me, we can chat while eating them. Won’t that be nice?” he said.

When we arrived at the restaurant, I was glad to find there was a small private room adjoining my friends table. I placed the order for my father, and told him to take his time when the dishes were brought in.

“I’ll be back soon,” I assured him.

“OK, but don’t keep me waiting too long, And, don’t let your friends know I’m next door.” I grinned; he was as straitlaced as I was when I first came to the city.

My friend who played the host proposed three toasts, with a small litany before each. Meanwhile I felt I had ants in my pants, thinking of Father. “Can I propose a toast now? You’d then have to excuse me for a moment, as I have something to attend to…” I spoke up.

“Not your turn yet!” my friend interrupted me, “I’ve got three more to do, and then you guys continue anticlockwise…We’re going to drink to our fill today.”

“I really do have to leave,” I said.

“If you give us a good reason, we’ll let you go. Or you’ll have to empty six glasses as punishment,” he chortled.

“My father’s in the room next door.” Everyone looked stunned. “He came from the village to bring me baked buns. I managed to coax him here, but he still wouldn’t join us. So he’s now eating alone next door, I need to join him later,” I explained.

My friends hooted: “What worth is raising a son like you? See what you’ve done. A lonely meal next door? Don’t stand there like an idiot. Go bring him here!”

I told them my father would definitely not join us, and appealed to them to let him be, as over-pressing the issue would only intimidate him. My friends gave in, but still wanted to have a drink with him – basic etiquette, they said.

Seeing no hope of dissuading them, I took them to the room next door. But the only one there was a waiter mopping the floor.

“Where’s the elderly man?” I asked.

“He left. He canceled your order except for one serving of jiaozi. He took it with him, saying he’d like for his wife to have some city jiaozi.”

My friends and I all fell silent. At that moment I swore to myself I would visit my parents that very weekend – no, more than that, make one or two visits every month. Raising my glass, I told my friends: “To our fathers.”

My dad, however, could not see or have any knowledge of this. He was already on the bus to the countryside, cradling in his arms a container of jiaozi from the city.

ZHOU HAILIANG is the author of the novel A Shallow Marriage.