111: Chapter 111 The Wall's Waiting

On a windless afternoon, the church was so quiet that one could hear the sound of dust settling on the floor. Lin Xiaohe squatted at the base of the wall, staring at it for a long time. The letter paper on the wall remained motionless, the cassette tapes were still, and the hot water bottles huddled together without a stir. She suddenly felt as if this wall were waiting for something. It wasn't an anxious wait, but a quiet, peaceful one—like a mother standing at the door waiting for her child to finish school, like George crouching in front of the mushroom racks waiting for them to sprout, or like Old Zhou riding on the road waiting for the next letter.

She ran to ask Jenny. "Who is the wall waiting for?"

Jenny was straightening a tilted chair. She stood up and looked toward the wall. "It's waiting for those who have been here to return. Waiting for the writers to come back and look at the letters they posted, waiting for the speakers to come and say a few more words to the wall, and waiting for those children to grow up and touch the words they wrote when they were little."

Lin Xiaohe asked again, "How long will it wait?"

Jenny shook her head. "I don't know. But it's not in a hurry."

When George heard about this, he was walking from the farm to the church. He stood at the entrance without going in, looking at the wall from a distance. Twenty years ago, when he had finished laying the last wooden plank, he had stood there for a long time; back then, he didn't know who would come. Later, people came, wrote letters, posted them, read them, and left. The wall had always been here. He remembered waiting for dawn in the mine shaft when he was young—not for the actual sunrise, but for the relief shift to come down. That kind of waiting was done by counting time, where every minute felt like an hour. But the wall's waiting was different. The wall was not in a hurry.

He walked inside, squatted at the base of the wall, and reached out to touch Eric's letter. The paper had yellowed and the corners were curled, like an autumn leaf. He touched Martha's letter; the handwriting was blurred, but he still remembered what she had written. He touched one letter after another until he reached the last one, then withdrew his hand. He stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. Old Zhou's bicycle was parked by the door, the red ribbon on the handlebars fluttering in the breeze. That ribbon was also waiting—waiting for the wind to blow it, for the rain to strike it, and for someone to tie it.

He walked back, took a letter out of his pocket, and posted it on the wall. He wrote very slowly:

"My name is George. Seventy-three years old. The wall is waiting for people. Waiting for the writers to return and see, waiting for the speakers to come and talk again, waiting for those children to grow up. It is not in a hurry. Thank you to the child who asked who the wall was waiting for. She is seven years old. Her name is Lin Xiaohe."

After that letter was posted, those who came to the church adopted a new posture—not looking, not touching, not smelling, not listening, but waiting. Some stood and waited, hands in their pockets, eyes fixed on a specific letter on the wall, motionless. Some squatted and waited, hands resting on their knees, just like George when he grew mushrooms. Some simply sat on the floor, backs against the opposite wall, facing this wall, sitting for the entire afternoon.

What were they waiting for? No one could say for sure. Some said they were waiting for a letter, some said they were waiting for a person, and some said they were waiting for themselves. Lin Xiaohe came every day. She didn't touch or listen; she just squatted at the base of the wall and waited along with it. When she waited, she thought of nothing; her eyes looked at the words on the letter paper, but she didn't actually read a single word. She just felt that since the wall was waiting and she was waiting, the two of them waiting together meant she wasn't lonely anymore.

One day, she brought a small chair from home. It was the chair she had used when she was a toddler; the wood was worn shiny, and it would creak when sat upon. She placed the chair at the base of the wall, next to that old scale, and sat down. The chair creaked, but the wall did not answer. She sat for the whole afternoon as the sun moved from her left to her right, and her shadow followed suit. No one came. In the evening, she stood up, leaned the chair against the wall, and patted the seat, as if patting a friend who had sat with her for a long time.

Jenny walked over and asked her, "Who are you waiting for?"

Lin Xiaohe thought about it. "I don't know. But the wall is waiting, so I am waiting too."

Jenny looked at the chair, then at the wall. The chair was very small, and the wall was very large. But they leaned against each other, neither saying a word.

When Molly heard about this, she put down the cloth she used to wipe cups and ran to the church. She saw the chair leaning against the wall and Lin Xiaohe squatting beside it, both of them very quiet. She walked over and squatted down next to Lin Xiaohe. The three of them—the wall, Lin Xiaohe, and Molly—waited together. The sun moved a little further west.

Molly squatted for a long time before standing up and walking to the door. Old Zhou's bicycle was still there, but the red ribbon on the handlebars was no longer fluttering because the wind had stopped. She stood for a while, then walked back, took a letter out of her pocket, and posted it on the wall. She wrote very slowly:

"My name is Molly. Twelve years old. Today I saw a child waiting at the base of the wall. She is seven years old and named Lin Xiaohe. She brought a chair and sat there waiting. She doesn't know who she's waiting for. But the wall is waiting, so she waits too. Later, I squatted down to wait as well. The three of us are waiting together. Thank you to her for waiting."

After that chair was leaned against the wall, those who came to the church to wait found a new method—bringing things to wait with. Some brought chairs, some brought stools, some brought cushions, and some brought blankets. They placed the chairs at the base of the wall, leaned the stools against it, spread the cushions on the floor, and covered their legs with blankets. Then they sat down and waited with the wall. More and more chairs appeared by the wall—big ones, small ones, tall ones, short ones, wooden ones, plastic ones, and iron ones. Letters, tapes, drawings, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, records, words, the scale, and chairs—they were all crowded together, layer upon layer. The wall was in the middle, saying nothing.

Jenny came every day to arrange the chairs according to how long they had been waiting. Whichever chair had waited the longest was placed in a prominent position, while the newcomers were placed to the side. She arranged them very slowly, sitting in every chair to feel what the person sitting there might have been thinking while looking at the wall.

That night, Sam came to the church carrying his guitar. He didn't play any songs; instead, he rested the guitar on his knees and sat in an empty chair, facing the wall. He didn't play anything, just sat there. Lin Xiaohe squatted nearby, also silent. The two of them sat and squatted, waiting with the wall. After a long time, Sam lightly plucked a string. A single note, very soft, like a sigh. The wall did not answer. He plucked again, and still there was no answer. He plucked a third time, and a piece of letter paper on the wall trembled slightly—it wasn't the wind, for there was no wind tonight.

Lin Xiaohe said, "The wall heard it."

Sam stopped. "What did it say?"

"It said that of the people it's waiting for, some have returned, and some haven't. But it's not in a hurry. It said that waiting itself is the answer."

Sam closed his eyes, his fingers resting on the strings without plucking. A string vibrated on its own, producing an extremely faint sound. The letter paper on the wall trembled again. He opened his eyes. "I heard it too." Lin Xiaohe 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 says the wall is waiting."

Lin Feng nodded.

"Are you waiting?" He shook his head.

"Why not?" He thought for a moment. "The wall waiting is enough. There's no need for me to wait."

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

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver the mail. He pushed the door open and saw many chairs of all sizes and heights at the base of the wall. He stood there for a long time, then put down his canvas bag and sat in the nearest chair. The chair was very low, and his knees nearly touched his chin, but he sat very steadily. He faced the wall, looking at the letters, the tapes, and the drawings. He remembered the first time he had waited for someone; he had forgotten who it was, but he remembered that he had waited.

He sat for ten minutes, then stood up, shouldered his canvas bag, turned, and pushed the door open into the morning light.

The bicycle creaked as he mounted it and pedaled slowly forward. The road wound its way into the distance, and the wind ruffled his hair. He rode slowly but steadily. He thought of the letters, drawings, tapes, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, records, words, the scale, the chairs, and that child who had brought a small chair to sit and wait at the base of the wall. She didn't know who she was waiting for, but the wall was waiting, so she waited too. Later Molly had come, and the three of them waited together. Then even more people came, bringing chairs, sitting down to wait with the wall. The wall said that waiting itself was the answer.

He smiled and continued riding forward. He rode slowly but steadily.

[Chapter 111 End]