Day 9.
05:47, I boil water. 3 grams of pre-rain, 80 degrees, and pour. I smell it 3 times. Then I pour it out.
There is ink in the well of the inkstone, not dry. I grind 20 turns and write today's date: November 12, 2125. The strokes come out tight. When I finish I crumple the sheet and put it under the paperweight.
The pothos gets its water. Still 2 leaves on the stems. The rag on the windowsill is still damp — used it yesterday.
The locker is on the left at the entrance, no. 4471. The handover slip inside the door is a new one; the previous user's field is blank again.
06:12:00, the commuter car comes in, empty. 06:12:08, the doors close. Past City Hall the red characters on the sign sweep across the glass. The maintenance notice in the elevator is still up, corner curled a centimeter. B2 to the first floor, 19 seconds.
07:00:00, the desktop lights up. First in the queue, 77413.
> Status: Overdue > Overdue by: 110 hr 09 min > Clock: running
Morning, stamping. Cost sharing for an elevator retrofit on an old building in Xiguan, human impact Grade 3, annex of 39 names. I count 39. Stamp. I don't read the names; I only count. Today I saw that the first name is 3 characters long.
I don't touch the one at the head of the queue. It surfaces at 07:00 every day; every day I look at it once. Day 7.
I check the thickness of the first stack the out-slot feeds out today: 3 centimeters. The stack done, it's 08:12.
09:15:02.
My hand shakes. 0.4 seconds. The seal hangs in midair, comes down, the face square. Today I glanced at drawer 1. I didn't pull it open.
09:30, hall-leave register. Reason: lookup. Expected return: 11:30.
09:41, the iron door.
A dozen-odd volumes lie open across the reading table, spine against spine, page edges curled. The window stands open a crack; the mold smell is heavier than usual, and the mothballs can't hold it down. A He, gloved, turns the volumes one page at a time.
She says: No borrowing files today.
I say: The supplementary file.
She says: The supplementary file is a file.
She says: The damp is coming up. I have to air them out. Reported it last week — that dehumidifier is still standing in the corridor.
I say: The supplementary file.
She says: I still haven't counted the pages.
I say: Take your time counting.
She says: You said that yesterday.
I say: I said it the day before too.
She pulls off the gloves and heads for the inner stacks. 2 steps out she turns her head and says: How long do you mean to keep borrowing it.
I say: Until I'm done reading.
She brings the volume out. Kraft paper cover; on the lower right, a sealing stamp, blue, December 2085. The large line on the stamp reads SEALED, beneath it the date in small characters, the blue ink bloomed a little, pressed into the kraft's grain. She sets the volume in the only open spot on the table, next to an open volume.
I say: Did you count the pages.
She says: I counted. 19 pages.
I say: 6 blank.
She says: 6 blank.
I count them again. 19 pages, 6 blank. When I finish I say: 19.
I've been through the 6 blank pages one by one. The blank pages carry binding holes, fuzz on the hole edges. On the 4th blank page there is a round mark pressed by a cup — pressed while the cup's base was wet. 20 years ago someone set a water glass on this page and closed the volume before the ring dried.
She says: Keep count. Don't come up short.
I say: When was this volume sealed.
She says: The stamp says. December 2085. I wasn't here yet when it was sealed. The stamp is my predecessor's work.
I say: The objection was accepted that April. Same year.
She says: Same year.
She says: By the sealing, the person was already dead.
I say: That's what the register says.
She says: That's what the register says.
I say: Is the kraft cover original.
She says: Added later. It was a paper bag to begin with; the bag rotted, and I put on this cover the year I took over. Re-covering doesn't count as an alteration. I don't log it.
I say: Why wasn't the objection filed into the main file when it was merged.
She says: The rules have no line for that.
She says: The number goes with the file, not with the objection — that's a rule. But it was boxed as 2 boxes, and that's a rule too. The 2 rules never said a word to each other.
I say: Then what about the first page missing from the main file.
She turns a page of the volume in her hands without looking up.
She says: You know more about missing pages than I do.
I don't answer.
She says: Numbers belong to the archive, names to the person. I've said that.
I say: You have.
The objection sheet is on page 4. The paper form has one line more than the scan; the extra line sits at the very bottom of the form, the writing fainter than what's above — filled in later:
Basis: the Natural Person Review Act, Article Zero.
I copy the line. Then I lift the sheet to the yellow lamp. The ink of this line is fainter than the form's upper fields; when it was filled in, the nib was dry. The seal rides on the form's grid lines; this line rides on the seal's edge. First the seal, then the basis.
Lao Zhou taught rule 2: on an original the seal sits over the writing; on a copy the writing sits over the seal. This volume is a copy.
Objector field: Lin Xiumei. Date accepted: April 11, 2085. Death registration: February 9, 2083.
I copied these 3 dates once already. Today I copied them again.
Annex 1 comes after the objection. A paper clip holds 2 sheets together; the clip is rusted, the rust bled into the paper, a yellow dot above and below, edges gone brittle.
I pick it up and test the weight. Clip and paper are seized together; it won't give.
A He comes over and looks.
She says: Don't pull.
I say: I'm not pulling.
She says: There was force in your hand just now.
She pulls on the gloves and takes a tin box out of the drawer. Pen-repair tools inside: 2 pairs of tweezers, a brass pick, a small bottle of oil, a square of flannel.
She says: Sewing machine oil. I use it for the pens. It does rust too.
She unscrews the bottle, touches a drop with the tweezers' tips, and dots it where the clip bites the paper.
She says: Wait 3 minutes.
I say: 3 minutes.
She says: I'm counting.
She really does count. She watches the desk clock, counts to 180, says: Done.
I work the brass pick into the clip's inner coil and lift. One lift and the clip breaks in 2. Rust dust falls on the table. The paper keeps 2 yellow dots, hollow at their centers, the paper thinner there by a layer.
The 2 halves of the clip lie on the flannel.
Annex 1 opens out. The clip was holding 2 sheets. The first is the rejection notice; the second is smaller — a delivery receipt.
> Delivery receipt (supplementary file 77413 · Annex 1 appended page) > Document delivered: Health Admin Refusal [2083] No. 007 > Delivery address: Municipal No. 7 Nursing Home > Method of delivery: left at the address > Signed for: (blank) > Remarks (verbatim): the applicant cannot manage self-care; the document was left at the bedside and collected by nursing staff on her behalf. > Date: January 19, 2083
No seal on the delivery receipt either. It doesn't need one.
I lay the 2 sheets side by side.
> Annex 1 (supplementary file 77413 · appended after the objection) > Title: rejection notice (copy) > Document no.: Health Admin Refusal [2083] No. 007 > Applicant: registered person No. 0001 (name field given as the number) > Request: termination of my own life support > Basis: the Natural Person Review Act, supplementary provision (the Continuity Clause) > Reason (verbatim): only 1 natural-person reviewer remains on the register. Terminating life support would leave the review tier no natural person to hold a seal, and every decision in the domain would lose effect. The public interest takes precedence. Not granted. > Date: January 17, 2083 > Seals: proposal tier (stamped by proxy) / execution tier (stamped by proxy) / review field: (blank)
I read it in Lao Zhou's order. Number first, then the matter, then the rights grade, the review field last. His order: evidence first, conclusion last.
Document no., 2083, No. 007. Applicant, registered person No. 0001, the name field given as the number. Request: termination of my own life support.
The reason runs 4 lines. The 4th: the public interest takes precedence. Not granted.
Date: January 17, 2083.
Seals, 3 fields. Proposal tier, by proxy. Execution tier, by proxy. Review field, blank.
I read the page through again from the top. The second read takes longer than the first.
Article 1: A decision touching the rights and interests of natural persons at Grade 3 or above shall have no effect unless sealed by a natural-person reviewer.
On this rejection notice the review field is empty. No seal name, no seal number, no date, no handwritten signature. The space left for it is white; the paper holds a ring of pressure, and inside the ring there is no cinnabar.
I turn it sideways to the yellow lamp. The pressure ring is empty.
The only person who could have stamped it is the applicant.
The applicant field reads: registered person No. 0001.
The objector field reads: Lin Xiumei.
The basis field reads: Article Zero. Article Zero takes effect for 1 person only — the reviewer.
I set the 3 lines side by side. Between them sit a number and a date. Set out, they are still these 3 lines.
My hand goes into the inside pocket and finds the page. I don't take it out.
I stand at the inner stacks door and lay the days out in a row.
November 3, 2065, 77413 approved: the life support of registered person No. 0001 is maintained. January 17, 2083, No. 0001 applies to terminate. Refused. Review field empty. February 9, 2083, death registered. April 11, 2085, objection accepted. Basis: Article Zero.
The first I read on the page in my inside pocket. The other 3 I read today in the supplementary file.
Between the rejection notice and the death registration: 23 days. Between the death registration and the objection's acceptance: 2 years and 2 months.
I ran the 2 numbers twice. When I finished, they were still these 2 numbers.
A He turns pages beside me, a dry rustle.
I turn the sheet over.
There is writing on the back. Pen and hand, 3 lines, set in the margin's white space.
> (back of the sheet, handwritten) > 1. The review field on this document is empty. Void. > 2. What I asked to terminate was care, not review. > 3. When I am gone, this file will come back every—
The third line breaks at "every." What follows is blurred by water damage. 2 or 3 characters stood where the blur is; now there is only a bloomed-out patch, the paper's fibers raised, the ink gone down into them.
I scrape a nail along the vertical stroke of the character for death. The ink sits raised. Pressed hard.
A He leans in to look.
She says: Whose hand is this.
I say: The file doesn't say.
She tilts the sheet toward the lamp.
She says: This was written lying down.
I say: How do you know.
She says: The strokes run downhill; the paper wasn't lying flat. Look at this vertical — the tail slides, and at the end the pen is in the air.
She says: I've repaired pens for 20 years. People writing lying down take the ink differently.
I say: Lying down — lying down where.
She says: A bed, or a reclining chair. Face up either way.
I say: A decision without a seal — what does it count as.
She says: Paper.
I say: The paper has been executed for 42 years.
She says: Whether it's executed is the execution tier's business. It has nothing to do with the seal.
She says: I've been in this basement 20 years. I've seen more paper than people. Paper with a seal doesn't always get done; paper without a seal doesn't always go undone.
I say: That's your experience.
She says: That's experience.
I say: The manual doesn't put it that way.
She says: The manual doesn't say how many kilowatt-hours this room should use in a year either.
She sets the gloves back beside the tin box and goes on turning pages.
I copy the 3 lines. In the third, after "every," I leave a blank 2 characters wide and stop the pen.
She turns 2 pages and looks up and says: Do you want to finish copying the page.
I say: It can't be finished.
She says: A lot of things can't.
Copying done, I put Annex 1 back in its original order and press it flat. The 2 halves of the clip lie on the flannel.
I hold the 2 sheets to the lamp for a last look. The paper isn't torn — just the 2 yellow dots, thinner at their centers. I fold along the old creases. They still meet.
I say: What about the clip.
A He says: Throw it out.
She lifts one corner of the flannel, puts it back down.
She says: No. I'm keeping it.
She picks the 2 halves into the tin box and shuts the lid with a snap.
She writes a line in the paper register: Annex 1 paper clip rusted through and broke. Original intact. When she finishes she says: This needs logging too?
I say: Log it.
The word intact is her hand — round strokes, loose endings. She doesn't write the way I do.
She says: I could log for 100 years and no one would read it.
I say: Then log it.
She closes the register and weighs it down under a volume.
I say: January 17, 2083.
She says: What about it.
I say: Nothing.
I carry the supplementary file back to the counter by the inner stacks door, just as it came. 19 pages, 6 blank, Annex 1 loose.
She says: Are you coming tomorrow.
I say: I'm coming.
She says: I still haven't counted the pages.
I say: Take your time.
She says: You've been looking into this for 6 days.
I say: 7.
She says: 6.
I say: Today is day 7.
She says: Why are you looking into it.
I don't answer.
She says: I won't ask. Last time I asked, you didn't answer either.
She says: Plenty of people have come through here. The ones digging into old files are digging into property. You're the first one digging into a person.
She walks me to the iron door. It stands open, one of her hands holding it.
She says: Mr. Shen.
I say: Go ahead.
She says: If you find it out, tell me.
I say: You've said that before.
She says: Everyone says that.
I say: An advocate did.
She says: Oh.
11:26, out the iron door.
On the linking corridor I think about calling the Audit Office. Floor 12, 1204. I have Ji Lan's name. I don't have her extension. I also think about copying it all out for Lao Ge — he would say one of his headless lines and then say nothing more. I do neither. Ji Lan said the conclusion would be reported the next day. Today is day 3.
11:35, back to Zone C. Away from the hall 2 hours 5 minutes.
At noon in the canteen Lao Ge is there. 2 dishes today, same as the day before yesterday.
He says: I wasn't here yesterday.
I say: I noticed.
He says: The annual physical.
I say: And the result.
He says: Fit.
He drinks his soup down, not a drop left.
I say: Where do they do the physical.
He says: Floor 3. Medical.
I say: Who signs it.
He puts his bowl down and looks at me.
He says: Who signs what.
I say: On the physical report.
He says: Reports don't get signed.
I say: Then who issued the conclusion.
He says: The conclusion is 2 characters — fit.
I say: Who wrote those 2 characters.
He says: They're printed.
He says: Why are you asking this.
I say: No reason.
I say: How often is the physical.
He says: Once a year.
I say: What do they check.
He says: I don't know. They tell me to hold out my hand, I hold out my hand.
He picks up his tray and goes. Halfway off he looks back at my table once and says nothing.
Afternoon, stamping. Item 317 is a care-level review for a nursing home, human impact Grade 3, annex of 61 names. The execution tier field is printed: the Municipal No. 7 Nursing Home. I count all 61 names, stamp. After stamping I look once more at the execution tier field, and the out-slot swallows the document.
Passing the standings screen: the first line is not me. Day 4.
15:37, up for water, 40 steps round trip, the water at my right hand, not a sip.
16:44, day-close.
> Reviewer: HZ-4471 > Stamps today: 8,102 > Net time: 4 hr 53 min > Average: 2.17 sec/item > Errors: 0
16:51, seal return. I pull drawer 3 half open, then push it shut. In the dark the seal face can't be read.
Before I walk out of the hall I put my hand into the inside pocket. All 4 things still there. The page folded, behind the slip.
The locker is on the left at the entrance, no. 4471. I take out the slip and flatten it. 4 lines on the front, 1 on the back. I add a line under the last one on the front. 5 on the front now.
January 17, 2083.
Front, top to bottom: 77413; April 11, 2085; February 9, 2083; 208; January 17, 2083. The first line on the back, copied: I don't know whether that counts as someone.
18:12, the commuter car comes in, empty. There is a smell of disinfectant in the car; I can't name the day it started.
Home. The inkstone doesn't get washed. The pothos dropped no leaves. The 2 are still there.
Today is November 12, 2125.
The rejection notice is dated January 17, 2083. 42 years.
The rejection notice's review field is empty. Under Article 1, without the seal of a natural-person reviewer, it has no effect. From the day it was written it has had none.
It has now been without effect for 42 years.
Tomorrow I go back to 307. He has a contents list there, and one line in it says first case; the body has nothing. He has searched 11 years. I have searched 7 days.