Oranges for the Eyes

The moment the peel broke open, the fragrance burst out. You stood in the kitchen holding the orange, and for a long while you didn’t move.

First day of the heating season. The thermometer in the apartment climbed to twenty-three degrees, yet you felt cold.

Old Chen never let the pith cling to the fruit when he peeled an orange. His fingernails would press into the skin, tearing it off thread by thread, and then he’d gather the white strands into his palm, squeezing them into a little ball like a cotton puff. You used to complain he made too much work of it—what’s a little bitterness? It cuts the heat. He said you didn’t understand: the bitterness he kept for himself; the sweetness he saved for you.

He left those words behind thirty years ago.

You ate the orange. Slowly. The radiator gurgled once—like a cough, or like a sigh.

That afternoon, rummaging in a drawer for your reading glasses, you squinted at the tiny print on a medicine box. Old Chen’s drawer—you’d hardly ever touched it; the first few times you only dared to glance at the edge. This time, for some reason, you pulled the whole drawer out. Screws, pliers, half a pencil, parts of a radio never finished repairing—and underneath it all, a newspaper clipping, square and neat, folded in three, the corners worn soft with handling.

“The 11 Warmest Cities in Europe for Winter.”

Lisbon. Seville. Málaga. Valencia. Barcelona. Nice. Palermo. Valletta. Athens. Limassol. Funchal.

Eleven cities. He’d marked them with pencil, one by one—a five-pointed star under Seville, and beside it, in crooked, clumsy handwriting: Orange trees, fruit hanging even in winter, dropping everywhere and nobody picks them up. A shame.

At the top margin of the clipping, five characters: When Xiulan retires.

Written last November. Your retirement certificate was issued this March. He didn’t wait. The seventh of March—the third day after the heat was shut off—he died in his sleep, as untroublesome as the man himself, disturbing no one. The doctor said it was his heart. You thought: the heart—that’s the warmest place there is, and his had stayed warm his whole life.

That night you spread the clipping on the table, smoothed it with your hand, smoothed it over and over.

All right. Buy the ticket.

◇

The passport was from two years ago. Old Chen was still around then; he’d insisted on getting it—“have it ready, who knows, one day we might just go.” And look, off you went. Just a bit farther than he had in mind.

In the photo you’re as pale as a fresh-steamed bun. Xiaoman laughed herself silly on the phone: Mom, this looks like a refugee photo. You told her to quit her joking and asked about booking a flight. She panicked: Mom, you’re going abroad? Did you join a tour group? Who are you going with?

You said you’d joined one—a solo group. Just you, wandering free.

She was silent a long moment. Then: Mom, send me your location when you get there.

You brought the red scarf too. Thirty years ago, when Old Chen had just started at the heating station and spent his first winter hunched against the cold, you gritted your teeth and bought expensive wool, and over two weeks of evenings knitted him this red scarf. He said: a grown man in red? Then wore it his whole life. This time you folded it into a neat square and tucked it into your bag, thinking: I’ll take him to soak up some sun. Every year he longed for the heating to go off, then shivered once it did—the man never once got his fill of winter sun.

At security, the young man fished out your sewing kit. Sugar, fine; needles, no. Fine—the needles stayed, and you gave him the sugar. He was delighted, like he’d picked up a free auntie. Afterward you learned your lesson: bought a second kit, checked it in by plane, kept it in your pocket on trains.

The moment the plane lifted off, your palms were slick with sweat. You found yourself muttering Old Chen’s inspection routine—check the gauge first, then the valves—before it dawned on you: you were going up into the sky, not up to a boiler.

◇

Lisbon.

Out of the airport, warm air hit you square in the face, like someone pressing a hot towel to your cheeks from behind. The street trees were green, flowers open—in December, just like April back home.

The little yellow trams clanked up the hills. A young man with an instrument in his arms gave you his seat. At a pastry shop, the woman behind the counter handed you a custard tart, gesturing: hot, blow on it. You blew, burned your tongue anyway, and laughed at yourself first.

You bought a postcard and wrote at the post office: Old Chen, it’s December here and it feels like April at home. Even the winter jasmine dares to bloom. Guess what it smells like here? Pastry. You’d love it.—Xiulan.

You addressed it to your own address, and the sender was you too. The girl at the post office thought you’d gone senile. You didn’t explain. This letter has to take the long way around before it reaches him.

The tram clanked and clattered, like the blower in a boiler room. Your ears got home before your head did.

◇

Old Chen stoked boilers half his life, sending heat to half the city. And yet he himself was afraid of the cold, hands cupped together nine months out of the year. Funny, isn’t it—the man who delivered warmth was cold himself. He’d say: warmth is like money. It only counts once you give it away.

Every November, on lighting day, he stayed out all night. The furnace, he said, was like a person—the first fire mattered most, someone had to watch it. He’d come home smelling of the boiler room; you complained it stank, and he said: that’s the smell of warm.

His hands were always warm in winter. Your feet got cold, and he’d clamp them between his calves to warm them, wincing the whole time—how do you keep two popsicles hidden in there? And yet it was those very hands that got chilblains. A man who heated half the city, with chilblains on his hands—who’d believe it if you told them?

Whenever anyone’s radiators went cold in the building, they knocked on his door. He never took a cent for repairs. People brought cabbages, brought eggs; unable to refuse, he’d accept, then turn around and give half back. Taking money, he said, would cheapen it.

You didn’t understand that back then. You do now. Warmth only counts once it’s given away.

◇

Seville.

Orange trees lined the road, row after row, all the way to the horizon, fruit hanging on the branches like little lanterns, fallen ones rolling into the cracks of the flagstones—truly, nobody picked them up. You bent and picked one up, and an old man leaning on a cane nearby laughed out loud.

His name was Juan; he kept the pigeons in the courtyard next door. He pointed at the oranges covering the ground, then at his own eyes, and with halting gestures told you: food for the eyes, madam. Sour.

You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away, so you held it in your fist. He pulled two oranges from his coat pocket and pressed them into your hands, still warm with his body heat: from my own tree. Sweet. Eat them later.

Somewhere in the distance, someone was dancing flamenco—heels striking the pavement, crackling like New Year firecrackers. You sat on a bench, laid the red scarf across your knees, and took its picture, the sun blazing down, the red so bright it dazzled.

On the bus back to the guesthouse, you peeled Juan’s orange. Truly sweet. You peeled it the way Old Chen used to—stripping away the pith thread by thread, laying the strands out on a napkin, neatly, one by one. As if for him to see.

The second postcard: Old Chen, I’ve finished seeing the city you starred. The oranges hang on the trees unpicked. You said it was a shame, back then; now I’ll give you your answer: it’s no shame at all—every pair of eyes in the world is keeping them.

◇

There’s a thing from the hospital that kept coming back to you the whole trip.

Two years ago he was in for half a month—nothing serious, but the ward’s heating baked your face till it hurt. He lay there frowning: this warmth isn’t real. Sun warmth has a bit of earthy smell in it; boiler warmth carries the steam; this stuff’s plain boiled water. The nurses couldn’t stop laughing at him.

On discharge day, by the corridor window, he suddenly said: when they shut the heat off in our building, let’s go south—find a courtyard with orange trees climbing the walls, and live there one winter. I’ll peel you oranges all winter long, pith all picked clean.

March. Third day after the heat went off.

Later, whenever anyone told you time heals all, you wanted to spit. Time is a slow-handed locksmith, riveting you back into your days one pinch at a time—it hurts, but in the end, it does rivet you back.

◇

At Valencia’s central market, oranges were piled into little mountains. Fresh-squeezed juice for a euro a cup, and when the young vendor saw you sipping it daintily, he laughed and topped you up with half a glass more.

On Málaga’s beach, the December sun had bleached the sand white. Old men played chess in their shirt sleeves, unbothered by losing—setting pieces upright just to knock them down again, jeering at themselves. You found a bench too, rolled up your sleeves, took off your watch, and held your arms out to the sun.

The sun pressed down on your shoulders with weight, like a hand.

You sat until the shadows had slanted away and the sun had soaked clear through your shoulders. Old Chen, we got our sunshine. You tilted your head back and forced the heat welling in your eyes back down.

At Nice, the sea wind was thick with salt. Few people taking photos, plenty of pigeons. You photographed the scarf once more.

◇

Barcelona.

You’d assumed the Sagrada Família was just a building. Only inside did you understand—light poured down from the high windows, red and green and gold, drenching you, as if someone had shaken open a whole drawer of flowered handkerchiefs at once. You found a seat and didn’t get up.

You don’t know how long you sat, until an old woman beside you gently passed you a tissue, not looking at your face, saying nothing.

Some warmth doesn’t ask where it came from.

You took it. When you stepped out and the great door swung shut with a deep hum, the cold wind hit you—and you laughed instead.

◇

Palermo’s market roared like a pot at full boil—fish, oranges, hawkers’ cries all churned together. Down a narrow lane was a puppet theater, a knight brandishing a sword on its signboard.

You arrived ten minutes before showtime, and old Giuseppe, the puppeteer, was practically spinning with worry. The knight’s cape had torn the day before—the seam at the brass ring had split—and the old man’s hands shook too badly to sew.

You opened your sewing kit. A lifetime as a seamstress, and you couldn’t bear to see something broken left hanging there.

You borrowed his coarse backstage thread, backstitched the seam, and knotted it fast. The old puppeteer held the cape and studied it a long while, then gave you a thumbs-up, arm held ramrod straight.

The show began. The knight, cape mended, charged with his sword—and the children cheered like something had burst. You sat on your little stool watching, hot-eyed but not spilling over, and before you knew it, you were clapping along.

After the show he pulled you backstage to show you banners he’d been sewing for forty years, gesturing wildly: colleague! You shared no language, but he pressed half a bag of candied orange peel into your hands and patted it: sweet—for sour.

◇

Valletta is a city built entirely of honey-colored stone; in sunlight the whole town glows like fresh bread. Bells rolled over bells.

At the bakery, Grandma Maria’s pastries were too hot to hold, filled with peas. Her grandson Luca passed by after school, schoolbag strap snapped, dangling; the boy pouted. Maria shrugged, palms up.

You took out your sewing kit. This, you could do.

You gave the strap a firm backstitch, then two extra rows for good measure. Maria refused your money and stuffed a paper sack of pastries into your arms until both your hands were full. Then she pulled out her phone, tapping a translation app one word at a time, and held the screen up to you:

My mother, also a seamstress.

Your eyes went hot. You said: my mother made me cotton jackets too. She understood not a word of you, you understood not a word of her, and yet you each talked on and on—and both of you understood everything.

When you left, she gave you a hand-stitched coaster, the stitches as fine as fish scales. On your postcard you wrote: Old Chen, people here say—once you’ve eaten your fill, you’re not cold anymore. I think he’s right.

◇

Athens was rainy. You ducked into an old bookstore—creaking floors, the smell of old paper everywhere. The old man who ran it brought you a chair, then a cup of hot tea, heavy on the honey. A yellow cat leapt onto your lap and settled in, purring.

The old man pointed at the rain outside, then at the lamp, spread his hands, and smiled. The gesture meant: it’s all good.

When the rain stopped, the stone city turned gold. Workers on ladders hung strings of colored lights along the streets, crooked and nobody minding. Cat hair on your lap, tea in your hands, you suddenly realized this whole trip you’d done nothing but mend things—the cape, the bag strap—and one more thing besides. You touched your chest. Not yet.

◇

At the Limassol bus stop, the Greek letters scuffled like ants; you stared ten minutes and couldn’t read a one.

Beside you stood a woman in a red windbreaker, staring too, brow knotted. You hesitated forever, then managed two words: Excuse me—

She spun around: Ayi-ya! Fellow townsfolk!

From Shenyang; surname Xu; Shufen; sixty-six. You bent your heads over the bus sign together, studying it so intently you both rode past your stops, laughing yourselves silly on the bus.

At a seaside open-air stall—grilled fish, oranges. Shufen talked like beans popping in a wok. Her husband had been gone four years. The first year she cried every day; then she worked it out: crying, he can’t see me. Laughing—maybe he can. From her pocket she pulled out reading glasses: at every scenic spot I set them out and take a picture, so he can see the world too.

You said nothing. You took the red scarf out of your bag.

Shufen understood at a glance. The sea wind picked up; she hunched her neck, and you wrapped the scarf around her. She pushed back: I couldn’t—it’s a family thing. You said: that’s exactly why he’d want you to have it. Family.

Her eyes reddened. She wrapped it tight, sniffled: Ayi-ya, so warm—the wool’s soaked right through with sunshine.

You raised your phone and photographed her. In the picture every wrinkle on her face had opened in a smile, the scarf red as a little blaze of fire. You added each other on WeChat; she saved you as: Sister Lan (Cyprus).

You showed her the newspaper clipping. She slapped her thigh: One city left? Next year! It’s settled! You say when, and I’m there!

◇

That night, on a bench by the sea, you wrote the last postcard.

Ten cities, ten postcards; nine had been mailed. This one, you tucked into your coat pocket.

◇

The day you came home, the radiators in the stairwell gurgled; indoors it was twenty-three degrees. You weren’t cold.

On the video call Xiaoman couldn’t stop staring: Mom, you look so good—like you got a whole new head. You mumbled something about the tour—solo group, a very slow-moving group. She laughed: next time I’ll go solo too.

The postcards trickled in. Lisbon, Seville, Valletta, the postmarks later and later. All written by you to you—and yet reading them, you couldn’t help feeling they were Old Chen’s replies, one by one. He always was slow to answer; slow at everything, even tying his shoes half a beat behind.

The day the ninth arrived, your hand found the unsent one in your coat pocket. In the kitchen you unfolded it and read it aloud:

Old Chen: on this trip, I soaked up the sun for you in ten places. Seville’s oranges were sour, Valletta’s pastries scalding, Palermo’s puppets won their battles. And then I finally understood—it wasn’t the cold you were afraid of. You just couldn’t stand to see me cold. From now on, I’ll find my own warmth. Don’t you worry. I gave the red scarf to an old sister from Shenyang—she’s like you, can’t bear to see anyone else cold. Next winter, she and I are going to the eleventh city. Wait for the news. Xiulan.

You pinned the clipping back to the refrigerator door, took a pencil, and drew a star under Funchal too, adding two words beside it: Booked.

Downstairs, Auntie Zhao’s radiators wouldn’t heat, and she paced the hallway frantic. You called the heating station and reeled off the valve locations, the floor, the year the pipes were replaced. The repairman said you knew the trade. You said: family business.

◇

In the twelfth month, Shufen messaged: Sister Lan! I’ve found the flights to Funchal—December, we go! Say the word!

You answered with one word: Book.

That afternoon the sun came slanting into the kitchen. You peeled an orange—and this time you didn’t strip the pith. It was a little bitter. You chewed, swallowed slowly, and tasted something sweet coming through.

You took two oranges and set them on the windowsill, out in the sun.

One for the eyes. One for the heart.

This winter is warm.

(The End)

Adapted from true events. All names are pseudonyms.