The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

Chapter 123 Questioning: Warm Touches and Absurd Procedures

A cold wind blew in from the street corner with a steady force, each time just enough to stir up the white steam rising from the edge of the thermos, causing it to dissipate in the same arc under the dim streetlights.

Lin Zheng stood beside the stall, holding a piece of dry, hard baguette in his hand.

His fingers were numb from the cold, but he could clearly feel the rough surface of the bread, its edges rough and painful to the touch. It was definitely not suitable for eating, but with a bowl of hot soup, it could suppress all the things that rushed to his heart and blocked his throat, allowing him to catch his breath for a while.

Before me was a crooked line, stretching from the insulated buckets into the darkness, and even deeper into the darkness, in those unnoticed corners, there were people who wanted to live.

Some people in the group were wearing thin jackets with the collars turned up, shivering slightly in the wind. They opened their mouths and exhaled a breath of warm air to warm their frozen hands, then rubbed them vigorously to retain the hard-won warmth.

Others were pushing shopping carts filled with bulging plastic bags and old blankets.

The child's hand was held by an adult, his cheeks were red from the cold, and his eyes were fixed on the insulated container without blinking.

Imam Abdul stood behind the barrel, his white beard frosting finely in the cold air.

He scooped up a spoonful of hot soup, poured it into a paper bowl, and handed it to the person in front of him.

The movements were steady, and each scoop was about the same amount, stopping the soup noodles about one centimeter below the rim of the bowl.

The people who took the bowls said thank you in hushed tones, some in Spanish, some in English, their voices low, as if afraid of breaking something.

The imam nodded and replied in accented English, "May you be safe."

Then continue scooping out the next bowl.

Lin Zheng handed out the bread slices.

The recipient's fingers touched his skin, which was cold and covered with hard scabs from healed cracks or thick calluses from years of labor.

A woman wrapped in a tattered blanket took the bread and whispered, "God bless you."

Lin Zheng didn't understand, but simply nodded.

He handed over the next slice of bread.

The wind blew again, this time carrying the stench of rotting garbage cans from the street corner, mixed with the slightly pungent smell of car exhaust.

The white mist around the insulated container was blown away, then quickly gathered again, its shape almost identical to the last time.

Lin Zheng's gaze swept across the faces of those in line.

Every face was etched with weariness, with drooping eyes and chapped lips, but their expressions were standard expressions of sorrow—the furrowed brows and the downward turn of the lips all seemed to have been printed from the same template.

He remembered that winter night on the street.

There was an old man in the group who kept coughing, with a lot of phlegm. Every few minutes he would turn to the side and spit out a mouthful.

There was also a young woman holding a baby in her arms. When the baby cried, she would gently rock it and hum a lullaby that was out of tune.

But now, the team is unusually quiet.

The only sounds were the wind, the soft clinking of a ladle against the side of a bucket, and the rustling of shoes scraping against the ground as footsteps moved.

It's too quiet.

It was as quiet as a pantomime that had been rehearsed countless times.

Lin Zheng's fingers unconsciously tightened, the edge of the bread slice sinking into his palm.

He looked at the imam.

The mark on the old man's forehead, left by years of bowing, was clearly visible under the streetlights, its color just the right shade.

The white hairs on his beard were evenly distributed, with not a single stray black hair.

Even the angle at which he raises his arm to scoop soup is perfect every time.

A perfect replica.

The perfect "typical" example.

Lin Zheng thought of the wax figures in the museum.

The skin texture is realistic, but the eyes are empty, and it stands in the set scene, always repeating the same pose.

He is now standing in the middle of a group of wax figures.

Including himself.

That night, as I remember it, he helped distribute bread because he was too tired, too tired to go back to the empty apartment immediately.

Mechanical movements can temporarily stop the brain from working.

But at this moment, his mind was racing.

He was calculating.

The intervals between winds.

The height at which the white steam rises from the insulated container.

The time difference between when someone in line says thank you after receiving their bread.

Everything is rhythmic and regular, like a piece of audio playing on a loop.

It lacks the uneven "noise" found in the real world.

There was no sudden sneezing.

No one accidentally knocked over the soup bowl.

No child suddenly ran out of the line and was then pulled back by an adult.

Even the cold is "precise cold"—the force of the wind blowing on your face is constant, and the speed at which your fingers freeze is predictable.

On that real winter night, the wind blew in gusts, sometimes strong and sometimes weak, stirring up scraps of paper and dust from the ground, without any discrepancy.

The cold will seep in through the cuffs, collar, and trouser legs, causing different stinging sensations in different parts of the body.

Instead of covering the whole body evenly like this.

The team moved forward.

Lin Zheng handed over another slice of bread.

This time, the bread was taken by a middle-aged man wearing faded work pants with large, thick knuckles.

The man took the bread and mechanically said thank you.

Then his gaze swept past Lin Zheng and looked at a point that didn't exist behind Lin Zheng.

The pupils were unfocused, empty like two dry wells.

Just for a fleeting moment.

Less than half a second.

The man quickly lowered his head, picked up the soup bowl, and walked away.

Lin Zheng's hand froze in mid-air.

The crumbs of bread stuck to my skin in my palm were itchy.

He stared at the man's retreating figure as he disappeared into the darkness.

That look in his eyes just now.

That's not the look someone receiving food should have.

That wasn't a look of hunger, nor a look of coldness, nor even a look of gratitude or numbness.

His eyes.

That was a look of being "out of character".

Like an actor who suddenly forgets their lines on stage, momentarily detached from the role, glancing at the audience.

Then it was pulled back by an invisible thread.

Lin Zheng felt a heaviness in his chest.

Like a stone falling into a deep well, it took a long time to hear the dull thud as it hit the bottom.

He turned his head and looked at the imam.

The old man was scooping up a spoonful of soup, the noodles swaying slightly in the spoon, steam rising from it.

His eyes were gentle, and he was focused on the movements in his hands, as if the whole world consisted only of this spoonful of soup and the person in front of him.

But Lin Zheng saw something else.

The distribution of wrinkles around the eyes of an elderly person.

Each line radiates from the same point, with perfect symmetry in length, depth, and curvature.

The real imam had a slightly deeper wrinkle at the corner of his right eye than his left, because he said he had injured his right eye when he was young, and the muscles were a little stiff after it healed.

But the person in front of me doesn't have this detail.

Wax figures.

Exquisite wax figures, full of "human" details.

Lin Zheng took a deep breath.

The cold air rushed into my lungs, carrying the smell of exhaust fumes and dust, but lacking the unique aroma of a winter night street.

A complex mixture of restaurant fumes and the warmth of subway ventilation in the distance.

The smell is too "clean".

It was as clean as a standard sample prepared in a laboratory.

He looked down at his hands.

The old scars on my fingers, made by the stitches, are arranged neatly, each one the same length and color.

Real scars don't look like this.

Some are deep, some are shallow; some bulge after healing; some are just a white line, haphazardly crisscrossing on the back of the hand and knuckles.

Now, these look like decorations carved with laser eagles.

Lin Zheng stuffed the bread slice into the hand of the next recipient.

The movement was a bit too forceful.

The other person paused for a moment, then looked up at him.

It was a young face, no more than twenty years old, with deep-set eyes and prominent bones.

There was confusion in the young man's eyes, but it was quickly overwhelmed by exhaustion.

He took the bread and mumbled something indistinctly.

Then he picked up the soup bowl and walked away quickly.

Lin Zheng stood still.

The wind kept blowing.

The steam from the insulated container continued to rise.

The group continued to move slowly.

Everything is proceeding as planned.

A meticulously planned charity performance.

The actors are in place.

The props are complete.

The script is perfect.

Where are the audience?

Perhaps the audience is himself.

Or perhaps it's the "program" that orchestrated all of this behind the scenes.

Lin Zheng recalled the days when he used to "build Gundams".

When those "parts" were delivered, they still bore traces of their lives—the location of wounds, the shape of scars, and dirt under their fingernails.

His job is to erase or cleverly piece together these traces to make the final work look "natural".

But no matter how you piece it together, it's still just a collection of pieces.

It lacks that consistent, lifelong sense of "wear and tear".

Just like the scene right in front of us.

Every detail is correct, but put together, they form an exquisite lie.

The line is getting shorter and shorter.

The soup in the thermos seemed endless.

The imam stood there, repeating the same actions.

Finally, after being served another bowl of soup, the old man straightened up slightly and stretched his shoulders.

The bones made a slight clicking sound.

The sound is very realistic.

But Lin Zheng noticed that the angle at which the old man moved his shoulders was exactly the same as the previous times.

Even the loudness and frequency of the clicking sound were consistent.

The program is in a loop.

Lin Zheng felt suffocated.

It's not that there's not enough air, but rather a cognitive squeeze.

This scene is telling him: Look, this is what charity is, this is what warmth is, this is what mutual help between people is.

Standard, normative, impeccable.

But it lacks the most important thing—that chaotic, unexpected, and rough "realism".

The last person to receive it was a tall, thin man wearing an ill-fitting old suit with his elbows worn shiny.

He took the soup bowl and bread and bowed deeply to the imam.

Then, carrying the bowl, he quickly walked into the darkness.

The insulated container is almost empty.

The imam placed the long-handled ladle on the side of the bucket and rubbed his hands, which were red from the cold.

He looked at Lin Zheng.

"Thank you, young man."

His voice was calm, with that familiar, slightly accented English.

Lin Zheng did not respond.

He stared at the old man rubbing his hands together.

Rub your fingers together, rub your palms together, and then breathe on them.

Every step is as precise as an instructional video.

"Is it cold?" the imam asked.

Lin Zheng nodded.

His fingers were indeed cold, but the coldness was even, with a consistent temperature drop from the fingertips to the base of the fingers.

Real cold isn't like that.

Real cold will first freeze your fingertips, then spread to your palms, causing a stinging pain at your joints, while your palms may retain a little warmth from holding bread for so long.

But now, the whole hand feels like a piece of metal that has cooled down evenly.

The imam took a thermos from under the stall and unscrewed the lid.

Steam rose up, carrying the astringent aroma of black tea.

He took a sip and then handed the cup to Lin Zheng.

"Drink some hot water to warm yourself up."

Lin Zheng looked at the cup that was handed to him.

The stainless steel cup has a few dents on its surface, but they are all in the "right" places—near the bottom, and of moderate size, as if they were added intentionally to increase the "realism".

He didn't answer.

"imam."

His voice was dry, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time.

"Um?"

The old man took back the cup, took another sip, and waited for what was to come.

Lin Zheng licked his lips.

The cold wind made my lips chapped, and licking them caused a slight stinging sensation.

But the stinging sensation was too even.

"If—" He paused, organizing his thoughts.

"If everything before your eyes, the efforts you make, the warmth you feel, could all be components designed by a higher will to keep something functioning." —

He looked at the recipients who had already dispersed but were still lingering in the shadows of the street corner.

"The person you help might fall again tomorrow due to the same systemic issues, or might never have even existed at all —"

His gaze returned to the imam's face.

"Then what's the point of everything we're doing right now?"

"Are we just deceiving ourselves, adding a touch of pointless sentimentality to an absurd process?"

The question was thrown out and landed squarely in the cold air.

There was no response.

Only the wind continued to blow, lifting a piece of plastic bag from the ground and letting it slide along the ground, making a rustling sound.

The imam did not answer immediately.

He quietly put the lid on the thermos and placed it back under the stall.

Then he bent down, took a clean paper bowl from another box, and scooped up the last bit of soup from the thermos.

There wasn't much soup, just enough to cover the bottom of the bowl.

He straightened up and placed the bowl into Lin Zheng's cold hands.

The warmth emanating from the bowl felt very real, even a little hot to the touch.

Lin Zheng's fingers tightened instinctively.

"Drink it," the imam said.

Then he pointed in the direction where the end of the line had been.

"Look at that old gentleman."

Lin Zheng looked in the direction he was pointing.

There was another person standing in the shadows at the street corner.

It was the same old gentleman in the worn-out suit, about sixty years old, with sparse, gray hair, rubbing his red, frozen hands in the cold wind.

He didn't leave, but stood there, looking at the empty thermos and then at the empty bowl in his hand, as if he was hesitating about something.

"When he received the soup yesterday, he told me," the imam's voice was not loud, but it strangely pierced through the noise of the street, "that bowl of soup gave him the courage to make another job application call today."

The old man finally moved, carefully placed the empty bowl next to a trash can on the roadside, then turned around and slowly walked towards the other end of the street.

His back was hunched, but his steps were still relatively steady.

"The call may not have gone through," the imam continued, "but at least he's still standing here, not collapsed in some corner from the cold and hunger."

He turned his head and looked at Lin Zheng.

His gaze remained gentle, but it held an added layer of meaning—not pity, not preaching, but a serene understanding of everything.

"You ask me what the significance is?"

"The significance lies in the fact that he is still standing today, not fallen."

"As for tomorrow—"

The imam paused, then reached out and patted Lin Zheng on the shoulder.

The warmth of my palm seeped through the fabric of the coat, steady and solid.

"Shall we make soup again tomorrow?"