511: Chapter 511 Qinqiang Opera

The wind poured in from above the broken wall, pressing down the wild grass.

Old Zhao's word-by-word questioning still hung in the air.

The morning light cast shallow textures over the names on the stone tablet, as if they, too, were waiting for Lin Que's answer.

Lin Que looked at the stone tablet, at the faint marks worn by Old Zhao's fingertips on the three characters "Liang Shoushan," and at the half-smoked, soggy cigarette butt lying in the mud before the monument.

He did not rush to speak.

Old Zhao stared at him. That gaze held twenty years of guardedness, the vulnerability of having just torn open his own scars, and the final stubbornness of a gatekeeper.

Lin Que raised his head.

"Uncle Zhao, I will write about that accident, but I won't put it on the first line, nor will I use it as a frightening gong."

Old Zhao's Adam's apple bobbed.

Lin Que looked into his eyes, his tone devoid of fluctuation.

"I also won't write Old Liang as a model soldier hung on a wall. You've seen too much of that kind of writing. It's been written in reports, posted on bulletin boards, and many people are accustomed to stuffing such lives into a frame called 'heroic deeds.'"

"Outsiders read it, nod, and say, 'Amazing.' Then they flip the page to the next news item."

The wind stopped for a moment.

The wild grass before the stone tablet straightened up, only to be pressed back down by the next gust.

Old Zhao's fists clenched. The old scar on the back of his hand stood out, stretched taut.

"Then what are you going to write?" His voice trembled. "No explosion, no Old Liang saving people. If you avoid all that, what on earth can you write?"

Old Zhao took half a step forward, his chest heaving.

"That was bought with his life! And you say you won't write about it?"

Lin Que did not retreat.

He lowered his head and looked at the shriveled cigarette butt in the mud before the stone tablet.

The paper skin was softened by rain, the tobacco exposed, yet Old Zhao had kept it for years. He had kept it until the edges of the paper turned yellow, until the tooth marks remained clearly distinguishable.

Lin Que crouched down, his gaze falling on that half-smoked cigarette.

"Uncle Zhao, when Old Liang used to snatch your cigarettes, how did he usually scold you?"

Old Zhao froze. After a long while, he spoke in a hoarse voice.

"He called me Old Dog Zhao, saying there were too many sparks in the factory and that I'd set myself on fire sooner or later."

Old Zhao opened his mouth but made no sound. Lin Que stood up.

"Exactly. I'll write about that."

He pointed toward the town street in the distance. In that direction, the window on the second floor of Unit 3 emitted an off-key operatic tune every day.

"I'll also write about Auntie Song's opera. People in town say her voice was bright when she was young, but now, every time she sings that same line, she runs out of breath at the end."

"I'll write about the old lady in Building 7 washing yellowed vegetable leaves three times before putting them in the pot. I'll write about Old Zhou taking the long way around to avoid the cafeteria entrance. I'll write about you heading out again on rainy days to patrol before the mud on your pant legs has even dried."

"I'll write about those trivial, overlooked days in Muchuan Town that aren't tragic or heroic enough."

Old Zhao's fist loosened halfway, then clenched tight again. He had understood half of it, but the other half was stuck in his throat, unable to be swallowed.

"Just writing about these… will anyone read it?" His voice was much lower than before.

Lin Que did not answer immediately. He tilted his head to listen for a moment.

The morning wind carried the sounds from the town street over, and across the ruins and high walls, one could faintly hear the tail end of an operatic tune.

"Yi—" It was far away. It was thin. It dragged on until it broke off at the end.

Lin Que looked back at Old Zhao.

"You once said that when a play reaches a bitter part, there's at least someone in the audience to call out 'Bravo.'"

Old Zhao was stunned. That was what he had said on the first day. Outside the guardroom, in the sound of the rain, the words he had used to block Lin Que.

Lin Que continued. "Muchuan Town has its opera. Auntie Song from Unit 3 has been singing for decades. Her voice has collapsed, she can't catch her breath, yet she still starts singing at that same time every day."

"I've listened for seven days." His voice was steady, as if stating a fact he had pondered for a long time.

"On the first day, she could still hold the high notes. On the third day, it was half a key lower. On the sixth day, she stopped twice after the same phrase, as if the breath in her lungs was blocked by something."

Old Zhao's hand dropped to his side, his clenched fist slowly loosening.

"The whole story begins with a snippet of opera…"

Lin Que turned around, facing the ruins and the gray, indistinct outline of the town street in the distance.

"It starts from when Auntie Song was young and her voice was at its brightest, and sings all the way to now, when her breath is short, broken, and unable to keep up."

"I want that opera to sing from youth to old age. Singing through the white steam of the cafeteria, through the footsteps of the night shift, and singing to the point where she can't catch her breath today."

"Old Liang will be in it, and you will be in it too."

Lin Que turned back to look at Old Zhao.

"I won't elevate them. I won't make them cry on paper either."

"I will knead the way they were when they were alive—the way they snatched cigarettes, the way they scolded people, the way they crowded into the cafeteria after work to steam six extra baskets of buns—into the coarsest operatic tune of this land."

"When people read to the end and realize these people are gone, they won't need to read descriptions of the explosion."

"Because they will have already known Old Liang, known that workshop director who complained about the smell of smoke but still stood downstairs after work to listen to a tune."

"Losing someone after you've come to know them hurts more than reading ten thousand words of tragic description."

Old Zhao stood before the stone tablet, his body stiff. The wind blew through his graying hair and stirred the pin on his collar.

When the words "operatic tune" struck his ears, Old Zhao's shoulders shuddered violently, and his fingers began to tremble.

That breath, stuck in his chest for twenty years, was finally knocked loose by the words "operatic tune."

When Old Liang was alive, he loved listening to Auntie Song sing. Back then, the factory was still bustling, with three shifts, and the white steam from the cafeteria's steamed buns could drift up to the second floor.

After the night shift, Old Liang wouldn't rush home; he would stand downstairs at Unit 3 with his enamel mug, craning his neck to listen.

Auntie Song's voice was bright back then. The high notes of her Qinqiang could lift the roof, and her trailing notes were long and steady.

Old Liang would only leave after listening. Before leaving, he would shout up to the building: "Old Song's wife, that sounded beautiful today!"

Auntie Song would curse him from the window, calling him crazy.

Later, Old Liang was gone. Auntie Song's voice grew lower with each passing year. Old Zhao had never mentioned these things to anyone. Because no one asked. And because, even if someone did ask, he wouldn't know how to piece these fragments into a complete sentence.

Only then did Old Zhao understand that those old stories he had never spoken of had always been connected to that operatic tune.

Old Zhao reached out, trembling, and touched the stone tablet. His fingertips pressed against the three characters "Liang Shoushan."

"You kid…" His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible. "All these days…" He swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed significantly. "So this is what you were looking at."

What he saw was which breath Auntie Song's opera broke on, the path Old Zhou took to go around, and the old lady in Building 7 washing yellowed vegetable leaves until they turned pale. He was looking at how the people of Muchuan Town lived.

Old Zhao crouched down. His knees made a crisp "crack" sound; he paused, but crouched down nonetheless.

His hands pressed against the base of the stone tablet, mud embedded under his fingernails.

"Old Liang…" He spoke to the name on the monument, his voice intermittent. "Someone… will be able to write you clearly."

Old Zhao's shoulders shook twice. He took a deep breath, forcing back what was welling up.

After a while, he braced his knees and stood up. He turned around to face Lin Que directly. His eye sockets were red, deeply red.

His eyes, which hadn't reddened in front of anyone for twenty years, finally lost their guard this morning in front of a seventeen-year-old boy. But he didn't cry. He just blinked hard, forcing back the film of water.

Then he fished the set of old keys from his pocket. "For the next few days, if you want to see what's inside, come find me during the day."

Old Zhao stuffed the keys into Lin Que's palm. "I'll open the doors, I'll lead the way. The rules still stand, but I'll let you see what you ought to see."

Old Zhao's voice was still shaking, but his tone had recovered its usual hardness.

"There's a metal cabinet next to the old equipment, and at the very bottom, there's an oil-paper package. Inside is an old photo album; I take it out to air it once every year."

"Group photos of the factory from back then, pictures of cafeteria gatherings, and…" He paused. "Anyway, whatever you want to see, I'll show you."

Lin Que looked down at the keys in his palm, not saying thanks immediately, just slowly closing his fingers around them.

The keys were light, but they felt heavy in his palm. He just nodded once, marking this trust in his heart.

Some things don't need thanks.

Old Zhao turned back and took one last look at the stone tablet. "Old Liang, I'm leaving."

After saying this, he strode toward the iron gate. Lin Que followed him toward the iron gate.

Before exiting the iron gate, Old Zhao turned back to the stone tablet again. He crouched down, dug a small piece of wet mud next to the base of the monument with his fingers, and placed the half-smoked cigarette inside. The muddy water quickly soaked through the cigarette paper.

Old Zhao slowly smoothed the dirt with his palm. "Old Liang, from now on, I won't carry it with me." He said it very quietly. "I'll leave it here with you; you watch over me."

Lin Que watched the smoke drift away, then turned and walked back along the outer wall toward the town street.

The muddy road underfoot was still wet. His soles stepped into the cracks, creating a faint splashing sound.

The wild grass by the roadside was bent low by the dew, each blade clinging to the ground.

He did not look toward the guardroom. Nor did he look back. Some things, once said, do not need to be confirmed again.

When he returned to the guesthouse, the old man at the front desk was already reading the newspaper. Reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the paper flipped to the middle fold, a cup of strong tea resting by his hand.

"Back?" "Yeah." "There's porridge and buns at the cafeteria for breakfast." "I've already eaten."

Lin Que went upstairs. The broken light in the hallway hadn't been fixed yet, and the light was dim.

He pushed open the door to 203, and dampness rushed to meet him. The dehumidifier was buzzing. Half of the town street was visible outside the window.

The outlines of the abandoned chimneys in the distance were wrapped in morning mist, revealing only the gaps at their tops.

Lin Que just sent a message saying he was safe, then placed his phone face down on the table. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and took his notebook out of his pocket.

The cover had curled at the edges from the dampness. The inner pages were densely filled. Eight days of records were lined up row by row.

Lin Que flipped past these pages to the last blank page. He picked up his pen. The tip of the pen hovered above the paper.

Outside the window, the wind carried the sound in. "Yi—ya—" It was far away. It was thin. From the direction of the second floor of Unit 3. Auntie Song had started singing again.

The trailing note dragged on halfway, then broke. It stopped for two seconds, then continued again. It was a strained continuation, as if the breath in her lungs was blocked by something, forcing it out.

Lin Que listened to that operatic tune. The places where it broke, the places where it stopped, the places where it continued and then fell away. Listening to those pauses, he finally knew where the first stroke should fall.

The years and months of Muchuan Town were hidden right in this breath that couldn't be caught.

His pen fell. Two characters appeared on the paper. "Qinqiang."