Night Walk on Spring Mountain

Han Songluo

Han Songluo began writing essays and novels in 1997. His works were published in many magazines， and he has set up columns in more than 100 media platforms.

Night Walk on Spring Mountain

Han Songluo

Yilin Press

February 2023

68.00 （CNY）

This book is the first collection of Han Songluo’s novels. The novels not only include biographies of marginalized people but also leave behind the coarseness and warmth of the world in northwest China twenty years ago.

“Forty-three thousand bottles” and “Eighty-six thousand， six hundred fifty-seven bottles.” These were the two answers Zhou Deguang would give when asked about the sales of liquor， the former figure for the general public and the latter for his peers. Both figures were true. The former figure was the sales in his first year of business， and the latter was the sales in his fifth year， which was the highest in the eight years since he opened the store. In fact， the kind of baijiu he distributed sold between 50，000 and 60，000 bottles a year， with the most low-end entry-level liquor sold at 89 yuan a bottle， which alone accounted for three-fifths of sales. However， Zhou Deguang believed that he abided by his duties as a businessman by giving different answers on different occasions.

Before he was twenty-three， Zhou had been a businessman for six years. His family had been growing apple trees for generations， and by his father’s generation， the orchard had grown to twenty-three mu， about 3.79 acres. Zhou used to work with the growth cycle of fruit trees. In spring， he bent branches， carved sprouts， stripped stems， and recut the branches， all of which were done before April; in summer， he dosed， fertilized， and watered the trees; in autumn， he picked， delivered， and planted new seedlings; and in winter， he purified the soil. The revenue per mu was equivalent to two months of working in the county.

Zhou Deguang’s father once tried to be a fruit merchant. He was afraid of offending the major local fruit merchants， so he only contacted a few of the more familiar farmers to buy their apples under the guise of “a distant relative’s family running a dried fruit factory.” He did all the purchasing， packing， finding storage locations， and delivering， all by himself. He even considered buying a truck and letting his three sons learn to drive it to save the cost of paying long-distance drivers. The first year was barely profitable， but to make matters worse， the second year saw a drop in the price of fruit， and the fruit merchants’ trucks wouldn’t even drive into their village. In the third year， hailstorms fell during the apple ripening period， causing apple production in the area to shrink and the apples to become so poor in quality that even the fruit stores in the county began selling Henan apples. Zhou’s father took a break and started the apple business again two years later. Unexpectedly， SARS broke out that year.

The apple flowers still blossomed as usual， with pinkish-white petals and a sweet scent spreading for miles around. Zhou Deguang’s father chose to take a detour through the orchard on the way home. The tools for pruning branches were stationary in the toolbox， weighing no more than a piece of pig iron， but it didn’t feel the same as carrying the pig iron. When he encountered a gully， he stepped over it， and the knives and shears in the toolbox clattered， and the measuring tape slid， producing a soft thumping sound. The instantly activated tools seemed to be responding to his sensations.

Zhou Deguang vigilantly observed his father’s business. After his father subsided， he no longer mentioned the matter of being a fruit merchant. His ambition was set off all by a small incident. In the year his father suffered a serious setback due to SARS， he was 17 years old and took a shuttle bus to visit relatives in the provincial capital. On the way to the small county stop， several anxious-looking middle-aged people got on the bus， explained a few words to the driver， and began to search all over the bus. They then tried to take a child off the bus. The child grabbed the back of the seat and cried out： “I am fifteen years old and still depend on my family. I don’t want to go to school， and I want to do business. If you do not let me do business， I’ll do it with my uncle.” Zhou Deguang was deeply shaken and began to look for opportunities when he arrived in the provincial capital. In the following six years， he did various businesses， at first all related to the festivals， selling firecrackers for the Lunar New Year， dealing in fertilizer in the early spring， selling paper supplies around the Qingming Festival， setting up stalls to sell mooncakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival， and even organizing weddings or funerals， as well as using trucks to haul groceries to the countryside. Small business was the same as hunting， where you fired the gun when you sensed movements.

It wasn’t difficult to learn all this if you had a father who was running a business with great trepidation. His father had always been tolerant of his business， pretending not to know that he often played truant and that he dropped out in his second year of high school. Father only showed some reluctance when he had to go to another province， 4，000 miles away， to open a store. Father did not hold him back， though; he just tried his best to find out if there was anyone there to take care of him and soon learned that a relative was working in that county. The relative could be considered his cousin and Zhou Deguang could call her aunt.

Zhou Deguang still remembered how he felt when he first saw that small town. Getting off at the provincial railway station and taking a bus at the nearby passenger station， it took one hour and a half to arrive in the county. Before entering the town， the bus refueled at a gas station， located on the slope of a hill outside the town. The county was located in an alluvial fan below the hill， allowing passengers to overlook it.

The wide sky was a dashing turquoise blue， and the small town was a piece of grey and ochre red under the sky. To the left of the town was the wilderness with dark green trees on the tawny land; further away， there were endless barren mountains， like yellow waves， pushing far away until they met the sky， and where they met， the sky was pale egg white. To the right of the small town， the terrain became higher and greener， followed by a band of high green mountains with fog and white clouds. He had checked and knew that it was part of the Qilian Mountains， nearly 4，000 meters above sea level， with a vertical landscape from the bottom to the top of the mountain.

It was dusk when he entered the town. The small town was enveloped by the golden light of the setting sun. Although that golden light came from the setting sun， it still gave a sense of unknown origin. The golden light was humongous and vast， and people walking in the streets seemed to have lost their souls and headed toward it. After eight o’clock， the golden light diminished; after eight-thirty， the afterglow was completely drawn into the mountains， replaced by the blue skylight. Under this vast skylight， the surrounding sounds gave out a sense of loneliness.