After New Year it was still cold.
School hadn't started in the first month. I went to the mill office every day.
Mom said: you run there every day.
I said: to report.
She said: reporting on the fifth already.
I said: reporting.
She didn't say anything more. She scooped the ash out of the stove and poured it into the basket.
Mom pulled my blue notebook out of my schoolbag and flipped through it.
She said: this book is thin.
I said: it's what they issued.
She said: there are still numbers after.
I said: no words.
She said: what's it kept for, no words.
I said: print more later.
She said: who said.
I said: the recorder.
She pushed the book back in. Pushing it in she tapped it once on her knee, tapped it square, then pushed.
She said: then you keep it.
The mill office, ground floor, east end. Cold in the room. The recorder kept his hands in his sleeves.
He took them out only to write. What he took out was red.
This year he coughed. One cough, a pause, then another cough after the pause.
When he coughed he covered his mouth with his hand. His hand had chalk dust on it.
After coughing he wiped it on his trousers. Where he wiped, a small patch went white.
He said: come spring it'll be fine.
I said: what'll be fine.
He said: the cough.
I said: oh.
The enamel mug on the desk was his. Something was steeping in it, steeped open, two big masses.
He said: don't drink it. Bitter.
I said: I won't.
Those days the number I reported was one.
The recorder asked: how many yesterday.
I said: two.
He said: and today.
I said: one.
He wrote. When he'd written he didn't look up.
He said: and going down.
I said: what going down.
He said: the number.
I said: numbers walk too?
He said: they do.
So I didn't ask any more.
The room was quiet a while. While it was quiet you could hear the loudspeaker outside, reading a notice.
Master Qiao coughed once first, then read.
The first line he read was: attention, all units.
Wang Chaosheng came too. He reported fast.
He reported: bright. press. east. down.
The recorder wrote. When he'd written he asked: any more.
Wang Chaosheng said: one more. steady.
One time the recorder had me link with him.
He reported: bright. go. east.
I waited.
He finished reporting and turned to look at me. He wanted to give me a hint.
I said: don't talk.
He said: I didn't.
I said: you wanted to.
So he stopped.
I linked it out: it says, in the east there's a bright thing moving.
The recorder wrote. When he'd written he didn't look up.
When he'd written he left. He said he had a thing.
I said: what thing.
He said: the gate.
I said: what about the one on the bike.
He said: gone.
I said: gone where.
He said: don't know. Hasn't come since New Year.
He turned his pocket out for me to see. The pocket was empty, one rubber band left.
He said: traded it all.
I said: traded what.
He said: traded it gone.
He looped the rubber band over his hand and snapped it once. After snapping he slipped it onto his wrist and went.
I stood at the gate a while. The broken lamp at the gate still wasn't fixed.
The boy from the yard across the river came twice too.
He didn't hug his pillow anymore. He walked by himself.
He reported: none.
The recorder wrote. When he'd written he turned the notebook around for me to see.
He said: these two characters.
I didn't know the first one.
He said: not reported.
I said: I know.
He left as soon as he'd reported. He didn't look at me.
Once he stood at the gate and said one line over his shoulder.
He said: that time I made it up.
I said: which time.
He said: in the mountains.
I said: oh.
He said: I didn't hear it.
I said: that time you said you heard a little.
He said: that was made up.
And he went. As he went his shoelaces hung open; he stepped on them as he walked.
That day, when I'd finished reporting, I didn't leave.
I sat on the stool, hands on my knees.
I waited for it to say more.
The room was quiet. Outside someone was sweeping the yard, one sweep, a pause.
I waited a long time. So long the recorder capped his pen.
He closed the notebook. He said: that's it for today.
I didn't move.
He said: more?
I said: more.
He opened the notebook again. He rolled the pen once across his finger.
I said: it says, you hold it.
He said: hold it?
I said: it says, you hold it. It says, steady first, then let go.
He wrote. He wrote slowly, one character coming down after another.
When he'd written he asked: any more.
I said: it says, it's waiting.
He stopped the pen.
He said: it's waiting?
I said: mm.
When he'd written it he read the line back.
He read: it says, you hold it. Steady first, then let go. It's waiting.
When he'd read it he didn't speak. He set the pen down on the paper.
He said: "you" again.
I said: mm.
He said: has it said "you" before.
I said: it has.
He said: when.
I said: winter.
He wrote in the notebook. When he'd written he stopped a moment.
I said: what did you write.
He said: none of your business.
I said: oh.
I said: it's waiting — can it wait?
He said: what.
I said: it says it's waiting. Can it wait.
He put the pen down.
He said: are you scared.
I said: scared of what.
He said: it's waiting.
I said: it can wait.
He didn't speak. He picked the pen up again.
I said: what number is this one.
He said: which.
I said: let go.
He flipped the notebook. He flipped front to back, slowly, one page at a time under his thumb.
He said: the book is only printed to fifty.
I said: and fifty-one.
He said: print more later.
I said: then can I write it at thirty-seven.
He said: thirty-seven is empty.
I said: I know.
So he turned to the line at thirty-seven.
He held the pen. He wrote one character.
Halfway through the character he stopped.
I said: done?
He said: no.
I said: why stop writing.
He said: can't write it whole.
I looked at the square. The first half was the speech radical.
I said: and the other half.
He said: don't know.
I said: then what.
He said: leave it.
He set the pen down.
He closed the notebook. He said: this time they go up.
I said: go up where.
He said: that room in the back courtyard.
I said: what room is that.
He said: the room that holds the books.
I said: can you go in.
He said: no.
He squared the stack on the desk. When it was square he tied it with string, tied in a cross.
I said: tie it for what.
He said: easier to carry.
He picked it up, clamped it under his arm, and went out.
I followed to the gate.
I couldn't get into the back courtyard. The door was wood, with a hasp up top.
Through the hasp ran a length of wire. The wire's end was twisted twice.
I looked in through the crack. The courtyard was dark, nothing in it.
That morning two men carried boxes.
The boxes were paper, the two men supporting them underneath, carrying them into that room in the back courtyard.
A sheet was pasted on top of each box, two characters on the sheet. I didn't know them.
I said: what's that.
The recorder said: books.
I said: how many books.
He said: never counted.
I said: how many in the room.
He said: two cabinets.
I said: are the cabinets full.
He said: full.
I said: what when they're full.
He said: you cram it in.
I said: what if it burns.
He said: there's water.
When he'd said it he looked up at me once.
So I didn't ask any more.
In the afternoon Wei Dongquan came.
He still wore the dark jacket. The cloth bag hung on his arm, its mouth tied.
He talked with the recorder. I couldn't hear his words, only one line.
That line was: how many entries this time.
The recorder said: nine.
Wei Dongquan said: how many go in the report.
The recorder said: all of them.
Wei Dongquan paused. While he paused he looked at the books on the desk.
He said: all of them?
The recorder said: from above.
Wei Dongquan said: oh.
Coming out he saw me.
He said: you said one sentence extra the other day.
I said: mm.
He said: what was it.
I said: it says, you hold it. Steady first, then let go. It's waiting.
When he'd heard it he stood without moving.
He said: say it again.
I said it again.
He said: that one I'll remember.
He fished a notebook from his pocket, opened it, wrote.
While he wrote I watched his cloth bag. The bag hung on his arm, one corner sagging down under it, square.
Tied with string.
When he'd written he put the notebook away.
He said: from now on, no extras.
I said: why.
He said: one sentence extra, and that's one sentence too many that can't be taken back.
I didn't understand.
He said: just remember it.
I said: remembered.
And he went. His walking made no sound.
That night I heard shouting.
Nothing in the day. At night I was home.
Mom was stitching a shoe sole. She rubbed the needle in her hair once, then pushed it through.
Dad was splicing the light cord. It had broken; he spliced in a length, and when he'd finished pulled it twice to test.
The broadcast was over. When it was over it was still there.
I lay down. I laid my padded jacket over the quilt, weighting the foot end.
I fell asleep.
Mom got up first. She pulled the light on.
She said: put your jacket on.
I put it on. One button went into the wrong hole.
She said: don't go.
I said: I'll go look.
She couldn't hold me.
I ran to the courtyard gate. People were already standing in the courtyard.
The mill's side was red. The sky over it was red, layer on layer.
There was a smell. The smell of paper burning.
I ran for the mill gate.
People stood at the gate, all with their heads back.
Someone was carrying a basin. The basin was enamel, chipped, the black iron showing through.
They carried water from the pool, running in, trip after trip.
Someone was shouting: make way.
The one shouting, I didn't know him.
Two lines had formed at the gate. One line passed basins in, one passed empty basins out.
A basin in the hand was cold. Thrown out, the water steamed.
A man stood at the foot of the wall. He held a book in his hand.
He turned the pages one by one, fast.
When he'd finished he clamped the book under his arm and took another.
He didn't carry basins.
I passed empty basins twice too. The third time somebody pushed me aside.
The one who pushed me said: go play elsewhere.
So I went and stood at the edge.
Someone knocked over a thermos. The liner broke; the water inside steamed.
Nobody picked it up.
Auntie Zhang was in the courtyard talking with someone. She said: what's burning is the back courtyard.
I said: I know.
She said: how do you know.
I said: I saw.
So she didn't ask any more.
The recorder came out from inside.
His hair was wet, pasted to his forehead. He was hugging two stacks of books.
He set the books on the ground, turned, and went back in.
The second time he carried out one stack. Its edges were charred, a ring of black.
His hands shook as he set it down.
Someone shouted: stop going in.
He went in anyway.
The third time he came out late.
When he came out his hands were empty.
He knelt on the ground coughing. Coughed till his shoulders heaved.
Someone helped him up.
He stood leaning on the wall a while.
Master Qiao was there too. He stood at the gate, hands in his sleeves.
He said: the loudspeaker's fine.
I said: what.
He said: the ones inside, burned.
He said: the one in the courtyard is fine.
Then he stopped. He looked in.
The woman in the grey jacket stood at the gate. She called: all of you go back to sleep.
Nobody moved.
She called it again. Still nobody moved.
Later the woman in the grey jacket crouched on the ground counting books.
She counted one stack and set a brick on top of it.
At the fifth stack she stopped. She set the brick down, then picked it up again.
She didn't count any further.
When the fire was out it was near dawn.
There was a black streak on the wall. From the window upward, one streak.
The window glass was gone. The frame was still there, its wood charred; touch it and crumbs came off.
The recorder sat on the steps. One of his feet had no shoe.
The shoe was on the ground beside it, the upper burned through in one spot.
He didn't put it on. He just sat there.
I said: your shoe.
He said: it's nothing.
The ground was covered with water, and on the water floated paper ash.
I saw one piece of paper. In its corner one character, half burned away.
I crouched to look. Couldn't make it out.
There was an iron clamp on the ground. The clamp the recorder used for holding books, burned black.
I picked it up through my sleeve. The clamp was still warm.
I tucked it into my pocket.
I wanted that piece of paper. Someone yanked me back.
It was Mom. She said: hot.
So I didn't take it.
Mom pulled me home.
Her grip was strong. She didn't speak the whole way.
At home she sat me on the edge of the kang. She poured me a bowl of water.
She said: drink it.
I said: what happened at the mill.
She said: a fire.
I said: what burned.
She said: paper.
I said: did the books burn.
She said: don't know.
She said: from now on, stop running there.
I said: I have to report.
She said: even to report, stop running there.
So I didn't speak.
She took my padded jacket off and shook it. The shake threw out a smell.
She said: I'll wash it tomorrow.
There was a black patch on the jacket's sleeve. She rubbed it with her hand; it wouldn't rub out.
She said: leave it.
She hung the jacket on the line, unwashed.
I took the iron clamp out and set it on the windowsill.
Mom said: what.
I said: a clamp.
She said: where from.
I said: picked it up.
She said: picked up means it gets washed too.
Then she let it be. She went to knead dough.
The next morning I went to the mill office.
The door of that room in the back courtyard was shut.
Through the hasp ran a length of wire. The wire's end was twisted twice.
White vapor came out through the crack. The vapor was damp.
Wet paper was heaped at the foot of the wall, stack on stack, slumped.
I crouched to look. The characters on the wet paper had run; I couldn't read them.
One stack had a brick pressing on it.
The recorder was there. He sat at the desk.
His eyes were red. His hand was wrapped in cloth, the cloth white, ash-grey at the edge.
I said: how much burned.
He said: two cabinets.
I said: the ones already sent up — in there too?
He said: in there.
I said: and yours.
He said: carried out three stacks.
I said: and the ones I said.
He paused.
He said: they're here.
I didn't speak.
He stood, went behind the desk, and carried out a stack.
The stack's books had a ring of char around the edges. Black; press it and powder came off.
He set it on the desk and turned pages. Turning them he used a fingertip, and where a page wouldn't come he breathed on it.
He reached one page, turned the notebook around, and pushed it to me.
He said: this is yours.
I looked at that page.
The paper was white. All the other pages were yellow.
I said: this page isn't your writing.
He said: it is.
I said: your characters are small. These are big.
He closed the notebook.
He said: don't look.
I said: what page is it.
He said: forty-four.
I said: I'll remember that.
He said: remember it for what.
I said: for nothing.
I took the iron clamp out of my pocket and set it on the desk.
The clamp had gone black. Where I'd pinched it a fleck of black had come off, showing white.
He looked once.
He said: where'd you pick it up.
I said: the ground.
He said: keep it, then.
I said: you don't want it?
He said: I have another one.
So I tucked the clamp back in my pocket.
I said: how did it catch.
He said: wiring.
I said: which wire.
He said: old wire.
I said: will that room still hold books.
He said: it will.
I said: is there still room.
He said: you cram it in.
He carried the books off. He carried them with a hand under the bottom.
I went back to the courtyard. There was snow on the road, thawed and frozen again; it slid underfoot.
I slipped once, caught myself on a hand. The palm came up black.
I set pebbles on the windowsill. I set four.
The fourth wouldn't stay. Set it down and it rolled.
So I set three.
The blue notebook was still in the schoolbag. Number thirty-six. Number thirty-seven was blank.
After spring started I went to school.
Erya didn't come to school.
The teacher said her family had moved away.
I said: moved where.
The teacher said: don't know.
I went home and told Mom. Mom said: moving is fine too.
I said: fine how.
Mom said: fewer steps to run.
Going to the mill office changed to twice a week.
The recorder still bound the sheets every Friday. The awl punched three holes, and before punching he pressed the paper down and pressed a crease into it.
He never asked me again whether there was more.
And I never said.
After that I never asked about that page again.
That was later.
I went because of a slip. On the slip were written the two characters "transfer," and under them a line of address.
The address was inside a courtyard. In the courtyard, two rows of single-story rooms.
I tried three doors before I found it.
The door stood open. Nobody inside. I called out.
A man came out. He said: who are you looking for.
I said: the stubs of the seventh session.
He said: at the very back.
I found a stack in the retired-records transfer depot.
The shelving was at the very back, dust on top. I brought a stool.
The year was written on the bag. The year I knew.
I undid the string. Paper string; one pull and it broke.
Inside were the books. Edges charred, a ring of black.
The first page was a table of contents. The first line of the contents carried the year, and after it three characters.
Those three characters were: seventh session.
I looked two seconds, then kept going.
I counted the page numbers. One to one hundred twenty-six.
The table of contents said one hundred twenty-six too.
I turned to page forty-four.
That page was heavier than the others.
Later I learned there's a name for how heavy paper is. They call it paper weight.
I held the page up against the lamp.
Under the lamp you could see the grain inside it. The other pages had no grain.
I rubbed it once with my fingers. Slicker than the other pages.
There were characters on that page. The characters were an adult's.
I didn't know whose hand they were.
The depot man gave me a pair of gloves. White, the edges pilled.
He said: copy only, nothing leaves.
I said: I'll copy.
He said: copying needs a slip too.
He gave me a slip. The slip had a column called purpose.
I wrote two characters: verification.
I copied one page. What I copied was page forty-four.
When I'd finished I counted the characters once. Twenty-seven.
I wrote the number in the corner of the paper.
I folded the paper twice.
I gave the gloves back.
He said: will you come again.
I said: I will.
He said: next time, say so in advance.
I said: mm.
I tied the books back the way they'd been. The string had broken; I tied a dead knot.
I pushed it back onto the shelf. On the shelf was a gap, the shape it had held.
Pushing it in, I pushed it in crooked.
I straightened it.