90: Chapter 90 The Bricklayer

It was the last Friday of October when Uncle Zhou noticed that the wall had become another layer thicker. Sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, falling upon the stacked letter paper, causing some parts to bulge and others to recede.

He stood before the wall and recalled a question: Who had built this wall?

He had been delivering mail for forty years and had seen this wall go from empty to full, from thin to thick. But he did not know who had built it.

The wall was unlike the church's walls; it was not stone or brick, but wooden boards. Very thick wooden boards, pieced together one by one. Painted white, the same color as the mushroom racks.

He went to ask Jenny. Jenny was sorting through boxes, and there were not many letters left in them. She thought for a moment and said, "George built it."

Uncle Zhou was stunned for a moment. "George?" Jenny nodded. "A long time ago. Back then, the wall had just started, and there were only a few letters. George said that the letters would only increase. So he built this wall."

Uncle Zhou looked at the wall. The boards were old, and the paint had peeled, but it was very sturdy. He reached out and pushed it, but it did not budge. He thought of George, the old man who grew mushrooms and had mined coal for forty-five years. The wall he built, just like the mushrooms he grew, was very sturdy.

Uncle Zhou went to the farm to find George. George was picking mushrooms, squatting in front of the racks, picking them one by one, very slowly. Uncle Zhou stood behind him, waiting for a while, then called out, "George."

George stood up and turned around. Seeing Uncle Zhou, he smiled. "Uncle Zhou, here to deliver mail?"

Uncle Zhou shook his head. "No. I came to ask you something."

George looked at him.

Uncle Zhou pointed toward the church. "That wall, did you build it?"

George was stunned for a moment. He thought for a moment and said, "Yes. A long time ago."

Uncle Zhou asked, "How did you think to build that wall?"

George was silent for a while. He squatted down, picked a mushroom, and placed it in his palm. "Back then, the wall had just started, and there were only a few letters. Eric's, Edna's, and a few others from elsewhere. There weren't many letters, but I knew they would increase."

He looked at the mushroom. "It's the same with growing mushrooms. When the first one grows, it's very small, white, like a star. But I know there will be more."

He put the mushroom into the basket and stood up. "Letters are like mushrooms. If someone writes, someone will read. If someone reads, someone else will continue to write. If the wall is full, one can just build another."

Uncle Zhou looked at him. This old man, seventy-three years old, had mined coal for forty-five years, grown mushrooms for several years, and built a wall. The wall he built was now full. From floor to ceiling, from left to right. Letter paper stacked upon letter paper, thumbtacks side by side.

"George," Uncle Zhou said, "when you built it, did you think it would get full?"

George thought about it. "I didn't think about it. But I knew."

Uncle Zhou didn't understand.

George pointed at the wall. "Letters are like mushrooms. Once you plant them, they will grow. Even when you cannot see them, they are growing. By the time you see them, they are already here."

Uncle Zhou stood at the church entrance, looking at the wall. George had built it a long time ago. Back then, the wall was still empty, with only a few letters. Now it was full. He thought of all the letters he had delivered—from Millfield, from Greenfield, from California, from Mexico, from Africa. They were pasted onto this wall, layer upon layer, like the rings of a tree.

He remembered what George had said: "Letters are like mushrooms. Once you plant them, they will grow."

He felt the letter in his pocket; it was still there. He smiled and pushed open the door, stepping into the sunlight.

The bicycle was still creaking at the entrance; he got on and rode slowly forward. The road wound and stretched into the distance, and the wind blew, messing up his hair. He rode slowly, but steadily. He rode through Millfield and handed a letter to Eric. He rode through Greenfield and handed a letter to Martha. He rode to Xinfeng Town and pasted the letter on the wall. Everywhere he went, people would ask him, "Uncle Zhou, is there a letter for me?" He would dig it out of his bag and hand it to them. They would take it, open it, take a look, and smile. That kind of smile welled up from their eyes. Seeing those smiles, he felt that this road was worth riding.

The news reached Millfield. Eric was watering the farm when Sarah ran over to find him. "Eric! That wall—George built it!" Eric put down the hose. "George? The one who grows mushrooms?" Sarah nodded. "A long time ago. Back then, the wall had just started, and there were only a few letters. He said the letters would only increase, so he built that wall."

Eric squatted in front of the racks, looking at the mushrooms. He remembered the day George came to Millfield, holding a mushroom in his hands—it was pure white and still had dew on it. He had taught him how to check the color, how to water them, and how to know when the mushrooms were ripe. When he left, he had left that mushroom there. Now, that one mushroom had grown into a whole patch.

He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to write a letter. To send to George."

Dave looked at him. "What will you write?"

Eric thought for a moment. "I'll write that I've seen his wall."

He sat at the farm entrance and wrote very slowly: "George, I am Eric. I heard. That wall was built by you. A long time ago, when the wall was still empty. Now it is full. From floor to ceiling, from left to right. I have seen the wall you built. In those letters of yours, in the words of those letters. Thank you for being there. Thank you for building. Thank you for reading. Thank you for knowing."

After finishing, he handed the letter to Uncle Zhou. Uncle Zhou took it, glanced at it, and smiled. "Writing again?" Eric nodded. Uncle Zhou put the letter into his canvas bag. "Good."

After that letter was sent out, George went to the church every day to look at the wall. He stood before the wall, looking over it letter by letter. Not reading the letters, but looking at the wooden boards. The ones he had built, a long time ago. Back then, the wall was still empty, with only a few letters. Now it was full. He reached out and touched it; the boards were old, and the paint had peeled, but it was very sturdy.

Edna walked over and stood beside him. "You built this?"

George nodded. "A long time ago."

Edna looked at the wall. "When you built it, did you think it would get full?"

George thought about it. "I didn't think about it. But I knew."

Edna didn't understand.

George pointed at the wall. "Letters are like mushrooms. Once you plant them, they will grow. Even when you cannot see them, they are growing."

Edna looked at him for a long time, then smiled. "You haven't changed."

George said, "Neither have you."

When Uncle Zhou came to deliver mail, George was standing in front of the wall. Uncle Zhou walked over and handed him the letter. "Written by Eric."

George took it and opened it, reading very slowly. After finishing, he pasted the letter on the wall, right next to Eric's. Then he stood there, watching for a long time.

Edna asked him what it said. George said, "Eric wrote it. He grows mushrooms in Millfield. He said he saw the wall I built."

Edna smiled. "He has never seen you build a wall."

George also smiled. "No need to see. In those letters, in those words, one can see it."

There was another letter on the wall, not from Millfield, but from Greenfield. It was written by Martha. The letter was very short, only a few lines: "George, hello. My name is Martha. I am learning guitar in Greenfield. I heard. That wall was built by you. A long time ago, when the wall was still empty. Now it is full. I have seen the wall you built. In those letters of yours, in the words of those letters. Thank you for building."

When Uncle Zhou delivered the letter to the church, George was squatting in front of the wall. Uncle Zhou walked over and handed him the letter. "Written by Martha." George took it, opened it, glanced at it, and smiled. He pasted the letter on the wall, right next to his own.

He stood up and walked to the door, pushing it open. The sunlight shone on his face, warm and cozy. He stood there, looking at the road; the road wound and stretched into the distance. He remembered when he built that wall, back when he had just arrived in Xinfeng Town, his hands still covered in calluses from coal mining. He did not know where these letters would go, but he knew that someone would write them.

He turned and walked back, took a letter out of his pocket, and pasted it on the wall. He had written it very slowly, thinking about every word for a long time: "My name is George. Seventy-three years old. I am growing mushrooms. That wall was built by me. A long time ago, when the wall was still empty. Now it is full. I have seen the letters you wrote. In those letters, in those words. Thank you for writing. Thank you for reading. Thank you for letting this wall come alive."

After pasting it, he stood back a little to look; the wall was thicker now. He smiled. He turned and pushed open the door, walking into the sunlight. Uncle Zhou was still squatting at the entrance, his bicycle still creaking.

"Leaving?" Uncle Zhou asked.

George nodded. "Leaving."

"Will you come back?"

George smiled. "I live right here."

He walked into the sunlight, walking further and further away. Uncle Zhou squatted there, watching his back, for a long time. Then he stood up, got on his bike, and continued forward.

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

"Lin Feng, that wall was built by George." Lin Feng nodded. "You knew?" Margaret asked. Lin Feng said, "I knew."

Margaret looked toward the church; the lights were still on. "When he built it, did he think it would get full?"

Lin Feng thought for a moment. "He didn't think about it. But he knew."

Margaret didn't understand either.

Lin Feng pointed toward the wall. "Letters are like mushrooms. Once you plant them, they will grow. Even when you cannot see them, they are growing."

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

Lin Feng said, "When squatting."

The next morning, Uncle Zhou came to deliver mail. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open to enter; there was one more letter on the wall. He leaned in to look; it was written by George. The paper was very thin, the corners curled, and the handwriting was a bit blurry. But he felt those words were glowing, like the white light on the mushroom racks, like that winding road under the moonlight.

He stood in front of the wall for a while, then turned and pushed open the door, stepping into the morning light. The bicycle was still creaking at the entrance; he got on and rode slowly forward. The road wound and stretched into the distance, and the wind blew, messing up his hair. He rode slowly, but steadily. He knew he was not walking this road alone. Someone was in those letters, someone was in those words. They were all watching him.

He felt the letter in his pocket; it was still there. He smiled and continued riding forward. In the distance, there were people writing letters, people reading, and people waiting. And the wall builder lived right here. Every day, he would go to the church, look at that wall, look at those letters, and look at those words. The wall he built had come alive.

[Chapter 90 End]