Spring in Beijing is as fleeting as a half-woken nap. The wind still carries a lingering chill from winter, nipping at your face, but the hints of goose-yellow and tender green on the treetops clearly announce that spring, after all, has arrived.
The autumn wind paid no mind to human affairs, still whistling as it blew, sweeping up a few withered yellow leaves from the ground only to slam them back onto the hospital's grey concrete floor. Old Chen sat on the bench outside the intensive care unit; it was already the third day. The bench was cold, like his heart at this moment.
The autumn wind in Beiping was chilly, carrying a hint of heartlessness. Dusk had just fallen. The streetlights were beginning to flicker on, not yet fully lit, casting sparse halos of light onto the damp, glistening flagstone path. Old Li's braised delicacies stall stood right there at the mouth of the hutong. A single, dim, yellow incandescent bulb barely illuminated his small patch of the world. Beneath the bulb was his face, etched with deep lines like ravines, and a pot of old braising liquid bubbling away.
The midday sun was vicious, baking the asphalt until it seemed to steam. Old Wang, Wang Dexing, was carrying his chipped enamel mug, ambling his way home. He'd just finished a bowl of Douzhi'er with a couple of Jiaoquan'r at "Old Zhang's" at the mouth of the hutong. This Douzhi'er, ah, it's like life itself. Smells foul, but once you get used to it, miss a day and your whole body feels out of sorts. He smacked his lips, the taste – sour with a hint of sweet, sweet with a hint of rancid – still lingered at the back of his tongue. Satisfying!
During that period, the world caught a fever, a fever for buying and selling. Exactly when it started, nobody could say, just like nobody can pinpoint how love or the flu suddenly arrives. Anyway, overnight, it seemed everyone had become a shrewd merchant, or at least a fervent customer. The air was no longer filled with factory fumes or the scent of lilacs in the park, but a strange odor blending the stench of money, new plastic packaging, and adrenaline. Multiple countries globally were buying, buying, buying, and selling, selling, selling in China. It sounded like an economic news headline, but in reality, it felt more like a collective sleepwalk sweeping over everything.
I, Wang Er, a fellow who considered himself still retaining a shred of conscious awareness, was muddling through life at a unit called the 'Office for the Promotion of Universal Circulation'. The name sounded impressive, but really, it was just about stamping things. Before, we stamped imported and exported salted fish, stamped thermoses bound for Siberia. Not anymore. Now, we stamp everything, as long as it can be priced. Just yesterday, I stamped an export permit for a batch of 'Bulk-Purchased Melancholy (70% new, slight existentialist tint)'. The buyer was supposedly an art collective from some Nordic country; they felt their local melancholy was too pure, lacking a certain Eastern flavor.
Old Wang stood at the entrance of the "Good Neighbor" supermarket, staring at the huge red characters "Clearance Sale" pasted on the glass door. He felt like a sodden wad of old cotton stuffed in his chest, heavy and suffocating. This supermarket, which he had run for fifteen years, ultimately couldn't withstand the impact of the flashy, 24-hour new-style chain convenience store across the street. Like a leaking old boat, it was gurgling its way to the bottom.
Old Wang, full name Wang Jianguo, a name bearing the mark of an era, was now just a man sweeping fallen leaves and dust in an inconspicuous hutong in the East District. He was sixty-three, slightly stooped, like the weather-beaten old locust tree in the hutong, silently watching the sun rise and set. The bustling traffic seemed like the clamor of another world. His world consisted of this hundred-meter-long flagstone path and the meager monthly pension, barely enough to get by, plus feeding a few stray cats at the hutong entrance.
When Lao Wang pushed open the door, he wasn't greeted by the aroma of dinner, nor the babbling calls of his son, but by an almost vacuum-like silence. The apartment, this pigeon coop he called "home," seemed unusually empty in the evening twilight, as if space itself had been stripped of something substantial.
Lin Xiaohe carried an iPhone 6 in her pocket. Not the latest model, nor any special edition, just the kind with slightly worn edges, a screen protector replaced countless times, a battery that didn't last long, an old fellow that would occasionally "ponder life" when running. Most young people on the street held shiny new phones with multiple protruding camera lenses, click-clack, taking photos so sharp they looked like they could capture your very soul. Not Lin Xiaohe. She just used this old companion, taking photos slowly.
The street she lived on had some years to it. Flanked by tall French plane trees, it offered dense shade in summer and golden fallen leaves in autumn. At the street corner was a noodle shop that had been open for decades. The owner, surnamed Wang, always cooked perfectly chewy noodles with generous toppings. Lin Xiaohe often went there for a steaming bowl of noodles with pickled greens and shredded pork. She would take out her phone and snap a picture of the bowl of noodles. No filters, no searching for the perfect angle, just a casual shot. Photos from the old phone weren't brightly colored, perhaps even a bit grayish, veiled in a haze. But Lin Xiaohe felt this was fine, like looking at things through a thin layer of steam, possessing an indescribable gentleness.
Wang Er from the street corner is dead.