usenovelgroup Chapter 84 The Last Emperor is already a Seresian!
Chapter 84 The Last Emperor is already a Seresian!
Chapter 84 The Last Emperor is already a Seresian!
The green archway of Chinatown casts a slanted shadow in the afternoon light.
Some of the paint on the archway has peeled off, revealing the wood underneath.
The small courtyard behind the archway is very quiet.
Ai Siqing sat in an old rattan chair, with a cup of cold tea on a small wooden table beside her.
A very thin film formed on the surface of the tea soup.
He was in his seventies, wearing a dark gray jacket with his forehead and the back of his head completely shaved.
The remaining hair was combed into a long, thin braid at the back of the head.
The braid was well-maintained, jet black and shiny, with the ends tied with a red string.
There are gunshots outside.
It wasn't very close, a few blocks away, and it felt muffled, like someone was banging on the door.
Ai Siqing didn't move.
His eyes were fixed on the half-withered bamboo clump in the corner of the yard, his gaze empty.
She raised her hand and unconsciously touched her braid.
He ran his fingertips from the roots to the ends of his hair, a slow motion, as if checking that something was still there.
Then he turned his head and looked at the portrait hanging on the main wall of the hall.
The portrait is quite old, the paper is yellowed, but it was mounted very carefully.
The painting depicts a man dressed as an official of a certain dynasty, wearing a hat with a peacock feather and embroidered peacocks on his official robe.
The bottom left corner has the inscription: Guangxu 23rd year.
That was his great-grandfather.
"whee----"
Ai Siqing suddenly laughed, her voice very soft, the sound leaking out from between her teeth.
"Grandpa, hee hee—"
The only sound in the courtyard was the rustling of the wind through the bamboo leaves.
Footsteps came running in from outside.
He was a man around forty years old, who also wore a braid, but his braid was thinner and messier than his father's.
With piercing, shifty eyes, she possesses a kind of stereotypical, grotesque beauty typical of the poor, stereotypical performers of Qinqiang opera.
"father!"
The man ran into the courtyard, panting, "It's so loud outside! Is it—is it the Emperor coming to take us back?"
Ai Siqing turned around and looked at her son.
His gaze slowly focused, as if he had returned from a very far place.
"Don't go out."
He said his voice was hoarse.
The man knelt down in front of his father, looking up at him.
Ai Siqing reached out and touched her son's braid.
My hair is a bit stiff and prickly.
"Rou'er—"
He murmured, twirling the ends of his hair with his fingers.
My thoughts drifted away.
At this time of day, someone would usually be coming to the yard.
Old Chen would bring his newly acquired snuff bottle, Old Zhao would carry a bag of fine tobacco, and there would be a few younger men who, although they no longer wore braids, still spoke with considerable respect.
They would sit in the courtyard, brew a pot of tea, and chat about calligraphy and paintings, as well as the "old things" they had recently received.
Sometimes they would talk about their homeland, about the palaces, the rituals, and the era names that no longer exist.
But not now.
Only the father and son were in the yard.
When did it start?
Love to think clearly.
It seems to have started after that announcement.
The announcement from the Chinese Embassy in the United States was disseminated through all channels of Chinese community organizations.
The message is simple: Given the rapidly deteriorating situation in the United States, all overseas Chinese holding Seres passports or meeting the conditions for returning to China are advised to register for evacuation through designated channels as soon as possible.
The announcement used the word "recommendation," but the subsequent measures were very practical: charter flights, a fast track for temporary visas, and a list of domestic reception and resettlement sites.
Then there were fewer people.
First, it was the young families who hurriedly left with their children and suitcases.
Then there was the middle-aged couple who closed their shop and terminated their lease.
Finally, even those old guys who were just like him, with braids, wearing jackets, and talking about "the old stories of the previous dynasty," disappeared one after another.
Old Chen came by before he left, but he didn't go into the yard; he just stood at the gate.
"Ai Lao, I—I have to go."
"Where to?"
"Back in China. My son bought a house in Shenzhen, and my grandson has started elementary school."
"Didn't you say—"
"That was before."
Old Chen interrupted him, his eyes darting away, "Things are different now. I can't stay here anymore."
Then he walked away quickly without looking back.
Boss Hong's departure was even more ruthless.
Boss Hong is an antique dealer from Guangdong, and he usually associates most with Ai Siqing.
The two often appreciated calligraphy and paintings together, and Boss Hong always said, "You old men from the Qing Dynasty, you're quite learned."
Last week, Boss Hong drove over, without bringing any antiques, only a small leather suitcase.
"Old Ai, this is the payment for my last batch of goods, your share."
He placed a wad of cash on the table.
"Are you leaving?"
"Let's go. Our flight's tomorrow."
Ai Siqing looked at him: "You believe that announcement too?"
Boss Hong smiled, but his smile was a little cold.
"Old man, times have changed."
He pointed to Ai Siqing's braid, "My son is in Shanghai, my granddaughter is in Suzhou, and I pay their social security and medical insurance every year. I have always been a Seresian."
He paused, then added, "You bunch of Qing insects, just stay here with your rat tails and be used as yo-yos for the white people."
After saying that, he turned and left.
An SUV was parked outside the yard, with his wife, daughter, and two grandsons inside.
As the car drove away, no one looked back.
Clear bugs.
Ai Siqing remembers this word.
Long ago, in school, the teacher taught us: "Qing" was the name of the country, and "chong" was—what was it again?
He forgot.
All I know is that since then, no one has come to the courtyard anymore.
It turns out it was all business.
He actually knew.
Boss Hong associated with him partly because he genuinely liked old things, and partly because he wanted to use him to connect with the "old guard" in the collecting circle and expand his business.
He knew, but he didn't want to think about it in detail.
Just as he knew, the world depicted in his great-grandfather's portrait no longer existed.
The Forbidden City is now a museum, and the Last Emperor has been transformed into the likeness of Seris.
But he still kept his braid.
They still burn incense for the portrait every day.
Or teach your son to say, "The Emperor will come to pick us up."
Because if he didn't do this, he wouldn't know who he was.
"father?"
The son was still squatting in front of me, his eyes blank.
Ai Siqing withdrew her hand.
"Go back inside."
"But outside—"
"Go back to the house."
Ji Zi slowly stood up and walked into the main room, turning back every few steps.
Ai Siqing looked at the portrait again.
The great-grandfather's eyes are painted very vividly, looking slightly downwards as if looking down at him.
"grandfather----"
He asked in a low voice, "When will the Emperor arrive?"
no answer.
Only the sound of gunfire outside grew closer.
Then the courtyard gate was kicked open.
It wasn't a gentle push; it was a kick with a lot of force.
The wooden door slammed against the wall with a loud bang.
Five people rushed in.
They were all Black, wearing dirty jackets and work pants, and carrying guns.
There were pistols and shotguns with their barrels sawed off.
The leader was bald and had tattoos on his neck.
Ai Siqing stood up.
"What do you want?"
He asked, his voice more steady than he had expected.
The bald man raised his pistol and aimed it at him.
"Old man, hand over the money and food."
"I don't----"
"Stop talking nonsense!"
The bald man stepped forward, the muzzle of his gun almost touching Ai Siqing's chest.
A noise came from the main room. The son peeked out, saw what was happening, and froze in place in fright.
"Go in!"
Ai Siqing turned around and shouted.
But the son didn't move.
The bald man smiled.
"There's also a small bug."
He gave his accomplice a wink, and the two of them headed towards the main room.
"Don't touch him!"
Ai Siqing reached out to stop her.
The bald man pulled the trigger.
boom.
The first shot hit Aisiqing in the abdomen.
The impact caused him to stagger backward, crashing into a wicker chair, which then overturned.
He looked down and saw a dark red stain quickly spreading across his jacket.
A warm sensation spread from the wound.
The second shot.
It hit him in the chest.
This time he fell completely backward, his back hitting the ground, the shock sending shivers through his internal organs.
My vision started to blur.
He saw the bald man squat down, rummage through him, and take out a pocket watch and an old wallet.
They saw the other two drag their son out of the main room and press him to the ground.
He saw the concubines in the other room being dragged out like dogs, whipped along.
Then he turned his eyes and looked at the wall.
The portrait is still there.
My great-grandfather's face was in shadow and not clearly visible.
But those eyes seemed to still be watching him.
Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his jacket and flowing onto the ground.
Some blood splattered and landed on the glass frame of the portrait, slowly sliding down the surface and leaving several dark red marks.
Ai Siqing opened her mouth, as if to say something.
But no sound came out.
He exhaled only one breath, gently.
Then the eyes stopped moving.
The courtyard fell silent.
Only the intermittent gunshots in the distance and the sound of the wind rustling through the bamboo leaves could be heard.
The bloodstains on the portrait slowly dried, congealing into dark brown spots on the glass.
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