Every time the crabapple flowers bloom, I think of someone who once said to me, “Do you know why crabapples have no fragrance?” His name was Pu Yinzhen.
When I was 24, I had failed the TOEFL exam twice. My boyfriend Zheng Yun suggested over an international call, “Why don’t you go to Beijing?” So, I quit my job and went to Beijing to take a TOEFL prep course.
At that time, Zhongguancun was not yet prosperous and was even somewhat desolate. Baiyi Road hadn’t been built yet, and people walked along the long, old-fashioned road lined with tall poplar trees. After Zheng Yun went to the United States, America became my paradise—not because it was great, but because my love resided there.
After staying in a guesthouse for three days without finding a place to live, I felt desperate. On the third day, I continued wandering around, inquiring about rental places one by one. In Chengfu Hutong, under a locust tree, I happened to run into a tall, thin boy with a simple student haircut coming out of a house. I grabbed him and asked, “Is there a room for rent here?”
He hesitated for half a second, then said, “Wait a moment,” and ran back inside. Ten minutes later, he came out and said, “The landlord says the room is available for rent, 350 yuan.” I exclaimed with joy and beamed.
That boy was Pu Yinzhen, a South Korean who spoke better Chinese than I did. By coincidence, he had just rented a room there and met me, making us neighbors.
Pu Yinzhen was a gentle and kind-hearted boy, and we quickly became friends. He had a friend named Liu Shixun, a wealthy guy who spent money extravagantly but was very gentle. Unlike Pu Yinzhen, Liu Shixun rented a two-bedroom apartment in the Weixiu Garden at Peking University, saying, “I want to experience life in China differently from Pu Yinzhen.”
Pu Yinzhen’s father owned five large chain restaurants in Seoul, and Pu Yinzhen wanted to learn Chinese cooking in his spare time. He could have lived in a comfortable apartment and dined out to study the dishes, but he explained, “The most authentic fried sauce noodles are made in ordinary people’s homes.”
On the way to Beijing, I had mentally prepared myself for loneliness, but I never expected to meet someone like Pu Yinzhen.
My Buddhist grandmother gave me a very Buddhist name: Ai Xingfo. However, Pu Yinzhen insisted on calling me Xingfu (happiness), saying it was a joyful name. After meeting him, my days indeed became joyful.
I attended classes during the day and did assignments at night, often staying up with my light on long after everyone else in the courtyard had gone to sleep. In my nine-square-meter room, it was just me and English, amidst the cold.
Sometimes, Pu Yinzhen would knock on my door but wouldn’t come in. He would just stand at the door and hand me a cup of hot milk, saying, “Xingfu, get some rest.” I remember that warmth.
On weekends, Pu Yinzhen would invite me out, “Accompany me to Weiming Lake. You need to be kind to your brain and let your memory rest.” I knew his intentions; even small dogs liked him, and he was very considerate towards me. He was afraid I’d get exhausted.
Therefore, I shared even my smallest joys with him. When I got some of my writings published during my breaks from studying, I’d bring them home to show him with a proud look, “Pu Yinzhen, this is mine. I’ve earned a week’s living expenses.” He wouldn’t praise me much, just said, “Good,” with a grin.
We were happy then. The exam was in January.
The night before the test, Pu Yinzhen gave me a chocolate bar, saying, “Your boyfriend isn’t here, so we’ll take care of you.” He then sharpened pencils for me, placing a small knife, pencils, and an eraser into a clear pencil case.
His attentiveness made my eyes misty. Tilting his head, he said to Liu Shixun, “Why is Xingfu upset? I’ve always wanted a sister, and now I have a Chinese sister.”
After the exam, I stayed in Beijing to contact various American universities. Aside from waiting for the results, I busied myself with sending and receiving letters and selecting schools. In the midst of all this, I forgot about Valentine’s Day. That day, I saw roses being sold outside the post office and suddenly remembered.
Zheng Yun hadn’t called, and when I tried calling him, the line was busy. When I called again later, there was no answer. After being together for a few years, we had long since stopped finding joy in holidays. But that winter felt different—I was fighting for love in a foreign place and yearned to hear him say, “Next Valentine’s Day, I’ll be holding you.”
Loneliness enveloped me, and I returned to my small room. I didn’t expect Pu Yinzhen to bring flowers. He said sheepishly, “I hope this doesn’t interfere with you missing your boyfriend. Happy Valentine’s Day, Xingfu.” He handed me a pot of crabapple flowers, smiling shyly, “When it gets warmer, they’ll bloom.”
By the end of March, the crabapple flowers had bloomed. The small tree was densely covered with flowers, the petals as small as fingernails, a deep red like rouge. I sniffed them but found no fragrance.
Pu Yinzhen smiled and asked, “Do you know why crabapple flowers have no scent?” I shook my head, and he said, “I’ll tell you when you grow up.” Sometimes, he would tease me like an adult.
When the exam results came in, I had scored 620—much better than expected. He said, “Xingfu, you can fly to your love’s paradise now.” We invited Liu Shixun to have Korean food in a hutong near Renmin University, where we could enjoy authentic Korean cuisine.
That time, we were all happy but not drunk. A month later, when my visa was approved, the three of us went there to celebrate again, and this time, Pu Yinzhen got drunk. In his drunkenness, he said, “Xingfu, when you leave, leave me the crabapple flowers.” I never imagined that going to the U.S. would mean moving further away from paradise.
Zheng Yun was a careless man, but his room was spotless, with a faint mint scent. He didn’t lie when he said he had lived with a Chinese-Taiwanese girl because he was lonely.
The next day, we broke up, and I moved out. Although it hurt, the massive law books soon made me forget about the heartbreak. Occasionally, though, I would remember Pu Yinzhen’s hot milk at night.
I called him, but only got through to Liu Shixun, who said Pu Yinzhen had returned to Seoul. Liu Shixun said, “He liked you, did you know that? He was in the hutong taking photos when he met you. It was love at first sight, so he canceled his lease at Weixiu Garden and rented a place in the common neighborhood. You two are both very dedicated to love, but unfortunately, not with each other.”
I was shocked; I had never realized it. Years later, I returned to China and found a job in Xiamen. I had a new boyfriend. In 20XX, I went to Beijing on a business trip during a snowy season. After finishing my work, I suddenly wanted to visit Weiming Lake. As I stepped onto the island, I heard someone call, “Xingfu.”
Only one person had ever called me that—it was Pu Yinzhen. He was still tall, wearing a blue and white casual outfit, looking more mature and refined, with a touch of elegance replacing his youthful awkwardness.
For a while, we just looked at each other and laughed. His familiar smile pulled at my memories. I playfully punched him, “What are you doing here?” He said he was passing by and thought he’d take a look.
We went to find that Korean restaurant, but the tobacco shop owner next door said it had been demolished ages ago. Indeed, it had been ages. He sighed softly, “I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other in four years. You were so small and thin back then, studying in that tiny room, enduring the cold winters until early morning.”
“I’m grateful for the hot milk you gave me. One day, after scoring very low on a test, you said, ‘Xingfu, milk boosts intelligence.'”
As night fell, he suddenly looked into my eyes and said, “Did you know? You were my idol back then—such a small, thin girl, so dedicated to love.”
“What?”
“You were so passionate about love, staying in that simple place, studying English day and night. I knew you would succeed.”
The lovebird I chased across the ocean had flown away. I didn’t know what to say, so I changed the subject, “What about you, Pu Yinzhen? Did you open a Chinese restaurant?”
I don’t remember what else we talked about. We ended up at McDonald’s, where he asked how long I’d be staying. I said two days. His eyes brightened, “Let’s go boating at Houhai tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at noon.”
The next morning, I spent hours picking out clothes, as if preparing for a grand event. I wanted to share my overseas experiences with him. At noon, a single-eyed waitress handed me a letter from Pu Yinzhen. “Xingfu, I’ve decided not to go. I’m sorry. I thought I could do it, but I can’t. I’m afraid of seeing you again.” He disappeared. For an entire year, I couldn’t reach him. Later, I got married.
One afternoon, I suddenly received a package from Seoul. Inside a green silk bag were dozens of deep red crabapple flower petals. A light blue card read: “Your writing is still beautiful. I found you through a magazine.
I told the editor I was your long-lost lover. She was moved and gave me your address. I didn’t call because I’m afraid to hear your voice again. You’re married now, and I wish you happiness.”
“I brought the crabapple tree back to Seoul. Sometimes, I think of you. You asked why crabapple flowers have no fragrance. I think they secretly love someone, and they don’t want anyone to smell their feelings, so they gave up their scent.”
For the first time, I cried over an explanation. I knew that behind the scentless crabapple flowers lay a story of two youths.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
