I spent the Spring Festival alone in Beijing. The Ziroom apartment complex had organized a gala, but I couldn't bring Duoqi Tsukuru along. So I cooked two dishes and celebrated by myself. The dishes were set on the table. I opened the bottle of Moutai I'd bought specially before the holiday—one glass for me, one for Duoqi Tsukuru. A few sips in and I was already drifting. "Duo Duo, what is there in my life to complain about?" I drained my glass and flipped it upside-down to show Duoqi Tsukuru. "I've got Moutai to drink, Chunghwa cigarettes to smoke, I use an Apple phone—even an emperor couldn't have it better!" I poured more as I talked, my hand trembling a little, spilling some on the table. "What do you say, Duo Duo? Am I right or am I right?" Duoqi Tsukuru extended a front paw, hesitated, then scratched from behind his ear downward. "Meow." He let out a single, curt meow. "Don't cry, Duo Duo," I said. "Isn't it nice enough, just us two brothers for the holiday?" He let out a yowl and bolted. I went on drinking by myself.
After a while, Duoqi Tsukuru came back, took a couple of bites of the steamed sea bass, and let out a sound like the singer Wawa doing "Across the Ocean to See You": meow-meow-meow-meow-meow-meow-meow.
Meaning: let's go see The Wandering Earth—I hear it's pretty good.
I bought tickets for an IMAX theater at Phoenix Place, one hour out, and we drove off. "Why do you never wear your seatbelt? Put it on!" Duoqi Tsukuru scampered over and hooked himself onto the seatbelt. So be it. I turned on the speakers. Music filled the car like water. "Ever since you left, I've lost all my tender~ness~~"
Inside the theater, Duoqi Tsukuru stood on the back of the seat next to mine. First came the ads—BMW X3, Boundless Vitality. "Excuse me, may I sit here?" a woman asked, pointing at Duoqi Tsukuru's seat.
I took off my 3D glasses and had a look. Quite pretty—a bit of a Mavis Fan vibe, hair in a ponytail. A village-girl version of Mavis Fan. "Sure," I said. "But you'll have to let him stand on your shoulder." "Duoqi Tsukuru." I pointed at the cat on the seatback. "Okay." Mavis Fan held down the hem of her trench coat as she sat, placing her handbag neatly on her lap.
Duoqi Tsukuru transferred himself cautiously, one leg at a time, onto Mavis Fan's shoulder and gave her his 3D glasses.
On screen, news bulletins scrolled. Decades from now and humanity is still the same, I thought. Decades from now, people would still live as a collective, sharing many common memories. At New Year they would still pointlessly hang lanterns and festoons, set off ceremonial cannons, and perform dragon and lion dances. On the sorrowful journey of arising, abiding, decaying, and passing, they would still be happy, sad, trying to live—as if each person were the only one in the world.
During the final rescue sequence, I saw Duoqi Tsukuru rubbing his head vigorously against Mavis Fan's neck. She reached over and cradled him in her arms, gently patting his belly. Soon he was purring, so loud it buzzed in my ears.
Mavis Fan carefully took a string of something from her handbag and hung it on the back of the next seat. She flicked a lighter. Duoqi Tsukuru tilted his head, staring in surprise as Mavis Fan lit that string of bright red firecrackers. On screen, ceremonial rockets soared into the sky. I watched those silent, explode-when-they-please firecrackers, and the tears streamed down my face.
2018 was over. In the enormous roar of cheering that erupted when Wu Jing blew everything up, I walked out of the empty theater. Duoqi Tsukuru was coiled around my neck like an old scarf, and he slept all the way into 2019.