6. Atavism: I Became My Dad's Dad
Grandpa said: "Leo, there's something I need your help with."
I looked at him.
He said: "Find the twenty-five-year-old me."
1
The year I was a sophomore in high school, something went wrong with my brain.
At first it was auditory hallucinations — I heard the calls of water buffalo, the work songs of farmers plowing the fields. Then the symptoms worsened, and visual hallucinations appeared. I'd often see a young man driving a water buffalo, plowing the fields.
Occasionally, the young man turned into a middle-aged one, leading a water buffalo through a crowded square. A loudspeaker broadcast the anthem of liberated serfs.
When I strung these images together, I realized they looked more like the memories of a strange man's entire life.
I still couldn't figure out whose memories these were.
Until one night, I was fast asleep, and the memories surged forth. I saw the man standing outside a delivery room, holding a newborn baby.
Half-asleep, half-awake, my perspective merged with his.
I gazed lovingly at the child and said, "We'll call you Leon."
That was my dad's name.
I jolted awake and realized — these memories came from my grandpa.
Holy hell. Inherited memories.
The next morning, I ran into my dad. For a moment, I couldn't tell if he was my old man or my kid. I stared for a long time, then, unable to contain myself, I said with deep affection:
"Dad, you've grown up so much."
2
My name is Leo.
Sixteen years old — the perfect age for young romance, skipping class, smoking, and getting into fights.
But inheriting Grandpa's memories meant I also inherited his values.
After the founding of the People's Republic, Grandpa had been a village chief. His values were as ironclad as they came — red through and through.
Once again, my friends came looking for me to skip class. I stood in the hallway.
They said, "Leo, want to hang out?"
I gazed serenely at the blue sky and white clouds beyond.
I said, "The motherland is not yet reunified. How can we children betray our education?"
My friends couldn't comprehend my pain. They spread the rumor that my dad had caught me smoking at home and beaten me stupid.
The biggest problem was that these values, fused with the memories, were making me more and more like an old man.
This couldn't go on.
I grabbed a pen and paper and went to my dad to ask about Grandpa's life story. My dad and I had never gotten along, but he was the only one I could ask.
I tapped the rim of the ashtray with my pen, instinctively taking a couple of puffs like I was smoking a pipe.
My dad's biceps bulged with veins.
I immediately sat up straight.
After some roundabout questioning, my dad finally told me that Grandpa had kept a diary. If I wanted to know more, I'd have to find it and read it myself.
3
I searched the house thoroughly. Grandpa's erhu, Grandpa's teapot, Grandpa's village chief ledger — I found all of those. But no diary.
So I gazed mournfully at the erhu, the teapot, the village chief ledger... Under the circumstances, I half-wanted to summon the village chief himself so we could brew a pot of cheap tea and play "Erquan Yingyue" on the erhu together.
I shook my head and chased these chaotic thoughts out of my mind.
I thought about it more carefully. Before starting high school, we'd moved once. The diary was most likely left behind in the old house.
This gave me a headache. The old house had been sold to the parents of a high school classmate. And that classmate was a woman I didn't dare face.
My ex-girlfriend.
4
I sat down next to Mia.
Mia spread out a deskful of scrap paper and said without looking up, "Do you know there are four ways to write the word 'scram'?"
I said, "Heh."
Mia said, "Go away."
I said, "Heh."
Mia raised her hand and called out to the homeroom teacher at the front, "Teacher, look — he's gone creepy on me again."
I quickly grabbed her arm. I didn't dare explain the full story, just said that Grandpa's diary was at her house, and it was the most important thing I had for remembering him.
Mia was quiet for a moment, then said, "I'll help you find it. But it's not free."
I said, "We're this close already..."
She glared at me and said, "You dumped me once. I'd say we're close enough."
This was exactly why I dreaded facing her. After the breakup, Mia and I had completely fallen out. As the old saying goes, "Never interact again until death" — that basically described our relationship.
As for why we broke up — one night after evening study hall, her biological brother held a knife to my throat and told me that ever since I started dating Mia, her grades had tanked. He'd thought about it all night and concluded it must be my influence. Either break up, or eat steel.
Naturally, I chose the former, since I valued my life. Not that I was entirely blameless, but let's be honest — I was a coward.
He also warned me never to tell Mia about his threat.
I sat next to Mia and said, "Name your price."
Mia thought for a moment and said, "Let me think about it."
5
That evening, the sunset blazed on the horizon.
I stood in the hallway as Mia handed me the diary.
As I'd expected, the diary recorded the matter of inherited memories. Grandpa had also inherited his own grandpa's memories. Later, he helped his grandpa fulfill a dying wish, and the memories vanished.
Mia said, "Is it real?"
She tapped her head as she said it.
I clutched my cheek and said, "So you did peek."
Mia looked a little embarrassed, rubbing her arms. "I only glanced at it. I didn't expect the diary to actually be interesting."
Fair enough — the diary was full of what Grandpa had lived through: war, famine, barbaric eras, and the years of rebuilding. For fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, textbooks were boring enough; a family member's real experiences were far more gripping.
Mia asked me, "What was Grandpa's dying wish?"
I shook my head. "He didn't say anything before he passed."
Mia said, "Could it be this?"
She flipped through the diary and pointed to a word: "Repay."
I squinted at the diary and said, "I don't remember anyone owing him money."
Mia said, "Ugh, you're so dense."
She flipped through a few more pages. In several places, it mentioned that when Grandpa was sixteen, he was separated from his family and came to this small town. When he was starving, a woman gave him a white steamed bun, and later lent him some money.
That woman later became my grandmother.
The problem was, Grandma had died early — she passed away right after my dad was born. Grandpa had practically raised my dad alone. "Repay" sounds simple, but who was he supposed to repay?
Mia clucked her tongue. "Grandpa was such a man. How did you inherit absolutely none of that?"
I sighed and said, "Because there's someone even more manly than me in this world."
Mia said, "Who?"
I gave her a resentful look. Her brother, obviously. But I couldn't say that. I couldn't dare. I could only watch her mock me, looking like a bitter, aggrieved housewife.
6
Mia was actually a good person.
Lately, she'd been very enthusiastic, pitching all sorts of ideas: burn paper money, open a bank account for bank transfers to Grandma... But something felt wrong. Instinctively, I knew none of these methods would work.
Mia slapped me hard on the back.
I jumped.
She said, "You're slouching."
I snapped back to reality and realized that subconsciously, I'd started seeing myself as an old man again.
It dawned on me why I instinctively rejected her proposals — I was looking at everything through Grandpa's eyes, and from his perspective, those approaches wouldn't work.
A sudden fear crept over me. If this kept up, would I even remember I was a teenager? Or would I become convinced I was an old man?
I was only sixteen. Death scared me, but growing old scared me more.
I didn't know what old meant.
But "young" was the only thing I had at sixteen. Without it, I was nothing.
I shared my fear with her.
I said, "Do you ever worry about something like this?"
Mia patted my hand and said gently, "Nope."
I said, "How do you manage that?"
She laughed. "Because my family doesn't inherit memories. Leo, you deserve to grow old."
I clutched my cheek.
7
Every summer, right before finals week, an ice cream truck would appear outside the school.
Mia and I each bought a popsicle and sat under a tree.
It was the weekend. Mia had agreed to come help.
She asked, "Figured out a plan yet?"
I held my popsicle out to her.
She said, "What?"
I shook my head and said, "Too cold. My teeth can't handle it."
She said, "I could warm it up in my mouth and then feed it to you."
We both looked up, imagined the scene in the empty air, and simultaneously shuddered, saying in unison, "No, no, that's fine."
I rubbed my lower back and stood up. I said, "Have you thought about it? My current state is basically equivalent to becoming my grandpa."
Mia focused on eating her popsicle and said, "Mm, and then?"