506: Chapter 506 Waiting for someone who can listen to the whole thing

The words on the warning sign were washed bright by the rain.

Tao Zhiyan glanced at Lin Que subconsciously, and Zhou Mingda also slowed his pace.

Old Zhao continued walking forward, but his shoulders and back were tense, as if waiting for that question that would inevitably come from behind him.

Lin Que looked up at the wall for two seconds.

Then, he lowered his head and wrote a few words in his notebook.

After finishing, he followed Old Zhao forward.

He didn't ask.

He didn't ask a single word.

Old Zhao's back paused for a moment.

It was very brief.

He continued walking.

It was just that the beam of his flashlight lowered a bit toward the ground.

Seeing this, Tao Zhiyan's heart sank slightly.

The follow-up question from the car was still ringing in his ears, but the young man now pressed his pen tip back onto the paper, as if he had already distinguished whom to ask and when to ask, and had temporarily tucked that sharpness away into the pages.

Old Zhao led them around the high wall and continued toward the outskirts of the factory area.

Behind it was a row of family dormitory buildings.

The buildings were very old, with large water stains on the exterior walls.

Several pieces of glass were missing from the hallway windows, and someone had sealed them with plastic sheets; when the wind blew, the plastic sheets would bulge out and then stick back.

A few old bicycles were parked downstairs, their seats torn, revealing the sponge inside.

Cured meat hung at the door of one household on the ground floor.

It was damp on the rainy day, and the skin of the cured meat had a dull sheen.

Old Zhao said: "The people living here are all elderly."

Tao Zhiyan replied: "The young people have all left?"

"Those who could leave have all left."

Old Zhao used his flashlight to illuminate the steps.

"Those who remain either can't bear to leave this place, have mobility issues, or their children have settled down elsewhere and can't come back."

Lin Que asked: "How many households are there in the building now?"

Old Zhao gave a number.

"Twenty-seven."

"And before?"

"At the peak, one hundred and sixty-five households."

Lin Que wrote down these two numbers.

Twenty-seven.

One hundred and sixty-five.

Between the two numbers, he left a whole line blank, as if leaving a space for those who had moved away, grown old, and never returned.

Old Zhao looked back and saw it.

He didn't ask.

When the four of them circled back outside the iron gate, it was already pitch black.

The incandescent light in the guard room was still on.

The light fell on the wet ground like a thin white cloth.

Old Zhao stopped, gripped his flashlight, and turned his head to look at Lin Que.

Lin Que was looking down, still filling in the last few lines of text.

Old Zhao's gaze fell on the notebook.

Many pages had already been filled.

The handwriting was neat, the line spacing was even, and there weren't many corrections.

Old Zhao moved half a step to the side, using the light from the guard room to scan the last line.

"After the exhaust pipe rusted through, the rust from the pipe mouth slowly seeped into the soil, the rust and muddy water mixed together, making it impossible to tell which rotted first."

Old Zhao looked for two seconds.

He shifted his gaze away.

The cigarette in his mouth had been put back at some point, still unlit.

Tao Zhiyan patted the rainwater off his sleeves.

"It's getting late, let's take Lin Que to the guesthouse first."

Old Zhao nodded.

"Let's go."

He took the cigarette from his mouth and tucked it back behind his ear, his flashlight beam paused on the ground for a moment before shining toward the town street.

From the factory area to the guesthouse, one had to pass through half of the town street.

Some small shops along the road were closed, with old advertisements posted on their rolling shutters.

The grocery store was still lit, with a few crates of beer placed at the entrance, and plastic stools turned upside down against the wall.

There were no customers in the small restaurant; the owner was sitting at the entrance watching TV, with the volume turned very low.

Old Zhao walked in front.

The flashlight beam hit the muddy road.

Lin Que followed behind, put his notebook into his bag, and looked up at those lit windows.

From one window came the sound of opera singing.

Yi—yi—ya—ya—.

The sound was thin, drifting out through the rain, and the lyrics couldn't be heard clearly.

Lin Que paused for a step and listened intently for a few seconds.

The opera singing was drawn out long, with a slight quiver at the end.

Old Zhao didn't turn back.

But his pace slowed by half a beat.

Tao Zhiyan also heard it and said in a low voice: "Many people in the old factory like this stuff."

Zhou Mingda added: "Young people can't stand listening to it."

Old Zhao spoke from the front.

"They find it noisy."

After saying that, he didn't speak again.

Lin Que looked toward that window.

The curtain wasn't drawn tightly, and inside, an old person was sitting at the table, holding an enamel mug.

The light from the TV reflected on the wall, and next to it hung a yellowing family photo.

Lin Que only took one look before withdrawing his gaze.

The guesthouse was a two-story old building.

The four characters "Muchuan Hotel" hung above the door, with a piece of paint missing from the character "Hotel".

Several tiles on the wall had fallen off, revealing the rough cement underneath.

The iron stair railing was covered in rust, and touching it would leave red powder on your hands.

An old man was sitting at the front desk, wearing reading glasses and reading a newspaper.

Only when Tao Zhiyan entered did he look up.

"You're here?"

Tao Zhiyan nodded.

"Is the room ready?"

The old man took a wooden key tag from the drawer and pushed it toward Lin Que.

"203."

The room number was written on the wooden tag with a permanent marker, the handwriting thick and crooked.

Lin Que took the key.

"Thank you."

The old man looked at him, then at the silver-gray suitcase.

"Staying here, don't open the window too wide at night.

It's damp in the mountains, and the wind at midnight can wake you up."

"I'll remember that."

Lin Que replied.

Zhou Mingda carried the suitcase upstairs and checked the room.

The room wasn't big.

A bed, a desk, a wardrobe.

A dehumidifier was in the corner, and a newly replaced safety label was stuck next to the socket.

Outside the window, one could see half of the town street, and in the distance were the chimneys of the abandoned factory area.

The network signal had two bars.

Lin Que put his phone on the table and first tested the internet speed.

After confirming he could send messages, he placed the phone face down on the table.

As for the encrypted line, he didn't touch it in front of anyone.

Zhou Mingda's attention was entirely on the room's safety.

He tested the hot water, checked the door lock and window latch, and didn't look much at the computer Lin Que had just closed.

"Hot water is available before ten at night; it might be unstable after ten.

If the signal cuts out, there is a landline downstairs."

Lin Que nodded.

"Sorry to trouble you, Teacher Zhou."

Zhou Mingda watched him first look at the window, then test the signal, and finally confirm the socket by the table; the few words he had originally prepared to remind him were slowly swallowed back.

Downstairs, Tao Zhiyan stopped Old Zhao in the hallway and gave instructions in a low voice.

"Tomorrow morning at eight, the town liaison will come."

"Go over the red line map again."

"Which roads are closed, which buildings cannot be entered, don't run around after dark."

Old Zhao responded to each item.

"Understood."

"Also."

Tao Zhiyan glanced at the second floor.

"If this kid has questions and comes to you, don't find it troublesome."

Old Zhao snorted.

"It's all trivial matters, nothing worth asking."

Although he said that, his feet didn't move forward.

He turned sideways, his gaze landing on Lin Que again.

Lin Que was standing under the hallway light, opening his notebook to fill in the last few lines.

The light was yellowish, falling on the paper.

He wrote with focus, as if completely unaware that Old Zhao hadn't left yet.

Old Zhao watched for a few seconds, then turned and stepped into the night rain.

The plastic curtain at the entrance was caught by the wind and slapped against the door frame.

Tao Zhiyan watched him leave.

When he turned back, he saw that Lin Que had already closed his notebook.

"Did you see it?"

Lin Que snapped the cap onto his pen.

"Before he turned around, his toes were still pointing this way."

Tao Zhiyan smiled.

"That's just how Old Zhao is; he chases you away harshly with his words, but always leaves half a step behind with his feet."

Zhou Mingda checked the time.

"Chairman Tao, you should rest early too.

We have to go to the town government for coordination tomorrow."

Tao Zhiyan waved his hand.

"You go up first."

Zhou Mingda knew he still had things to say to Lin Que, so he nodded and went upstairs.

Only Tao Zhiyan and Lin Que were left in the small hall on the first floor.

The old man at the front desk had already gone to the back room to sleep.

In the small hall, there was an old tea table, the surface scorched with a few circular marks.

Tao Zhiyan rummaged for tea leaves from behind the counter and brewed two cups himself.

The water temperature wasn't enough, the tea leaves floated on the surface, the fragrance was very faint, and when drunk, there was only a bit of the astringency of old tea.

The two sat down.

The sound of rain outside was dense.

The opera singing from afar came intermittently again, separated by the floor and walls, sounding even further away.

Tao Zhiyan held the teacup for a long time without drinking.

"On today's round, Old Zhao didn't say much."

"It wasn't little."

Tao Zhiyan looked at him.

Lin Que placed his notebook on the table.

"He talked about Workshop No. 1, the warehouse, the exhaust pipe, the patrol line, the number of households.

He also said that even if a single screw was lost, they would investigate for a long time."

After listening, Tao Zhiyan nodded.

"You listened well."

"Coming to gather material, one must always listen first."

Tao Zhiyan leaned back in his chair, his fingers stroking the rim of the cup.

"Old Zhao wasn't like this before."

Lin Que didn't interject.

Tao Zhiyan looked out the window.

"More than twenty years ago, the factory hadn't completely moved away yet.

Old Zhao was under thirty back then, walking with a gust of wind.

If any kid was naughty and climbed the wall, he could chase them for half a street.

If there was petty theft in the factory, he would check house by house in the middle of the night."

"Later, the main body moved away, and the factory area became more than half empty."

"The first batch to leave were the technicians and young workers.

The second batch to leave were the family members.

Later on, the school was gone, the hospital was withdrawn, and the cafeteria closed."

"The people remaining became fewer and fewer."

Tao Zhiyan took a sip of tea.

The tea had already gone cold.

"That red line became the last thing remaining."

Lin Que looked at him.

Tao Zhiyan didn't directly say what was inside the red line.

He seemed to be looking for a suitable starting point.

"When the factory was relocating back then, the province organized a group of writers to come here."

"I came too."

Lin Que raised his eyes.

Tao Zhiyan said in a low voice: "I was young back then, and my temper was even more impulsive than now.

I wanted to write about everything I saw, and felt everything I heard had value."

"That group stayed for half a month."

"After going back, they wrote a batch of manuscripts."

He paused.

"No one was satisfied."

"Why?"

Tao Zhiyan put down the teacup.

"Many wrote about the decay, many wrote about nostalgia, and many wrote about how the factory area exited the historical stage."

"But the people of Muchuan Town read them, and not a single one nodded."

"Old Zhao only said one sentence at the time."

Tao Zhiyan looked up at Lin Que.

"He said, you all wrote about the walls, the chimneys, even the broken windows, but you didn't write about a single person who truly lived their lives in the factory."

The small hall became quiet.

The water pipe upstairs dripped a few times.

Lin Que wrote this sentence down in his notebook.

Tao Zhiyan watched his pen fall and continued.

"Since then, Old Zhao rarely talked much to people who came to gather material."

"He has guarded that line for over twenty years, sending away batch after batch of people.

The media has been here, the photography association has been here, students have been here too."

"Many people, as soon as they arrive here, the first sentence they ask is what is inside the red line.

The second sentence they ask is whether they can film.

The third sentence they ask is if there are any particularly tragic, particularly writeable stories."

Tao Zhiyan's tone became heavier.

"He is annoyed by this."

"So today he first talked about the old factory buildings, the rotten dirt roads, and a few old men."

"Correct."

Tao Zhiyan looked at the rain outside the window.

"He is testing you."

Lin Que turned to the last page and pushed the notebook over.

Tao Zhiyan looked down.

That page had a few short sentences written on it.

"Old Zhao's flashlight only shines on his feet, not on the high walls."

"He said the exhaust pipe was blocked, his tone lighter than when he said there were fewer people."

"The mud next to the red line is harder, people must often walk around it."

"He has been waiting all night for me to ask about the red line."

Tao Zhiyan saw the last line, and his finger stopped.

He looked up.

Lin Que picked up the teacup and took a sip.

The tea had already gone cold, tasting astringent.

"But, he should want someone to listen to the other things first."

Tao Zhiyan was stunned for a few seconds.

The sound of rain outside the window didn't stop.

The opera singing from upstairs drifted down vaguely again, the yi-ya singing falling into the old building's hallway, mixing with the sound of the water pipes.

Tao Zhiyan slowly closed the notebook.

"Don't say this in front of Old Zhao."

Lin Que nodded, not asking further.

Tao Zhiyan pushed the notebook back, his voice lowered, looking into the distance.

"The things that can be written about in Muchuan Town always revolve around that wall.

What is pressed behind that wall depends on whether Old Zhao is willing to say it out."

Lin Que's fingers rested on the cover of the notebook.

"He is already waiting for someone who can listen to the end."

Tao Zhiyan looked at the rain outside the door, the smile slowly fading.

"I hope so."

...