101: Chapter 101 The Collection of Sounds

The news that Lin Xiaohe was talking to the wall spread throughout Xinfeng Town. It wasn't that anyone specifically went to spread it; it was the children who came to the church to listen to the wall who brought the news back. They said Lin Xiaohe could talk to the wall, and the wall would answer her.

Sam was teaching her to play the guitar; she didn't know how to play, but she knew how to listen. When the wall made a sound, she would pluck once. When the wall made two sounds, she would pluck twice. When the wall was silent, she waited. While she waited, the wall remained silent too. But she didn't leave; she just crouched there, holding that guitar that was bigger than her, waiting.

One day, Sam came again. He sat in front of the wall, holding his guitar and gently plucking the strings. Lin Xiaohe crouched beside him, holding her large guitar and plucking gently as well. Neither of them spoke; they just plucked and listened. The wind blew, and the letter paper rustled. The strings sounded, and the wall sounded. The two sounds intertwined, making it impossible to distinguish which belonged to the wall and which belonged to the guitar.

Sam played for a while and then stopped. Lin Xiaohe stopped too. He looked at her. "What did you hear?" She thought for a moment and said, "Someone is laughing. Very far away. Very far away. Like it's coming up from the base of the wall." Sam was stunned for a moment. He closed his eyes and listened for a while. The letter paper rustled, and the strings were still vibrating, but there was nothing at the base of the wall. He listened for a long time and heard nothing. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "How did you hear it?" She said, "I don't know. I just heard it."

That night, Sam went to find Lin Feng. Lin Feng was crouching under the Old Locust Tree, a straw in his mouth. Margaret walked over carrying a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him. Sam crouched next to them and told them about it. After Lin Feng finished listening, he didn't speak. Sam asked, "Is there a sound at the base of the wall?" Lin Feng thought for a moment. "There is." Sam was stunned. "You heard it?" Lin Feng shook his head. "I didn't hear it. But I know it's there." Sam didn't understand.

Lin Feng pointed in the direction of the church. "Those letters, those scraps of paper, that dried mushroom. They've been there for a long time. People look at them, touch them, listen to them. So they make a sound. Some people hear it, some don't. She heard it."

The next day, Sam brought a roll of blank tape and an old-fashioned tape recorder. He had found the recorder at a second-hand shop; it still worked, but the buttons were stiff and took a while to pop back up after being pressed. He placed it at the base of the wall and pressed the record button. The tape recorder whirred, and the tape hissed.

He crouched beside it, listening. The wall was making sounds, and the letter paper was rustling. The tape recorder was also making sounds, and the tape was hissing. The two sounds blended together, making it impossible to distinguish which belonged to the wall and which belonged to the recorder.

Lin Xiaohe crouched beside him, watching. "What are you doing?" Sam said, "Recording the sound of the wall." She asked, "Why record it?" Sam thought for a moment. "To keep it. To listen to later." She nodded and didn't ask further.

He recorded for an afternoon until the tape ran out. Sam took it out and stuck it on the wall, next to those letters. The tape was black and small, unlike the letter paper. But it was there, together with the letters. Lin Xiaohe looked at it and reached out to touch it. It was hard and cold, unlike the letter paper. But she felt that, just like those letters, it was speaking.

After that cassette tape was stuck up, there was one more person who came to the church to listen to the wall. He didn't come to listen to the wall, but to listen to the tape. It was Mark. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the tape for a long time. Then he crouched down, took it off the wall, and put it into the tape recorder. He pressed the play button, the tape turned, and it hissed.

First was the sound of the wall, the rustling of letter paper, like wind blowing through a wheat field. Then came the sound of Sam's strings, one by one, very slow. Then there was the sound from the base of the wall, very faint and far away. He couldn't make out what it was. He listened once, then again. He listened three times, but still couldn't make it out. He looked up at Lin Xiaohe. "What did you hear?" She said, "Someone is laughing. Very far away. Coming up from the base of the wall." He closed his eyes and listened again. Still, he couldn't hear it.

He put the tape back on the wall, stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red ribbon on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. He stood there watching for a while, then walked back, pulled a letter from his pocket, and stuck it on the wall. The letter was very short, with only a few lines: "My name is Mark. I'm from New York. I used to look at data. Now I listen to sounds. Today I heard a cassette tape. It's the sound of the wall. But I couldn't make it out. Someone heard it. She is seven years old. Her name is Lin Xiaohe. Thank you to her for listening."

When the news reached the farm, Eric was watering the plants. Sarah ran in and said Mark had gone to listen to the tape; he couldn't hear it, but Lin Xiaohe could. Eric put down the hose and crouched in front of the racks. He remembered when he wrote the first letter, not knowing who would see it. Now people were writing, people were looking, and people were listening. And some couldn't hear it, while others could. He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go listen to that tape." When he reached the church, it was evening. The setting sun shone through the stained glass windows, falling upon that wall.

He crouched at the base of the wall and pressed the play button. The tape turned, hissing. The sound of the wall, the sound of the strings, and that very faint, distant sound. He couldn't make out what it was. He listened once, then again. He listened five times, but still couldn't make it out. He stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red ribbon on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. He stood there watching for a while, then walked back, pulled a letter from his pocket, and stuck it on the wall. The letter was very short, with only a few lines: "My name is Eric. I'm a mushroom grower. Today I heard a cassette tape. It's the sound of the wall. But I couldn't make it out. Someone heard it. She is seven years old. Her name is Lin Xiaohe. Thank you to her for listening."

On the third day after that tape was stuck on the wall, one more person came to the church. They didn't come to listen to the wall, nor to listen to the tape, but to deliver a tape. It was Martha. She stood in front of the wall, took the tape down, put it in the recorder, and listened once. Then she put it back, pulled a new tape from her pocket, and stuck it on the wall. The tape was new, black, and shiny. She stuck it up slowly, as if she were sticking up a letter. After she finished, she stood there and looked at it for a long time.

Jenny walked over and stood beside her. "What is this?"

Martha said, "It's me playing the guitar. I recorded it for an afternoon. I didn't play well. But I want to keep it. For the wall to hear."

After that tape was stuck up, more and more people came to the church to deliver tapes. They didn't come to listen to the wall, but to deliver sounds. Some delivered songs they sang, some delivered pieces they played, some delivered poems they recited, and some delivered words they spoke. The tapes were new, black, and shiny, stuck on the wall together with those letters. Some delivered one tape, some delivered two, and some delivered several. There were more and more tapes on the wall, growing from one end of the wall to the other, from the bottom of the wall to the top. The letters were still there, the drawings were still there, and the tapes were there too. They were all together. Old, new, yellow, white, black, shiny, intact, and fragmented—they were all there.

Jenny came to the church every day to stick those tapes on the wall. She didn't stick them by date or by name, but by sound. She knew where each tape belonged just by listening once. She stuck Sam's at the base of the wall, Martha's next to Sam's, and the children's next to Martha's. She stuck them up very slowly, listening to each one for a long time, as if she were finding a home for them.

That night, Lin Feng crouched under the Old Locust Tree. Margaret walked over carrying a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him.

"Lin Feng, there are so many more tapes on the wall."

Lin Feng nodded.

Margaret asked, "Did you listen?"

Lin Feng shook his head. "No."

Margaret asked, "Why not listen?"

Lin Feng thought for a moment. "Those sounds were recorded for the wall to hear. They weren't recorded for me."

Margaret looked at him for a long time and then smiled.

Early the next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver the mail. He parked his bicycle at the church door and pushed it open. There were many more tapes on the wall, black and shiny, together with those letters. He stood in front of them and looked for a long time. He remembered when he first listened to a tape; he was about that age too. He had forgotten what he listened to. But he remembered that he had listened. He stood for a long time, then turned and pushed open the door, walking into the morning light.

The bicycle was still creaking at the door; he got on and slowly pedaled forward. The road wound its way into the distance, and the wind blew, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly but steadily. He thought of those letters, those drawings, and those tapes. And that child who talked to the wall. She didn't know how to play the guitar, but she was listening. The wall was talking, and she was answering. Now people were recording sounds and sticking them on the wall. For the wall to hear. And also for those who couldn't hear to listen to. He smiled and continued riding forward. He rode very slowly but steadily.

[Chapter 101 End]