Chapter Fifteen: Memories Carried Away by the Wind

While Mengya and I were deep in discussion about the ugliness of human nature on the sofa, a knock sounded on the door.

“Master Qiu, I’m Qi Liye from the *** Auction House. The Buddhist statue you purchased at our auction has arrived.”

Mengya and I exchanged a glance, and she hurried to open the door. A burly man staggered in, bearing a massive wooden crate, followed by the manager, Qi Liye.

The strongman set the crate down, then pulled a toolbox from his pocket and deftly removed the rivets from the edges of the frame with a wrench. Qi Liye stood aside with his arms crossed, overseeing the work.

“How did your auction go yesterday, Liye?” I asked.

Qi Liye shook his head. “Not great. The market is still awkward, you know? Much worse than a few years ago. A Kangxi famille-rose Peach Blossom Cup fetched less than one and a half million.”

I sighed. “Tell me about it. The economy’s been rough, and everyone in this business is just barely holding on. Those who couldn’t make it have switched to selling handicrafts—and even that’s less lucrative than selling grass seeds these days.”

I glanced at the crate on the floor, now dismantled into planks. The stone Buddha head, supported by a black iron frame, was exposed. The strongman was about to take apart the iron frame as well, but I stopped him hastily.

“Sir, you don’t need to take apart the frame. If you do, it won’t stand upright.”

He nodded in understanding, and I rushed into the kitchen, fetching two bottles of mineral water from the fridge for him and Qi Liye.

“Thank you both. Sorry to trouble you.”

Qi Liye smiled. “It’s nothing—it’s our job.” He handed me a bank card from his bag. “Master Qiu, please keep your card safe. The total came to 702,000 yuan—570,000 for the Gandhara Buddha head and 132,000 for the two bonsai.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Liye. You’re always so thorough.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries as the worker tidied up the debris. Then Qi Liye and the man left my home.

After watching their car pull away, I locked the door behind them.

“Mengya, fetch the toolbox.”

She nodded and brought it from the kitchen cupboard. I used the wrench to unscrew the stopper at the back of the Buddha head’s neck. With a click, the plug came loose, revealing a hollow cavity.

I put down the wrench and, with trembling hands, reached inside. My fingers encountered something unfamiliar. I reached deeper, pinched the object, and pulled it out. Between my fingers emerged a yellowed envelope, creased with age, the surface inscribed with twisted Sanskrit characters written in fresh blood. The script was uncanny—partly resembling English letters, partly like Chinese pinyin—distorted and eerie. It read: “prajñāpāramitā.”

“What does that mean?” Mengya asked.

“You know the famous film ‘A Chinese Odyssey,’ starring Stephen Chow?” I replied.

“Yes, the one with the Pandora’s Box. Stephen Chow, Karen Mok, Athena Chu—it’s a classic. Who doesn’t know it?”

I nodded. “Do you remember the incantation Stephen Chow’s character used to activate the box and save Bai Jingjing?”

She thought for a moment. “Oh, right—it was ‘Prajnaparamita’!”

Again I nodded. “That’s a special Buddhist term, found in the names of many sutras, like the Heart Sutra. The phrase originates from Sanskrit—Buddhism itself came from India, founded by Shakyamuni. There are countless Buddhists in China now; as the saying goes, ‘The flowers blooming inside the wall are fragrant outside.’ From ancient times, translators like Kumarajiva and Xuanzang rendered scriptures into Chinese. The Sanskrit phrase on this envelope, ‘prajñāpāramitā’ (pronounced ‘pa rua mi ta’), is exactly that—meaning ‘to the other shore,’ or liberation.”

Mengya nodded, though she still looked puzzled. I didn’t explain further, but opened the yellow envelope.

Inside was a nearly faded photograph: a group of people, as if on an outing, posed together on a grassy plain. Yet every face was somber, unnaturally so. Stranger still, several figures had been cut out of the photo with scissors—four in total, I counted.

I turned the photo over. On the back, written in red ink, were a few small words:

“Wang, Zhao and Li family, Han, may you rest in peace.” Signed: “Ren Taian, prajñāpāramitā.”

I tore the photo into shreds with a cold laugh. Mengya, seeing my state, rushed to embrace me, patting my back. I shoved her away, strode into the kitchen, and burned the pieces to ashes over the stove.

“Qiu Tong, none of this is your fault. You don’t need to blame yourself so much,” she whispered.

I snorted, turned off the flame, blew away the ashes, and sang a few lines of a pop song under my breath.

“Let the past drift away on the wind, all on the wind, my heart moving with you…”

Mengya, seeing me so distraught, collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

I went to the safe, opened a hidden compartment, and took out an identical but undamaged photo. Sitting on the sofa, I gazed at it, my face expressionless.

Mengya rose from the floor, wiped her tears, and sat beside me, her words fierce: “Give me the photo.”

I sneered. “What, you think you can meddle in my affairs?”

Her sparkling eyes brimmed with tears as she suddenly seized my hands.

“Qiu Tong, can’t we leave all this behind? I just want to live a peaceful life with you, free from all these old grievances. Please, promise me.”

I looked at her sorrowful face, silent for a long time. Her tears fell in pairs, tracing down her cheeks and landing on the backs of my hands.

With a deep sigh, I lifted my hand to wipe her tears, smiling gently. “Mengya, do you think I don’t long for everything to return to dust, to let the past be the past? But you must understand: the tree may crave stillness, but the wind will not cease. Do you really think leaving the underworld will bring peace? It isn’t that you’re in the world of rivers and lakes—where there are people, there’s a world of strife. Mengya, if you’re suffering, then leave me. I’ll give you money. Find someone who loves you and live your life in peace, all right?”

She stared at me, stunned. “Don’t you love me anymore? Are you abandoning me?”

I turned away, not wanting her to see my tears. Pretending to wipe sweat from my brow, I brushed away the tears. “Mengya, how could I not love you? It’s because I love you that I want you to leave. Don’t you see? With me, there’s only endless danger and sorrow. I can’t let you sink into this mire with me. I want you to leave because I love you—do you understand?”

She beat her fists against my chest. “I hate you, I hate you.”

I sighed. “Hitting me won’t change anything. Some things are beyond our will, you understand?”

As she sobbed and struck me, she suddenly flung her arms around my waist.

“I’ll never leave you, and I won’t let you abandon me. I already belong to you—alive, I’m yours, dead, I’ll become a vengeful spirit to protect you.” With that, she kissed me.

Between man and woman, there is no better balm for the heart and nerves. Perhaps my nerves truly are thick; after a night of passion, as the lyrics say, “Let the past drift away on the wind, all on the wind, my heart moving with you…” the bitterness in my heart vanished without a trace.

I sat up in bed, looked at the old photo from the safe, picked up the lighter from the table, and burned the photo to ashes. Even though I knew the truth behind everything was impossibly tangled, and that burning a single photograph would not erase it all, my heart felt as if doused by a bucket of cold water—the fire and anguish died away, gone without a trace.