509: Chapter 509 Old Partner

After Lin Que dropped the line, "Someone by the East Wall doesn't like the smell of smoke," Old Zhao's hand, which was holding a cigarette butt, trembled on the spot.

The cigarette butt was pinched between his fingers, its paper edges already softened by the damp air. The hallway light was yellow, casting a glow on his rough hands, where several old scars were visible.

Lin Que stood inside the doorway, saying nothing more. That sentence was enough. The East Wall. The person who didn't like the smell of smoke.

Old Zhao stared at him for a long time. There was no eagerness in the boy to pry into secrets, nor the triumph of having caught someone's wound.

He just stood there, one hand pressing down on an old notebook, his eyes quiet. Those eyes were too still, so still that it felt as if they had truly captured all the sounds in Muchuan Town that no one ever listened to.

Old Zhao's Adam's apple bobbed.

"You kid..."

When he spoke, his voice was hoarser than before. Lin Que didn't rush him. Rainwater dripped from the hem of Old Zhao's raincoat onto the floor, drop by drop, making tiny sounds.

Old Zhao finally just nodded.

"Get some sleep."

After saying this, he turned and walked toward the stairs. When he reached the corner, he paused, but didn't look back. Lin Que watched his back disappear into the shadows of the staircase and reached out to close the door.

The moment the door closed, the sound of the rain in the hallway was shut out. Lin Que stood for a few seconds, returned to the table, and reopened the notebook. On the blank page, those six words remained: Get to know the people first, then ask about the wall.

He picked up his pen and added a line below.

"Until the person guarding the wall is willing to speak, any questioning feels like trading someone else's wounds for an article."

The tip of his pen stopped.

Outside the window, in the direction of the distant factory area, a flashlight beam flickered once before being swallowed by the curtain of rain. Lin Que looked up at the damp night. He didn't chase after it. The story behind that wall had to be handed over by the person who had guarded it for twenty years.

When Old Zhao returned to the guard room, the incandescent light was still on. A ring of dust had settled on the bulb, and the light shining down made the tea mug, the logbook, and the key ring on the old wooden table look worn.

Rain pelted against the tin eaves, one burst tighter than the last, making one's brain ache. Old Zhao took off his raincoat and hung it behind the door. Water flowed down the hem, quickly pooling into a small wet patch on the floor.

He sat on the old wooden chair, and the chair leg creaked. The patrol logbook lay on the table. He had already written the entry for today. 8:40, no abnormalities outside the East Wall. 9:20, no abnormalities outside the warehouse. 10:15, no abnormalities at the back door of the living area. Every stroke was no different from the past twenty years.

Old Zhao reached for the cigarette behind his ear. Halfway there, his hand stopped. Lin Que's voice rang in his ears again.

"There should be someone there who doesn't like the smell of smoke."

Old Zhao took the cigarette down and placed it on the table. That cigarette butt was very short. So short that even if lit, it wouldn't last two puffs. Yet he had kept it for many years.

In the guard room, there was only the sound of rain. And the sound of the old clock's hands moving on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick. Old Zhao sat there, replaying these past eight days over and over in his mind.

On the first day, that kid from the city sat under the old locust tree, watching people come and go. Old Zhou walked past him, coughing loudly on purpose.

"What are you looking at? This old man's limp isn't a monkey show."

The kid didn't dodge, nor did he offer a fawning smile. He lowered his head and wrote a few lines.

Old Zhao was standing at the entrance of the grocery store at the time, too far away to see what was written, only feeling that this kid was a bit stubborn. On the second day, Lin Que went to the dry pond. That place had long been devoid of fish. "No fish in the pond, shrimp are expensive"—this saying had become a joke in Muchuan Town. The pond was so dry that even shrimp couldn't survive.

Yet Lin Que stood there listening to the opera. Old Song's wife on the second floor of Unit 3 sang off-key, though in her youth, she had the voice of the factory's performing arts troupe. Now she was short of breath and would stop after singing a couple of lines. People who came before, upon hearing that opera, would at most say it had a strong folk flavor. Lin Que stood there for an entire afternoon. He didn't ask how her husband had died, nor did he ask why her son hadn't returned.

The third day, the fourth day... In the following days, Lin Que remained the same, staying in one place for half a day at a time, asking little, remembering much.

Old Zhao picked up an old screw from the corner of the table and rubbed it between his fingertips. The next moment, the screw slipped from his fingers, hit the edge of the tea mug, and rolled half a circle before stopping. At that moment, for the first time, he felt that this kid might really be different from those who came before.

Outside the guard room, the rain was falling heavier and heavier. He raised his hand to wipe his face. When his palm brushed past the corner of his eye, it brought out a hint of moisture. Looking down at the cigarette butt on the table, he suddenly asked,

"Old friend, tell me, how exactly is this kid's brain wired?"

No one answered in the room. The old clock was still ticking. Old Zhao sat for a few minutes before finally standing up. He put his raincoat back on, picked up his flashlight, and fished a set of keys from the very bottom of the drawer. The key ring was very old. One of the smallest keys was rusted dark, but its teeth were worn smooth.

Old Zhao took that key off separately and clenched it in his palm. As the door opened, the scent of rain rushed into the room. He didn't take the usual patrol route. After coming out of the guard room, he walked east along the outer wall of the factory area.

The mud and water underfoot were deep. When he stepped in with his Liberation shoes, they brought up wet mud when pulled out. The yellow warning signs swayed in the rain. No entry. No photography. No climbing over. He had looked at these words for twenty years. He knew them better than his own name.

Old Zhao stopped in front of the small door on the east side. This door was sandwiched between two high walls, with waist-high weeds growing outside. Usually, no one came here; even the children in town knew this place was off-limits. He reached out to push aside the wet grass, revealing the iron door. The lock was severely rusted, but the inside of the lock cylinder had been oiled.

Old Zhao inserted the key. He turned it the first time, but it didn't open. He paused, then applied a bit more force. Click. The lock opened. When the iron door was pushed open, it made a long, creaking sound. Old Zhao slipped in sideways and closed the door from the inside.

The ground inside the red line was harder than outside. Rain pelted against the abandoned equipment, making a chaotic sound. Rows of old machines were half-buried in the grass; some were only foundations left, while others still retained their metal casings. Layers of rust curled up, like old debts that hadn't been uncovered for many years.

Old Zhao's flashlight beam swept across. Rain streaks floated in the beam of light. He walked with familiarity. He bypassed a winch with a broken axle, stepped over several iron pipes lying on the ground, and squeezed past a section of collapsed concrete beam. Further ahead was the East Wall.

Under the East Wall was the site of an old workshop. The roof was long gone, leaving only three walls. A stone tablet stood at the base of the wall. The tablet wasn't tall and was mottled by the rain. Some of the characters on it had faded, but the names remained. Row after row. Old Zhao walked up to the stone tablet, and the flashlight beam landed on it. He stood there for a long time.

Rainwater hit the brim of his raincoat, flowing down the side of his face. He crouched down and placed the flashlight next to the stone tablet. The light shone on the names at the very top. Old Zhao raised his hand and touched the edge of the tablet.

"I've come again."

His voice was very low, muffled and hoarse from the sound of the rain. "I shouldn't have come in tonight; the rules were set by me, twenty years, and I haven't dared to break them even once."

He paused, as if listening to someone scolding him.

"I know, I know. You must be saying that Old Zhao is being stubborn again."

Old Zhao sat down at the base of the wall. There were still blackened marks from back then on the wall. Rainwater flowed down from the broken wall, trickling down the brick joints. He looked at those names, and his words gradually increased.

"A kid came here."

"Seventeen years old, from Beijing. Old Tao brought him here personally, said he's good at writing articles."

"I was annoyed at first. A city kid, probably hasn't even stepped in much mud, what could he possibly write?"

"I gave him the cold shoulder, but he didn't talk back. Said he wouldn't rush to write until he saw things clearly."

Old Zhao took out that cigarette butt, held it between his fingers, but still didn't light it.

"In these eight days, he didn't ask about you."

"Nor did he ask about what's inside the wall."

"He went to watch Old Zhou walk, listened to Old Song's wife sing opera, watched that old lady in Building 7 pick vegetables. He squatted outside the wall watching the mud, saying the rust wasn't stopped by the wall."

At this point, Old Zhao's throat choked up. He coughed forcefully.

"He even knew that someone by the East Wall doesn't like the smell of smoke."

Rainwater slid down the stone tablet. Old Zhao lowered his head, his palms resting on his knees.

"Old Liang, did you hear that?"

"You used to hate me smoking the most. Said there were too many sparks in the factory, told me to stop courting death. After you left, I kept this butt."

He looked up at a name on the second row of the tablet.

"I've guarded it for twenty years."

"Guarded until the factory was empty, the school was gone, the cafeteria doors rotted, and the young people all left."

"People from outside came wave after wave."

"They asked me how many people passed through here, asked if I had more tragic details, asked if I could take them to take some photos."

Old Zhao gritted his teeth.

"Sometimes I really want to drive them out."

"The things you left behind with your lives have become conversation topics in their eyes."

He raised his hand and pressed it against the stone tablet. His fingertips pressed down on those names.

"But I'm also afraid."

"Afraid that if I don't speak, no one will remember."

"Afraid that one day when I lie down, this wall will still be here, but no one will read the names."

"Human sentiment is greater than debt, even if it means selling the cooking pot. But the debt I owe you, I can't repay no matter what I sell."

The sound of the rain suddenly grew louder. The weeds were pressed down by the wind, swaying wildly against the ground. Old Zhao raised his face.

"Today that kid said he was afraid of asking the wrong thing."

"He said that if you ask about secrets before you've gotten to know the people, what you write will just be a display piece."

"These words, they hurt to hear."

"But they hit the mark."

Old Zhao looked at the stone tablet, his voice gradually steadying.

"He can smell that something is wrong with this place."

"He knows that back then, if a screw was lost, the whole factory would be turned upside down for half the night."

"Maybe he can write about you clearly. Write what your names are, what you did, how you stayed."

"Write it for those people outside who haven't even heard the name of Muchuan Town."

He paused for a long time. The light from the flashlight grew weak. Old Zhao placed the cigarette butt in front of the stone tablet. The cigarette was quickly soaked by the rain. He didn't try to shield it.

"Old Liang, I'm not smoking tonight."

"Don't scold me."

Old Zhao steadied himself against the wall and stood up. His knees hurt terribly, but he stood very straight. He took one last look at the names on the stone tablet, picked up the flashlight, and turned to walk out. The iron door closed again. The latch clicked back into place. Old Zhao clenched the key in his palm and walked along the outer wall in the rain toward the guard room. When he reached the warning sign, he paused for a step, looked back at the window on the second floor of the guesthouse that was still lit. He had made a decision.