Old Wang felt like one of the old grandfather clocks he repaired, ticking away in the torrent of time towards an inevitable silence. His watch repair shop, hidden deep in a nearly forgotten alley in the South City, seemed separated from the outside world – a world frenzied over gold hitting 1039 yuan per gram – as if by a pane of dusty glass.
I developed a cough, a sticky, persistent kind of cough that just wouldn't let go. It wasn't anything serious, just the kind where you're about to make a witty remark, and it jumps in with a "cough, cough," making the atmosphere feel like the minute before a memorial service; or in the dead of night, just as a spark of insight about the origin of the universe flashes in your mind, it lets out a couple of "hacks," shattering that spark like a clumsy waiter dropping a platter of fine food. In short, it wasn't fatal, but it thoroughly spoiled the fun of life.
I went to see a doctor, a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses, his expression as solemn as if he had just presided over a failed philosophical debate. He listened to my lungs, looked at my throat, then said in a tone that permitted no doubt: "You need to smoke."
Old Wang, or as the neighbors more familiarly called him, "Master Wang," ran a tiny watch repair shop. It felt like an old-fashioned pocket watch forgotten in the city's breast pocket, its hands lazy, yet stubbornly recording the passage of time. Squeezed between a noisy Mala Tang stall and a clothing store perpetually having a clearance sale, the shop seemed out of place, like an old scholar insisting on writing letters in archaic script.
At four in the morning, I woke punctually. The sky outside was an unimaginative grey, like an old rag washed over and over. Making coffee, toasting two slices of bread – this was an unshakeable ritual. Usually at this time, "Mustard" – my cat, a fellow with a mottled coat and eyes that always held a hint of philosophical contemplation – would appear promptly at the kitchen door, meowing in a tone that was just right, neither fawning nor distant, reminding me it was his breakfast time.
But not today.
The weather in Sang Town, lately, always seemed covered in a layer of unwashable gray. Not that there wasn't sun; the sun was there, hanging brightly in the sky, yet it couldn't penetrate that invisible haze. When it fell on people's bodies and faces, it was merely tepid, unable to stir the slightest vitality. The townspeople, too, were much like the weather; their eyeballs were alive, able to move, to see, but looking around, there was nothing novel to behold, so they retreated back inwards, hidden beneath half-closed eyelids, as if this could conserve some energy.
Xiao Shi is a programmer, writing code in Shenzhen. In this place, the buildings are tall enough to pierce the heavens, and the rent is high enough to pierce one's courage. Xiao Shi lacks courage, at least the courage to dedicate the bulk of his monthly salary to supporting a pigeon coop. So, he doesn't live in a pigeon coop; he lives in a Deepal G318. The car, domestic, electric, isn't exactly small – better than some Hong Kong subdivided flats, at least. He's been living like this for four years, like an urban nomad, or perhaps, like a sardine packed in a tin can.
Our place here used to have a nickname, the "Unofficial Reserve Base for the World's Toy Factory." Later, officials thought it lacked elegance and changed it in documents to the "Red Star Industrial Demonstration Zone." But privately, especially when spitting foam at the dinner table while reminiscing about the glorious past, everyone still habitually called it "Rust Town." The name fits, carrying a sense of helplessness and滄桑 (vicissitudes/weathered look) like oxidized metal. Rust Town, well, as the name implies, now only rust remains. It wasn't always like this. Back then, the town was like a hyperactive spinning top, buzzing non-stop day and night, specializing in manufacturing happiness for those blond-haired, blue-eyed kids across the ocean – plastic ones, plush ones, battery-operated ones that could sing and dance, you name it.
Lao Ma felt this place was a bit like a huge, cold cement box. He hadn't thought that way when they first bought it. Back then, the sales lady's words were sweet as honey. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, shining on the exquisite little model houses on the sand table, bright and full of hope. One million one hundred ninety thousand yuan. It emptied half a lifetime's savings and saddled them with a thirty-year mortgage, but Lao Ma and his wife, Ma Sao, felt it was worth it! For their son's future schooling, for a stable nest for their old age, for putting down roots in this big city – this cement box was their "home," their tangible, heavy future.
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.