Day 6.
The locker is on the left at the entrance, no. 4471. The handover slip is stuck to the inside of the door; the previous user's signature line is blank. Before I hang up my coat I take the slip of paper out of the inside pocket and unfold it. 3 lines: 77413; April 11, 2085; February 9, 2083. The creases sit on the old creases, pressed neat.
The slip goes back. Next to it sits a card, stiff, a hole punched at the edge with a thread through it.
The morning tea is brewed. 3 sniffs, then pour it out. Before leaving I water the pothos. Water leaks from the bottom of the pot and pools on the windowsill; I wipe it up with a rag.
06:12:00, the commuter car comes in, empty. Past City Hall the red characters on the sign sweep across the glass. Today I didn't work the 3 numbers. The maintenance notice in the elevator is still up, one corner curled a centimeter. B2 to the first floor, 19 seconds.
07:00:00, the desktop lights up. First in the queue, 77413. The reroute order pops up behind it, the status field still those 3 characters: Overdue. 30-odd hours overdue, clock running.
Morning, stamping. A tableware replacement for a kindergarten, human impact Grade 3, annex of 89 names; I count 89, stamp. 08:34, I get up.
The hall-leave register screen has 4 options: restroom, water, medical, lookup. I press lookup. Expected return: 09:30. 08:41, the iron door.
Someone is on the phone inside. The voice comes from the far end of the inner stacks, each line louder than the last.
... come look at the humidity yourselves, and after you've looked you can tell me whether it matters ... reported it last year, the year before too, I still keep a copy of the repair notice here, from '20 — do you want to see it ...
A He leans half out of the inner stacks, phone clutched in her hand, and mouths at me: dehumidifier.
I nod. She withdraws; the voice keeps climbing.
08:50, she hangs up and comes out, a layer of dust on her hands, paper scraps in the dust.
She says: What are you doing here again.
I say: The Audit Office wants the original.
She says: I knew you were coming.
She walks to the inner stacks door. A register screen is set into the wall beside it, scratched at all 4 corners, a paper note stuck at its lower right: out of order, repair reported, do not cut power. The note has yellowed and its edges have curled.
4 fields on the screen: user, file no., volume, purpose. Purpose is a dropdown, 3 items: work reference, training, audit cooperation. I choose audit cooperation. The screen is a touch screen; when I press, my fingertip leaves a print on the glass. I wipe it off with the back of my hand. Wiping done, it comes to me: I wiped the screen, not the record.
The screen scrolls down. One more line:
> Originals to be removed with this use (required) > □ Yes □ No
My finger stops on that line. I don't press on.
A He calls from inside: Sign first, scroll after.
I sign in the user field. Handwriting on a screen — the strokes drag, nothing like on paper.
I say: Wait.
She says: Suit yourself.
She comes out carrying a file box. The box is heavier than yesterday's kraft bag. She sets it on the reading table, lifts the lid, says a line:
She says: Let me tell you a rule. The number goes with the file, not with the objection. 77413 began as a decision; the objection was merged in later, and the number never changed. So the supplementary file you looked at yesterday is the later business.
I say: Then the first page of the main file is.
She says: The approval page. Back then the rule was conclusion first — the approval page went in front. Later they switched to conclusion last, and nobody took the old ones apart to re-bind them.
The box holds loose pages, one paper clamp around them, no binding.
She says: This volume used to be thread-bound. The thread broke. I switched it to loose leaves in a box so it can't break again.
I say: Is that within the rules.
She says: Within the rules or not, nobody comes to look anyway.
She says: I'm the only one who goes into the inner stacks. Every entry gets logged — the system keeps one book, I keep another. When the 2 books disagree, they ask me first. If I can't answer, then the system.
I say: Have they ever disagreed.
She says: They have. Twice last year. Once I'd missed a log entry. Once, no idea.
I say: And the second time, then.
She says: Afterwards they changed the system.
She loosens the clamp and slides the top page half an inch toward me.
> Decision 77413 · Approval page (first page of the main file) > Matter: decision to maintain life support for registered person No. 0001 (Grade 3 rights and interests · human impact) > Proposal tier: Proposal No. 2061 > Execution tier: Municipal No. 7 Nursing Home > Review field > Reviewer (natural person): Shen Yan (handwritten) > Seal no.: 4471 > Date: November 3, 2065 > Straddle seal: (embossed, over the edge) Review: (cinnabar, intaglio)
I spend longer on this page than on a document. I read it in my reading order: number first, then the matter, then the rights grade, the review field last. The order Lao Zhou taught — evidence first, conclusion last.
Matter: decision to maintain life support for registered person No. 0001. Grade 3 rights and interests, human impact. Proposal tier, Proposal No. 2061. Execution tier, the Municipal No. 7 Nursing Home. The proposal number carries no year — I can't tell which year it was filed. The straddle seal sits on the left, embossed, pressed straight; the page margin shows no sign of substitution. This page is real. It carries 2 seals: one proves the document has never been swapped, one proves a person saw it.
The review field comes last.
Shen Yan.
Seal no. 4471.
Date, November 3, 2065. This year is 2125. 60 years ago. I was hired in 2105. 40 years ago.
I recompute the 3 numbers. When I finish, they are still these 3 numbers.
The review tier never reuses a number. Seal numbers are unique, employee numbers are unique, lockers don't change hands, the number follows the seal. I've been in 20 years. My seal is 4471, my employee number is 4471, my locker says 4471. This page says: seal no. 4471.
Names repeat. Seal numbers don't. In 20 years I've seen 2 reviewers with the same name, both in Zone D, different employee numbers, different seals.
The reviewer field is handwritten. 3 characters, the strokes tight.
Lao Zhou handed over the seal in 2105. When he passed it to me the seal face was already old, edges worn round, no telling its age. Among all the registered review seals, 4471 is neither the oldest nor the newest. At the handover he said one thing: The seal outlasts the man.
The seal is in drawer 3, in the main building, across a linking corridor. Right now I can't touch it.
09:15:02.
My hand shakes. 0.4 seconds. I'm holding the page with both hands. The edge of the paper trembles; done trembling, it is still paper. This time there is no paperweight at my hand. In the back room A He is going through the shelving, loud, metal on metal.
I take out my phone and hold it over the page. The printed sheet by the door has one more line of small text: image capture prohibited in this area. A line of gray text pops up on my screen; I press it away. The photo comes out all black, a white frame on 4 sides.
I try once. Just once.
I use the phone to pull up the register search.
> Search: name = Shen Yan > Scope: review tier register (current) > Results: 1 > HZ-4471 Zone C Active Hired: 2105
> Search: name = Shen Yan > Scope: review tier register (historical) > Results: insufficient permissions
Insufficient permissions. The second time I've run into those 4 characters. The last time was the R3 archive lookup.
The stopwatch is in drawer 1, with the error notebook. Today it's not in my hand. The 0.4 seconds I counted in my head — count to 0.4 and stop. A watch I've used for 20 years, and today it's no use.
I put the phone down and put my hand on the page. Leave it there about 10 seconds.
I think of Lao Ge's 3 characters: The seal keeps the man. No head, no tail.
In the back room A He is on the phone again, this time after General Affairs for a dehumidifier — the inner stacks should have had one last year. Her voice carries out from behind the shelving, spiking every little while.
I say: Who is registered person No. 0001.
She hangs up and comes out: That I can't tell you, and it isn't mine to tell. The file carries a number, not a name. Numbers belong to the archive, names to the person. If you ever find out, tell me — I'd like to know too.
I say: Can I photocopy it.
She says: The copier's broken. Broke last year. The system is no good either — a use gets logged, and a log needs a purpose.
I say: What about copying it out.
She says: Copy away.
I can't copy the seal. The words I can copy — 3 lines, 12 characters plus a date. The seal I can't: where it sits in the review field, which way it leans by half a millimeter, how far the cinnabar has bloomed, how round the worn edge has gone — none of that copies. The seal is evidence. The paper isn't.
I put the pen away.
I slide the page out from under the clamp. It makes a small sound coming out, much smaller than A He's shelving next door.
Out, I look at the back first. Blank, except the fuzz of the binding holes. A line of minute print at the page foot, printed: main file 77413-01.
I turn it over and look at the front. The seal sits bottom right, pressed into the review field, offset half a millimeter to the left.
I set the clamp back and close the box.
A He comes out of the back room, hands still dusty. She says: Finished looking?
I say: Finished.
She says: I'll count the pages in a bit.
I say: Good.
She picks up the box to carry it into the inner stacks. 2 steps out, the desk phone rings. She sets the box on a chair and goes back for it. This time it's General Affairs calling back.
I stand at the reading table for about a minute.
Then I pick up the box and set it back on the counter by the inner stacks door.
The checkout screen still sits on the last line, waiting for me to choose.
> Originals to be removed with this use (required) > □ Yes □ No
I put my finger on No, hold 2 seconds, press. A green check pops up, and under it a line of small text: registration complete, thank you for your cooperation.
I fold the page in half, then in half again, to the size of the slip, and tuck it into the inside pocket of my jacket, behind those 3 lines.
At the door A He is still on the phone. She cups the receiver with her left hand, says: Mr. Shen, I haven't counted the file yet. I say: Take your time. She says: Good.
09:32, I go out. The gate reader chirps once at the inner stacks door — the system logging one exit.
On the way back to the hall I count the panes of glass in the linking corridor: 24. The fog on pane 21 has cleared; the half character for water is gone.
09:41, I badge in at the Zone C entrance. Away from the hall 1 hour 7 minutes.
Back at my seat I take everything out of the inside pocket and lay it out in the drawer for one pass: the slip, 3 lines; the card, 1 sentence; that one, folded — I don't open it. One pass, then back in, item by item.
09:58, Ji Lan comes. No jacket today, an empty kraft bag in her hand.
I set the file box on the interview room table. She opens it, glances, doesn't leaf through.
She says: This is the main file.
I say: It's the main file.
She says: Did you look at it.
I say: I looked.
She says: And what did you see.
I say: This item began as a decision, not an objection. The objection was merged in later; the item number never changed.
She notes it on the tablet. When she finishes she looks up.
She says: What does that tell you.
I say: That when the objection was merged in, nobody took the file apart to re-bind it, and nobody changed the number.
She says: That's binding practice. It doesn't count as a defect.
I say: I know it doesn't count as a defect.
She draws a form out of the paper bag, fills it, and pushes it over for my signature.
> Audit Office Document Handover Slip > Handed over: 77413, main file, 1 volume > Handed over by: HZ-4471 > Received by: JH-0117 > Time: 09:58 > Remarks: (blank)
She tears off the second copy for me. On the second copy her writing is very light — nothing like her talking.
She says: I file my conclusion tomorrow.
I say: Good.
She says: That sentence you said yesterday — I checked it.
I say: Which sentence.
She says: Whose "usually" is the usual.
I don't answer.
She clamps the kraft bag under her arm and carries the box out. At the door she says: I spent last night on your curve.
I say: What did you see.
She says: Nothing to see.
She says: 19 years in audit. I've seen 4 red-light records. The first 3 never left the archive stacks.
I say: And the fourth.
She says: The fourth is on your desk.
She leaves.
10:22, I'm back at my seat. I pull open drawer 3, take out the seal, set it on the seal pad.
Wooden handle, brass band, 2 lines on the seal face: the top reading ASSIZE · REVIEW, the bottom 4471. Edges worn round, no telling the years. On the face, yesterday's cinnabar, dried through; a fingernail won't lift it.
I put it back in drawer 3 and push the drawer shut.
At noon in the canteen Lao Ge sits down across from me. He has 2 dishes today. Half a minute in, he says: Where did you go yesterday. I say: Lookup. He says: Looking up what. I say: The old law. He puts his chopsticks down and looks at me, 3 seconds, says: What is there to look up in the old law. I say: One clause. He says: Did you find it. I say: I found one sentence. He picks his chopsticks back up and says: One sentence is enough.
No head, no tail on that one. I don't answer it.
16:44, day-close.
> Reviewer: HZ-4471 > Stamps today: 8,765 > Net time: 5 hr 17 min > Average: 2.17 sec/item > Errors: 0
I check the standings screen. The first line is not me.
16:51, seal return. As the desktop goes dark my hand pauses on the drawer — on drawer 3. I don't pull it open.
Before I walk out of the hall I put a hand into the inside pocket. That page is still there, folded in 3, behind the card, behind the slip. There are 3 things in the inside pocket now.
The rusted paper clip in the supplementary file — I haven't touched it yet.
The last line of the checkout register: whether originals leave with the user. I chose: No. The check mark is mine.
In 20 years I have stamped more than 70 million times. The seal is carved with 2 characters: review.