Chapter Fourteen: The Unemployed Art Teacher

July is the season when Malaysian durians flood the market in Singapore.

“Black Thorn, Musang King, Golden Phoenix, Bamboo Foot, Sultan King, Red Prawn, Gourd…”

Zhou Yongtai stood before a durian stall in Geylang, reading the names displayed on the signs.

Indeed, he could recognize the Chinese names of these durians, and he grew curious about the other Chinese labels stuck among the piles.

For example, “Musang King” and “Black Thorn” were the most expensive, marked as the “Kings.”

“Sultan King” and “Bamboo Foot” were slightly cheaper, labeled as “Diamonds.”

The “Red Prawns” clustered under the “Gold” tag.

While “Green Bamboo” and “Gourd” were only worthy of a “Bronze” label.

An elderly man in a vest and slippers approached.

In his youth, this uncle had been a skilled gamer with broad tastes. On a trip to China, bored, he had quickly reached 50 stars in the Honor of Kings game, so he understood Geylang as one of Singapore’s top “durian sanctuaries.” The stall owners cleverly used gaming terms to attract Chinese tourists.

Once notorious for urinating across three streets, now just a single leak soaked his shoes.

Though his glory days were behind him, the uncle still carried himself with pride.

With hands on his hips, he boomed, “There’s no such thing as Musang King always being the king, or Gourd always being bronze. Musang King is fragrant, Golden Phoenix is rich, Black Thorn is sweet with a hint of bitterness, but Sultan King and Gourd have their own merits too. It depends on your luck.”

The stall owner liked the uncle’s grand talk—it helped sell durians at all price levels.

Even the lowest-ranked Gourd and Green Bamboo durians could be sold.

“Uncle’s right,” the owner said with a friendly smile. “Black Thorn and Golden Phoenix go for twenty dollars each, but you get three Gourds for ten. Customers often find Gourds just as delicious as Black Thorn—that’s a big profit.”

Hearing this, Zhou Yongtai quickly grabbed Ronan’s arm. “Mr. Luo, don’t pick Black Thorn. Buy Gourd. Black Thorn’s too expensive; if you treat me to one, it’s like you’re gifting me a portrait for free. I’d feel awkward eating it. Just get the Gourd. We’ve hit the jackpot today; our luck is high. Come, let me pick.”

Ronan had a favorable impression of the two strangers—honest, trustworthy, and straightforward in their social manner—and, hearing Zhou’s sincere words, he agreed.

The aging uncle was pleased too, delighted that these two young men listened to a seasoned expert like him. Enthusiastically, he began advising them on how to choose “Gourd” durians that would open up perfectly.

Zhou obediently followed the uncle’s advice.

Fifteen years of island exile had been filled with terror and a suffocating loneliness. Returning to this once lively and bustling world, Zhou found everyone endearing.

“Crack! Crack!” The stall owner swiftly sliced open three slender “Gourd” durians.

The old uncle cheered, “Walau eh, see that? Such small Gourds, but they open into five plump segments each. Isn’t that proof I’m right?”

Knowing how chatty these proud old men could be, the owner hurriedly took a freshly opened Black Thorn from a lunchbox on the counter and handed it to the uncle with a smile.

“Thanks for the free advertisement. Here, try today’s Black Thorn.”

As he spoke, he glanced at Ronan, silently signaling him to take his friends to the round table under the sign to enjoy the durians without being disturbed.

Seated, Zhou mimicked Ronan by donning gloves, peeling a small segment of pale golden durian, and popping it into his mouth.

The flesh was creamy, milky, with a subtle bitterness like roasted hazelnuts.

The aroma was beyond description—freshly opened durian with none of the off-putting odor that appears after sitting out. It was a pure, seductive, gentle life force that entwined itself around you, inviting union.

Indonesia also produces durians, but compared to those from Malaysia and Thailand, the taste was clearly inferior. Moreover, since Zhou was seven or eight years old, his mother never let him eat freshly opened durians from nearby neighbors, fearing sudden attacks by marauding soldiers.

He had only tasted dried durian prepared and stored by his mother, along with cheese and nuts. Thus, he could discern just how delicious this fresh durian in his hand truly was.

“Miss Ai, do you dislike the taste of durian?” Ronan asked, curious.

He noticed Zhou was devouring the fruit with enthusiasm, while Ai merely nibbled a tiny bit of the skin and stopped, hugging her backpack and quietly gazing at the bustling street, which piqued his curiosity.

They had already asked on the way; both their parents were Chinese Indonesians working in Singapore, and they had just graduated from university in Indonesia. Surely, they wouldn’t avoid durian altogether?

Ronan’s question made Zhou realize that Ai was refraining from mimicking human eating to conserve power.

Ai wanted to find lodging in the old Geylang neighborhood and settle in with Zhou for the night. Using the current world’s internet, she planned to locate a charging station and recharge the spare solid-state battery in her body early the next morning.

After hearing Ai say, “Sorry, I don’t really eat durian,” Zhou took the initiative to start a new topic.

“Mr. Luo, may I ask you something? I hope you won’t mind,” Zhou said, emulating the polite phrasing he had seen in Chinese novels.

Ronan simply laughed.

His smile caught Ai’s eye, and she did not look away.

This human artist really did resemble an actor from a drama she had once watched.

Not the main character type, though—humans called them the “male lead.”

Ronan didn’t look like a male lead. His face, even when smiling, seemed to harbor a faint sadness beneath his brow, much like the characters in dramas who always gave their all but only received gratitude in return—humans called them “the nice guy who got friend-zoned.”

Ai’s Chinese was a patchwork reflecting the international Chinese-speaking community.

The term “nice guy card” was undoubtedly learned from the mass of ancient and modern Chinese dramas her mother had downloaded for her.

At that moment, like a “King” card stuck among the Musang Kings, Ronan seemed to have a “nice guy card” hovering over his head. When his smile faded, he calmly said to Zhou, “Mr. Zhou, are you about to ask why I seem skilled at drawing but choose to paint on the street, earning maybe just enough for a durian, and sometimes even losing money on supplies when customers refuse their portraits?”

“Uh, yes,” Zhou quickly withdrew his hand reaching for another durian segment and added, “I thought you might be an art teacher. My mother showed me paintings by my grandfather and father; they were teachers who taught kids how to draw at school.”

Before meeting Ronan, Zhou had no idea street artists charged money—not only because he lacked knowledge of this profession in the human post-apocalyptic world, but also because having seen photos of his grandfather and father sketching, he assumed Ronan was simply sketching outdoors as a teacher.

If only he really were a teacher, he could follow him to school and see what human schools were like, as his mother had described.

As Zhou silently mused, Ronan spoke calmly: “Last year, I was still an art teacher. This year, I lost my job because students didn’t want to learn anymore—it was too hard, too exhausting. My last student even switched to an AI visual arts major.”