Old Wang felt he needed some noise, the deafening kind. Not the eternal hum of printers and keyboards weaving together in the office, nor the lukewarm background noise of his wife's chatter mixed with TV commercials at home. He needed the kind of colossal sound that could shake the soul from the body, a rock concert—the louder, the better.
That piece of news initially surfaced like a faint yet clear note in the background noise of the city, appearing in the torrent of notifications pushed to my phone screen: "Thank you to the brave female passenger on Beijing Subway Line 5." It possessed all the elements that grab attention instantly only to be quickly forgotten: a specific location (Subway Line 5), a vague protagonist (the brave female passenger), an event tinged with a moral halo (bravery), and a public gesture of gratitude. However, for me, this message did not dissipate as expected. It lingered, refusing to leave, like a metaphor, or a doorway leading into some dark labyrinth.
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 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 city, a behemoth crouching beneath the grey expanse, its bones steel, its blood the crowded streets. But recently, an invisible plague, more suffocating than any visible calamity, swept through its massive form. This plague was the wind. Not the gentle caress of the fields, nor the majestic roar of the ocean, but a shriek from the depths of hell, a fury potent enough to tear souls, to shake existence itself.
The old library in the east end of the city had seen some years. Its dusty grey brick walls and tall windows exuded a quietness, but also a stubborn sense of being out of step with the times. Most people who came here were familiar faces: retired old gentlemen and ladies seeking a quiet spot to read the newspaper; students preparing for exams, hunkered down all day; and idlers like me, with nowhere else to go, who came here pretending to still be seeking knowledge, but really just killing time, staring blankly at the old locust tree outside the window.
Section Chief Wang had grown somewhat gaunt lately, his eyes sunken, as if something were gnawing at his spirit day and night. Those familiar with him merely assumed he was "busy with official duties, toiling for the nation." When occasional inquiries about his well-being were made, he would just wave a hand, revealing a smile that was both bitter and seemingly profound. No one knew that what truly robbed him of sleep and appetite wasn't the mountain of files piled on his office desk, but a silent, crouching "beast" in the basement of his old apartment building.
He, let us call him K, or more precisely, Archivist G/T 718, couldn't recall when he began working in the archives of the General Administration of Customs, a place as vast as the Library of Babel. The days were like impressions made repeatedly with the same stamp, blurred and identical. His duty was to receive, classify, and file the announcements concerning tariff adjustments that arrived like snowflakes from every corner of the world. These announcements, initially scattered whispers, gradually gathered into a clamorous torrent, eventually crescendoing into a continuous, deafening roar.
No one quite remembers the exact date, perhaps it was at the end of an unusually damp plum rain season, or maybe just some unremarkable afternoon forgotten in the dust of time, but in any case, the news about Dr. K and his legendary thesis spread quietly, like a silent mold, through the ancient and solemn corridors of the university. Three months, merely three months, and he had completed a doctoral thesis running to one hundred and forty thousand words. This in itself was nearly miraculous, enough to make seasoned scholars, those who had spent lifetimes poring over texts, feel unease and envy. However, what was truly dizzying was the report spat out by the cold machine—Plagiarism Rate: 0.1%.
The news came on the radio while I was cooking pasta. Not any special kind of pasta, just the most ordinary type, with canned tomato sauce from the supermarket, sprinkled with some powdered cheese. Outside, a light but steady rain was falling. April rain, carrying a sticky feeling that washes everything yet washes nothing away. The announcer, in a well-trained, emotionless tone, reported: "Gold prices plummeted sharply again today..." followed by a string of numbers and analysis, sounding like signals from a distant planet, utterly unrelated to the steaming pasta in my pot.