Tales of the End of the Century

Bai Ye spent the entire day adapting to the new level of perception.

It's not for probing other people's secrets. It's simply for getting your body used to this frequency that's always in a state of micro-vibration—like a radio suddenly turned on to all bands, every channel speaking simultaneously. The direction in which the jujube tree roots slowly wriggle in the soil, the route ants take along the cracks in the woodpile at the base of the wall carrying wood chips, the changing resistance of the blade pressing into the cucumber skin when Old Hu is chopping vegetables, the rhythm of each corundum grain falling off and embedding itself on the grinding wheel when Tie Niu is sharpening his knife. All these subtle sound sources rush in together, not with the ears, but layered up from the bottom of perception, like all the seashells buried in the sand being washed out by the receding tide.

He sat motionless under the jujube tree, spending the entire morning discerning which sounds were what he needed and which were merely background noise. He wasn't chasing after those sounds—chasing them would only cause them to dissipate. He let them come and go on their own. He focused his attention on his breathing, letting his body decide the length of his inhalations and the speed of his exhalations, leaving only a small, steady feeling in his chest, like supporting a piece of chili oil that hadn't completely dissolved in an enamel mug.

Around noon, he finally found that balance. All superfluous senses were pushed into the background, like the continuous low murmur of a river flowing over a rocky beach in the distance. He knew they were still there, but he was no longer led by them.

Old Hu poked his head out of the kitchen and asked him what he wanted for lunch. Bai Ye said anything was fine. Old Hu frowned, put the enamel mug on the windowsill, and said, "You never used to say anything was fine. You used to say, 'Don't put garlic in it.'"

Bai Ye looked down at his hands. He didn't know if he had actually said those words before. He didn't remember. But he knew that when Lao Hu said those words, his right hand touched the garlic twice—the first time subconsciously reaching for the unpeeled clove on the windowsill, the second time his ring finger didn't hold the garlic skin down, and the garlic rolled off the windowsill and fell into the grass clippings at the base of the wall. This wasn't something he saw with his eyes, nor something he deduced with his brain. It was something he sensed. Every tiny movement of Lao Hu's was within his perception range, shining quietly like a pebble at the bottom of water.

He was chopping wood in the afternoon. Tie Niu stood beside him, axe in his left hand, his right hand still covered by his leather glove. Tie Niu asked if he wanted to try it with his left hand. Bai Ye took the axe and gripped the handle with his left. He didn't think about how to chop; he simply looked at the log on the stump, noticing the direction of its grain—not analyzing the depth of the grain with his mind, but simply sensing where the wood fibers were densest and where they had become brittle from the afternoon sun. He raised the axe, then brought it down; the wood split open with a crack, the two halves as evenly as if measured with a ruler.

Tie Niu glanced at him and said, "You used to always miss when chopping wood with your left hand." Bai Ye handed the axe back to him and said, "The past is the past, and the present is the present."

In the evening, he placed the enamel mug under the jujube tree and sat down.

Just then, he sensed that gaze.

It didn't appear suddenly. It was the extremely quiet and stable frequency that remained after the layers of background noise had been suppressed. It was far away. Like someone standing outside his sight, not approaching, not disturbing, just quietly watching this way. Bai Ye didn't move. He focused his attention on his breathing, letting his awareness continue to expand outward. The gaze also moved outward a little. He withdrew a little, and it withdrew a little. He expanded again, and it retreated again. It didn't overshadow him, it didn't oppress him, it just quietly guarded the very edge of his awareness. Like two people in the dark, each holding a lamp a great distance apart. Neither shone their light on the other first, but both could see the small halo of light around the other's feet.

He picked up the jar; the water rippled, the reflection flickered, then settled again. The gaze remained. Neither cold nor hot, devoid of emotion.

Bai Ye opened his eyes and stood up. Lan Susu was squatting in the vegetable patch next to him, looking at the chili seeds that Lao Hu had just planted, her fingers stuck in the soft soil, a small piece of dry grass clinging to her cheek. He told her what he had sensed. A very steady, quiet, and continuous gaze—not something that had happened in the last few days, but something that had been going on for a long time. It wasn't the man in gray, it wasn't Vasily, it was someone else. There was no hostility, but a deep focus, as if waiting for something to ripen.

Lan Susu stood up, dusted herself off, and went back inside, turning on the oscilloscope. Besides the stable resonant waveform of Bai Ye, there was indeed another extremely weak signal on the screen. It had a different frequency, rhythm, and direction than the previous slow signal of unknown origin. It was another one.

She looked at the screen and said that someone had been watching this place all along, not just in the last few days.

Bai Ye leaned against the jujube tree trunk, the tin bird-shaped round mirror in his pocket digging into his outer thigh. He suddenly remembered—the air-raid shelter, the words written in chalk. That man said he saw himself enter in the mirror, and the person leaving in the mirror was himself.

Perhaps that person didn't walk out of the mirror, but out of the gaze. He no longer stood in a fixed position, but dispersed himself into a very faint and steady layer of attention, remaining there to watch how those who came after him walked the rest of the way.

He reached into his pocket and touched the small round mirror. The outline of a bird on the back of the tin plate pressed against his fingertips, its wings folded and its head tilted. He didn't take it out; he simply turned it over in his pocket. Right side up.

Tie Niu placed the axe beside the doorframe and walked over, standing under the jujube tree and looking up. The newly sprouted leaves on the branches were tinged with a thin layer of orange-red by the setting sun, each leaf swaying gently in the wind. As dusk slowly fell, Lao Hu carried the garlic into the kitchen, Tie Niu gathered the chopped firewood into a pile, and Lan Susu turned off the oscilloscope and put it away in the east wing. When the oscilloscope screen went dark, that unfamiliar slow signal was still there, its frequency extremely stable.

Bai Ye bent down, picked up the enamel mug from the ground, and placed it on a stone. He looked up at the distant sky. The mountain silhouettes were silhouetted against the twilight, a deep blue line. The gaze remained—not interfering, but simply lingering on the edge of perception, like a lamp casting a soft, gentle light. Perhaps in a few days that gaze would recede further, or perhaps it would linger until autumn, when the jujubes ripened and half the firewood piled against the wall had burned. He withdrew his gaze, took his hand from his pocket, and placed it on his knee, palm up. Before, the first thing he did upon waking each day was check if this hand was still there; now, he didn't need to. Because it had always been there.

Bai Ye knew that perhaps the owner of that gaze was waiting for his response. But what was their purpose? Bai Ye no longer wanted to get involved in anything. Those days of confrontation had left a deep imprint on his heart.