Foto-foto itu baru akan jadi pada hari pasar berikutnya. Kakek membayar, mengambil tanda terimanya, lalu menyerahkannya kepada Nenek untuk disimpan baik-baik. Bertiga—kakek, nenek, dan cucu—saling berpegangan saat keluar dari studio foto, menyeberang jalan, lalu berjalan menuju pasar menyusuri "jalan" yang diaspal lempeng batu biru berukuran seragam.
Pada 1977, Desa Gongdao, tempat Mo Xiaoman tinggal, masih bernama Tim Keadilan Publik. Wilayah itu masuk Komune Huashan, dan markas komune berada persis di kota pasar ini. Pasar ini bukan sepetak tanah yang ditunjuk sembarangan; konon pada masa masyarakat lama tempat ini bernama Kota Huashan dan sudah terbentuk sebagai pasar sejak berabad-abad silam. Daerahnya kaya hasil bumi bermutu, jalan rayanya terpelihara baik, penduduknya jujur dan ramah, dan perampok hampir tak pernah ada. Pada hari pasar, bukan hanya orang setempat yang datang; pedagang dari seratus li jauhnya pun berduyun-duyun menuju ke sini untuk berdagang. Dulu tempat ini pernah sangat ramai.
Jalan raya provinsi di luar kota pasar juga melintasi Desa Gongdao, tempat rumah Mo Xiaoman. Meski sudah dibangun ulang dan ditingkatkan oleh negara, jalurnya masih mengikuti jalan raya kuno. Ini menunjukkan bahwa sejak dulu tempat ini tidak terlalu terpencil.
Begitu turun dari jalan raya, orang langsung sampai di jalan batu biru itu, yang sebenarnya adalah pintu masuk pasar. Pada zaman dulu, orang yang hendak ke pasar datang dengan pedati sapi atau pikulan. Barang dagangan mereka dibongkar tepat di tepi jalan raya, dan lapak-lapak besar-kecil yang menumpuk penuh barang berjajar sampai ke pinggir jalan!
Bahkan Kakek pernah melihat pemandangan seperti itu di masa kecilnya. Ia menggambarkannya dengan panjang lebar kepada Xiao Man dan Nenek, tak henti-hentinya bercerita.
Menurut Kakek, kota pasar itu sudah berubah total. Setelah menyeberang jalan dan berjalan dua puluh sampai tiga puluh meter menyusuri jalan batu biru yang lengang, mereka belum bertemu satu pun pedagang. Rumah-rumah di kedua sisinya sudah tua. Yang menghadap jalan semuanya berlubang jendela besar berbentuk persegi di dindingnya. Jendela-jendela itu tidak dipasangi kaca atau daun jendela dorong biasa, melainkan papan kayu susun. Membuka dan menutupnya pun tidak mudah. Ini pemandangan lama lain dari jalan kuno itu. Jelas, dulu semua rumah di kedua sisi jalan dibuka untuk berdagang. Belakangan, ketika kepemilikan kolektif diberlakukan dan orang makan dari satu periuk bersama, lalu tim produksi membagi hasil berdasarkan kerja, orang berjuang mati-matian mengumpulkan poin kerja demi jatah makanan. Tak ada lagi yang berdagang sendiri—memang tidak diizinkan. Jadi jendela papan kayu di kedua sisi jalan tertutup sepanjang tahun. Kemeriahan jalan kuno itu hilang, dan itu sungguh sayang.
Terus berjalan di jalan batu biru yang rata dan bersih, lalu berbelok, mereka melihat sebuah tanah lapang. Rumah-rumah masih berjajar di kedua sisi, tetapi bagian tengahnya baru saja dibersihkan menjadi ruang pasar umum. Separuh lapangan itu beratap bangunan peneduh tinggi dengan tiang-tiang bata persegi besar dan atap genteng hitam. Bangunan itu terbagi dua bagian. Satu untuk berjualan aneka jajanan dan makanan matang: mi beras peras segar, "cacing beras", tangyuan, tape beras, onde-onde goreng, bola-bola goreng, kurma "mulut tersenyum", kue kacang, gula malt, kacang tanah panggang, kuaci, dan lain-lain. Bagian lain dibiarkan kosong, mungkin memang disengaja, untuk memberi tempat berteduh bagi orang-orang pasar kalau cuaca tiba-tiba berubah.
Di seluruh lapangan terbuka di sekeliling bangunan peneduh itu, orang bebas membuka lapak untuk menjual barang dagangan mereka. Ada sayur dan kacang-kacangan hasil pekarangan sendiri, buah dari pohon di halaman rumah, buah dan sayur liar hasil buruan dari gunung, atau barang buatan sendiri seperti tikar bambu, caping, dan keranjang bambu. Menurut Kakek, dua tahun lalu orang masih dilarang menjual barang-barang ini dengan bebas. Tapi mulai tahun ini, entah kenapa, pasar perlahan jadi lebih hidup, dan segala macam barang boleh dijual terbuka.
Di kehidupan sebelumnya, satu-satunya kali Mo Xiaoman kecil datang ke pasar Komune Huashan adalah saat Liu Fengying ingin membuat "foto keluarga". Saat mereka berkeliling di bangunan peneduh pasar, keenam anak itu hanya bisa menatap bola-bola goreng, kue kacang, dan tangyuan dengan tape beras. Mereka melihat para penjual perempuan menyendok semangkuk demi semangkuk mi beras peras, lalu menaruh satu sendok saus merah menyala mengilap dari daging samcan cincang, cabai iris, tomat, dan air garam... Semua meneteskan liur, mata terpaku tak berkedip. Tapi pada akhirnya Liu Fengying hanya membeli bola-bola goreng dan kue kacang yang harum untuk adik-adiknya. Mo Xiaoman hanya bisa memuaskan mata, tak mendapat apa pun. Ia harus pulang dengan perut kosong, menahan hasrat makannya.
Tapi datang ke pasar bersama Kakek dan Nenek kali ini sama sekali berbeda. Mereka menjadikan Mo Xiaoman pusat perhatian mutlak. Kakek terus bertanya apakah Xiao Man lapar, apakah ia mau semangkuk mi beras dulu bersama Nenek, atau lebih suka semangkuk tangyuan. Meski Nenek tak bisa melihat, pendengarannya sangat tajam. Begitu ada penjual gula malt, kue kacang, atau bola-bola goreng berseru, "Mau satu, Nak?"
Nenek langsung menjawab sambil tersenyum, "Iya, iya! Tolong bungkuskan satu untuk cucu saya!"
Dan "bungkuskan satu" itu, berkat campur tangan Kakek, sering berubah menjadi "bungkuskan dua". Xiao Man tahu Kakek ingin Nenek bisa mencicipinya juga.
Setelah sekali berkeliling naik-turun sepanjang bangunan peneduh, keranjang bambu Kakek sudah berisi lima atau enam bungkusan daun berisi kue kacang, bola-bola goreng, gula malt, kurma "mulut tersenyum", dan cakwe...
Pagi itu mereka sudah makan bubur encer dari jagung kasar di rumah sekretaris. Mengenyangkan, tapi sekarang sudah habis dicerna. Kakek bilang, belum sah rasanya ke pasar kalau belum makan semangkuk mi beras. Lapak penjualnya lebih dari satu di bawah bangunan peneduh, jadi Nenek membiarkan Xiao Man dan Kakek memilih dengan tenang. Di tengah riuh seruan para penjual, Xiao Man tertarik pada seorang bibi bersuara lembut dan berwajah sangat ramah. Bertiga mereka duduk di lapaknya, dan masing-masing menyantap semangkuk mi beras peras yang segar, menyegarkan, dan gurih.
Mi beras peras adalah makanan khas Huashan Street yang sudah lama ada. Di generasi mendatang, namanya makin terkenal, bahkan ada yang membuka kedai penjual mi ini di kota provinsi dan Beijing. Namun saat itu, karena sudah ada lemari es dan freezer, orang memakai air es alih-alih air mata air gunung, dan mi itu akhirnya kehilangan sedikit cita rasa khasnya.
Proses membuat mi beras peras tampaknya cukup rumit. Pertama, pasta beras digiling di rumah dan dibawa ke lapak dalam ember. Di tempat, api dinyalakan di bawah wajan besi besar. Pasta beras dituang ke wajan, diaduk, dan dimasak sampai mengental menjadi gumpalan padat. Pasta matang itu lalu disendok ke dalam tabung kayu khusus. Tabung itu dipasang di atas baskom kayu berisi air mata air sedingin es yang diambil pagi-pagi benar. Setelah semuanya siap, sebuah penekan kayu besar ditekan dengan kuat ke dalam tabung berisi pasta beras matang. Dasar tabung berlubang-lubang, dan untaian mi beras langsung keluar terus-menerus, dalam sekejap tergulung di dalam baskom. Terendam dalam air mata air bening yang sedingin es, mi itu tampak bening berkilau—pemandangan yang sangat indah.
Untuk menyantapnya, segenggam mi diambil dan ditaruh di mangkuk besar, lalu disiram satu sendok sayur kaldu tulang babi. Setelah itu ditaburi saus tumis dari daging samcan, cabai iris, tomat, bawang putih cincang, jahe iris, garam, dan kecap. Ditambah sedikit irisan daun bawang, aromanya begitu menggoda sampai kuahnya pun akan kau habiskan sampai tetes terakhir!
Kalau bosan dengan mi beras peras, ada variasi lain. Dengan mengatur tekanan saat memeras pasta beras, bisa dibuat "cacing beras peras", yang tak kalah lezatnya.
Semangkuk mi beras peras harganya satu mao, begitu juga semangkuk tangyuan dengan tape beras. Setelah menghabiskan mi, Kakek bertanya apakah ia mau semangkuk tangyuan juga. Mo Xiaoman menatap tangyuan putih yang mengapung naik-turun di panci berisi air gula merah tak jauh dari situ. Mulutnya sangat ingin, tapi ia menepuk perutnya—'Tidak bisa.' Pada masa itu, para penjual sangat murah hati. Semangkuk besar mi beras peras itu penuh sampai ke bibir mangkuk, dan perutnya sudah terlalu kencang untuk menampung apa pun!
The photos wouldn’t be ready until the next market day. Grandpa paid, took the receipt, and handed it to Grandma to keep safe. The three of them, grandparent and grandchild, supported each other as they left the photo studio, crossed the road, and walked toward the market along a "street" paved with bluestone slabs of uniform length and size.
In 1977, Gongdao Village, where Mo Xiaoman lived, was still called the Public Justice Team. It belonged to the Huashan Commune, and the commune’s headquarters was this very market town. This market wasn’t just some randomly designated plot of land; it was said that in the old society, this place was called Huashan Town and had formed as a market centuries ago. The area boasted many high-quality local specialties, the official roads were well-maintained, the people were honest and kind, and bandits were rare. On market days, it wasn’t just the locals who came; merchants from as far as a hundred *li* away would also rush in to do business. It had once been a very prosperous place.
The provincial highway outside the market town also passed through Gongdao Village, where Mo Xiaoman’s home was. Although it had been rebuilt and upgraded by the state, it still followed the route of the ancient official road. This showed that long ago, this place hadn’t been very isolated.
Stepping off the highway, you’d find yourself on that bluestone street, which was really the start of the market proper. In ancient times, people coming to the market arrived in ox carts or with carrying poles. They would unload their goods right by the official road, and the stalls, large and small and piled high with merchandise, would stretch all the way to the road’s edge!
Even Grandpa had seen such scenes in his childhood. He described the grand spectacle to Xiao Man and Grandma, talking on and on.
According to Grandpa, the market town had changed drastically. After crossing the road and walking twenty or thirty meters along the deserted bluestone street, they still hadn’t encountered a single vendor. The residences on both sides were old houses. The ones facing the street all had a large, square window cut into their walls. These windows weren’t fitted with glass or ordinary push-out sashes, but with interlocking wooden planks. Opening or closing them was quite a chore. This was another old sight of the ancient street. Clearly, in the old days, all the residences on both sides had been open for business. Later, with the establishment of collective ownership and eating from the communal pot, followed by the production teams distributing based on labor, people were desperate to earn work points for food rations. No one did private business anymore—it wasn’t allowed. So, the wooden-planked windows on both sides of the street remained shut year-round. The ancient street’s prosperity was gone, which, it had to be said, was a pity.
Continuing forward along the flat, clean bluestone road and around a bend, they saw an open area. Houses still lined both sides, but the middle had been recently cleared as a public market space. Half of that open area was covered by a tall rain shelter with large, square, brick-pillared columns and a black-tiled roof. The shelter was divided into two sections. One was for selling all sorts of snacks and cooked foods: fresh-pressed rice noodles, "rice worms," sweet dumplings, sweet fermented rice, fried sesame balls, fried dough balls, "smiling mouth" dates, bean cakes, malt sugar, roasted peanuts, roasted sunflower seeds, and so on. The other section was left empty, presumably on purpose, to provide a place for market-goers to take shelter from the rain in case the weather turned.
In all the open-air space surrounding the rain shelter, people could freely set up stalls to sell their goods. These included vegetables and beans grown in their private plots, fruit from trees in their own yards, wild fruits and vegetables gathered from the mountains, or homemade items like woven bamboo mats, bamboo-husk hats, and bamboo baskets. According to Grandpa, just two years ago, people weren’t allowed to sell these things freely. But starting this year, for some unknown reason, the market had slowly become livelier, and all sorts of things could be sold openly.
In her previous life, the only time the young Mo Xiaoman had come to the Huashan Commune market was when Liu Fengying wanted to take a "family photo." While they were wandering through the market’s rain shelter, the six children could only stare at the fried dough balls, bean cakes, and sweet dumplings with fermented rice. They watched as the female stall owners ladled out bowl after bowl of fresh-pressed rice noodles, topping them with a scoop of glistening, bright-red sauce made from minced Wuhua pork, chopped chili, tomato, and brine... They all drooled, their eyes fixed and unblinking. But in the end, Liu Fengying only bought fragrant fried dough balls and bean cakes for the younger siblings. Mo Xiaoman could only feast her eyes, getting nothing to eat. She had to go home hungry, suppressing her cravings.
But coming to the market with Grandpa and Grandma this time was completely different. They made Mo Xiaoman the absolute center of their attention. Grandpa kept asking Xiao Man if she was hungry, if she wanted to eat a bowl of rice noodles with Grandma first, or have a bowl of sweet dumplings instead. Although Grandma couldn’t see, her hearing was incredibly sharp. The moment a stall owner selling malt sugar, bean cakes, or fried dough balls called out, "Want one, little girl?"
Grandma would immediately reply with a smile, "Yes, yes! Please wrap one up for my granddaughter!"
And her "wrap one up" would often, with Grandpa’s intervention, turn into "wrap two up." Xiao Man knew Grandpa wanted Grandma to be able to taste it too.
After a trip up and down the length of the rain shelter, Grandpa’s bamboo basket already held five or six palm-leaf-wrapped packages containing bean cakes, fried dough balls, malt sugar, "smiling mouth" dates, and fried dough twists...
They had eaten a thin porridge made from corn grits at the secretary’s house that morning. It was filling, but it had all been digested by now. Grandpa said that you couldn’t say you’d really been to the market without having a bowl of rice noodles. There was more than one stall selling them under the rain shelter, so Grandma let Xiao Man and Grandpa take their time choosing. Amid the many calls from vendors, Xiao Man was won over by an auntie with a gentle voice and a very friendly face. The three of them sat down at her stall, and each had a bowl of the cool, refreshing, and savory fresh-pressed rice noodles.
Fresh-pressed rice noodles were a long-standing local specialty of Huashan Street. In later generations, their fame would grow even greater, with some people even opening shops selling them in the provincial city and Beijing. However, by that time, with the availability of refrigerators and freezers, people used ice water instead of mountain spring water, and the noodles ultimately lacked a bit of that local flavor.
The process of making fresh-pressed rice noodles seemed quite complicated. First, the rice paste was ground at home and carried to the stall in buckets. On the spot, a fire would be set up under a large iron wok. The rice paste was poured into the wok, stirred, and cooked until it coagulated into a solid mass. This cooked paste was then scooped into a special wooden cylinder. The cylinder was mounted over a wooden basin filled with ice-cold mountain spring water that had been fetched early in the morning. Once everything was ready, a large wooden plunger was forcefully pressed into the cylinder of cooked rice paste. The bottom of the cylinder was perforated, and streams of rice noodles were immediately and continuously pressed out, coiling in the basin in the blink of an eye. Soaking in the clear, ice-cold spring water, they looked translucent and glistening—a very beautiful sight.
To eat them, a handful of the pressed noodles was scooped into a large bowl, followed by a ladle of pork bone broth. Then, it was topped with a braising sauce made from Wuhua pork, chopped chilies, tomatoes, minced garlic, shredded ginger, salt, and soy sauce. A sprinkle of chopped green onions was added, and the aroma was so incredible you’d eat every last drop, soup and all!
If you got tired of the pressed rice noodles, you could have a variation. By controlling the pressure when pressing the rice paste, you could make "pressed rice worms," which were just as delicious.
A bowl of fresh-pressed rice noodles cost one *mao*, and so did a bowl of sweet dumplings with fermented rice. After finishing the noodles, Grandpa asked if she wanted a bowl of sweet dumplings too. Mo Xiaoman looked at the white dumplings bobbing up and down in a pot of brown sugar water not far away. Her mouth really wanted some, but she patted her belly—’Nope, can’t do it.’ In those days, vendors were very generous. The large bowl of fresh-pressed rice noodles was filled to the brim, and her stomach was stretched so tight it couldn’t possibly fit anything else!
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