The Silent Tariff

Old Ma first heard the word "tariff" from the old radio in the street corner. A hoarse male voice, like sandpaper, scraped against the dull afternoon air, speaking words he didn't quite understand: barriers, countermeasures, lists... To him, these terms were far less real than the grain of the century-old elm wood in his hands. Old Ma was a carpenter, a craftsman nearly forgotten by this era. His world was this small, street-facing shop, filled with the fresh scent of wood shavings and the atmosphere of bygone days.

Days curled by like the wood shavings from his plane, repeating one after another. Until one day, the owner of the timber shop he frequented, a usually cheerful fat man, told him with a worried frown: "Old Ma, that batch of good timber from the south, it can't get in. Even if it does, the price will skyrocket." The owner paused, lowering his voice as if afraid of disturbing something, "Heard it's... because of the tariffs."

Tariff. The word dropped like a pebble into the calm well of Old Ma's heart. He didn't understand how arguments across the ocean could ripple out to his small workshop in this urban village. But he soon felt its power, an invisible yet heavy force.

First, the orders dwindled. Those regular customers who once admired his craftsmanship, willing to wait weeks for a handmade chair or a carved wooden box, gradually stopped coming. Occasionally, a call would come, hesitant, finally apologizing, "Master Ma, the price... can we discuss it? Everything's so expensive now." Old Ma wanted to explain that good wood was expensive, but his time hadn't become cheaper. But the words died on his lips. He just hung up silently, looking at the planes and chisels hanging on the wall. They, like him, were silent, covered in an imperceptible layer of dust.

Then, subtle changes occurred on the street. The small restaurant across the street changed owners, supposedly because the price of imported beef had become absurdly high, and they couldn't sustain the business. Wang the Limper, the shoemaker next door, also complained that glue and leather prices had gone up. An unease permeated the air. People's conversations were no longer about neighborhood gossip but peppered with cold, hard words like "unemployment," "price hikes," "trade war." Old Ma listened, his heart feeling heavy, obstructed. He didn't understand the grand reasoning between nations, things like "not accepting pressure, threats, or extortion"; he only knew his wood was more expensive, his customers fewer, his livelihood precarious, like an autumn leaf in the wind.

This Saturday, Old Ma didn't go out. Not out of laziness, but because there was nothing to do. Only scattered pieces of wood and a few unfinished, unwanted works remained in the shop. Sunlight slanted in, cutting patterns of light and shadow. Dust motes danced slowly in the beams, like lost souls. Old Ma sat on his small stool, rubbing a shapeless piece of scrap wood in his hand. It was a leftover piece he had picked up. He wanted to carve a small toy for his distant grandson, but couldn't focus his mind.

The radio was still playing, reporting on stern statements from distant countries, the launch of a new, attractively priced car model, and some celebrity scandal. The world remained noisy, prosperity seemingly within reach, yet separated from him as if by an invisible pane of glass. He felt a sense of absurdity. Those grand narratives, those billions in trade figures, those strategies played out across maps – ultimately, they manifested as the price of the wood in his hand, as the unspoken weight in his heart. It felt like a clumsy joke, manipulated by some indescribable, enormous machine, aimed specifically at insignificant individuals like him.

He remembered his master telling him in his youth: "Old Ma, as a carpenter, you must respect the wood, and respect the people who use it. Our craft has warmth." But now, that warmth seemed to be replaced by a cold, digital logic. The tariff, faceless and voiceless, lingered like a ghost over the city, seeping into every corner, changing the trajectories of people's lives.

Days passed. Old Ma's shop grew quieter. He began selling some of his tools, old companions that had been with him for most of his life. With each sale, it felt like a small piece of his heart was being carved out. But he didn't complain, nor did he plead with anyone. He simply grew more silent, like an old piece of wood forgotten in a corner.

One evening, a well-dressed young man passing by was drawn to an unfinished rocking chair in the shop. The chair had smooth lines and a simple, antique charm. "Old Master, is this for sale?" the young man asked.

Old Ma looked up with his clouded eyes, glanced at the young man, then at the rocking chair. He had started it long ago for an old customer who, unfortunately, never came back to collect it. "This... the cost of the materials alone is significant," he said hesitantly.

The young man smiled. "I know timber is expensive now. I admire your craftsmanship."

Old Ma was silent for a moment, then slowly stood up. He walked over to the rocking chair and ran his rough hand over the smooth armrest, as if stroking his own child. "If you like it, just take it."

"How much?"

Old Ma shook his head, his voice low but clear. "No money. Sitting here with me, it's just a dead object. If you use it, it comes alive."

The young man was stunned. He looked at the old man's wrinkled face, at his eyes, weather-beaten yet still clear, and suddenly seemed to understand something. He didn't insist on paying, but bowed deeply. "Thank you, Old Master."

The young man carefully carried the rocking chair away. Old Ma stood at the door, watching his figure disappear into the dusk. The evening breeze blew, carrying the chill of early autumn and the faint clamor from afar. On the radio, the hoarse voice seemed to be talking again about "solemn stance," "fight to the end"... But Old Ma wasn't listening anymore.

He turned back into the empty shop and sat down again on his small stool. The last rays of the setting sun slanted through the window frame, casting a long shadow across him. He picked up the small block of wood from the floor, took out his carving knife, and slowly began to carve. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if the entire world had shrunk to just him and the wood in his hands.

Outside, the shadow of the tariff remained heavy, and the cold winds of trade might continue to howl. But at this moment, in this quiet little workshop, an old craftsman, with his almost stubborn silence and concentration, was resisting the silent, immense absurdity. What he carved was perhaps no longer a toy for his grandson, but a form of silent expression, a faint yet unyielding light of dignity belonging to the common man. That light, in the deepening twilight, seemed exceptionally clear.