Ruchu
On the night when the red star in the Kremlin dome went out, Wang Yao received a transnational fax at Mohe Observatory. The yellowed paper is painted with crooked pandas and dolls, and the corner is written with "1921-1991" in Chinese. Aurora dyed the snowfield green, and he poured two cups of apricot blossom village in the direction of Siberia. The liquor condensed into amber tears at MINUS 53 degrees.
At twelve o'clock sharp, the telephone rang and broke the silence of the border. "Xiaoyao … Do you want to learn to dance Katyusha?" The voice in the receiver is soaked with the bitterness of vodka, and the background is the sound of knocking down statues one after another. Wang Yao's pen tip plunged into the palm of his hand, and the shrapnel of the self-defense counterattack in 1979 burned in the old wound.
They danced across 7,000 kilometers, Wang Yao's cloth shoes stepped on the moonlight of the broken bridge of Yalu River, and Ivan's military boots sank into the snow of Gulag.
