Seeking shelter from the rain in the mountains

　　The day before yesterday, I went hiking in the mountains near West Lake with two girls. Suddenly, it started raining. We hurried along and saw a small temple ahead. In front of the temple was a village with three houses, one of which was a small tea shop that also sold cigarettes. We rushed there as if it were our home. The tea shop was small, and a pot of tea cost one cent. But at that moment, even two cents a pot wouldn't have seemed expensive to us.
　　The tea grew weaker with each brew, and the rain grew heavier. Initially, the rain dampened my enjoyment of the hike; but then, a kind of desolate and profound charm in the rainy mountains captivated me, making it even more enjoyable than hiking on a sunny day. The saying "The mountain colors are hazy, and the rain is also wondrous" perfectly captured my appreciation. However, the two girls didn't understand this charm. They sat in the small tea shop, sheltering from the rain, only complaining and feeling utterly miserable. I couldn't explain my experience to them, nor did I want to make them "adult-like" and experience the charm I felt.
　　The tea server sat at the door playing the erhu. Aside from the sound of rain, this was the only sound we heard at the time. He was playing "Three Variations on Plum Blossom," and although his pitch wasn't quite right, his rhythm was decent. It seemed he was playing this piece on the erhu at the doorway to replace the radio advertisement because there were few customers. Unfortunately, he stopped after a while, leaving us only with the noisy, drawn-out sound of rain. To comfort the two girls, I went to borrow an erhu from the tea shop owner. "May I borrow your erhu?" he politely handed it to me.
　　I borrowed the erhu and returned to the tea shop, and the two girls were delighted. "You can play? You can play?" I played for them. My technique was clumsy, but I could still get the scales right. This was because when I was a child, I had asked Aqing, the woodcutter next door, to teach me "Three Variations on Plum Blossom," and a tailor from the alley across the street to teach me the gongche notation on the erhu. Aqing's teaching method was unique; he would just play "Three Variations on Plum Blossom" for you, but he wouldn't teach you the gongche notation. He played it very well, but he didn't know the gongche notation. I could only admire his playing from afar, never quite managing to imitate him. Later, I learned that Dahan was literate, so I asked him for help. He wrote down the positions of the scales for the minor and major modes on a piece of paper for me, and that's how I began playing the erhu. My ability to discern the correct scales now is partly due to my previous experience playing the violin, and partly due to Dahan's instruction. Under the rain-drenched window of a small teahouse in the mountains, I calmly (because I'd make mistakes if I played too fast) played various Western tunes on the erhu. Two girls joined in, singing like street performers on West Lake, attracting the attention of people from three villages. One girl sang "Fisherman's Song" and asked me to accompany her on the erhu. I played along, and the young people from the three villages joined in, instantly warming up the desolate, rain-soaked mountain. I had worked as a music teacher for seven or eight years, accompanied mixed four-part choruses on the piano, and even played Beethoven's sonatas. But in my life, I had never experienced the joy of music I felt today.
　　Two empty rickshaws passed by, and we hired them. I paid for the tea, returned the erhu, bid farewell to the young people of Sanjia Village, and got into the rickshaw. An oilcloth covered my face, obscuring the rain. Reflecting on my experience, I found the erhu quite interesting. A piano is as heavy as a coffin, and a violin costs tens or hundreds of yuan; though exquisitely crafted, how many people in the world can afford one? An erhu costs only two or three cents. Although its range isn't as wide as a violin, it's sufficient for playing common tunes. While its tone isn't as beautiful as a violin, if properly fitted, its sound is quite pleasant. This instrument is very popular in my country; you can find it in barbershops, tailors' shops, on boats north of the river, and in Sanjia Village. If more simple yet elegant erhu pieces could be created and popularized like "Fisherman's Song," its artistic impact would likely far surpass that of school music classes. As I left Sanjia Village, the young people saw me off, expressing their reluctance to part. I also felt a pang of reluctance. (I had once brushed them off by saying, "Come again next week!" But I doubt I'll ever return to these three villages to drink tea and play the erhu again.) Without the connection through the erhu, what parting sentiment would the young people of these three villages have for a stranger like me, and what reluctance would I have felt for these people I'd only met briefly? An ancient saying goes, "Music teaches harmony." Having been a music teacher for seven or eight years, I'd never truly experienced this, but unexpectedly, I did in this desolate village that day.