In the twelfth month, everything hung out in the compound dried hard.
Quilt covers over the line, frozen straight. Tap them with a stick and they went dong.
Mom spread the knitting notebook on the kang. She was setting a new sleeve for me.
The sleeve had shrunk short again. She'd unpicked it once and was starting over.
She said: you grow fast this year.
I said: mm.
She had me hold my arm out flat and measured against it. Measured, she wound the yarn once around her finger.
The broadcast went on as always. Once before light, once after dark.
I listened. It was there too.
The day Wang Chaosheng came for me, his pockets jingled the whole way.
He jingled when he walked. Marbles knocking in his pocket; one knock, one sound.
He said: look.
He pulled a sheet of paper from inside his coat.
Folded twice. The folds gone furry, whitening at the edges.
Print on it. Blue characters, mimeographed, greasy under the finger.
I said: where's it from?
He said: printed outside.
I said: who printed it?
He said: don't know.
He spread the paper on the steps and weighted the four corners with stones — stones he'd dug out of the flower bed, soil still on them.
When he finished he clapped his hands. His hands were black.
The top line was printed big. I read it out one word at a time.
Seventh. Generation. I stuck on the third word.
I touched it with a finger and asked: what's this one?
He said: people read it out as "translators."
I said: what's a translator?
He said: just somebody who says the words over.
I said: I can say words over too.
He said: it's not that.
He didn't go on. He pulled the paper down a little.
Under it, rows of words. Bright. Go. East. Press. Down. Steady.
The characters crooked, each one spilling past its printed square.
Below that, a sentence.
I read it out: it says, not quite there yet. A little bit more and it'll be steady.
That was a sentence Wang Chaosheng and I had connected. I knew it.
I said: I said this one.
He said: mm.
I said: is my name on it?
He said: no.
I said: then how do they know it's me?
He said: they don't need to know.
I said: what's it for, then?
He said: people want it.
I said: who wants it?
He said: outside people.
I said: outside where?
He said: don't know. The paper man says, the smaller you are, the better.
I said: how small?
He said: the smaller, the dearer.
I said: am I small?
He said: you're seven.
I said: eight.
He said: you count from your birthday.
I bent back to the page. There weren't many characters on it I knew. I looked for "Lin." Not there.
I said: not one.
Wang Chaosheng said: they don't want names.
He turned the paper over. The back was white, the oil soaked partway through — you could see the characters reversed.
Lower down there was another line.
I read it: it says, over there a place has been left, and it's for you.
I stopped when I finished.
I said: I never said this one.
He said: I said it.
I said: how come you said that?
He said: they told me to add one.
I said: add what?
He said: add a line nobody's heard.
I said: how do you add a line nobody's heard?
He said: you just think one up.
I said: I can't think one up.
He said: I thought one up.
He didn't say more. He kicked the stones back into the flower bed, one by one.
I asked: what's seventh?
He said: seventh is the seventh one.
I said: seventh of what?
He said: don't know. It's written there.
I counted our class. I wasn't the seventh. I didn't know which number I was, either.
I asked Wang Chaosheng: what did you get for yours?
He reached into his pocket and pulled things out, fistful by fistful.
Seven marbles. One had a flower inside it, red, like a thread wound in there.
Half a red-and-blue pencil. Red at one end, blue at the other, both ends sharpened.
An eraser, cut down — the smaller half, its cut face flat, knife marks at the edge.
Two candies. Wrappers stuck to them, wouldn't peel.
I said: all this, traded?
He said: traded.
I said: with who?
He said: the one at the gate.
I said: one word for one marble?
He said: one word for one marble.
I said: and a sentence?
He said: a sentence, two.
I said: the ones I connect cost more.
He said: yours cost more.
He picked the marbles back into his pocket one at a time. When they were in he patted the pocket and it jingled again.
I said: what about Erya?
He said: not coming.
I said: haven't seen her for days.
He said: her mother sold her notebook.
I said: sold it?
He said: sold it. The paper man gave her a bundle of exercise books.
I said: those were handed out free.
He said: free ones sell too.
I said: sold it — how does she report numbers?
He said: she doesn't report anymore.
I pressed my blue booklet against my chest. It bulged inside the padded coat.
Wang Chaosheng glanced at me. He said: what are you afraid of?
I said: not afraid.
He said: nobody wants your book.
I said: why not?
He said: your words aren't on it.
I didn't get it. I didn't ask.
He said: you could write a sheet too.
I said: write what?
He said: write one you heard. Give it over, get three marbles.
I said: aren't yours two?
He said: yours, three.
I said: then I won't trade.
He said: up to you.
He folded the paper away — smoothing it first, three strokes of his hand.
The next day I ran into Erya in the compound.
She was carrying her little brother. Bundled thick, his arms sticking out stiff.
I said: how come you don't come?
She said: not going anymore.
I said: why?
She said: I can't get them out.
I said: there were days I couldn't either.
She didn't take that up. She hoisted her brother higher.
I said: where's your book?
She said: my mother gave it to the paper man.
I said: what'd she get?
She said: two New Year pictures.
She added: and a bundle of exercise books. They have printed squares — easier to write in.
I said: that book was handed out.
She said: handed out, and my mother's the one who got it.
Her brother started crying. She patted him twice.
She said: I'm not going. Even if I go, I can't get them out.
I said: oh.
She carried her brother off. Her shoelace was undone and she didn't tie it.
Halfway there, one of her brother's shoes fell off. She came back for it.
Got it, clamped it under her arm, and walked on carrying him one-handed.
That afternoon I went to the mill gate alone.
A man was squatting at the base of the wall.
A bicycle stood against the wall. On its rear rack a cardboard box, tied down with rope in a crisscross.
He wore gloves. Gray, knitted, worn through at the thumb web, five fingertips out.
He smoked. One drag, then held the cigarette in his fingers with his hand hanging.
Finished, he pressed the butt out on his sole — then picked the butt up and put it in his pocket.
Wang Chaosheng ran over. He reached the wall, and squatted.
He pulled a folded square of paper from his pocket.
The man took it. He didn't look at it. He tucked it inside his coat, pressed once.
He untied the rope on the box, reached in, and grabbed a fist of marbles.
He said: count them.
Wang Chaosheng counted: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
The man grabbed candies too. Two.
Wang Chaosheng said: last time was two as well.
The man said: last time you had more words.
Wang Chaosheng said: plenty this time too.
The man said: three of these are old.
Wang Chaosheng stopped talking. He stuffed the candies in his pocket.
That was when the man saw me.
He drew a notebook out of the box and flipped it open for Wang Chaosheng to see.
It was stitched together. Staples on the left, one of them crooked.
He said: this is the last round's.
Wang Chaosheng took it and turned pages, one by one, stopping at page four.
He said: mine's in here.
The man said: find it. Find your name and it's yours.
Wang Chaosheng looked. Twice through.
He said: it's not.
The man said: it's all the same.
He took the notebook back and pushed it into the box, pressing the paper down as he did.
He said: who's this?
Wang Chaosheng said: she connects the sentences.
The man looked up at me. Small eyes, the whites a little yellow.
He said: connect one, then.
I didn't make a sound.
He said: say a sentence and you get candy.
I still didn't.
Wang Chaosheng said: she can't say it.
Then he said: she says, it says, not quite there yet.
The man wrote in the notebook, propped upright on his knee, writing slowly.
When he finished he said: anything else?
Wang Chaosheng said: there is. It says, over there it's reporting a very slow thing.
The man wrote. Then he stopped his pencil.
He said: this one's stale.
Wang Chaosheng said: stale how?
The man said: this one's been printed.
He closed the notebook — but first he folded that page once, making a corner.
He said: the content doesn't matter.
He said: the buyer wants the words "a child said it." That's all.
I didn't understand.
I counted those words in my head.
Said. By. A. Child.
Four.
I counted again. Still four.
The third time I counted, he had already put the notebook away.
He gave me a candy.
He held it out, two fingers pinching it.
I didn't take it.
He set the candy on top of the low wall and turned to push his bike.
The kickstand clacked. He got on, pedaled half a turn, and went.
The box bounced on the rack. Each bounce, the rope slackened a little.
Wang Chaosheng took the candy off the wall.
He couldn't peel it; he stuck it in his mouth, wrapper and all.
He said: if you won't, I will.
I said: paper.
He said: doesn't matter.
Walking back to the mill office, there was still some light.
Master Qiao was sweeping snow at the door, piling it toward the flower bed into a small hump.
He said: get inside. It's cold out.
I said: I'm looking for the recorder.
He said: he's in.
He finished and stood the broom behind the door. Two hooks there, one crooked. He hung it on the straight one.
I said: somebody outside is printing our words.
He said: let them print.
I said: once it's printed it becomes theirs.
He said: what's on the paper belongs to whoever picks it up.
He took his soldering iron off the windowsill and blew the dust off its head.
He said: don't pick it up.
I said: I didn't.
He went inside. Speakers covered the floor in there; he was testing them one by one.
The recorder sat at the table. Chalk dust on his hands, worked down into the creases of his fingers.
He asked: any today?
I said: there is.
He said: report.
I reported: Bright. Go. Down.
He wrote. When he finished he asked: anything else?
I said: nothing.
He looked up a moment.
He said: has anybody from outside been coming around to you?
I said: there has.
He said: who?
I said: a man with a bike, at the gate.
He wrote in his book, then closed it.
I said: what'd you write?
He said: none of your business.
I said: oh.
He put the book in the drawer. The drawer had no lock; shut, it still left a crack.
His hand rested on the drawer a moment, then came back.
I saw a corner of paper showing in the crack. Blue.
I said: you've got printed ones in your drawer too?
He said: no.
He pushed the drawer shut. Then he put his hands up his sleeves.
He said: that's it for today.
I was going out the door when he said one more thing.
He said: things people outside give you — don't carry them home.
I said: I haven't carried any.
He said: oh.
So I went out.
Two days later was Friday.
The recorder stitched the notebooks. Three holes with the awl, the paper pressed down first, leaving a crease.
White thread through the holes; he tied a knot underneath and bit the thread off with his teeth.
Done, he pulled the drawer open. Inside lay a stack of paper, blue, squared up neat.
He took it out to count. Counting, he glanced up at me.
He said: don't look.
I turned my face away.
He asked: what does that man outside want from you?
I said: words.
He said: what else?
I said: a line nobody's heard.
He paused. He put the paper back in the drawer.
He said: don't give them any.
I said: I haven't given.
He said: giving's fine too. Once it's written down, it stops being yours.
I didn't get it.
He took my blue booklet over and turned to number thirty-six.
He looked at it a while.
He turned back and handed the book to me.
He said: keep your number in mind.
I said: I keep it.
He said: thirty-six.
I said: mm.
He closed the drawer.
He said: go on home.
I said: what about you?
He said: I'll go after.
Out the door I didn't go home. I went around the back of the building and crouched behind the flower bed.
No flowers in it, just dirt. Frozen dirt, cold to crouch on.
I waited a while.
The recorder came out, a stack of paper hugged in his arm.
He walked toward the back yard. Nobody back there; broken baskets piled along the wall.
A man stood at the wall, carrying a black bag, square, with a stiff handle.
The recorder handed him the paper.
The man took it, weighed it in his hand, and pushed it into the bag. He didn't count.
He said one sentence. I didn't hear it.
The recorder shook his head once.
The man left. Fast, the black bag knocking his leg — a knock, a sound.
The recorder stood at the wall a while, looking at the ground.
Then he wiped his hands twice on his pants and turned back.
His hands were empty.
I came out from behind the flower bed and brushed my knees. Two prints of dirt.
It was going dark. The gate lamps were lit; the broken one still unfixed.
Wei Dongquan stood at the gate.
Dark jacket, cloth bundle slung on his arm. Its mouth tied with string.
He said: hold it.
Wang Chaosheng stopped. He'd just come back from the wall, pockets full again.
Wei Dongquan said: hand over the paper.
Wang Chaosheng gave him the sheet from his pocket.
He read. Slowly, line by line, his eyes walking down.
At the end he lifted the paper up to the lamp.
He said: the words on this are not the words you said.
Wang Chaosheng said: they are what I said.
Wei Dongquan didn't take that up.
He turned to me: what did you connect that day?
I said: it says, not quite there yet. A little bit more and it'll be steady.
He said: say it again.
I said it again.
He said: it doesn't match the paper.
I said: what doesn't match?
He said: the words.
He said: once the words are swapped, it's no longer what you said.
He asked: what else do they want from you?
I said: a line nobody's heard.
He said: who thinks one up?
I said: Wang Chaosheng thinks.
He said: did you think about it?
I said: I did.
He said: did one come?
I said: no.
He paused. Pausing, he looked at the lamp over the compound gate.
He said: if none comes, stop waiting for one.
I said: oh.
He'd say one sentence, then pause. Pausing, he waited for someone to take it up.
Nobody did. So he went on himself.
He said: the words are yours. The paper isn't.
I said: mm.
He folded the sheet in two, then in two again, into a small square.
He put it in his shirt pocket. The pocket had a button; he buttoned it.
I said: what do you keep in your pocket?
He said: paper.
I said: what for?
He said: to keep.
The cloth bundle still hung on his arm. Heavy at the bottom, dragging out a square corner.
String tied. He didn't open it.
I stared at the bundle once.
He said: don't look.
So I didn't.
Wang Chaosheng said: I'm going back tomorrow anyway.
Wei Dongquan said: go, then.
And he left. He made no sound walking. Soft soles.
Wang Chaosheng dug out his marbles and crouched under the lamp counting.
He said: seven.
He counted again: still seven.
He said: tomorrow I'm trading for an eraser. Mine's used up.
I said: didn't you get a cut-down one?
He said: that one's lost.
And he ran off, pocket jingling as he ran.
When I got home Mom was trimming celery.
Her hands red with cold, the knuckles thick.
She said: where'd you go?
I said: the mill gate.
She said: what's there?
I said: a man.
She said: what man?
I said: sells paper.
She went mm. She chopped the root ends off the celery and threw them to the chickens.
The chickens scratched at the base of the wall, scratching out a pit.
I said: Mom.
She said: mm.
I said: what's a translator?
She stopped a moment.
She said: who said that word?
I said: heard somebody say it.
She said: don't know.
She carried the celery inside.
Mom spread the knitting notebook on the kang and turned it for me to see.
Words written in it. Her hand, the characters big, three or four to a page.
One patch soaked dark with oil; the paper browned, but the words still showed.
She said: all of these, you said them.
I said: I said them?
She said: when you were little.
I said: I'm little now too.
She laughed a little. Laughed, and closed the book.
I said: why do you write them down?
She said: you say them, so I write.
I said: to show other people?
She said: no.
I said: is it like that man outside, then?
She stopped a moment.
She said: what I write down is what you said.
I said: oh.
She put the book under the sewing basket, pressed it down, and pressed once more.
Dad brought the tape machine out.
He'd wiped it down once in the twelfth month; it stood on the cabinet, the cloth cover thrown back.
He had me say a sentence.
He said: say one. I'll record it.
I said: say what?
He said: anything. The one you report.
I said: it says, not quite there yet.
He pressed the key. I said it.
He rewound and played.
Out came a stretch of snow. Inside the snow, nothing.
He played it again. Snow again.
He said: it won't take.
From the kitchen Mom said: told you it won't take.
Dad said: this time I cleaned it.
He played it once more anyway.
He took the tape out and set it on the cabinet, set straight, two reels up.
I said: then I'll say it once more.
He said: enough saying.
He covered the machine.
From my schoolbag I fished out the blue booklet and turned to the back.
Still number thirty-six.
Thirty-seven empty.
Numbers after it. No words.
I closed the book and pushed it back into the bag. The strap had come open again.
At night the broadcast finished. The wind made the wires outside the window ring.
I lay and listened a while.
It was still there.
I didn't say anything.