110: Chapter 110 The Weight of the Wall

On the morning after the rain, water droplets still hung in the air. Lin Xiaohe squatted at the base of the wall. When her fingertips touched that scrap of paper, she felt something was wrong—the paper was wet and soft, clinging to the wooden board, not curling up at a touch like it usually did. She went to touch the dried mushroom; it was wet too, feeling heavy in her palm like a small stone. She stood up and walked from one end of the wall to the other, trailing her fingers along it. The letter paper was wet, the cassette tape was wet, the drawing was wet, the hot water bottle was wet, and a layer of water mist hung on the outside of the bottles. The entire wall was wet.

She ran to tell Jenny. "The wall has become heavy." Jenny was gathering the scales into the corner of the wall and looked up. "How do you know?" Lin Xiaohe pulled her hand to the wall and let her touch the scrap of paper. It was wet and heavy. "It was light yesterday, but heavy today. Because it rained, and the wall drank the water." Jenny traced the wall, and when she returned, her fingers were stained with grayish-black water marks. "You're right. It gets heavy when it drinks water, and light when it dries." Lin Xiaohe asked how much water the wall had drunk. Jenny looked up at the wall that stretched from floor to ceiling and thought for a moment. "Twenty years. It drinks a little every time it rains. Some seeps in through the cracks in the boards, some flows down along the letters. Everything it drinks stays inside."

Lin Xiaohe squatted down and pressed her palm flat against the wooden board. It was cold and hard, but she felt as if something underneath was slowly sinking. She couldn't describe the feeling, but she knew the wall was much heavier than it looked.

The news quickly reached the farm. When Sarah ran in, George was squatting in front of the mushroom rack, picking mushrooms. "Lin Xiaohe says the wall has drunk twenty years of rainwater and become heavy." The mushroom in George's hand dropped into the basket. He stood up, said nothing, and walked straight to the church. He squatted at the base of the wall, touching it from the far left to the far right, from the very bottom to the very top. The wet spots felt sticky, while the dry spots were still rough. He remembered when he had carried those new wooden boards to build the wall; he could carry one by himself. Now, ten people couldn't lift this wall. It wasn't because the boards were heavy; it was the water that had seeped in, the letters pasted on, the thumbtacks nailed in, the plasticine stuffed into the holes—all the things added over the years had made it heavy. He stood up and walked to the door. Old Zhou's bicycle was parked by the door, and the red cloth strip on the handlebars was still dripping with water, clinging wetly to the iron pipe. It was heavy, too.

He walked back and posted a letter. "The wall will become heavy. It gets heavy when it drinks water on rainy days, and light when it dries. It has drunk twenty years of rain and eaten twenty years of letters. Thank you to the child who discovered the wall's weight. She is seven years old, and her name is Lin Xiaohe."

After that letter was posted, the people who came to the church to touch the wall changed their method. They no longer just looked at the color of the letter paper or the rust on the thumbtacks; instead, they pressed their palms flat against the wooden boards, closing their eyes to feel that weight. Some frowned when they touched a wet spot and breathed a sigh of relief when they touched a dry one. Lin Xiaohe came every day, touching the wall from one end to the other, from the bottom to the top. She discovered that some places felt as heavy as if they were filled with lead, while others were just slightly damp. She didn't know what was hidden beneath the heavy spots, but she knew there must be many things inside.

One day, she dug out an old scale from home, the one her mother used to weigh flour. She hooked the scale onto a thumbtack in the corner of the wall and pulled upward with all her might. The scale beam tilted up, the weight slid to the very bottom, but the wall didn't budge. She tried another spot, but it still didn't work. She tried for an entire afternoon, but the wall remained motionless. Finally, she squatted beside the scale, panting, watching the rusty thumbtack on the scale hook being pulled out of shape.

Jenny walked over and squatted beside her. "Can't weigh it?" "Can't weigh it. It's too heavy." Jenny took the scale off the thumbtack and leaned it against the base of the wall. "If you can't weigh it, then don't. It's enough to know it's heavy." Lin Xiaohe nodded, but she still reached out and touched that wooden board again. It was cold, hard, and heavy.

After hearing about this, Molly ran to the church. She squatted beside Lin Xiaohe, looking at the old scale. Then she stood up and walked to the other side of the wall—the empty side. She pressed her palm against it; it was cold and rough, just like the other side. She closed her eyes and felt it for a long time, then walked back, took a letter from her pocket, and posted it on the wall. "Today I saw a child who wanted to weigh the wall. She is seven years old, and her name is Lin Xiaohe. She used a flour scale, but couldn't weigh it. The wall is too heavy. But she also touched the other side of the wall. She said both sides are equally heavy. Thank you to her for weighing it."

After that scale was left leaning against the wall, more people came to the church to bring scales. Some brought spring scales, some brought luggage scales, and some brought hanging scales. They hung the scales on the thumbtacks, tied them into the cracks of the boards, and fastened them to the cassette tapes. The wall remained motionless. The scales leaned one after another against the base of the wall—iron, wooden, plastic, new, old. Letters, tapes, drawings, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, records, words, scales—they were crowded together, layer upon layer. Jenny came every day to arrange the scales according to how many times they had been used to weigh the wall. The scales that had been tried more often were placed in prominent spots, while those used only once were placed in the corners. She placed them very slowly, weighing each one in her hand as if comparing which one wanted to know the weight of the wall more.

That night, Sam sat outside the church holding his guitar. He plucked the strings gently, not playing a song, but playing the weight of the wall. Each note was pressed very low and heavy, as if something were sinking downward. Lin Xiaohe squatted beside him, listening. She could hear the wall sinking—one pluck, it sank an inch; two plucks, it sank two inches; by the time he finished the song, it felt as if the wall had sunk into the ground. She listened for a long time, then stood up and ran to the door. Moonlight shone on the ground, a white, glistening river. She ran back and squatted beside Sam.

"The wall says it doesn't feel heavy," she said. Sam stopped. "Doesn't feel heavy?" She nodded. "It says those waters, those letters, those words, those sounds—it doesn't feel any of them are heavy. They are inside, just like a tree has growth rings. Growth rings aren't heavy." Sam closed his eyes and listened for a while; the strings were still vibrating, and the wall was still sinking. He opened his eyes. "I heard it, too." She smiled. "I'm not the only one who heard it."

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

"Lin Feng, Lin Xiaohe says the wall doesn't feel heavy."

Lin Feng nodded.

"Do you think it's heavy?" He shook his head.

"Why don't you think so?" He thought for a moment. "If the wall doesn't feel heavy, that's enough. It doesn't need me to think so."

Margaret looked at him for a long time and smiled. "When did you learn to say things like that?" "When I was biting on a straw."

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He pushed the door open and went in; there were many more scales at the base of the wall—iron, wooden, plastic. He squatted down, picked up a spring scale, and tried to hook it onto a thumbtack to lift it. Before the scale hook could take any weight, the thumbtack bent. He put the scale back, stood up, and looked at the wall. He remembered the first time he wanted to weigh something; he was that size too. What he was weighing, he had forgotten. But he remembered he hadn't been able to weigh it.

He turned and pushed the door open, stepping into the morning light. The bicycle creaked, and he got on and rode slowly forward. The road wound off into the distance, and the wind tousled his hair. He rode very slowly, but steadily. He thought of those letters, drawings, tapes, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, records, words, scales, and the child who wanted to weigh the wall. She used a flour scale, but couldn't weigh it. But the wall said it didn't feel heavy. Those waters, those letters, those words, those sounds—it didn't feel any of them were heavy. They were inside, just like a tree has growth rings. Growth rings aren't heavy. Now people were bringing scales, leaning them against the base of the wall, to weigh it, and to show those who didn't know how heavy the wall was. He smiled and continued riding forward. He rode very slowly, but steadily.

[ Chapter 110 End ]