108: Chapter 108 The Wall's Diary
On a windy morning, Lin Xiaohe squatted at the base of the wall as usual. She reached out to touch the piece of red modeling clay—it had been soft enough to leave an indentation yesterday, but today it was hard, its edges curling up like a parched riverbed. She touched the yellow piece next to it; it was also hard, not budging at all when pressed. Then she touched the scrap of paper; its edges had curled a bit more, and its color was deeper than yesterday.
She stood up and scanned the wall from one end to the other, from bottom to top. The corners of the letter paper were curling higher, some colors had deepened by another layer, and some handwriting was almost illegible. There was more rust on the thumbtacks, and new cracks had appeared on some of their caps. The patches were all dry and hard—red, yellow, blue, and green—and several had begun to peel at the edges. The wall was changing. It wasn't a sudden change, but a gradual one, a little bit every day. She didn't know what it would eventually become, but she knew it never stopped changing.
She ran to tell Jenny. "The wall is changing." Jenny was organizing the patches and looked up. Lin Xiaohe pulled her by the hand to the wall: "Look. It was soft yesterday, but it's hard today. It was flat yesterday, but it's curled today. It was yellow yesterday, but it's even yellower today." Jenny squatted down and touched the modeling clay, then the scraps of paper, looking row after row, before finally pulling her hand back. "The wall is getting old," she said. Lin Xiaohe asked what happened when it got old. Jenny thought for a moment: "When things get old, they change. They turn yellow, become brittle, curl up, and harden. They keep changing until they can't change anymore."
Lin Xiaohe squatted there, watching the wall. It didn't speak, but it changed every day. She didn't know how much longer it could keep changing, but she knew it was still changing.
George was picking mushrooms when he heard about this. He set down his basket and walked to the church, squatting at the base of the wall to touch the modeling clay and the scraps of paper, row after row. He remembered when he had built the wall; the wooden boards were new, white, and without a single hole. Later, people posted letters and pinned them with thumbtacks. Then the letters grew old, the thumbtacks rusted, and holes were left behind. Later, someone used modeling clay to fill the holes, and the clay dried, hardened, and curled. The wall was always changing. He stood up and walked to the door; the bicycle was still there, and the red ribbon on the handlebars had turned so white that its original color was unrecognizable—the red ribbon was changing too. He went back and posted a letter: "The wall is getting old. It changes every day. It turns yellow, becomes brittle, curls up, and hardens. Thank you to the child who saw the wall changing. She is seven years old, and her name is Lin Xiaohe."
After that letter was posted, more people came to the church to see the changes. Some stood and watched, some squatted to look, and some reached out to touch gently. They looked at the color of the letter paper, the rust on the thumbtacks, and the cracks in the patches. Those who could see the changes would watch for a while longer, while those who couldn't would let out a sigh.
Lin Xiaohe came every day. Squatting at the base of the wall, she noticed that some letter paper was a bit yellower today than yesterday, some thumbtacks had an extra streak of rust, and some patches were curled a bit higher. The wall never stopped for a single day.
One day she brought a notebook—a blank one she had gotten from school. Squatting at the base of the wall, she flipped the notebook open on her lap and watched the wall as she wrote slowly: "Today, Eric's letter turned a bit yellower. The corner of Martha's letter curled a bit more. The writing on George's letter became a bit more blurred. The red modeling clay curled a bit more. The yellow modeling clay hardened a bit more. The blue modeling clay cracked a bit more. The green modeling clay dried a bit more. The wall is old. But it's still here." After she finished writing, she posted the notebook on the wall. The notebook was white, unlike those letters, but she felt it was just like them—all of them were recording the wall's changes.
Molly ran to the church after hearing the news. She squatted next to Lin Xiaohe and looked at the crooked handwriting in the notebook for a long time. Then she stood up and walked to the door, looking at Old Zhou's bicycle. The red ribbon on the handlebars fluttered in the wind. She went back and posted a letter: "Today I saw a child writing down the changes of the wall. She is seven years old, and her name is Lin Xiaohe. She wrote that today the letters turned a bit yellower, the thumbtacks rusted a bit more, and the patches curled a bit more. The wall is old, but it's still here. Thank you to her for writing."
After that notebook was posted, more people came to write down the changes. Some wrote what they saw, some wrote what they guessed, and some wrote what they remembered. They wrote in notebooks, on paper, on cloth, and on their palms. More and more records appeared on the wall—white, black, and colored. Letters, cassette tapes, drawings, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, records—they crowded together, layer upon layer.
Jenny came every day to post those records on the wall. She would post the ones with major changes in prominent spots, those with minor changes in the corners, and she wouldn't post the ones with no changes. She posted them very slowly, looking at each record for a long time, as if she were writing a diary for the wall.
That night, Sam came to the church with his guitar. He sat in front of the wall, gently plucking the strings—not playing a song, but playing the wall's changes. He waited for the wall to change before playing each note. Lin Xiaohe squatted nearby and listened. She could hear the wall changing—one pluck, and the wall changed a bit; two plucks, and it changed a bit more; by the time he finished a song, the wall had changed a lot. She listened for a long time, then stood up and ran to the door. The moonlight shone on the ground, bright and white like a river. She stood for a moment, then ran back to squat next to Sam.
"The wall says it remembers," she said.
Sam stopped. "You heard it?"
She nodded. "It says it remembers. It remembers when it turned yellow, when it became brittle, when it curled up, and when it hardened. It remembers everything."
Sam closed his eyes and listened for a while; the strings were still vibrating, and the wall was still changing. He listened for a long time, then opened his eyes. "I heard it too." She smiled. "I'm not the only one who heard it."
That night, Lin Feng squatted under the Old Locust Tree. Margaret came over with a plate of mushrooms and squatted beside him.
"Lin Feng, Lin Xiaohe said the wall remembers its own changes."
Lin Feng nodded.
Margaret asked, "Do you remember?"
Lin Feng shook his head.
"Why don't you remember?"
Lin Feng thought for a moment. "It's enough that the wall remembers itself. I don't need to remember."
— - -
Early the next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver the mail. He pushed open the door and saw many more records on the wall. He stood in front of it for a long time, remembering the first time he had seen the wall change—he had forgotten where he saw it. But he remembered that he had seen it. He turned around and pushed open the door, walking into the morning light.
The bicycle creaked as he climbed on and slowly pedaled forward. The road wound its way into the distance, and the wind ruffled his hair. He rode very slowly but steadily. He thought of the letters, drawings, cassette tapes, shadows, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, records, and that child who recorded the wall's changes. She wrote that today the letters turned a bit yellower, the thumbtacks rusted a bit more, and the patches curled a bit more. The wall is old, but it's still here. Now people were sending records to be posted on the wall, writing a diary for the wall, and also for those who couldn't see the changes. He smiled and continued riding. He rode very slowly but steadily.
[End of Chapter 108]