106: Chapter 106 The Wall's Birthday

Lin Xiaohe discovered that date at the foot of the wall.

She was crouching there that day, her finger slowly tracing along the gaps between the wooden boards. Dried plasticine was embedded in the cracks—red, yellow, blue, and green—looking like a colorful river. When her finger reached the corner of the wall, it was pricked by something. Looking closer, it was a thumbtack. It wasn't the rusty kind of thumbtack Jenny had shown her; this one was copper, darkened but not rusted. There were characters carved on the head of the pin, tiny and crooked, as if someone had scratched them in stroke by stroke with the tip of a nail. She spent a long time deciphering them before recognizing three numbers: ten, two, and nine. December 9th.

She pulled the thumbtack off the wall and turned it over and over to look at it. There were characters on the back too, even smaller and more crooked. She squinted for a long time before recognizing a few strokes: Qiao? Bridge? Or something else? She didn't know. But she knew that this thumbtack had been on this wall for a very long time. Longer than her letters, longer than Molly's letters, longer than Eric's letters. It had been covered by stationery, unseen by anyone. It was only revealed when the paper fell off.

She ran to tell Jenny. "The wall has a birthday."

Jenny was taking a scarf off a thumbtack, and her hand stopped when she heard this. "What?"

Lin Xiaohe placed the thumbtack in her palm. Jenny turned it over to look at the characters on the back and froze. She recognized that character. "Qiao" was a character in George's name. Was George's full name George Qiao? No, George was his first name; what was his surname? She didn't know. But this thumbtack had been pinned there by George. December 9th. An autumn twenty years ago.

She gave the thumbtack back to Lin Xiaohe. "This was left by the person who built the wall. When he pinned it there, the wall had just been finished."

That afternoon, Lin Xiaohe went to find George. George was picking mushrooms at the farm. He saw her crouching at the entrance but didn't speak. She crouched, and he crouched too. The two of them crouched in front of the mushroom racks, each holding a mushroom in their hands.

"Grandpa George, is December 9th your birthday?"

George was taken aback. "No."

"Then why is December 9th carved on the wall?"

George was silent for a long time. He looked at the mushroom in his hand, white and glowing softly under the lights. He remembered that autumn twenty years ago. After finishing the last wooden board, he had stood there, pulled a thumbtack from his pocket, and carved the date on its head. When he was done, he pinned it to a board in the corner. He didn't know why he carved it; he just felt like he should. He left as soon as he finished. He hadn't thought of it for twenty years.

"That is the wall's birthday," he said.

Lin Xiaohe handed him the thumbtack. He took it and placed it in his palm. It was copper, dark, and rust-free. The characters on the head were crooked, but he recognized his own handwriting. Ten, two, nine. He looked at it for a long time, then gave the thumbtack back to Lin Xiaohe.

"Keep it," he said.

Lin Xiaohe stuck the thumbtack back on the wall, in the corner. She didn't use a new one; she pressed it back into its original hole. The hole was still there, but it had loosened; when she pressed it in, it fell back out. She pinched it with her fingers, but it wouldn't stay tight. She thought for a moment, pulled a piece of red plasticine from her pocket, pinched off a small lump, stuffed it into the hole, and then pressed the thumbtack in. The plasticine dried and hardened, holding the thumbtack firmly in place. She stood up to take a look. The red pinhead, embedded in the gray wooden board, looked like a little strawberry.

She crouched down and said to the thumbtack, "Happy Birthday."

The wind blew, and the letters on the wall rustled. She didn't know if the wall heard her, but she said it anyway.

When the news reached the farm, George was watering the plants. Sarah ran in and said that Lin Xiaohe had put the thumbtack back and even said happy birthday. George put down the hose but didn't stand up. He crouched in front of the racks, looking at the mushrooms. On December 9th, twenty years ago, he had finished this wall and pinned a thumbtack. Twenty years later, a seven-year-old child had found it. He didn't know why he had pinned that thumbtack, but he knew that someone had said happy birthday on his behalf.

He stood up and walked out of the farm. He didn't go to the church; he went to the Tool shed. He unearthed a wooden board from the corner—a leftover scrap from when he built the wall that had been lying there ever since. The board was covered in dust. He wiped it clean with a rag and saw that the wood grain still looked new, pale and fresh, just as it had twenty years ago. He carried it to the church entrance and placed it at the foot of the wall, leaning against it. Then he went inside, pulled a letter from his pocket, and posted it on the wall.

"My name is George. I am seventy-three years old. I built this wall. On December 9th, twenty years ago, I pinned a thumbtack and carved the date. Today, a child found it. She is seven years old and named Lin Xiaohe. She said happy birthday for me. Thank you to her."

After the thumbtack was put back, people coming to see the wall began to notice it. They didn't come to see the letters; they came to see that copper thumbtack. Some stood to look, some crouched to look, and some reached out to touch it gently. The characters on the pinhead were blurred, but "twelve" and "nine" were still visible. Someone asked, "What is this?" Someone answered, "The wall's birthday." Someone asked, "Who pinned it?" Someone answered, "The person who built the wall." Someone asked, "Who found it?" Someone answered, "A seven-year-old child."

Lin Xiaohe came every day. She crouched in the corner and looked at the thumbtack. The red plasticine had dried and hardened, but the color remained. She reached out and touched it; the thumbtack didn't fall. She said "Happy Birthday" again, this time a little louder. The wall didn't answer, but she felt that it had heard her.

One day, she brought a small wooden board. The board was given to her by George; it was a leftover scrap from when the wall was built, pale and fresh, just as it had been twenty years ago. She placed it at the foot of the wall, leaning against it. She didn't know what to do with it; she just felt it belonged there.

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

Lin Xiaohe said, "A birthday present for the wall."

Jenny looked at the board; it was white and new, different from the old boards on the wall. But there it was, leaning against the wall like a small tree leaning against a large one. She looked at it for a long time, then stood up, walked back, took a letter out of a box, and posted it on the wall. The letter was very short, with only a few lines:

"My name is Jenny. Today I saw a child give the wall a new wooden board. She is seven years old and named Lin Xiaohe. The board was given by George, a leftover from when the wall was built twenty years ago. It is new and white. She placed it at the foot of the wall. She said it was a birthday present for the wall. Thank you to her for the gift."

After that board was placed at the foot of the wall, more people started coming to the church to bring boards. They weren't bringing gifts; they were bringing wooden boards. Some brought one, some brought two, and some brought a whole stack. The boards were new and white, piling up at the base of the wall, higher and higher. The letters were still there, the tapes were still there, the drawings were still there, the hot water bottles were still there, the bottles were still there, the dreams were still there, the greeting cards were still there, the gifts were still there, the patches were still there, and the wooden boards were there too. They were all together.

Every day, Jenny came to the church and leaned those boards against the foot of the wall. She didn't arrange them by size or by how new they were; she arranged them by mood. Whichever board she thought looked nice, she placed in a prominent spot. Whichever she thought was ordinary, she placed in a corner. Whichever she thought was special, she placed next to George's board. She leaned them very slowly, looking at each board for a long time, as if adding new bricks to the wall.

That night, Sam came to the church with his guitar. He sat in front of the wall, gently plucking the strings. He wasn't playing a song; he was celebrating the wall's birthday. He played very slowly, drawing out every note. Lin Xiaohe crouched nearby, listening. She could tell the wall was listening too. He plucked once, and the wall was silent. He plucked twice, and the wall was still silent. After he finished a song, the wall made a sound—a rustling, like a sigh. She listened for a long time, then stood up, ran to the entrance, and pushed the door open. The moonlight shone on the ground, bright and white like a river. She stood there listening for a while, then ran back and crouched next to Sam.

"The wall said it received it," she said.

Sam stopped. "You heard it?"

She nodded. "I heard it. It said it received it. Received the thumbtack, received the boards, received the blessings. Thank you."

Sam closed his eyes and listened for a while. The strings were silent, and the wall was silent too. He listened for a long time but heard nothing. He opened his eyes. "I didn't hear anything." She smiled. "It's okay. I heard it."

That night, Lin Feng crouched under the old locust tree. Margaret came over with a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him.

"Lin Feng, Lin Xiaohe said the wall received its birthday presents."

Lin Feng nodded.

Margaret asked, "Did you send one?"

Lin Feng shook his head.

Margaret asked, "Why not?"

Lin Feng thought for a moment. "The wall's birthday belongs to the wall. It's not mine."

Margaret looked at him for a long time, then smiled. "When did you learn to say things like that?"

Lin Feng said, "While biting a straw."

Early the next morning, Lao Zhou came to deliver the mail. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open. A stack of wooden boards had appeared in the corner, new and white. He crouched down and touched the top one. It was very smooth and flat, with the fragrance of wood. He remembered the first time he had touched a new wooden board; it was about this size too. He forgot what he had been touching, but he remembered that he had touched it. He stood for a long time, then turned and pushed the door open, stepping into the morning light.

His bicycle was still creaking at the entrance. He got on and slowly pedaled forward. The road wound its way into the distance, and the wind blew, mussing his hair. He rode slowly but steadily. He thought of the letters, drawings, tapes, shadows, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, wooden boards, and the child who found the wall's birthday. She had found a thumbtack with a date carved on its head. She had said happy birthday. Now people were bringing wooden boards and leaning them at the foot of the wall. Celebrating the wall's birthday. And also celebrating for those who don't celebrate birthdays. He smiled and continued riding forward. He rode slowly but steadily.

[End of Chapter 106]