By Blanche Li

You parked the carts of fruit across the intersections of Nanjing and arranged the fat ones on top. You displayed your hand-painted posters, depicting plump durian so smooth and buttery, patrons forgot the garbage scent. Lychee so round and perfectly spiky that one could savor the sting of the tongue. You wore blue silk to protect from mosquitos and farmer’s pants because no one was going to tell you how to dress. On humid days, you knew what to sell; you shoved seventy-cent popsicles and blocks of ice into the small icebox and sold them so fast the ice cream shops couldn’t catch up. I have the cutout from the newspaper with your picture. You used your business language for the article title: “Young girl from Shanghai sells the sweetest fruits. Come support her!” Then, of course, you hugged as many fruits as you could and brought them close to your chest, smiling big with your deep dimples and slightly scrunched-up nose. Grandma, the bearer of all fruit; top of the hierarchy, you knew your character, you could count your yuan. You wrote poetry:

If we write calligraphy with the inkstone,
like our elders have always taught,
sharp
brush strokes
eventually fade upon
thin Xuan paper.
Thick graphite never fades, it
beats brush and ink.
We are the graphite that crystallizes itself into
permanence.

You sold your fruit while I gave mine away—to the man who tattooed his hands with black pen ink, the man who wore the wool sweater that stunk of books, the man whose jean pockets were stuffed with blunt wraps and taco sauce packets. I gave away my fruit to the Saturday nightclubs, the man who caressed my shoulder, the relatives of friends who invited me to their family cookouts.

I don’t regulate. I’m not a fruitful person, one who attracts others like Persimmon’s juice that melts in the mouth. I don’t have Pomelo’s thick rind that protects itself from aphids and centipedes, only saving its inner vibrant fuchsia for the chef’s eye. I try, but they eat me and hand my fibrous core back.

Unhonorable? Maybe I need some control. To finally come to my wits.

I tried poetry: scribbled writing onto post-its that seemed transformative until it wasn’t. It’s because I have no stories to tell. People don’t want to know the inner workings of your mind. They want to know theirs. I wrote a lot about paper cuts; they always stung, but not deep enough to really do something. But there. Losing patience at the end of my writing, I slurred my half-cursive half-sloppy o’s and a’s, f’s and h’s. Then, I discarded them in the library shredder—useless words couldn’t erase, not even temporarily.

At Dhyana Vihara Temple, I lit sandalwood incense that diffused smoke through golden candle lights. The statue of Buddha sat in the center of the altar, ornated heavily with jewelry and flowers.

“Welcome. Now I understand you wanted to pray for peace of mind and happiness, but we don’t pray directly to Buddha to obtain. He’s just a teacher, not a god,” the priest told me. “Don’t worry though. Kneel on the carpet, and we’ll start chanting and prayers.” He clasped a golden chain in both hands, as if he were creating the golden particles that could fly to each of our hearts. He read, and we repeated:

May I put in genuine efforts to refine my mind with concentration, effort, and intent. I will try to reflect patience and generosity in my words, actions, and thoughts. I open my mind and body to be in a state of well-being and joy and detach myself from the cycles of suffering.

The golden Buddha at the altar flashed into me, like blazing papercuts slashing into my lips. My ankles ached as if cable ties bound them. There was time to confide—but Buddha was only an enlightened “teacher.” The familiar shroud flickered over me and appeared: the metal strings, the scrolls and pegs, the jam-packed room of musical copper and wood, along with the ten-year-old girl. The girl in the orchestra who thought she was ahead of everyone and thought she could always be.

I played cello my whole life: I was put in the chamber ensembles, the private lessons, the orchestra. Good because the Lalo in D and Dvorak in B had been played and recorded multiple times with accompanists: Justin the memorization-plus-accuracy champion, Carrie the always-on-beat, Lawson the contact-with-no-notice. Not to forget the achy shoulders and red raw fingers pinching metal strings, the most common accompanist of any playing.

Now, where is the magic? When I close my eyes on stage, whatever god isn’t supposed to grant me gives the music notes. During the opening chords, my scenery of boiling rivers and volcano skies on outstretched palms vanishes. My arms don’t pivot and hit the note frequencies that make the music ring. That’s why I won’t be the soloist in New York, on BBC, with the sticker-filled cello cases of all the festivals and debuts I’ve done. I’m fifth stand of Cincinnati Symphony, following the rigid cues and beats of anyone but myself, my empty, loser fruit basket open 24 hours, hoping for next month’s pay.

But I’m like you, Grandma. I’m only squeezed- out dripping-bitter coarse lemon-acid—sour enough. Black seed and empty pit of melon. If I paint my body with gouache and ornate it with thousands of Hydrangeas and Baby’s Breath, you will still see the sharp vines through which these buds sprout from. Like you, only watered-down generational flincher. Like you, yet not a life-througher, only a life-passer.

Grandma, I set up a fruit stand. I bought fruit and displayed it in my apartment. If men come over, I’ll offer a Kumquat and explain how strange it is that the skin is the best part. If I could make the poetry feel, the cello make listeners wipe tears and reminisce, the fruit taste the way it’s supposed to—will I be honored like you?

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“Englightenment” by Blanche Li and the artwork titled Heavy is the Fruit by Charlotte Bunney appeared in Issue 44 of Berkeley Fiction Review.

Blanche Li is a student and writer from Danville, CA. She is a winner of the New York Times Personal Narrative Contest and is a California Arts Scholar. She has also been recognized by Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and she’s the
principal cellist at Young People’s Symphony Orchestra.

Charlotte Bunney is a 25-year-old fine artist, illustrator, and graphic designer. She’s also a writer in her free time and a civil servant in her not-so-free-time. Her art often revolves around Classics (which was what she studied at undergraduate) and nature (because she fancies herself a Romantic). She has illustrated for Berkeley for 4 years now and is very grateful for it!