Early spring. The eaves dripped for a whole week. The ice on the cement ground melted and showed a patch of black. We played hopscotch on that patch, mud on our soles, and got scolded at home.
The list came down in March. Red paper pasted up beside the main gate of the factory offices, the words in brush ink, column after column. Mom wouldn't let me go look. She went herself, and when she came back she sat in the kitchen trimming vegetables and said nothing for a long time.
Dad asked, are we on it.
Mom said, we are.
I asked, is there a character after my name.
Mom threw the leaves into the basket and said, there is.
I asked, what character.
Mom said, I can't read it.
The next day I went on my own. A brick held down the bottom of the red paper; when the wind lifted it, a corner curled up. I waited for the wind to stop and leaned in. The names were listed by building number, our entrance near the top. Wang Chaosheng's name was up there, and after his name there was a character too. Mine was in the fourth row. The character after my name, I knew half of: on the left, the speech radical. The right side I didn't know. I was in second grade. I knew three hundred characters, and it wasn't among them.
I traced the character into my palm. Halfway through, my palm sweated and it smeared. At home I washed my hands, and it washed off.
Two days later the factory office got a phone call. Parents were to bring their children downtown on Thursday; a bus would leave from the factory gate. Mom took half a day off from the workshop. The leave cost her twenty cents. She told Dad about the twenty cents three times. The third time Dad said, let them dock it. She stopped.
The bus stopped at our gate and someone saw us off. Erya's mother wiped her face with one pass, wiped hard, and left a red patch on one cheek. Wang Chaosheng climbed up by himself and took the last row, pushing the window open a crack. His mother shouted from below, close it. He closed it.
Thursday morning was cold. The bus was green-skinned with slat wooden seats, cold to sit on. I didn't know the driver; we called every driver "Master." Five kids on board: me, Wang Chaosheng, Erya, Dayong, and one in a new padded jacket I didn't know. The parents sat in back. Mom sat beside me with both hands on her knees.
The bus crossed the bridge; the water below was shallow, showing a stretch of stones. Wang Chaosheng called across the aisle, my dad says they hand out certificates there. I said, what certificates. He said, don't know. Certificates anyway. The whole bus heard. His mother pressed him down twice from behind.
The building downtown had three floors, a sign at the door with two big characters I couldn't read. The stairs were terrazzo, the handrail cold; I held it the whole way up. Second floor, east end, the door stood open. Inside, long tables pushed into a row and covered with white cloth. A line of enamel mugs on the tables, a thermos in the middle, red string tied around its stopper. A silk banner on the wall, its two bottom corners stretched onto nails with rubber bands. The windows were high; the sill stood half a head above me. I had to stand to see the trees outside. No leaves on them.
Small chairs in two rows. I sat in the front, feet flat on the floor. Wang Chaosheng sat beside me, stretched his legs out, and said, these chairs are small. His feet stuck into the aisle. From behind, his mother coughed once.
The woman in the gray jacket took the list and called names. One name, one answer. When she reached mine she paused, looked down at the paper, looked as long as she needed, then went on. When she finished she put the paper away and said, wait.
Someone on the parents' side spoke first. A man stood up and asked about subsidies. The woman in the gray jacket said, register after the meeting. Someone else asked about transferring schools. She said, register after the meeting. A third asked, who makes up the schoolwork they miss. She wrote one line in her notebook without raising her head.
Then someone asked, does this count as a work injury. She raised her head and said, the children are normal children. The man said, I'm asking about us. She said, register after the meeting.
A woman asked, and when they grow up. The room went quiet a moment. She said, register after the meeting.
She said that sentence four times that day. I counted from my seat.
The door opened. A man came in. Hair half white, white starting from above the ears. He wasn't old. One hand in his trouser pocket, the other carrying a blue cloth bag. In the bag something square, its corners pushing the cloth out. He set the bag under the table and nudged it farther in with his foot.
He stood behind the table without sitting. He looked at us, one by one. At me he paused, not long. Then he began.
His first sentence was:
You are not prodigies. You are water pipes.
Water goes in this end, out that end. The water is not yours. You do not make water.
You don't add anything to it.
You don't grip the water in your fist.
However much goes through, that's how much.
Don't taste it.
Say it every day. No saving it up.
Say it to the recorders. Not to your classmates.
Answer what the grown-ups ask. Don't say what they don't ask.
The day you stop saying it, you stop. Don't go looking for it.
He said one line and paused, as if waiting for someone to answer him. Nobody answered, and he went on. The pauses were different lengths. The longest one, I counted to four in my head.
Once he stopped to find a word. Mouth open, hand up, then down. He said, the, the. He said, never mind. He switched to another line and kept going. Nobody in the room moved.
He also talked about an earlier cohort. He said, there was a cohort, there was a child who reached the age and still want— He stopped there. When he picked up again, he said, next item.
When the rules were done he had us stand and speak, one at a time, from the front row. Dayong first, two sentences. He nodded. Erya began; he cut her off. Slower, he said. Erya said it again. He said, sit.
My turn. I said, he's not here right now. He said, say the ones you've learned. I said three words. When I finished he didn't nod. He said, the ones with the tune wrong — I can tell. I said, what do you mean, the tune wrong. He pushed the cloth bag deeper under the table and said, next.
Behind us the recorders wrote with their heads down, pencils fast. Someone wrote in a notebook, pages turning loud. Mom didn't write. Her hands stayed on her knees the whole time.
When he finished he said, ask.
Wang Chaosheng's hand went up first. He stood and said, then I'm the fat pipe. Someone laughed. Wei Dongquan didn't. He said, sit down.
Erya raised her hand. She said, are water pipes made of iron. Wei Dongquan looked at her. He said, next item.
I raised my hand.
He said, you.
I stood up. The chair legs scraped the floor, one screech.
I said, after the water goes through, does the pipe remember the water?
Nobody answered.
He looked at me. This time a long look. One hand on the table edge; a finger moved. The woman in the gray jacket turned a page of her papers, then turned it back. Somewhere behind, a chair shifted. Mom was behind me. I didn't turn around.
Outside, a bicycle went by. Its bell rang twice.
He said, next item.
Before the meeting ended, the woman in the gray jacket carried in a stack of booklets, blue covers, thin. One each, passed from the front row back. When mine reached me I opened it. The first page held a printed row of numbers, one word under each number. The words were handwritten, mimeographed, some blurred. I turned pages. At fifty the words ran out. Numbers kept going, and under them, nothing.
I said, the rest aren't printed.
She said, the rest, later.
I said, how long is later.
She squared up the remaining booklets and said, next.
At the end we signed at the door. One sheet, parents signed. Mom signed her name, pressed the cap back onto the pen, and said, let's go.
I looked back once. Wei Dongquan and the woman in the gray jacket were talking at the far end of the table. He said, the one who asked the question — put it on record. The woman said, record it where. He said, after the name.
Wei Dongquan left first. He carried the cloth bag, one foot dragging, though not heavily. At the door he stopped and looked back under the table. There was nothing under it. He went.
At the end of the corridor there was a sink, cement, with one faucet on it. I stood on tiptoe to reach it. Couldn't. Mom called from behind. I went.
Nobody talked on the bus back. Wang Chaosheng slept, head against the window, mouth open. His mother tucked her handkerchief between his head and the glass.
At home Dad asked, what did they say. Mom said, they said water pipes. Dad said, what water pipes. Mom said, that's what they said. Dad glanced at me and didn't ask on.
After that the compound called us "those kids." We washed vegetables at the sink and the grown-ups stepped half a pace away. When Aunt Zhang talked to Mom, her voice dropped. Once I heard her say, they say there's money in it. Mom said, haven't seen any. Aunt Zhang said, sooner or later. Mom picked up the basin and said, I'm going in to cook.
The kids waited for me on the cement. Dayong asked, what certificate did they give you. I said, no certificate. Erya said, then what do they want you for. I said, to run water. Dayong said, what water. I said, water. He waited a bit and said, then I'm a water vat. Erya said, you're a cracked vat. They started chasing and swinging.
That night Mom took my blue booklet and put it on top of the chest of drawers, next to the radio. I said, I have to write in it. She said, write, then put it back. Next day I stood on the stool to reach it. Got it. A layer of dust along the booklet's edges.
Three days later a recorder came. A woman — her surname I've forgotten — chalk dust on her hands, white in the seams of her nails. She set up a table on the east end of the factory offices' first floor, right next door to the broadcast station. Master Qiao carried his enamel mug to the windowsill and gave up half his table.
Wherever the recorder went, her clipboard went. Wherever Master Qiao went, his mug went. Mom carried nothing. She came home from her shifts with empty hands, yarn lint in the seams of her nails.
Every day after three forty I sat across from her. I spoke. She wrote.
The first day I reported what he'd said. At eleven it stopped. I said, that's all. She asked, is there more. I said, no more. She wrote it out, and when she finished she said, counts clean.
I said, everything I said is on the paper.
She said, it's on the paper.
I said, then does the paper remember.
She clipped the metal clip shut and said, tomorrow, three forty.
The second day I reported seven. The third day, three. She laid the two sheets side by side and looked, and said, fewer. I said, he said fewer. She didn't answer that; she wrote a date in the corner of the sheet.
Once she had me say the first word again. I said it. She said, that's not it. I said it again. She said, that's not how you said it just now. I said, that is how I said it. She set the pen down and said, forget it then. She drew a line after that row, and after a long while, another.
After that I never said that word again. My mouth wouldn't put it out. Even wanting to didn't work.
The fourth day the water was cut in the compound and the sink ran dry. I sat and waited, waited till three fifty. The snow didn't come down. She waited a while, closed her clipboard, and said, make it up tomorrow. I said, can't make it up. She was already at the door.
Wang Chaosheng's recorder was in the next room. He reported loud; you could hear him through the wall. The first day he reported nineteen. The second day, six. His recorder asked, how so many yesterday. He said, I counted the ones I heard on the road too. She said, there's nothing on the road. He said, there is. She wrote a line and held it out to him: look for yourself. He couldn't read; he had the booklet upside down. She turned it right side up. He looked a long time and said, that many.
In the compound I taught Erya a word once. I said, send your chin a little east. She sent it. The sound she made dropped to the ground and didn't stand up. She said, what are you holding in your mouth. I said, nothing. She quit learning and went off to her hopscotch.
School changed too. The head teacher called me to the office, a kettle sitting on the stove. She said, no answering in class. I said, he speaks first. She said, same thing. I said, if I don't answer, he walks away. She said, let him walk. She said, go back. When I got back to the classroom my desk had been moved — front row, by the window, one desk to a child. My deskmate said nothing, packed the magnetic pencil box into his bag, and changed seats.
Those days I answered less. He went on speaking. The third morning my stomach hurt, above the navel. Mom had me drink half a bowl of hot water; it didn't work. Dad took me to the clinic again. Doctor Qu pressed my stomach in four places and asked where it hurt. I pointed to one place. She pressed down. I said, right there. She let go, I pointed again — the spot had moved somewhere else. She said, nothing's wrong. Dad said, then what does she ache with. Doctor Qu said, she's growing. Rain started on the way home. Dad didn't buy fried dough twists.
On Friday she squared up the week's sheets and stapled them, one clack. She said, I'll read them back to you. She read from the beginning to the end. Then she asked, that's all? I said, that's all. She put the stapled stack into her clipboard. The clipboard bulged out a lump.
At dinner that day Dad said to me, if they tell you to say it, you say it. I said, I say it. Dad said, if you don't want to, can you not say it. I said, I can. Dad said, then don't. I said, holding it in hurts. Dad tapped his chopsticks on the rim of his bowl and said nothing. Mom stood at the stove with her back to us and moved her spatula.
That night under the lamp Dad said, bring me that booklet. I brought it. He turned the pages one by one, slowly. At the blank numbers in the back he stopped and asked, how come no words here. I said, not printed. He said, missed in the printing then. I said, don't know. He closed the booklet, wiped the cover with his sleeve, and handed it back. He said, study well. He didn't say study what.
At night I lay down. The radio on top of the chest of drawers stayed off. Dad never carried it down again, and I never climbed up for it again. The window open half a span; the wind brought the snow in. He said his; I answered mine. After answering I thought of a word: water pipe. In my mouth it weighed more than bright. Not warm, not cool. It sat in my mouth the way a pebble sits, held.
I heard people quarreling downstairs, at Erya's. Two lines and it stopped. After it stopped, their door made one sound.
I went by the broadcast station once more. Master Qiao was wiping down the machines, enamel mug sitting on the mixing console. He asked, went to the city. I said, went. He said, learn anything. I said, water pipe. He said, what water pipe. I said, he says water pipe. He tapped the sound column with his screwdriver; the pole made no sound. He said, machine's fine. I said, you're saying the same thing they are. He said, who's they. I said, the city people. He lifted the mug, drank, and didn't answer.
Next morning I got up early. The sink stood at the stairwell entrance, iron faucet; I had to be on tiptoe to turn it. I turned it open. Water came down and struck the white porcelain at the bottom of the basin, and struck out a dent. I held my hands under it. The water was cold. When my hands were full I shut it off and flung them. A few drops stayed on the backs of my hands. The sun wasn't up. The drops slowly went.
I stood there and waited.
My hands were dry.