Tales of the End of the Century

The mirror was found at the flea market. Yushugou Town only had one flea market, which was basically just a few stalls set up on an open space at the end of the street, selling old clothes, old furniture, old farm tools, and a bunch of things whose original origins were unrecognizable. Bai Ye was just passing by when Lao Hu said he was going to find an enamel basin, so he went with him. That's when he saw the mirror.

It was palm-sized, round, with a pattern pressed from sheet metal on the back, almost completely rusted. There was a crack on the front, running diagonally from the upper left to the lower right. The mirror was covered in a layer of dust, making everything blurry. Bai Ye squatted down, picked it up, examined it from all angles, and asked the stall owner how much it cost. The stall owner was an old woman, wrapped in a blue headscarf. She glanced at the mirror and said fifty cents. Bai Ye gave her a dollar, and the old woman searched her pockets before finding fifty cents in change. Bai Ye put the mirror in her pocket without looking at herself. Old Hu bought an enamel basin, a piece of paint chipped off, revealing a peony flower imprinted on the bottom, similar to the one on the previous jar.

Back in the courtyard, Lan Susu was organizing Sergei's notes under the jujube tree when she saw the mirror Bai Ye had taken out, and she stopped.

"Where did it come from?"

"Flea market. 50 cents."

Lan Susu took the mirror, turned it over to look at the pattern on the back. "Do you know what this is?"

"Mirror."

"This is the kind used in old-fashioned barbershops. Barbers hang in a row, and customers look at them. There are two mirrors facing each other, and people layer on top of each other until no one can count them all." Lan Susu turned the mirror over and wiped the dust off with her sleeve. A crack ran across the middle, cutting her face in two, her left and right eyes slightly misaligned.

"Sergei mentioned this kind of mirror in his notes," she said. "He practiced in front of two mirrors every day during the early stages of his rift."

"Practice what?"

"Practice confirming yourself." Lan Susu placed the mirror on her lap. "He placed two mirrors facing each other, stood in the middle, and watched his reflection layer by layer. The outermost one was him, and the innermost one was also him. He wasn't sure about the ones in between."

"And then?"

"Then one day, the innermost one stopped moving with him. He raised his hand, and the innermost one stood still. He smiled, and the innermost one remained expressionless." Lan Susu looked at Bai Ye, "He smashed both mirrors. But after he smashed them, he discovered that he could see the innermost one even without the mirrors. It wasn't in the mirrors anymore. It was in his eyes."

Bai Ye lifted the mirror from her lap and held it face down in her hand. The textured metal back pressed against her palm, feeling cool.

Tie Niu came out of the house, holding a piece of paper. "This was tucked in Sergei's notebook." He handed the paper to Lan Susu. It wasn't Russian, but English, handwritten, with messy handwriting and several crossed-out and rewritten parts. Lan Susu took it and looked at a few lines, her brows furrowing.

"What is it?" Bai Ye asked.

"A list," Lan Susu said. "Compiled by Sergei. All the subjects in Project Aurora who entered the rift phase. Twenty-three people in total. Each person's name is followed by a date and a word."

"What word?"

Lan Susu handed him the paper. The list, from top to bottom, had a date after each name, followed by a word. The first one was, "Korsak, April 7, 1983, left." The second one was, "Petrov, May 2, 1983, right." The third one was, "Ivanova, May 9, 1983, even." The words for the next dozen or so people were all similar: "left," "right," "even," and "all."

Bai Ye pointed to the last word. "What does 'all' mean?"

Lan Susu turned to another page in Sergei's notes. "He recorded it. In the early stages of the rift, that thing could only control a small part of the body. One hand, one leg, one eye. So the subjects would feel that their left hand wasn't their own, or that what their right eye saw was different from what their left eye saw." She pointed to the words on the list, "'Left' means the left side, 'Right' means the right side. 'Dual' means both sides have started. 'Full'—"

"The whole body," Tie Niu interjected.

“Yes.” Lan Susu flipped the list over; there were words on the back, in Sergei’s handwriting, written in red ink. “‘Ivanova, May 9th recorded as ‘double.’ On May 17th, she looked in the mirror in the washroom and saw the person in the mirror smile at her. She herself didn’t smile. On the morning of May 18th, she was standing in the corridor, facing the wall. The nurse called her, but she didn’t answer. When she was turned around, that smile was still on her face. Her eyes were open, but there was no one in them.’”

Bai Ye turned the mirror over. A crack bisected his face, the left and right halves offset by a slit. He looked at himself in the mirror. Left eye, right eye. Left corner of his mouth, right corner of his mouth. He tried to smile. The face in the mirror smiled back. In sync. At least it appeared to.

He flipped the mirror back onto his knee.

Who is the last person on the list?

Lan Susu flipped the book back to the front and moved her finger to the name on the last line.

"Sergei," she said, "the date is November 15, 1983. The word is—'all'."

The courtyard was quiet for a while. The sparrow in the jujube tree came back, hopped a few times, and flew away. Old Hu came out of the kitchen carrying a newly bought enamel basin filled with freshly washed vegetables. He saw the three people sitting around, didn't say anything, and squatted down in the corner to start picking vegetables.

"Sergei started recording others in the early stages of the rift." Lan Susu tucked the list back into her notebook. "He knew what was going to happen. He observed the subjects, recording their progress—left, right, both, all. He knew he was on the same path. By recording others, he was actually recording his own countdown."

"On November 15th, he wrote 'the whole thing'," Tie Niu said. "On November 20th, he was still writing notes."

"Yes. Five days. From 'complete' to the collapse of consciousness, he held on for five days." Lan Susu looked at Bai Ye. "How many days ago did you first touch that box?"

Bai Ye thought for a moment. It felt like a long time ago, yet also like yesterday. "About ten days ago."

"It took Sergei more than seven months to go from 'left' to 'full'. You've only been here for ten days."

Bai Ye didn't speak. He picked up the mirror from his lap, facing it towards himself. Left half of his face, right half. A slit ran diagonally from the upper left to the lower right, separating his left and right eyes. He tried blinking his left eye. The left eye blinked once in the mirror. He tried blinking his right eye. The right eye blinked once in the mirror. He tried blinking alternately with both eyes. Left, right, left, right. The mirror followed suit, perfectly. He stopped. The person in the mirror stopped too. Then he saw—very slightly, so slightly that he wouldn't notice unless he was staring intently—the person's right eye in the mirror blinked again, even after he had stopped.

Bai Ye placed the mirror on her knees.

"What day is it today?" he asked.

Lan Susu opened her notebook and found her own entry: "Twelfth day since the day the suitcase was brought in."

"The twelfth day. In Sergei's record, what stage is the twelfth day?"

Lan Susu flipped through a few pages, then stopped. "Ivanova, day twelve. From 'right' to 'double'." She closed her notebook. "But everyone is different. Korsak was still on 'left' on day twelve, while Petrov was already on 'double' on day twelve."

Bai Ye looked down at his right hand. The white mark on his index finger was completely gone. He turned his hand over, back of his hand, palm. Left hand, right hand. Both obeyed his commands. But this morning, while brushing his teeth, he discovered that his left hand had squeezed toothpaste onto the back of the toothbrush. Not the bristles, but the back. It was squeezed very neatly, a thin white line running from the handle to the brush head, as if measured with a ruler. He didn't remember squeezing toothpaste; he only remembered standing in front of the sink, holding the toothbrush, the bristles already covered in foam. He turned the toothbrush over and saw the neat line of toothpaste on the back. He rinsed it off and squeezed it again. This time, he squeezed it correctly.

Old Hu put the selected vegetables into an enamel basin, picked up the basin, and stood up. "What you're saying, all that left and right, sounds like car repair to me."

"Car repair?" Tie Niu asked.

"Fixing a car. If the wheel is off-center, veering to the left, you have to turn the steering wheel to the right. How much? Turning it too much will make it veering to the right, turning it too little will still make it veering. Keep adjusting, keep adjusting, until the wheel is straight, and the steering wheel is straight too." Old Hu placed the basin on the windowsill. "But if you don't know what 'straight' looks like, you'll never get it right, no matter how long you adjust it."

Bai Ye stuffed the mirror into his pocket. The coolness of the metal seeped through the fabric and clung to his thigh. "Old Hu, do you remember what that peony flower at the bottom of your jar looked like?"

Old Hu thought for a moment. "Red, five petals, with a yellow stamen in the center."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"You use that jar every day, how many years have you been using it?"

"It's been seven or eight years."

"Can you draw that flower if you close your eyes?"

Old Hu closed his eyes, gestured a few times in the air, then stopped. He opened his eyes. "I can't draw it."

"You've spent seven or eight years looking at it every day, but you still can't draw it."

"I can't draw it," Old Hu said. "But if you bring me another jar with different flowers painted on it, I'll recognize it as mine at a glance."

Bai Ye reached into his pocket and touched the metal back of the mirror. The pattern pressed against his palm. He couldn't remember what the pattern looked like. Round, square, floral, plain—he had absolutely no recollection. But he figured he'd recognize it next time he saw it.

Lan Susu put Sergei's notes away and placed them in a file folder. "Sergei made a list at the end of his notes. He called it 'Methods for Confirming Oneself'." She pulled a page from the file folder, which was covered with dense Russian writing, with her pencil translation next to it.

"First rule. Find a secret that only you know. It's not a big deal, it's a small one. So small that no one else will notice it except you."

"for example?"

"For example, when you were in third grade, you carved a word under your desk. Only you know what it was." Lan Susu looked at Bai Ye. "That thing can learn your habits and your memories, but it can't learn things you don't remember. When you carved it, you didn't put it into your brain, so it can't find it. The day you suddenly remember it, it's you."

Bai Ye thought for a moment. His third-grade desk, with its wooden top, had a scar on the upper left corner where it had been cut away. He had carved something next to that scar with a knife. What did he carve? A word, or some kind of pattern? He couldn't remember. But he remembered the location. The wood grain, the shape of the scar, the feel of the knife blade sinking into it. What he carved—a triangle.

"Do you remember now?" Lan Susu asked.

"A triangle."

"What kind of triangle?"

"It's equilateral. The pointed end is facing up," Bai Ye said. "I don't know why I carved that. I forgot about it as soon as I finished."

"That's yours. You can't take it away."

Tie Niu leaned his axe against the jujube tree and dusted off the sawdust from his hands. "I have one too."

Lan Susu looked at him.

"Research Institute No. 17, the security team's break room. My locker is number 7, and there's a photo pasted on the inside of the locker door. It's not a photo of a person, it's a photo torn from a magazine. A mountain, with snow on its summit and a lake at its foot. I don't know the name of that mountain, nor do I know why that photo was torn out. But every time I open the locker and see that photo, I feel like there's another world outside." Tie Niu picked up the axe and tested the blade with his fingers. "That photo is still in the locker. Nobody knows about it except me."

Bai Ye pulled his hand out of his pocket, palm up. There was a scab on it from the cut by the broken glass, the raised edges already hardened. He tried to recall the moment he climbed over the wall. The boiler room behind Lan Susu's office, the gray brick wall, the broken glass at the top. His left hand climbed up first, his palm cut. Blood seeped out, but he didn't pay attention. His right hand braced himself against the wall to climb over, Lan Susu catching him below. These details were all his own. Not because it was so special, but because it was so insignificant. The broken glass cut his hand, it hurt for a moment, then he forgot. That thing wouldn't notice that kind of pain.

"There's one more item on Sergei's list," Lan Susu said. "Give yourself a name. Not the one others call you, but the one you choose yourself. Only tell it to yourself, don't let anyone else know. Say it once before you go to sleep every day. Say it again when you wake up."

"What name should we give it?" Bai Ye asked.

"Anything goes. Syllables without any meaning are best. Because they have no meaning, they have no pattern. Without a pattern, they can't be learned." Lan Susu closed her notebook. "Sergei gave himself one. He recited it every night before bed and when he woke up. He said it was his last line of defense."

"Will it work?"

Lan Susu was silent for a moment. "He read until November 20th. That night, he wrote his name on the last page of his notebook. Then the door was kicked open."

Bai Ye stood up, went inside, and found his notebook and pencil. He opened to a blank page, thought for a moment, and wrote down a few letters. Not English, not pinyin, it meant nothing. He tore the page out, folded it into a small square, and stuffed it into his pocket. The pencil marks rubbed against his thigh.

That evening, the four of them ate dinner in the courtyard. Old Hu mixed a bowl of cucumbers in a newly bought enamel basin with soy sauce, vinegar, minced garlic, and a few drops of sesame oil. Bai Ye picked up a piece with his chopsticks, chewed it, and suddenly stopped.

"Old Hu, did you add sesame oil today?"

"I put in a few drops. What's wrong?"

"You never used to put sesame oil in your cucumber salad."

Old Hu paused for a moment, then looked down at the bowl of cucumbers. "Right. I never put sesame oil in them. I don't know why, but today my hand reached over and took some by itself."

Bai Ye put down his chopsticks. Tie Niu stopped chewing, and Lan Susu held her bowl without moving. Old Hu looked at his hands, his fingers still glistening with oil. He slowly wiped his hands on his pants.

"It's nothing," Old Hu said, his voice lower than usual. "I just added a few extra drops of sesame oil. A cucumber is still a cucumber."

He dipped his chopsticks into the bowl, picked up another piece, and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing it with a crunching sound. Bai Ye picked up his chopsticks again and also took a piece. The sesame oil was very strong, overpowering the vinegar and garlic. He swallowed the cucumber.

Back inside, Bai Ye lay on the kang (a heated brick bed) and took the mirror out of his pocket. Moonlight shone on the mirror, and the cracks cut his face in two. He turned the mirror over, back side up. The pattern on the tin sheet became visible in the moonlight—not flowers, but a bird. Its wings were folded, and its head was tilted to one side, as if listening to something. He looked at it for a long time, then put the mirror back in his pocket.

He closed his eyes. The name spun in his mind a few times, then slowly sank, like a pebble dropped into deep water. He waited for the surface to calm. A long, long time passed, so long he was almost asleep. Then he heard a sound, very soft, very distant, as if coming from another room. It wasn't a name, but a person laughing. A very soft laugh, as if listening to a joke only he could understand.

Bai Ye opened his eyes. The crack in the ceiling was still there. He reached into his pocket and touched the back of the metal mirror. The outline of a bird pressed against his fingertips, its wings folded, its head tilted. He took the mirror out and turned it over. In the moonlight, the crack sliced ​​his face in two. Left eye, right eye. Left corner of the mouth, right corner of the mouth. He looked at the face in the mirror.

Then he saw the right corner of his mouth twitch slightly upwards. So slight, so subtle, that he wouldn't notice it unless he was staring intently. The left corner of his mouth remained still.

Bai Ye pressed the mirror against his chest. The coolness of the metal seeped through his clothes and touched his skin. He heard his own heartbeat, steady and firm. Then he heard that laughter again. It wasn't coming from the mirror, nor from outside. It came from his own throat. Very light, very shallow, like a bubble rising from the bottom of the water, reaching the surface, and then bursting.

He shut his mouth. The laughter stopped. He put the mirror back in his pocket, turned over, and faced the wall. The plaster on the wall was bulging; he pressed it down, but it bulged again, so he didn't press it down again. That triangle that only he knew, that mountain with snow on its summit, that name that had no meaning. He went through all these things in his mind, one by one. Triangle, summit, name. Triangle, summit, name. Then he fell asleep.

In my dream, someone was looking in a mirror. It wasn't him, but a middle-aged man in a white coat. He had a scar above his left eyebrow. He placed two mirrors facing each other, standing in the middle. The outermost reflection of himself raised his right hand, while the innermost reflection remained still. Some of the other reflections in the middle moved, some didn't, and some moved halfway before stopping. The man in the white coat looked at the innermost, still reflection.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The one at the very back didn't answer. It just looked at him, and the right corner of its mouth curled up slightly.