Red Ashes

Old Ma, Ma Qingshan – Qingshan on paper, but everyone in the hutong called him Old Ma. Old Ma wasn't old, just past forty, but his back was a bit stooped, the creases at the corners of his eyes like they'd been repeatedly carved by the blunt knife of life: deep, but not sharp. He worked as an accountant in a modest-sized work unit, dealing with numbers every day, adding and subtracting, like abacus beads – regular, but wearing.

Old Ma had a dream, a bright red, scorching hot dream. This dream, he didn't often speak of it, like carrying a precious treasure, afraid people would laugh, afraid they'd covet it. It was a Ferrari. Red, like charcoal just pulled from a furnace, bright enough to burn your eyes. For this dream, Old Ma scrimped for ten years.

Ten years... what does that really mean? Neighbor Old Wang's son grew from wearing split pants to being old enough to run errands for soy sauce; the old locust tree at the hutong entrance grew another ring thicker; he himself found a few silver strands quietly appearing in his hair. During these ten years, Old Ma's lunch was mostly steamed buns and pickles brought from home. When colleagues gathered for meals, he always had an excuse to decline, "Something came up at home." The blue cotton jacket he wore had cuffs worn shiny and a collar washed pale. His wife sometimes complained a bit, "You can never earn all the money, you have to live life." Old Ma would just chuckle 'heh heh', saying nothing, the fire inside him burning even brighter. He imagined every penny he scrimped and saved as a tiny piece of gleaming red paint on the Ferrari's body.

Finally, the numbers added up. That day, Old Ma specifically took leave, put on his only navy blue suit – a bit outdated, but ironed crisp. His wife adjusted his tie, her eyes a little red, "Drive slowly, that car, it's precious." Old Ma nodded, his heart pounding like a trapped rabbit.

The dealership was opulent; the saleswoman smiled like a flower. When that bright red Ferrari was brought out like a spirited horse, Old Ma felt his heartbeat was about to stop. Sunlight spilled onto the car body, shimmering with light and color, dazzling the eyes. He carefully got in, his hand stroking the steering wheel, its cool yet smooth touch almost bringing tears to his eyes. This was his ten years of youth, ten years of forbearance, ten years of restless thoughts every sleepless night.

The paperwork was done, keys in hand. Old Ma started the car, its deep and powerful roar like a long-brewing symphony, instantly filling his entire world. He slowly drove the car out of the dealership; the sun was brilliant, pedestrians on the street turned to look. Old Ma straightened his somewhat stooped back, the corners of his mouth turning up unconsciously. He felt he was no longer Old Ma hunched over accounts, but a knight commanding a ball of fire.

He didn't dare drive fast, cautiously, like holding a priceless treasure. He wanted to drive home first, let his wife see, let the neighbors see, let them know that he, Old Ma, wasn't just someone who only knew how to flick abacus beads. He had even planned it out: tonight, he would treat the old neighbors to a good meal, parking the car right at the hutong entrance, letting that red color blind everyone's eyes.

The car had just turned two street corners, stopped at the roadside waiting for a red light. Old Ma was still immersed in the rhythm of the engine, contentedly looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Suddenly, a smell of burning pierced his nostrils. He frowned, thinking it was drifting from some roadside restaurant. But immediately after, a thin wisp of white smoke emerged from under the hood.

Old Ma's heart sank violently. The white smoke quickly turned into thick, grey-black smoke, mixed with flames. He hurriedly turned off the engine, tried to open the car door, only to find his hands were shaking badly. A driver in the next lane shouted at him: "Get out quickly! It's on fire!"

Old Ma scrambled out of the car, stumbling, and stood on the sidewalk a few meters away, staring blankly. The flames seemed to have a life of their own, greedily licking the bright red car body, making crackling sounds. The red paint curled and blackened under the high heat, revealing the metal frame underneath. Thick smoke billowed towards the sky, carrying a pungent smell.

More and more onlookers gathered, pointing, discussing. Some took out their phones to take pictures, some shook their heads in pity. Old Ma couldn't hear clearly what they were saying; in his ears, there was only the sound of burning and his own drumming heartbeat. Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? He didn't know how long passed until the fire truck arrived with sirens wailing, spraying white streams of water, completely extinguishing the flames that were once his entire dream.

What remained in the end was a charred, twisted wreck. The once dazzling red was now just mottled ash and charcoal, soaked with water. The air was filled with a strange mixture of burnt smell and steam. Firefighters were inspecting, police were taking notes, the crowd of onlookers gradually dispersed, leaving Old Ma alone, standing next to that pile of scrap metal.

A young police officer walked over, patted his shoulder, and asked routinely: "Mr. Ma, are you alright? Was the car insured? Do you know roughly what caused the fire?"

Old Ma opened his mouth but couldn't make a sound. He looked at the pile of ashes, which had once been the crystallization of his ten years of blood and sweat. Ten years, exchanged for one hour of brilliance, and then, everything returned to silence, a deeper silence than before. He suddenly felt it was somewhat laughable, like watching an extremely absurd silent film, with himself as the protagonist, and the ending a smoking pile of scrap metal.

He couldn't understand, why? What went wrong? Did the car itself harbor the seeds of destruction, or was his dream too fiery, finally inviting self-immolation? He didn't know. He only felt ice-cold all over, as if the fire had burned away his soul along with the car.

The sun was setting, plating the city with a golden edge. Old Ma slowly turned around, dragging his heavy steps back home. That crisp suit, now stained with some ash, looked somewhat comical. He didn't look back at the wreck again. The old locust tree at the hutong entrance was still silent; neighbors, perhaps having heard something, were craning their necks. Head down, he walked into his familiar home.

His wife came to meet him, saw his devastated look, understood everything, said nothing, just silently poured him a glass of hot water.

Old Ma took the glass, his hand still shaking. He sat in the old rattan chair he'd used for many years, looking out the window at the darkening sky. That red, those flames, those ashes, flickered alternately before his eyes. He suddenly remembered the numb crowds described by Mr. Lu Xun, watching an execution as entertainment. At this moment, he felt he was both the one being watched and the numb spectator. Except, in this spectacle, it was his own heart that had burned away.

Night deepened, Old Ma still hadn't spoken. He thought, tomorrow, he still had to go to the work unit, still had to face those numbers, adding and subtracting. Life seemed unchanged, yet somehow, everything had burned to ashes. Those red ashes settled heavily on his heart, never to be blown away.