116: Chapter 116 The Mushroom's New Name

George left that brown mushroom alone for a whole week; he didn't pick it, didn't water it, and didn't mention it to anyone.

Every morning when he went to the farm, he would first circle around to the very corner of the rack, squat down, and take a look at it.

The mushroom hadn't grown larger, nor had it changed color; the edges of its cap remained curled, like a closed palm.

He reached out and touched it—it was hard, harder than any mushroom he had ever grown.

He withdrew his hand, stood up, and went to water the other mushrooms.

Sarah noticed that he went to that corner to squat for a while every day, and she couldn't help but follow him to see.

She squatted beside him and stared at the brown mushroom for a long time.

"What kind of mushroom is this? I haven't seen it before." George shook his head. "I don't know. It grew on its own."

Sarah reached out to touch it, but George stopped her. "Don't touch it. Let it grow."

Sarah pulled her hand back, watched for a moment longer, then stood up and walked away. She went to find Eric.

Eric was picking mushrooms on the other side of the rack, placing them into a basket one by one with quick movements. Sarah stood beside him and told him about the brown mushroom.

Eric stopped, but didn't go to look; instead, he squatted in front of the rack, looking at the white mushroom in his hand. "It will grow," he said.

Sarah asked, "How do you know?" Eric thought for a moment. "Because it is still growing. It hasn't died, it hasn't rotted, and it hasn't been picked. It is waiting."

When Lao Zhou came to deliver letters, Eric was watering the mushrooms. Lao Zhou handed him a letter; it was from Molly.

Eric opened it, took a glance, and smiled. "She says the cat didn't come today. The milk in the saucer hasn't been touched. She waited for a long time, until dark, but the cat still didn't come."

Lao Zhou nodded. "Cats get tired too. Maybe it will come tomorrow."

Eric folded the letter and put it in his pocket, then pointed to the brown mushroom for Lao Zhou to see. "This one, it just grew. I don't know what to call it."

Lao Zhou squatted down and stared at the mushroom for a long time. It was brown, with the edges of its cap curled up, like an Ear. He thought of the "Ear" sculpture in the church, which was also curled, also waiting for someone to speak.

"Let's call it 'Listen'," he said.

Eric was stunned for a moment. "Listen?"

Lao Zhou stood up and patted the dirt off his knees. "It grows in the corner, where no one notices it. But every day it is listening. Listening to the sound of watering, listening to the sound of picking mushrooms, listening to the sound of people talking. Just like the wall."

Eric squatted there, watching the brown mushroom. Lao Zhou left, but he remained squatting. The mushroom couldn't speak, couldn't move, but he felt it was listening.

Listening to the sound of watering, listening to the creaking of Lao Zhou's bicycle, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

He stood up, picked up the watering can, and poured a little water on it. The water droplets fell onto the cap, rolled off, and seeped into the soil. The mushroom didn't move, but he felt it had taken a sip.

When the news reached the Coffee Shop, Molly was wiping the counter. Someone ran in and said that a brown mushroom had grown in George's farm, and Lao Zhou had named it "Listen."

Molly put down the rag, didn't go to the farm, but instead walked to the door, squatted down, and looked at the saucer of milk. The cat hadn't come today, and the milk was still full. She reached out and touched the edge of the saucer. It was cold. She stood up, turned around, and went back to continue wiping the counter.

At three in the afternoon, the cat still hadn't come. She stood at the door, looking at the alley. The alley was empty; the wind blew from one end to the other, swirling the fallen leaves on the ground and then dropping them back down.

She squatted down, picked up the saucer of milk, poured it out, washed the saucer, and put it back in the cupboard. She didn't want to wait anymore. But when she walked behind the counter, she took the saucer out again and placed it on the steps. She still wanted to wait.

When Lin Xiaohe arrived, she saw the milk on the steps, but the cat wasn't there. She squatted down, didn't go looking for the cat, but instead stared at the saucer of milk.

The milk was white, the saucer was white, and the sunlight shining on it was blindingly bright. She closed her eyes, heard the sound of the wind blowing through the alley, heard the distant church door creak open and shut, and heard her own breathing.

She opened her eyes, the cat was still not there. She stood up, walked to the church door, and pushed it open. The wall was still there, and those letters were still there.

She walked to the base of the wall and squatted down; she didn't touch the wall, didn't listen to the wall, she just squatted there. She thought of that brown mushroom, and thought of the name Lao Zhou had given it—"Listen."

She thought of that gray cat, which came every afternoon at three to drink milk, but hadn't come today. Where did it go? What was it listening to? What did it hear? She didn't know. But she felt that it was still listening. In some place she couldn't see, listening to the wind, listening to the doors creaking, listening to its own breathing.

She stood up and turned to leave. She didn't write a letter; she didn't post a letter.

George still went to that corner every day to look at the brown mushroom. It hadn't grown, but it hadn't died either. The cap was still curled, the color was still brown, and it was hard, like a small stone.

He squatted beside it, not speaking, just watching. Sometimes he reached out to touch it, sometimes he didn't. He felt he was waiting. Waiting for it to grow, waiting for it to change color, waiting for it to tell him its name itself. But it never spoke. He stood up and went to water the other mushrooms.

One day, Sam came to the farm carrying a guitar. He didn't go to the Coffee Shop, didn't go to the church, but walked straight up to George. "Take me to see that mushroom."

George led him to that corner, Sam squatted down, rested the guitar on his knees, and gently plucked a string. The mushroom didn't react. He plucked it again; still nothing.

He played a very slow tune, with every note drawn out long. The mushroom's cap trembled slightly, as if it had been touched by the sound.

Sam stopped and looked at the mushroom. Brown, curled, hard. He reached out and gently touched the edge of the cap. It was cold, like a stone. He withdrew his hand, plucked the string again, and the mushroom trembled once more.

"It is listening," Sam said. George was squatting beside him. "I know."

Sam stood up and strapped the guitar onto his back. "It doesn't need a name. It is listening; that is enough."

That evening, Lin Feng was squatting under the old locust tree. Margaret came over with a plate of mushrooms and squatted beside him. The mushrooms were white, stir-fried, and steaming. Lin Feng took the plate, ate a bite, and chewed for a long time.

"Lao Zhou named George's brown mushroom 'Listen'," Margaret said. Lin Feng nodded.

"Do you think it listens?" Lin Feng chewed another bite of mushroom. "It is listening. Not listening to sounds, but listening to time. Listening to the rain, listening to the wind, listening to the dawn, listening to the dark. When it has listened enough, it will grow."

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

The next morning, Lao Zhou came to deliver letters. He didn't go to Millfield first, but instead detoured to the farm.

George was watering, and when he saw him enter, he pointed to that corner. Lao Zhou walked over, squatted down, and looked at the brown mushroom. It was still the same, hadn't grown, hadn't changed color, and the cap was still curled.

He reached out and touched it gently. It was cold and hard. He withdrew his hand, fished a letter out of his bag, and placed it beside the mushroom.

The letter was very short, only a few lines: "My name is Lao Zhou. I deliver letters. Today I came to see a mushroom. It has no name, I call it 'Listen.' It hasn't grown, but it hasn't died either. It is listening. Thank you for listening."

He stood up and turned to leave. George didn't look at the letter and continued watering. The water fell on the white mushrooms, fell on the brown mushroom, and fell into the soil. The sunlight shone on the water droplets, making them sparkle.

A drop of water was stuck on the cap of the brown mushroom; it didn't roll off, but stayed right there, like a tear. George saw it, but didn't wipe it away. He stood up, walked to the other side of the rack, and continued watering.

At three in the afternoon, Molly walked to the door carrying the milk. The cat was not there. She placed the milk on the steps and squatted beside it to wait. After waiting for ten minutes, the cat didn't come. She stood up, turned around, and went back to wipe the cups.

After a while, she looked out from the window and the saucer was empty. The cat had come, and she hadn't seen it again. She walked to the door, squatted down, and touched the edge of the saucer; it was wet. She smiled.

It was still listening. Listening to the sound of her footsteps bringing the milk, listening to the sound of her placing the saucer, listening to the sound of her footsteps turning back. It heard, and so it came. She hadn't seen it, but it had come.

She stood on the steps holding the empty saucer, looking at the alley. The wind blew from one end to the other, swirling the fallen leaves on the ground and then dropping them back down. She washed the saucer clean, put it back in the cupboard, and would take it out again tomorrow.

[Chapter 116 End]