On the morning of my birthday, Mom boiled two eggs.
The eggs rolled in the pot; I listened from under the quilt. The floor in my ear was still there. One sway, one sound. I counted from one; at eleven counts it was still swaying. Counting it was like counting a hen's eggs — count, and the heart settles.
Mom brought the noodles up, two poached eggs laid in the bowl. Dad sat at the far end of the table, looked at me a while, and said, twelve today.
I said, twelve.
Dad said, eat.
That said, he bent to his own bowl. Dad ate fast, a few mouthfuls, pushed the bowl away, sat and smoked. Half a cigarette in, he glanced at my two eggs and said nothing. Other years on my birthday he gave that glance too. That one glance came every year, steadier than words.
I ate my noodles. The floor sat underneath everything in my ear, and the steam off the broth rose and passed over it. I still understood. This while, I still did. I could hear the sparrows in the yard each talking their own talk, could hear the hum of the weaving workshop coming from two rows of buildings away, and tucked inside it a little something else. The little something else tucked inside — that was it. One bite of noodles, one sway. I chewed slower and let it sway a couple more.
After the meal Mom washed the bowls. I said I was going out for a walk.
Mom said, wear your hat.
I went to the mill office first. The snow on the road had half melted in the sun, and along the edge ran a line of footprint hollows, water standing in each. I stepped from one end to the other, counting steps. Forty-seven steps, the mill office door.
The half table at the east end of the ground floor was still there, its top bare. The metal clip was gone, the square machine was gone; the nail was still in the wall, a white mark above it. The glass door was locked. I breathed on the glass and drew a line with a finger. Then I wiped it with my sleeve. Master Qiao was in the inner room; he saw me through the glass and waved me off. I waved too, and left.
I swung around to Wang Chaosheng's row. Half the snow on his windowsill had melted; half a patch of white left. His mom was in the yard shaking out a sheet, and each shake puffed out a breath of white. She saw me, lifted her chin — that counted as hello. I stood a while and didn't go in. Nobody on the kang inside; a bowl upside down on the table. He'd gone to work. If he'd known what day it was, he wouldn't have said anything either. His own day had come and gone the same way, two months before mine. Which day his was, I knew; he thought I didn't. I'd never told him I knew, and he'd never counted his out for me. Each of us carried a number, and we got along fine.
On the way back the sun reached the rooftops. The floor was still there, only shallower. Like the last of the water in the bottom of a bowl — it didn't sound so loud when it swayed. I'd walk two steps, stop, listen. At our gate it swayed twice more, and I counted those two as well. With the morning's, I counted thirty-nine.
Lunch was cabbage and glass noodles. Mom put an extra spoonful of meat in my bowl. I ate, got sleepy, climbed onto the kang for the noon nap.
I slept light. In the dream it seemed someone was sweeping the yard. One stroke, one stroke.
When I woke, the room was quiet.
I lay a while with my eyes open. The floor was gone.
I sat up. My ear was empty. I shook my head; inside there was only the sound of my own shaking. I got down, shuffled into my shoes, went to turn on the radio. On, hiss. I dialed through the stations, one station, one station, then dialed back. Hiss was hiss. Usually the hiss had a layer under it, a layer you could feel with your eyes shut. Now the hiss landed straight on the ear. Cold.
I turned the radio off. Off, then on again, dialed to where there was no station, let the hiss run. Eyes shut, I listened three times. All three times it was plain; nothing padded underneath.
Mom was in the outer room knitting, needle touching needle. That sound I could hear too. People's words, all of them hearable. Only that one layer was gone.
I stood on the floor and raised both hands. Halfway up, I stopped. The weight was in them. Like carrying a stack of bowls with one just set on top. I set my hands down; the weight stayed in the palms. The mouth's was gone. The hands' was still there.
I went back to my room and slid the entry notebook out from under the pillow. The copper button was pressing its corner. The corner had curled a little; I pressed it flat with the button. I didn't start from the last page; I started from the first. Number one, bright. That word was the first I'd written myself, the characters small, the strokes crowded together. At thirty-six, the page had gone fuzzy at the edges from my thumbing. The word I didn't say; the page being there was enough. I turned to the last page. Two hundred and one, letting go. The half-line for the definition was still blank. I lined the pencil up over it, then set it down again. The pencil was sharpened the year before last, point still sharp. I laid it back on the notebook and pressed the button down one more time.
I sat down by the window. The window paper let light through. Outside, kids were setting off firecrackers — one, then another a long way off. What I heard was firecrackers.
I didn't cry. Nothing to cry over, either. Before noon it was there; after noon it was gone. At the noon nap it hadn't disturbed me, and I hadn't disturbed it.
In the afternoon I pocketed the copper button and went to the broadcasting station.
The snow had melted to mud the whole way. I went by the bricks. Going by bricks had its rules — which brick rocked, which brick held, my feet kept it all. At the third loose one I stepped around it, didn't step on it. On the station door's lock hasp, that length of wire was still threaded through, the head twisted twice. I unwound it, held it in my hand, and went to knock at the gatehouse window.
Master Qiao was toasting slices of mantou by the stove; he flipped one over. He saw me, and wasn't surprised. He looked at me, then at the wire in my hand, pulled the stove door to, and came over.
Your birthday today, he said.
Mm.
Kept the machine for you, he said. The dumb one. The dumb ones hold up.
The big one had been carted off a while back; he'd walked after the cart half a street. What was left was this small one, single-deck, its black leather case worn to a white edge, sitting on the shelf in the inner room. Master Qiao carried it down, set it on the table, and dusted it off with his sleeve.
From the drawer he fished out a tape. The paper pasted on the case had yellowed; the writing was worn off. He split the case's seam with a fingernail and loaded the tape in.
One hour. Enough?
Enough.
Red light on, it's running, he said. This button runs it, this button stops it. Rewind, you turn it like this. He went through the motions once. I'll be up front. Just give me a shout.
He got to the door and stopped again.
That room's warm; the stove got banked in the afternoon, he said. Water's in the kettle. If it's gone cool, pour it yourself.
He left. I went into the broadcasting room.
The room was the same room. Felt laid on the table, the microphone on its stand, its cover cloth washed pale. I pulled the door to, threaded the wire back through the hasp, the head twisted twice, the old way. Done, I gave it a tug. It didn't give.
I took out the entry notebook, set it on the corner of the table, and pressed the copper button onto it.
I sat down in front of the microphone. The red light — I pressed it down. The red light came on.
First, the numbers. Same rule as always.
Number one. Bright.
Number two.
Number three.
I went on down the line. Some numbers, the word was right at my lips. Some numbers, I had to think. Thirty-six I said the smoothest. At thirty-seven, I stopped one beat.
Number thirty-seven, I said. No word.
I went on after that. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Past forty there was a stretch of water words; I said those smooth too, not one stumble. A few numbers in the middle I truly couldn't bring back, so I called the number and left the space after it empty. The rule of calling numbers: the number can't be left empty; the word can. That was a rule I'd made myself. Today was the first time it was used. For the numbers left empty, I called the count one extra time, so it stood in the line anyway.
At fifty I checked the numbers through once from the top. Number one, bright. Number fifty — the word I gave was full.
Then I said the lesson.
I said, this came from the older boy of the Sixth Session. When he said it I was eleven; now I say it once over. Whoever hears this tape later on, keep it for him.
I said, one to fifty are things. Fifty-one onward are matters not finished. A Chinese word, said, is finished. A word from over there — the matter isn't finished, the word isn't finished. The fifty-first is handing over at the halfway. Both hands are on it. Neither one has let go.
I said, he called it the last lesson. The name he gave it himself. The lesson isn't on the tape. The lesson is with him.
I said, now it's with me.
I stopped there a moment. The red light was on. The tape was running. The room was quiet; all you could hear was the small hiss of tape crossing the head — not the same hiss as the radio's that afternoon. That hiss leaked out; this hiss was going in to be recorded. I could tell them apart.
What I did with the time after, I don't remember whole. I sat a while and waited; it didn't come. My ear was empty, and I knew it wouldn't come. I poured a cup from the kettle, left it cooling, didn't drink. Later I leaned close to the microphone and said some things. What things, I didn't count. My mouth opening and closing, and the weight in my hands the whole while. At one point the stack of bowls in my hands felt heavier again, like one more had been set on. Set on, then set on. I didn't let go.
The tape ran to its end, and the machine went click by itself and stopped.
I drew the tape out, held it against the light; the tape was full on both sides. Back into the case it went.
Before going out, I tucked the entry notebook back inside my coat, the copper button clenched in my palm — it left a mark.
I unwound the wire and opened the door.
Wei Dongquan was standing outside.
No telling how long he'd stood. He stood just beside the doorframe, the cloth bundle on his arm, his other hand tucked in his sleeve. Under his feet the mud had been pressed solid in two patches, one a little big, one smaller, side by side. Master Qiao was in the front room by the stove and didn't come over. The spot he'd taken was out of the wind, out of sight from the window, out of sight from the gatehouse too. A man who could stand a spot like that knew how this courtyard stood.
Finished recording? he asked.
Finished recording.
I handed him the tape. He took it and first weighed it in his hand. Weighing things — that had always been his way. Weighed, he slid the tape in through the mouth of the bundle, without opening it. The square things inside shifted their places, made a gap, and the tape lay down against them. The bundle wasn't opened. He never opens it.
One hour? he asked.
One hour.
He nodded. He said, I'll be listening. A pause, then: in place of your session, listening.
Through the pause he left, I didn't take it up. Usually it went like this: a sentence, a pause, waiting for the other to take it up. Today I didn't. He didn't wait either; he turned and walked off through the mud, step by step, to the end of the road.
Master Qiao came over to put the machine away. He set it back on the shelf and covered it with the cloth. He shook the cloth out twice before laying it over; a little fluff shook loose and settled on the shelf, and he smoothed it off with his hand.
The tape's with him? he asked.
With him.
Steadier with him, Master Qiao said. He picked the mantou slice up off the stove top and broke off half for me. One patch on it had scorched; it smelled good. I took it and ate it. The other half he set back on the stove top — tomorrow morning, he said, it would be crisp.
I went home. The snow-melt on the road had frozen into a crust; it creaked underfoot. The line of footprint hollows I'd stepped coming were frozen now, the water in them turned to bright ice, and I walked back along them, one creak to a step.
At home there were two people in the room, strangers, one carrying a bag, one with a folder. The bag sat on the stool, mouth open, a lining of felt inside — what it held, you couldn't see. When I came in, the one with the folder asked three things. Can you hear me talking. Yes. Can you understand over there. I shook my head. Since when has it not worked. I said, since I got up from the noon nap. He asked, before noon it worked. I said, it worked — that morning I was still counting them. His pen stopped a moment; he didn't follow that one up, and turned a page.
He wrote in the folder. Done, he slid a form across to Mom. The top line of the form was printed; I recognized the two characters for assessment; the characters after them wouldn't join into a sentence. Mom took the pen, looked it over, and signed. Mom's signature — the last stroke lifts. I watched it lift. When she finished she pressed the cap on; it took two presses to shut it tight.
The two of them left. Two printed envelopes stayed on the table. Mom put them away, pressed under the sewing basket, together with that earlier sheet.
Mom cleared the table. Halfway through, she said: when it isn't said anymore, it isn't said.
I counted inside. The gray-jacket time was once, last time was once; this made three. I waited to see whether she'd say it a fourth time. Mom didn't. She squatted down, added two lumps of coal to the stove, poked it with the fire poker; sparks came up, came down.
Supper was noodles. I gave Dad the leftover half slice of mantou. Dad asked, how was it today. Mom said, fine. Dad didn't ask more. Dad's tape recorder sat on the cabinet with a little dust on it. The dust lay even — meant no one had touched it for days. I didn't touch it either. Too many machines handled today; this one at home could rest.
At night I lay on the kang and went through the lesson.
One to fifty are things — one pass. Fifty-one onward — one pass. Handing over at the halfway, both hands on it — one pass. The water-boiling stretch was the widest — one pass. Not one missing. The numbers I'd called empty in the day, I gave each of them a pass too. An empty number is still a number; pass it through empty, and that counts as all called.
I went through it again from the top. At the water-boiling part my eyelids got heavy.
I thought, sleep first. Go through it tomorrow. Anyway — remembering is enough.
The tape was in Wei Dongquan's cloth bundle. The copper button I felt out and pressed back onto the entry notebook. The corner had curled again; I flattened it under the button and kept my hand on it a while before lifting it away.
I pulled the light cord. Dark.