Super Grandpa: If I Don't Come Back, at Least Let Her Grow Up Safe
If it hadn't been for Arthur, my sister wouldn't have died. Carrying that grudge against him is what kept me alive—even living under the same roof with him. Famine, chaos—nothing could kill me. As long as I hadn't taken his life with my own hands, nobody was going to lay a finger on me. That's the kind of indestructible super grandpa I was.
One
"Sir, why were you fighting?" the police officer at the station asked.
I cleared my throat and said: "Old people's business. Kids wouldn't understand."
The officer said sadly: "But you smashed the street trash can."
I said: "Exactly."
The officer said: "What's exactly?"
I said: "You should've asked why we were beating up the trash can."
The officer said: "Then may I ask—why were you beating up such a cute trash can?"
I said: "Poor eyesight. It had a nice solid horse stance, so I thought it was a grandmaster..."
The officer said: "Gentlemen, we really don't want to deal with your fights, but you can't brawl right outside the police station every single day."
I said: "Once I kill him, your workload goes down."
The officer said: "Once you kill him, my workload goes way up."
The officer rubbed his temples, told us to stay out of trouble, and let us go.
Two
We walked out of the station, one behind the other. The man walking in front of me was my enemy, Arthur.
He was my brother.
I should have killed him in 1947. Back then, my hand had faltered.
Too bad that now, in this law-abiding society, I couldn't just murder him in broad daylight. Otherwise, I'd end up on a legal documentary, headlined: "Why Did This Old Man Kill That Old Man?—A Story of Twisted Humanity and Moral Decline."
More importantly, I still had a granddaughter to take care of.
So I could only drop by every so often to check whether Arthur had died yet. That old bastard was eighty years old and still wouldn't croak, clinging to his rundown breakfast shop.
They say old people stop dreaming. I dreamed every time I slept—dreamed I was in his house, tying him to his bed, lighting his gas tank in the corner. He asked me what I was doing. I threw my head back and laughed: "I'm blowing you up, that's what!"
Outside, the sun was bright. Lily sat on a park bench, swinging her little white shoes.
She saw us and came running over happily.
She said: Grandpa Leo and Grandpa Arthur!
I hurried over and scooped her up.
"Miss Grandpa?" I ruffled her hair.
She said: "Fighting again, bad grandpa."
I said awkwardly: "Arthur and I were just exchanging health tips."
Arthur hopped onto his rattling Phoenix bicycle and pedaled away with a clatter.
He called back: "Leo, you knocked over my fried dough sticks—pay me back."
I shouted: "If you get hit by a car today, I'll burn the money for you tomorrow!"
Three
When the weather turned cold, I worked as a gate guard at a residential compound.
After a lifetime on the move, my biggest regret was forgetting to pay into social security.
Luckily, I still had my martial arts skills. I guarded the compound gate. It provided a monthly income to support me and Lily.
That day I was sitting in the guard booth when I got a call. It was the hospital.
I said: "How's Lily's condition?"
They said: "Bone cancer."
I was silent for a moment, then said: "How much to treat it?"
They said: "Sir, as you know, we can't guarantee a cure."
I said: "I know."
They said: "Around three hundred thousand."
I hung up and lit a cigarette. Lily crouched by the side of the road, petting two cats on the head. She said: "Be good, you two. No fighting. Or I'll pop your little balls."
I choked on the smoke and broke into a violent coughing fit.
Three
I started learning martial arts in the autumn when I was ten. That year, Father took me and Arthur up the mountain. Father performed a set of moves—strikes, slams, shoulder checks—flowing like water.
Father asked us: "Do you want to learn?"
We said in unison: "Yes!"
Arthur said excitedly: "Once we learn, we can go get revenge on Wang Erxiao at the village entrance!"
Father patted his head and said: "Once you learn, you don't get revenge."
We asked: "Why?"
Father didn't tell us.
I thought for a moment, then asked: "Dad, isn't Sis going to learn?"
My sister was standing to the side, holding a basket of food, watching us quietly.
Father shook his head: "The martial art passes to sons, not daughters."
Many years later, I learned that the style Father taught us was called Baji.
"Literature has Tai Chi to bring peace to the world; martial arts has Baji to settle the realm."
That was also the era of warlord chaos, when everything enlightened was Western and all weapons were foreign guns and cannons. The Chinese Martial Arts Association founded by Sun Yat-sen was treated as a joke under the guns of foreign powers.
After Father died, Arthur and I inherited his estate—three mu of farmland. The Baji-style boxing Father taught us wasn't much use, except that we plowed the fields faster. When we plowed, my sister would sit by the ridge, holding our water and dry rations, wearing a straw hat, waiting for us in the sun.
I walked over and said: "Thirsty."
She handed me water and wiped the sweat from my face.
She said: "Little brother, you've worked hard."
I grinned foolishly and said: "Sis, you're not well. Don't come sit in the sun with us."
She said: "I'm sorry, I'm always a burden."
I said: "I'll take care of you forever."
Arthur bellowed from the far end: "Leo! Stop flirting with our sister and get back to plowing!"
My sister nudged me. I called out and ran back, hoe flying.
I liked my sister—nothing to hide there. Arthur liked her too. But his surname was Zhang and mine was Ye. We were different. I was Father's adopted child.
Father once had a fortune teller look at my fate. He said my life would be one of drifting, and with the surname Ye—Leaf—I'd eventually find my roots in old age.
When I was little, my sister treated me well. Every time I couldn't beat Arthur, she'd come over, support me, and scold him: "Let your little brother win!" Then she'd turn to me: "Don't cry, Sis will buy you candied haws."
I'd eat the candied haws, lying on my sister's lap, looking up at the sky. Arthur had no candied haws, and he looked so forlorn. I giggled.
My sister leaned down and asked: "Is it sweet?"
I said: "Sis, it's really sweet."
Four
In the winter of 1947, I went to town to sell rice. On my way home, I saw thick smoke rising from the village in the distance. Houses on fire. Some villagers were dead; others sat on the ground, wailing over their loved ones' bodies.
I sprinted home. Several bandits hadn't left yet. Their blades dripped with my sister's blood.
One of the bandit leaders was buckling his belt.
I went mad. I charged forward and drove a shoulder strike into his chest—it caved in from the impact. Without breaking stride, I palmed his chin, and he flew backward, spitting blood.
His knife was in my hand.
The bandits howled and charged.
I said: "Sister."
The blade sliced through a windpipe with a wet gurgling sound. One man clutched his throat and fell. Another came at me. I sidestepped his thrust, drove my blade through his chest. Who else? In his terror-filled pupils I saw the reflection of my blade—and my own numb face.
I killed all the bandits. When I clambered up from their corpses, the leader was still breathing.
I grabbed his head and asked: "Why did you hurt my sister?"
He gasped: "Arthur... Arthur hurt my men."
At sunset, Arthur came home. He saw the bodies everywhere. His little brother holding their sister, saying nothing.
He dropped to his knees.
He said: "Sister."
I said: "She's dead."
He crawled toward her. I pointed the blade at him and he stopped.
I said: "Dad taught you martial arts and told you never to hurt anyone. Why did you provoke bandits?"
I said: "If it weren't for you, Sis wouldn't have died."
I said: "Arthur, I've already killed people now."
I stood up and swung the blade, severing his hair. Arthur stood frozen. I was trembling all over.
He said: "Leo, why did you hold back?"
I said: "Arthur, you killed my sister. Someday, I will take your life. Right now, I'm going to bury her. You don't have that right."
Five
If it hadn't been for Arthur, my sister wouldn't have died.
Carrying that grudge against him is what kept me alive—even living under the same roof with him. Famine, chaos—nothing could kill me. As long as I hadn't taken his life with my own hands, nobody was going to lay a finger on me. That's the kind of indestructible super grandpa I was.
In 2008, we were collecting scrap on the streets. The economy was bad—a water bottle fetched only two cents. I rummaged through a trash can and found an infant sucking on its fingers.
The police couldn't find her parents.
The officer looked at the two of us and said: "Neither of you has anyone to support you in old age. Why don't you adopt her?"
I turned around. The baby was cradled in Arthur's arms. The old bastard was beside himself with joy—pulling funny faces, handing her a bottle.
We adopted her. We gave her a name: Lily.
Just a first name, no surname.
When we found her parents, she'd reclaim her family name.
Six
I called Arthur. I said I needed three hundred thousand.
Arthur was silent for a moment, then said: "I have fifty thousand."
I said: "Mark this down. You're her grandfather too."