july: mei-ying, the heavens are crying
Caitlin Mah
七月：美瑛, 苍天涕淋
july: mei-ying, the heavens are crying
i. wind on water, july 8th:
Mei-Ying's forearms rest on the sides of the sink, splotched blue like the summer sky. He’s cleaning up dinner—or is supposed to be, anyway. The voices from the radio on the wooden fold-out table leak into the room. Mei-Ying listens with one ear; it’s the same as always, being the only frequency available in the concrete box that is the apartment’s 14th floor. Tonight: scattered news about Article 27 covered with a curtain of radio static and 危險遊 戲. His mother used to play that song; when they stood next to each other on the metro he could hear it pouring out of her headphones that never fit quite right.
“No, you don’t have to.” Mei-Ying takes Jun’s bowl from him and rinses it out in the sink. “I don’t want to keep you; it’ll get too dark—unsafe to take the train.”
“I can stay. I’ll just sleep on the couch. No classes tomorrow anyways.” Jun has one hand on his jacket, which is draped over the kitchen chair. He moves to help with the dishes.
Mei-Ying looks over his shoulder at Jun. Something beyond concern for safety begs him to let Jun stay. It’s getting worse—they both know—but Mei-Ying has not felt the blinding sting of tear gas yet. He hasn’t been shouted at, hasn’t practiced aiming laser pointers at security cameras. Nor does he want to. Because then he’ll have to see his classmates shatter windows or kick tear gas canisters back at the police. He doesn’t want that either.
It’s strange. Jun is so outright and adamant about his cause; he looks down upon anyone who doesn’t see the same way. So why does he ask to come over so often to talk at him about something Mei-Ying’s never even said a word regarding? He supposes it’s because he’s a good listener, someone neutral. But then again, Jun hates neutral—he thinks it’s something for people to call themselves when they don’t care enough. The fact that he wants to stay is peculiar, but Mei-Ying doesn’t mind.
“I guess,” he says softly. “You’ll have to sleep on the couch.”
“It’s not like you have anywhere better for me to sleep. It’s fine, I won’t complain.”
Anywhere better.
Mei-Ying wonders if Jun remembers the times when their parents would go on vacation together. Mei-Ying and Jun would always split the pull-out couch. Jun would give Mei-Ying all the blankets because he was always cold and Jun was always warm. Mei-Ying certainly remembers: lying awake with outstretched fingers inches from Jun’s face, feeling the feathers of Jun’s breath against his fingertips, slow wind dancing in the humid night.
ii. the heavens cry
Jun is sitting on the couch, listening to the sky, contemplating opening up the balcony’s sliding doors to have a drink outside, when Mei-Ying steps into the room. He’s pulling bed sheets with him, hair sticking up at angles Jun thought were physically impossible.
Just came to check on you. Mei-Ying yawns, white sheets falling around slender shoulders. You doing okay, Jun?
Jun jumps up and hurries over, almost tripping over the pile of his belongings on the floor.
Are you okay, Mei? He traces a finger along the hem of the bedsheets. You’re looking sort of pale.
There’s a slap of rain on the glass doors. Wind, Jun mouths. He looks at Mei-Ying’s collarbones, as if seeking an explanation for the weather. His gaze traces Mei-Ying’s forearms. They are something sacred; they have wind in them. He can tell by the bruises. Jun cannot remember seeing Mei-Ying’s forearms without them. He was there in the early months of their fifth summer when Mei-Ying tripped on untied shoelaces. Skin fell away to pearlescent bone, the wind rushed in, and licked at the blood dripping from his left knee. It was decided that Mei-Ying was to be a sickly child.
Don’t look at me like that, Jun—
Let’s go stand on the balcony.
It’s raining.
Mei-Ying doesn’t really mind rain, though. The air outside is cool and wet and hungry; they trace their hands along the railing and send droplets of water falling into the night. Mei-Ying is wearing Jun’s jacket, grabbed off the kitchen chair to save the bed sheets from the summer storm. He sneezes, feeling Jun’s gaze tickle his ribs as his torso convulses.
You want to go back inside?
Jun’s still looking.
No. Let’s stay. Can’t sleep anyways.
He looks back up at the bead of rainwater making its way down the curve of Jun’s cheek. It's the same way he used to look up at Jun at the bakery near their elementary school.
Mei-Ying's mother would take them there every Friday to buy bread and pastries for the coming week. He was always too nervous and overwhelmed by the bright lights and shining cellophane to say anything. He would whisper what he wanted to Jun, who would happily report to the girl at the counter. Mei-Ying would watch to make sure Jun said the right thing, even though they always ordered the same pastries: a slice of airy 馬拉糕 for Mei-Ying and a fresh 蛋撻 for Jun.
The bakery's still there. Mei-Ying bikes past it to get groceries sometimes, but the windows he used to press his face against are boarded up. Barely legible graffiti covers the plywood—a distant echo of the messy chalk scrawls on the daily specials board inside. Those words are all over the city, vulgar and accusatory, but Mei-Ying knows why they’re there. Once, Mei-Ying found a can of spray paint in Jun’s bag and confronted him about it. Jun, never one to pass up an opportunity to explain his beliefs, simply looked at him, then removed his shirt, revealing a malignant red bruise on his shoulder. Mei-Ying’s lecture died in his throat, and he looked down at his own arms.
Those exchanges are few and far in between; Mei-Ying hates having them. They're at peace on the balcony, talking about all-nighters, the best seat in the lecture hall, and Jun’s horribly verbose essays. They’ve had this conversation many times before, sitting at café windows seats or at the pavilion near the archery club. But it’s different, hearing Jun’s voice in the early hours of the morning, especially with everything that’s going on. They’re avoiding the questions that neither of them know how to ask. He wants to apologize. Maybe something like: Jun, I’m sorry I ever said anything about you going to the protests. I know I said it was wrong to fight that way, but what they’re doing to you—
It’s too late. Mei-Ying was silent through it all, and to Jun that said everything. He wipes more rain off the rail, frowning as raindrops fly out into the humid alley below them. Mei-Ying makes to zip up the jacket. It hurts to see Jun, whose ideals stay unwavering amidst calamity. Jun, who taught Mei-Ying what it means to stand up for himself. Jun—
—whose arm is around Mei-Ying’s waist now; Jun, who is looking into the distance, away.
It’s raining, Jun. But I—
Mei-Ying manages, before losing the rest of the phrase in the rain.
Let’s go back inside, then.
Too much rain?
Jun’s arm is still there, and Mei-Ying is looking out, looking away.
Do you think it’s sad? It’s like the heavens are crying, Mei-Ying.
As if on cue, the rain picks up, tossing around the clothesline Mei-Ying had stretched out for laundry. The empty plastic clothespins beat against the lattice roof. There’s a distant, high-pitched whine of fireworks, mixed in with the piercing wail of sirens.
Let’s go back inside.
Mei-Ying says it again.
iii. and the wind rises
Mei-Ying sits at the edge of the bed, breathing. The air tastes like dried rose petals. He’s still wearing Jun’s jacket, though it’s slipped down to expose his shoulders; he shivers. Down the hall, Mei-Ying can hear the gentle roar of the hairdryer. Jun’s hair was soaked through by the rain. Mei-Ying’s not sure what he’s waiting for, or why. But he’s waiting, staring at the postcard of Visby tacked onto the wall. It’s a well-framed shot of Visby Cathedral, near the harbour. A line of Swedish text states the date of the church’s inauguration: July 27th, 1225. Mei-Ying remembers Jun showing him photos of the altarpiece and pulpit, he had suggested that Mei-Ying could maybe practice sketching with the photos he took. Mei-Ying replied that he would rather be there in person to see the cathedral.
It’s quiet now, and Mei-Ying can hear soft footsteps in the hallway. There’s a hesitant knock at the door. Jun whispers into the soft, sweet darkness of Mei-Ying’s bedroom:
Mei? You still awake?
In response, he slips out of the jacket, leaving it soaked on the bed. He opens the door. Jun. Shouldn’t you go to sleep?
I will. Soon. How are you?
His casual inquiry carries a careful tone, much less brash than his normal greetings. Both of them pick up on it. Mei-Ying opens the door a bit wider; the triangle of light on the floor advances. He murmurs a vague welcome, then turns to the side and sneezes, complaining about the cold. Jun steps inside, and Mei-Ying returns to his spot at the edge of the bed, lower lip bitten into a shy smile. Jun crosses the floor to sit next to him. He folds his jacket up and places it on the floor.
Cold? Mei, you’re hot. Your face is flushed, too—
Jun presses the back of his hand to Mei-Ying’s forehead.
I don’t feel like I have a fever. Mei-Ying rubs his eyes, yawns, and points towards a first-aid box on his desk. Check if you want.
Jun obliges. The first aid box is actually a biscuit tin from Strasbourg. It’s got a fancy metal latch, which he struggles with for a few seconds before pulling out a digital thermometer. He kneels at the edge of the bed.
Open your mouth.
Jun slips it under Mei-Ying’s tongue as soon as he parts his lips. His hand rests under Mei-Ying’s jaw, holding his chin up. Mei-Ying raises his eyes from the thermometer to Jun’s face—Jun’s lips, really, he can’t see more than that. They’re parted slightly, mirroring the way Mei-Ying’s face looked a few seconds before. The metal is cold in his mouth and he’s tempted to work his tongue around it. Jun’s hand, although comforting, also tickles. He reaches up to grab at it, wraps his fingers around Jun’s forearm and tugs. Jun makes a sound of protest and yanks the thermometer out. It beeps a split second after. Mei-Ying sits up higher to look at the number on the display. It’s normal, just as he predicted. He falls back onto the bed, breathing hard. Jun raises an eyebrow at him.
I was holding my breath, Mei-Ying mutters.
Jun says nothing. He takes a seat next to Mei-Ying, looks down at his classmate’s silhouette, and smiles. There’s no continuation of the conversation from outside. Jun looks at the postcard on the wall: Visby. The one from Strasbourg should be next to it, but he can’t see it in the darkness.
Do you hate that I’m gone sometimes?
His voice cuts the gossamer silence. Mei-Ying rolls over, and Jun stares at the other boy’s back.
I never said that.
But do you?
No. I understand— Because I w—
Mei-Ying sits up suddenly, eyes wide.
Jun looks back, imploring him to go on. But Mei-Ying doesn’t really know what he meant to say beyond that. He could say he hated watching Jun dab at the blood on his face or retching in the sink because of tear gas, and that he’s wanted to say these things; he’s wanted to join Jun for a while. But looking at Jun, all Mei-Ying sees is the boy from fourteen summers ago:
It was mid-August when they ate 龍眼 to cool off. They took turns puncturing dragon skin with Jun’s father’s pocket-knife. There was a puff of air as Jun pierced the skin and dug into flesh. If Mei-Ying held the fruit close to his ear, he could hear a small pop of wind leave its body. He looked at the bandage on his knee and then to the glimmering black pit, the dragon’s eye between Jun’s lips.
It’s okay. Don’t say it.
I’ll say it— I want—
Jun exhales, loud enough to startle Mei-Ying out of finishing his sentence.
You don’t have to say it. I understand, okay? You’re allowed to feel that way. I won’t hate you for it.
Mei-Ying is rolled back over onto his stomach, looking up at Jun; the boy from fourteen summers ago. The boy who had knees scarred from the pavement and gashes on his forearms from when Mei-Ying flung his mother’s paper fan at him. And those marks are still there, opened again; fresh. That’s all he sees. No longer is Jun the boy that walked home without an umbrella because Mei-Ying asked to borrow it, nor is he the boy who let matches burn down to his fingertips because he thought it was funny when his mother chided him in a panic. He’s cold; he’s burnt. Jun’s like Mei-Ying. And it’s in that vulnerability that Mei-Ying can find the courage to tell Jun he’s wrong.
I want to be with you, Jun. I mean—When you leave with the others to the streets I get scared—I’ve seen what they’ve done to you. So if this is what I have to do so I never have to see it again I’ll—
Ah. Jun’s reaction is quiet, but Mei-ying can see him suppressing a pained smile. So that’s what it was.
He reclines on the bed as well, parallel to Mei-Ying and staring up at the ceiling. Mei, you wouldn’t last out there. You’ve seen me—
It’s true. Mei-Ying thought Jun was strong. In some ways, he still thinks that. And you. Jun continues. I don’t want you to get hurt. You’re—
Jun wants to finish his sentence, but his words are caught at the back of his throat. He’s looking at Mei-Ying, watching his shoulder blades twitch under pale skin like trapped wings. Maybe that’s where all the wind stays; Mei-Ying is a flightless, fragile bird.
Wind, Mei-Ying mouths. He understands; it’s the reason he never said anything to Jun in the first place. Wind makes one weak that way, when it gets under one’s skin and takes rest in delicate bone marrow. It eats away from the inside, a guilty secret; unatonable.
Wind. Jun makes a noise of acknowledgement. It’s the best way they can both explain it and leave it alone at the same time. His hand drifts upwards, coming to rest under Mei-Ying’s chin.
Mei-Ying doesn’t push Jun’s arm out of the way this time. He thinks of Jun’s postcard from Visby, and how he wrote back to tell Jun about his mother’s peach tree, bearing swollen fruit in the backyard. He promised he would save the best peach for Jun. And then Jun sent another postcard from Strasbourg: Not much time to write back. Raining. Please tell me everything. He never saved the peach, because Jun wasn’t back soon enough. He really never told Jun everything, either. But he kept the postcards. The one from Strasbourg is in his backpack; a promise to eventually tell Jun everything. But not now, and not like this, with Jun’s fingertips under his chin and thumb at his lips. Sometimes, Mei-Ying thinks Jun could kiss the wind out of him. So he closes his eyes and inhales sharply. And waits. Then Jun’s hand is gone, and his eyes are open again, lips still parted.
Why did you—
You—that face—you looked uncomfortable.
I wasn’t.
Do you want me to—
Mei-Ying nods and Jun slides his hand back to where it was before. He folds his fingers around Jun’s wrist and tugs. There’s a brief moment of resistance from both of them, before Jun realizes what Mei-Ying wants, and he’s tugging too, pulling Mei-Ying toward him. His hand, in the same place, tilts Mei-Ying’s chin towards him. Mei-Ying’s fingers are still around Jun’s wrist when their lips meet. His other hand reaches hesitantly for Jun’s shoulder and he shivers as his fingers touch bare skin.
Mei-Ying is warm, like he was fourteen summers ago when he first looked at Jun’s lips and the dragon’s eye between them. It feels like a different, distant summer, far away from the thunder of the city. One that’s lawless in the best way.
Mei-Ying feels the wind leave him as they pull apart. Jun smiles, and the flush on Mei-Ying’s cheeks makes its way down to his neck. He’s lightheaded in the best way—it’s different from the times he stood up too fast and plummeted to the ground. Mei-Ying is here, and the rest of him is falling away.
I was holding my breath, Mei-Ying whispers.
You should sleep. It’s late.
No classes tomorrow. But Mei-Ying obliges anyway, sliding under the covers and repositioning himself to face the door. He can hear the distant buzz of the radio in the kitchen, reminding him that the dishes are unfinished. But the things outside his room don’t even seem real anymore, and thinking about them seems like a waste of thought. The hallway light is bright. He hopes Jun will shut the door on his way out. Mei-Ying was never able to sleep with the lights on. But Jun hasn’t left yet. Mei-Ying turns around to find Jun lying next to him, looking at the ceiling. The air still tastes like rose petals.
Can I stay?
Do you want to? Mei-Ying feels rude, answering a question with another question. Especially when he already has an answer for himself.
Only if you—
I do.
And it’s decided now that Jun’s going to stay, so Mei-Ying lies awake with outstretched fingers inches from Jun’s face. He can see Jun’s skin so clearly now—they almost match, wounds from the wind and the water: forearms splotched blue like the summer sky, forearms licked red by heaven’s breath, tears—
He can feel their breaths, slow wind dancing in the humid night.
supplementary index
“Brief” explanations of certain cultural aspects in this story.
A note on Chinese/Mandarin/Cantonese:
Chinese Traditional script is used to indicate phrases, names, etc. As of such, they would culturally be interpreted to be in Cantonese. Mandarin romanization is given simply due to the nature of the audience reading this piece and the romanization is easier to understand for those who don’t speak Mandarin or Cantonese. The meaning remains the same.
Names in the piece are “given” name(s), which are traditionally disyllabic (Mei-Ying, Shan-Lin), but can be monosyllabic as well (Jun).
What’s so significant about July 8th?
This story is set 4 days after pro-democracy materials were found to be censored and removed from libraries in Hong Kong. This was seen as a major line crossed when it came to democracy and freedom of information in Hong Kong (Article 27), especially during a time of political tension due to the extradition bill.
Lasers at security cameras?
A common technique exercised at pro-democracy protests in order to dodge potential facial recognition software or other monitoring methods.
Why so much about wind?
To understand this, some context: Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM, here on out) revolves around a presence and balance of the elements. Of course, this is a very shallow and inadequate summary of the nuances of TCM, but here’s where wind comes in. An imbalance of wind in one’s body/bones often leads to sudden weakness, joint pain, and “minor blood issues” (hence Mei-Ying’s fragility and bruises). Many remedies present in TCM are supposedly available to rid the body of wind, but it’s notoriously difficult to do so entirely.
Why is the dialogue in italics?
I hate the appearance of quotation marks. They imply a level of distance from the character(s) (which is also why they are present in the first section) and don’t give me the liberty to experiment with formatting and style. It is a personal preference.
What is long’an (龍眼)?
It literally translates to “dragon eye”. There’s no good English translation for it, but it’s a fruit with white flesh and a black pit in the middle (hence the eye comparison). The size is just a bit smaller than a Lindor chocolate ball. The skin is leathery (like dragon skin, not an orange peel). The flesh both tastes and feels like a drier lychee.
Why so many long dashes (—)?
I live for—and would die for—a solid em dash. I recently discovered the difference between a short one—like the one in Mei-Ying’s name—as opposed to long (em dash) ones. They bestow upon otherwise unnatural dialogue a certain humanlike quality: we hardly speak in complete sentences when casual, and end our sentences hanging.
Visby? The wind rises? Strasbourg?
Two cities I dream of visiting one day. The former inspired Hayao Miyazaki’s Kiki’s Delivery Service. Similarly, The Wind Rises is also a Ghibli film. I thought the title (but not the story itself) would be fitting for this section. Strasbourg is a beautiful French city while Visby is an ancient town with a fascinating history. They remind me of Jun and Mei-Ying.
Why peaches?
A nod to Han Fei’s historical record of 彌子瑕 sharing an especially sweet peach with his lover, 衛靈公. This was later referenced by other Chinese writers as Yútáo, or “the leftover peach”. It’s a common cultural term for homosexuality in Chinese culture, similar to cut sleeves. Please do not interpret this as butt symbolism. I realize this is also an unintentional parallel to the peach scene from Call Me by your Name, and I apologize for this.
Caitlin Mah is a grade 11 student in Vancouver, BC. When not writing, she enjoys competitive debate, baking, and a good cup of iced coffee. She has carpal tunnel from playing too much Minecraft and can be found @caitlin_mah on twitter.1