Lao Ma felt he was getting a bit out of touch. Retired at home, brewing a pot of strong tea, flipping through the newspaper, taking a stroll – life was supposed to be quite pleasant. But he couldn't ignore his precious granddaughter, Xiao Hua'er, who just started primary school this year. This Xiao Hua'er, though small, had a lively mind, always muttering about something called "Labubu"—a foreign name that sounded like a tongue-twister to Lao Ma.
The legend of Anai did not begin with any specific event, but rather permeated the city air like a whisper, an unsettling consensus. She was a deaf-mute girl, a fact that might ordinarily elicit only pity or indifference. However, Anai possessed an unsettling, almost absolute perfection of features. This perfection was not beauty in the conventional sense, but a kind of harmony that transcended human aesthetic experience, as if it were a fragile, fleeting projection of "Beauty itself" from Plato's world of Forms.
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 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!
The thick gold chain around Zhang Wei's neck, once a totem of his sense of security, now felt like a cold fetter, tightening its grip with every plunge of the gold price on the screen, restricting his breath inch by inch.
It was last year, when the price of gold was soaring, breaking one historic high after another, that Zhang Wei joined the frenzy. He wasn't wealthy, just a hardworking middle-aged man scraping by in the city, having saved up some hard-earned money. Seeing his neighbors, colleagues, and even the grannies doing square dancing talking about gold, the anxiety of "losing out if you don't buy now" spread rapidly like a virus. It was a typical individual choice amidst the tides of the era, as described by Wu Xiaobo—less rational investment, more a panic hedge against an uncertain future, coupled with a faint hope for upward mobility.
Xiao Li's electric scooter, like a weary beetle, navigated the canyons formed by the city's steel and glass. A new order popped up on his phone screen, marked 'Priority Delivery' in golden font. The address was an old, dilapidated residential complex he'd never been to—'Rosemary Garden'. The remarks section held just a few simple words: "Urgent medicine, please be as quick as possible, thank you."
He expertly picked up the package from a brightly lit chain pharmacy. The pharmacist handed him a small, sealed paper bag. It was light, seemingly containing only one box of medicine. He glanced at the electronic waybill: recipient name 'Mr. K,' no specific apartment number, just a unit number: 'Unit 3, top floor.' The pharmacy's lighting was stark white, making the pharmacist's face resemble a blurred mask.
Beijing was still Beijing, just with more cars, taller buildings, and perhaps a little less of that leisurely vibe under the old locust trees where people used to walk their birds or play chess. Ma Liansheng, forty-five years old, was doing alright, not great, crunching numbers in a company that was neither big nor small, decently managing the mortgage on a place still a couple of miles shy of the Fourth Ring Road. His physique, much like his life, had decently put on a bit of timber.
Let me tell you, that day was hot like a giant, clammy hug. The air was thick enough to paste up your throat. Fatty and I were walking down the road to the border, feeling like two slabs of melting butter. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was, we were covered in "things". Not pimples, not tumors, but live, hard-shelled, still-wriggling turtles. Twenty-eight in total, no more, no less, strapped tightly to our bare chests and backs with wide tape and strips of ragged cloth. Fourteen on me, fourteen on him, like some kind of bizarre, symmetrical torture.
Old Man Zhang has been feeling a bit muddled lately. Not that his mind isn't sharp anymore, but he feels like something about the way life is going isn't quite right, though he can't put his finger on it. It's like the spring wind here in Beijing – blowing through the same familiar hutong entrance, but the smell carried on it is mixed with something else, something a bit pungent, and a bit... unreal.
Lao Li has been feeling very uneasy lately.