The Rake’s Tale of an Orphan

The Winter That Changed Everything

At the end of that year, two events occurred—each like a hammer blow to the fragile scaffolding of my life. They forced me to change course, to abandon all the quiet hopes I’d been nurturing. What followed felt so surreal, so far-fetched, that even now I can scarcely believe I lived through it. Looking back, it all seems like a tale from another world, one I would never have imagined, not even in the wildest corners of my dreams.

The first event was the return of Zhou Er, a childhood companion and fellow orphan who had been raised by his uncle just as I was. He came back from the provincial capital with the swagger of a minor celebrity. Decked out in flashy clothes, puffing confidently on Red River cigarettes, he told everyone he was now involved in a major business venture. He spoke like a man who had made it big, and he didn’t hesitate to prove it—handing out cigarettes like candy, slipping bills into the hands of our village elders with ostentatious generosity. People praised him endlessly. “Zhou Er hasn’t forgotten his roots,” they said. “What a good lad.”

But then he changed. He claimed his business had hit a snag and needed a small injection of funds to keep going. By then, the villagers had fully bought into his tale. They were proud—proud that someone from their humble soil had seemingly made it to the top. So of course, they didn’t hesitate. One after another, they handed over their hard-earned money to Zhou Er without a shred of suspicion. That’s how simple rural folks are—honest to a fault, and far too trusting.

Zhou Er played the part well. “My dear folks,” he’d say, “I’ll never forget you. Just give me until after the New Year, and I’ll pay you back with interest. You won’t regret helping me.” He even came to me for help.

“Guang,” he said, using my nickname, “this is a hard time for me. Help your brother out. I’ll never forget it. It’s just until after the holiday—three, maybe four months at most.”

I didn’t want to lend him anything. I barely had any money myself. Over the past two years, I had scrimped and saved, managing to put away just over eight thousand yuan—my dowry fund, intended for marrying Xiaocui. But Zhou Er wouldn’t give up. He kept coming, talking circles around me with a silver tongue that could’ve sweet-talked a ghost back to life.

In the end, not only did he take my entire savings, but I even borrowed five thousand yuan from Old Li to give to him. Looking back, I can’t understand what possessed me. Maybe I was under some kind of spell. Maybe I was just too foolish to see what he really was.

Zhou Er left the village with nearly thirty thousand yuan from the others—and more than forty thousand if you counted mine. When he departed, it was like watching a general march off to war. Half the village turned out to see him off. But that “general” vanished without a trace. So did the villagers’ money.

The second blow came from Xiaocui. Under pressure from her family, she got engaged to the son of the village chief from the next town over. My world crumbled.

For the past two years, Xiaocui and I had kept in touch. She would find excuses to come see me in town, saying she needed to buy things. I’d return to the village now and then, pretending I was visiting Old Wang, just so I could steal a few precious moments with her. She had been the reason I worked so hard, saved every penny. I loved her for years. My only wish was to marry her.

But the walls have ears. In a village like ours, idle tongues spin stories faster than wildfire. It didn’t take long for the gossip to reach Xiaocui’s mother. That madwoman wasted no time.

“Old Wang, you barren old fool!” she shrieked outside his door. “Tell that orphan bastard of yours to stop dreaming. My daughter wouldn’t look twice at him. He’s just a dog—let him look in the mirror and see for himself. A toad lusting after a swan!”

Old Wang wasn’t having it. He stormed out, red with fury.

“You foul-mouthed old hag!” he yelled back. “Keep your own daughter in check before you start slinging s**t on my doorstep. My boy’s a boss now—he wouldn’t marry into your stinking family even if you begged him! Get lost!”

The two of them hurled insults for over an hour before the neighbors dragged them apart. Afterward, Old Wang found me and warned me to stay away from Xiaocui.

“She’s a good girl,” he said, “but her mother’s poison. Marry into that family, and you’ll suffer. And it’s not like you can’t find someone else, right?”

I didn’t argue. What would be the point? But in my heart, I was already scheming. I didn’t get a chance. Before I could act, Xiaocui’s mother rushed to finalize her engagement. The wedding date was set for the first lunar month of the new year.

Both Xiaocui and I were thrown into chaos. She was never the strong-willed type. Her parents’ words were law to her. And me? I had nothing—no status, no money. In her mother’s eyes, I wasn’t even as good as a dog. With a recluse like Old Wang as my only family, there was no way she would ever accept me.

I fell into silence. My spirit withered. I started making mistakes at work, miscounting change. Old Li noticed. He tried talking to me, tried to lift my spirits, but his words went unheard. My mind was consumed by Xiaocui. I could think of nothing else. Old Li could only shake his head and watch, afraid I might do something reckless.

That was when “Little Sister”—Old Li’s daughter—came back for winter break. Maybe she had heard what I was going through. She started visiting the shop more often, chatting with me, trying to lift my spirits. Sometimes we discussed literature.

I had been studying under Old Li for two years. He taught me everything he knew. At that point, my literary knowledge probably rivaled a recent college graduate’s. “Little Sister,” who hadn’t even finished high school, was no match. At first, she was shy. But soon she was treating me like a mentor. Every day, she came to hear me speak, like I was some wandering sage. If Old Li didn’t call her home, she wouldn’t leave.

I was drowning in sorrow, and she was a small flame of warmth in the darkness. I’d recite poems to her—Li Bai, Liu Yong. She loved essays and lyrical prose, so one day I shared with her Xu Daran’s piece The Star. I recited the whole thing from memory, even as my voice cracked with emotion.

By the end, I was crying. I saw tears streaming down her cheeks, too.

If it hadn’t been for her that winter, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. She kept me anchored, gave me moments of peace. In her quiet companionship, I found a thread of hope—a reason to keep going.