92: Chapter 92 The “Back” of the Wall

After George nailed Eric's letter back to the wall, an unexpected guest arrived at the church.

It was a carpenter, surnamed Sun, in his early sixties, from California. He carried an old canvas tool bag filled with planes, chisels, and hammers, each polished until it shone. He stood in front of the wall for a long time, not looking at the letters, but at the wall itself.

Jenny walked over and asked him what he was looking for. He said he wasn't looking for anything, just having a look.

He reached out and touched the wooden planks, running his hand from one end of the wall to the other, from the bottom to the top. After touching it, he stood there, motionless.

"This wall, who built it?" he asked.

Jenny said: "George. The one who grows mushrooms in Xinfeng Town."

Master Sun nodded. "Built well. The planks are thick, the joints are aligned, and there are enough nails. Twenty years later, and it's still this sturdy."

Jenny was stunned for a moment. "How do you know it's been twenty years?"

Master Sun pointed to the grain on the wood. "You can tell by looking at the wood. These planks are old pine, you can't buy them anymore. It's been twenty years; the paint has peeled, and the nails have rusted, but the wood hasn't rotted. The person who built the wall knew that the letters would outlive the nails."

When the news reached the farm, George was picking mushrooms. He put down his basket and walked to the church. Master Sun was still standing in front of the wall, hands behind his back, head tilted, as if counting the letters.

George stood beside him without speaking.

Master Sun turned his head to look at him. "Are you the one who built the wall?"

George nodded.

"When you built this wall, did you think it would ever be full?"

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

Master Sun smiled. He took a nail out of his tool bag and handed it to George. The nail was brand new, shiny, unlike the rusty old nails on the wall.

"This nail, I forged it myself. It's sturdier than the ones you buy. Keep it for next time."

George took it and held it in his palm. The nail was heavy and cool, like a small stone.

Master Sun shouldered his tool bag and walked toward the door. After two steps, he looked back. "That wall can stand for another twenty years. Don't you worry."

Three days after Master Sun left, another guest came to the church.

It was a young man, in his early twenties, carrying a portfolio. He stood in front of the wall, not looking at the letters, but at the gaps between the wall and the letters.

He looked for a long time, then pulled a sheet of paper from his portfolio and began to draw. He drew quickly, the pencil scratching across the paper.

Jenny walked over and stood beside him, asking what he was drawing. He said he was drawing the wall.

Drawing the way the letters overlapped, the way the thumbtacks sat side by side, and the light shining through the gaps.

He drew for the whole afternoon. When he finished, he took the drawing out of the portfolio and handed it to Jenny. "A gift for you. Stick it on the wall."

Jenny took it to look. The drawing wasn't of the letters; it was of the wall. Of the planks hidden by the letters, the rusty thumbtacks, and the edges of paper stuffed into the gaps. Things usually unseen were all on the drawing.

She stuck the drawing on the very edge of the wall, side by side with the letters.

The drawing paper was different from the letter paper, slippery and shiny. But she felt that, just like the letters, it was glowing.

When the news reached Millfield, Eric was watering the mushrooms. Sarah ran over to find him, saying that a painter had come to the wall in Xinfeng Town, made a drawing, and stuck it on the wall.

Eric put down the hose, squatted in front of the rack, and looked at the mushrooms. He remembered his first letter, stuck on the wall. Now someone had made a drawing and stuck it there too. Letters and drawings—different paper, different words—but they were both there. It was different.

He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go see that drawing."

Dave asked him what he was going to see. He said he was going to see the "back" of the wall—the things usually unseen.

It was afternoon when he arrived in Xinfeng Town. The church door was open, and sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, falling onto the wall. He walked to the front of the drawing and looked at it for a long time. The drawing wasn't of the letters; it was of the wall. Of the planks hidden by the letters, the rusty thumbtacks, and the edges of paper stuffed into the gaps.

He looked for a long time, then reached out and touched it. The paper was smooth and shiny, different from the letter paper.

But he felt that, like the letters, it was speaking. Not with words, but with something else.

He stood in front of the drawing, remembering when he wrote his first letter; he had only seen himself. Later, he saw others, saw the letters that came from Millfield, from Greenfield, and from even farther away.

Now he saw the wall. The planks hidden by the letters, the rusty thumbtacks, the edges of paper stuffed into the gaps. They had always been there; he just hadn't seen them before.

That night, a person came to the church. It was the painter. He had come again, carrying a new portfolio.

He stood in front of the wall, not looking at the paintings, but at the newly posted letters. He looked for a long time, then pulled a sheet of paper from his portfolio and began to draw again.

Jenny walked over and stood beside him. "Drawing again?"

The painter nodded. "It's never finished."

He drew all night. At dawn, he took the drawing out of the portfolio and handed it to Jenny. The drawing wasn't of the wall; it was of the people looking at the wall.

Some standing, some squatting, some sitting, some kneeling.

Some crying, some laughing, some doing nothing, just standing there.

Jenny stared at the drawing for a long time. She recognized some people—Edna, George, Martha, Eric, Tom, Molly, Old Zhou, Lin Xiaoyu, Li Ming. And some she didn't know, those who came from Millfield, from Greenfield, and from even farther away.

She stuck the drawing on the other side of the wall, side by side with the letters. The drawing paper was large, taking up an entire side of the wall.

But she felt that, just like the letters, it was a part of the wall.

The news reached Greenfield. Martha was playing the guitar when someone ran over to find her, saying there was another drawing on the wall in Xinfeng Town. It was a drawing of the people looking at the wall.

She put down the guitar and stood up. "I want to go see it."

It was dusk when she arrived in Xinfeng Town. The sunset shone through the stained-glass windows, falling onto the drawing. She stood in front of the drawing and found herself. In the drawing, she was leaning on her cane, standing in front of the wall, head tilted, looking at the letters.

She looked for a long time, then reached out and touched it. The version of her in the drawing was different from who she was now. The version in the drawing was younger, her hair darker, her back straighter.

But she felt that it was her. It was how others saw her when she looked at the wall.

She stood in front of the drawing, remembering when she first learned the guitar, playing slowly, often making mistakes. But she kept playing. Now someone had drawn her, at the moment she was looking at the wall. She didn't know who that person was, but she knew that more people had seen her.

Old Zhou arrived to deliver letters and saw the two drawings.

He stood in front of them for a long time, one of the wall, one of the people. The wall drawing depicted the planks hidden by the letters, the rusty thumbtacks, the edges of paper stuffed into the gaps. The one of the people depicted those looking at the wall. He recognized some people—Edna, George, Martha, Eric, Tom, Molly, Lin Xiaoyu, Li Ming. And himself.

In the drawing, he was squatting in front of the wall, holding a letter, about to stick it on.

He looked for a long time, then reached out and touched it. The version of him in the drawing was younger than him, his hair darker, his back straighter. But he felt that it was him. It was how others saw him when he posted a letter.

He turned around and pushed open the door into the sunlight. The bicycle was still creaking at the entrance; he got on and rode slowly forward. The road curved into the distance, and the wind blew, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

Those drawings were stuck on the wall, together with the letters. They didn't depict words, but something else.

But he felt that, like the letters, they were waiting for people to see them.

That night, George came to the church. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the two drawings.

One of the wall, one of the people.

He looked for a long time, then walked to the one of the wall and reached out to touch the planks hidden by the letters. He had built it, twenty years ago.

He had chosen old pine, aligned the joints, and used enough nails. Now the paint had peeled, and the nails had rusted, but the wood hadn't rotted.

When he built it, he didn't know these planks would be hidden by letters. But he knew they would always be there.

Beneath those letters, on the "back" of those words.

He turned and walked to the one of the people, finding himself.

In the drawing, he was squatting in front of the wall, holding a mushroom in his hand.

He looked for a long time, then smiled.

The version of him in the drawing was younger than him, his hair darker, his back straighter.

But he felt that it was him.

It was how others saw him when he looked at the wall.

He stood in front of the drawing, remembering what Master Sun had said— "That wall can stand for another twenty years." He smiled.

Twenty years, that was enough.

That night, Lin Feng was squatting under the old locust tree. Margaret brought over a plate of mushrooms, squatted beside him, and said there were two more drawings in the church. Lin Feng nodded.

Margaret asked if he had seen them. Lin Feng said no. Margaret asked why he didn't go see. Lin Feng thought for a moment and pointed in the direction of the church. "Those drawings are meant for people to see. They aren't meant for me to see."

Margaret looked at him for a long time, then smiled. "Aren't you a person?"

Lin Feng looked at her and smiled too.

Early the next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open; there was another drawing on the wall. It was drawn by the same painter, and it depicted the people writing the letters.

Some were writing at the farm entrance, some squatting in front of the mushroom racks, some lying on the church pews writing. Some wrote very slowly, some very hurriedly, some wrote and stopped, thinking for a long time before continuing.

Old Zhou stood in front of the drawing and found himself. In the drawing, he was sitting in the Post Office, a sheet of paper spread out in front of him, a pen in his hand, writing a letter. He looked at it for a long time.

He remembered when he wrote that letter, he wrote very slowly, needing to think for a long time for every word. He didn't know anyone was watching him. Now he knew. Someone was watching him write a letter, at a time he didn't know.

He smiled, turned, and pushed the door open into the morning light.

The bicycle was still creaking at the entrance; he got on and rode slowly forward.

The road curved into the distance, and the wind blew, messing up his hair.

He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

Those drawings were stuck on the wall, together with the letters. They didn't depict words, but something else.

But he felt that, like the letters, they were waiting for people to see them, hoping that people would see the things they most wanted others to see.

And the people who wrote the letters were also being seen. At times they didn't know.

[Chapter 92 End]