Chapter 120: The An Family and the Xia Family

2022-05-20

“What do you mean?” I turned to ask Captain Zhou.

Captain Zhou came to a stop, pulled out a lighter, and lit a cigarette before continuing to pace as he spoke. “Last night, after you all went back to sleep, I was still awake. I knew I’d be heading to Tougouzi Village the next day to follow up on things, so I gave the village chief a call.”

We all nodded, ears perked, eager to hear what Captain Zhou had to say next.

Captain Zhou took a drag on his cigarette, blew out a smoke ring, and went on. “I told him we’d be coming to look into the situation and asked him to get ready. I told the person who first found the body not to leave home and to wait for us to arrive. As the conversation carried on, just like we’re chatting now, talk drifted to Old Xia.”

“Old Xia, huh.” Captain Zhou glanced unconsciously at Old Xia walking ahead of us, then, seeing no reaction, went on. “He’s forty-two now. His family’s been butchers for generations, ever since his grandfather’s time at the village entrance, slaughtering cattle and sheep.”

Once Captain Zhou started, there was no stopping him.

Old Xia’s family lineage was firmly rooted in the butcher’s trade. Back in his grandfather’s day, he was assigned to work at the Meat Processing Factory and became a well-respected butcher, staying in the job his whole life after starting in his early twenties.

With his grandfather as a butcher, Old Xia’s father naturally picked up the craft too. As a young teen, he’d follow his own father to the factory, slaughtering cattle, carving meat, weighing it out—every step of the process was second nature to him.

When Old Xia’s grandfather retired from the factory, his father took over his position. No one at the factory was more skilled or devoted to the work than Old Xia’s father. He quickly earned a reputation as the master butcher, and eventually, Old Xia’s own childhood began to resemble his father’s.

But then, when Old Xia’s father turned forty, the meat factory underwent restructuring and shut down, putting all the workers out of jobs. Even with his impressive skills, Old Xia’s father just couldn’t find anyone who’d value them. His wife suggested he set up his own butcher shop, fronting a bit of savings, and he did just that.

Factory life had turned most people lazy, but not Old Xia’s dad. He genuinely loved butchering. He’d bring in meat pre-cut if he wanted, but he always insisted on personally handling every carcass. Every night, Old Xia would watch his father sharpening knives in the darkness, sometimes catching glimpses of him butchering cattle under the cover of night.

By the time Old Xia was in his twenties, his father handed the shop over. The old butcher’s knife, worn smooth by two generations, finally passed into Old Xia’s hands. Studying was never Old Xia’s strong suit, and he had no interest in school, so he naturally carried on the family business.

We listened as Captain Zhou told Old Xia’s story. All the while, Old Xia walked ahead without saying a word. It felt strangely unsettling, hearing someone talk about a person right in front of them, but in the end, that’s what we were doing.

By the time we’d run through one cigarette, we’d lit up another. Wisps of smoke curled in the cold air as snowflakes drifted gently down from the sky. Captain Zhou went on, the story of Old Xia still hanging in the air. “But when Old Xia turned thirty, something happened. It completely changed his life…”

When Old Xia was twenty-five, his family set up a marriage for him and, pretty soon, he got married. Three years later, they had a baby, turning the pair into a family of three.

But to really understand, you have to start with Old Xia’s grandfather’s generation. At the meat factory, most of the workers were just clocking in and out, doing as little as possible. As the saying used to go, ‘Do more or do less, it’s all the same. Work or don’t work, it’s all the same.’ Most folks were just coasting, counting on that iron rice bowl for life.

An He was one of those coasters—a man content to idle away his days. He was Old Xia’s grandfather’s next-door neighbor.

The An and Xia families have been close for generations.

If Old Xia’s grandfather had known what the An family’s descendants would become, he wouldn’t have chosen them as neighbors in a million years.

It’s like how nobody a decade ago could’ve imagined smartphones would become so widespread. Back then, people never believed a factory like the meat plant could shut down. An He’s son and Old Xia’s father were inseparable childhood friends. They’d grown up together—shared diapers and all.

Both took over their fathers’ jobs at the meat factory, just like the previous generation. While one took pride in his work, the other sipped tea and played cards, passing day after day in idleness. At first, no one could tell who was better off, and the two families remained close.

It was history repeating itself: our grandfathers were friends, our fathers were like brothers.

So, Old Xia and An He’s grandson, Old An, naturally became best friends too.

But that year, when the factory closed for good, everything changed.

Everyone lost their jobs, and though the wages had always been the same, Old Xia’s father had put money aside, saving every benefit he got. Old An’s father, on the other hand, lived day by day, never thinking of tomorrow. No one ever imagined the guaranteed job would suddenly disappear.

It wasn’t long before Old An’s father started borrowing money from Old Xia’s father. They’d known each other half their lives and were closer than family. Old Xia’s father was a good man—when the country opened up for business, he earned plenty running his own butcher shop. He never hesitated to lend Old An’s father a few hundred or thousand yuan at a time, never once asking for repayment.

Old Xia’s mother often grumbled about it. In her mind, you lend money for emergencies, not to support someone indefinitely. If someone needs help once or twice, fine—but can you really keep giving for a lifetime?

By the time Old Xia got married, Old An was still drifting around. Like Old Xia, he’d never been much for studying, but unlike him, he hadn’t even picked up a useful skill. He once naively believed that taking over his father’s role at the factory would be an effortless life of tea and chatter.

Old Xia’s father couldn’t bear to see his friend’s son turn into a complete layabout, so he lent him forty or fifty thousand yuan to help him start some small business, maybe flipping goods for a profit.

But just like his father, Old An was used to a loose, carefree life. The money disappeared in no time, spent on one thing or another.

Old Xia’s father loaned him money several more times—until he finally passed away.

From that day on, Old Xia’s mother forbade her son from ever lending Old An money again.

She was sensible enough to realize that giving money to Old An was like throwing it into a bottomless pit—there was simply no end. Over the decades, they’d lent the An family at least two hundred thousand, if not half a million. There was no question they’d done all anyone could.

Besides, with a child to raise, Old Xia and his wife had their own future to consider.

After all, what parent doesn’t want to provide the best life possible for their kid?

So Old Xia decided to give Old An one last payment—one hundred thousand yuan. This would be the final time he’d help. Old An promised to put the money to good use and finally make a success of himself.

And, to be fair, he really did try.

But even with the best intentions, Old An had no sense for business and no skills to manage it. Within two years, that one hundred thousand yuan had vanished down the drain, losses piling up. At the same time, Old Xia was making plans to open a chain of butcher shops.

By then Old Xia was twenty-eight, with a three-year-old at home. He bought a new house, moving out of the old apartment he’d inherited from the meat factory. The new place was spacious—over 130 square meters—not filthy rich, but plenty for a comfortable, well-fed life.

He could eat what he wanted, travel if he felt like it—life was good.

The Xia family had always been down-to-earth and practical, a trait passed on through generations. I remember when Old Xia and Old An were kids; everyone thought Old An was sharp and clever, destined for big things. Old Xia, on the other hand, was so shy and quiet, people figured he’d never amount to much.

But life has a way of proving people wrong. Maybe Old An was clever, but Old Xia was the one who ended up succeeding.

Old An came knocking yet again, asking Old Xia to lend him another hundred thousand yuan, begging for just one shot at a comeback.

But this time, Old Xia refused.

That night, Old An stood outside, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Would your family have dared treat the An family like this when your dad was alive? Look at you, Old Xia, now that you’ve made it big you won’t even help an old friend! What’s wrong with you? If you weren’t loaded, would I even be groveling like this? Where’s your conscience? You’ve got money—so why shouldn’t you give me a hundred thousand?”

Old Xia still didn’t budge.

From then on, Old An took every opportunity to slander Old Xia, griping that he’d abandoned his brothers after getting rich. He even badmouthed Old Xia’s daughter whenever he could.

You name it, Old An found a way to say it.

As the saying goes, a favor returned in rice becomes a grudge when repaid in loads. When someone’s truly desperate, a small kindness can mean the world, but when that help is endless, just one refusal is enough to breed lifelong resentment.

Old An had been living off the Xia family’s help since he was a boy, but after twenty years, the Xia family stopped supporting the An family. Old An felt entitled to the help—as if Old Xia’s wealth meant he owed him something.

But Old Xia wasn’t giving in this time.

Old An nursed his grudge, waiting for a ‘good day.’ According to the almanac, it wasn’t a day for rituals.

And then, he made his decision.

By this time, we’d already covered more than half the distance.

Snow still fluttered down. Captain Zhou muttered that the weather really was awful today.

“And then?” Guan Zengbin asked curiously.

But Captain Zhou just played coy and said, “Why don’t you guess what Old An decided to do?”

“What happened?” we both pressed.

“Care to take a guess?” Captain Zhou teased.

I frowned and said, “I’m guessing this is when we find out how he got burned…?”