My IQ has been increasing year by year.

April 12, 2002.

It's 9:30 at night.

The 21-inch Changhong color TV in Chen Zhuo's house was still on, and the screen was showing "Today's Talk," where Sa Beining's young but serious face was analyzing a bizarre case.

But nobody watches.

The television volume was turned down very low, with only a buzzing background sound, like some kind of white noise deliberately created to cover up the silence.

The air in the room was stuffy.

It's that time of year again when the humid season arrives.

Chen Zhuo sat in his small room, the door ajar.

He is packing his schoolbag.

There's really nothing to tidy up.

A few changes of underwear, two books to read on the way, and a water cup.

But he packed up very slowly.

The noise in the living room made him feel that if he finished cleaning up too quickly and went out, he would face an even more suffocating kind of care.

"Jianguo, do you think it would be okay to sew this money here?"

Liu Xiuying's hushed voice came from the living room.

Accompanied by the sizzling sound of needle and thread cutting through cotton cloth.

Chen Zhuo looked out through the crack in the door.

Liu Xiuying was sitting on the sofa, holding a pair of Chen Zhuo's new underwear in her hand, with her old reading glasses, which had broken legs and were wrapped with tape, perched on her nose, and she was threading a needle.

Her movements were delicate and persistent.

She sewed fifty yuan into the hidden pocket inside her underwear.

This was the standard equipment for traveling long distances in those days.

It's chaotic outside; train stations and bus stations are full of pickpockets. Only the places closest to your skin are truly safe.

"Okay, sew it up tightly."

Chen Jianguo sat on the bench next to him, holding a half-burnt Hongtashan cigarette between his fingers.

He didn't smoke because he was packing his son's luggage today and was afraid the smoke would upset the new clothes.

There was a net bag at his feet.

It was filled to the brim with tea eggs.

He started cooking it after dinner, using a full half-pound of tea leaves and a handful of star anise and cinnamon. It was emitting a rich, even slightly bitter, aroma.

"Do you think thirty tea eggs will be enough?"

Chen Jianguo kicked the net bag with some anxiety.

"It's a long way to the provincial capital. What if there's traffic? What if the kids don't like the food there?"

"Enough! Enough! Do you think we're fleeing a famine?"

Liu Xiuying bit off the thread, folded the underwear, and then took out a new pair of socks to inspect them.

"The school chartered a bus, a big King Long, with air conditioning. They'll stay in a guesthouse there; surely they'll get food!"

"That's different."

Chen Jianguo shook his head, his brows furrowing into a deep frown.

"I heard the food in the provincial capital is bland and tasteless. Also, these eggs aren't just for our son."

He pointed to the net.

"We also need to give some to the teachers, Lao Zhou and Lao Zhao. These two teachers went with us, it must have been so hard for them. We don't have anything special to offer, but these tea eggs are homemade, clean and delicious."

As he spoke, he seemed to remember something, suddenly stood up, and turned to walk towards the storage room.

"No, I also have a bottle of Erguotou that's been sitting for three years. Pack it up too, just in case the teacher wants a drink tonight. Take it with you."

Liu Xiuying grabbed him.

"Are you crazy? We're going to a competition, not a vacation! Bringing alcohol is ridiculous! People will think we're going to give gifts!"

"That's called social etiquette! You don't understand..."

"Chen Jianguo, sit down!"

A hushed argument could be heard coming from the living room.

Chen Zhuo sat at his desk, listening to these trivial, somewhat anxious, and even tedious conversations.

He didn't find it annoying.

This is a clumsy, cautious love, afraid that even the slightest oversight will cause the child to suffer outside.

Even if this love has the flavor of braised eggs and the spiciness of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor).

Chen Zhuo sighed softly.

He pulled a black velvet bag from the very bottom of his backpack.

This bag doesn't belong to him.

That belongs to Lao Zhou.

......

My memory goes back five hours.

After school in the afternoon, in the physics lab.

As the sun set, Lao Zhou chased everyone else away, leaving only Chen Zhuo behind.

Then, he walked to the desk that was as messy as a pigsty and opened the bottom drawer, which was usually locked and no one was allowed to touch.

A soft metallic clanging sound.

Old Zhou took out this black velvet bag.

"then."

Old Zhou tossed the bag over casually, as if he were tossing a pack of cigarettes, but his eyes followed the bag intently, with a hint of reluctance, like someone about to marry off a daughter.

Chen Zhuo caught it.

It feels a bit heavy when you hold it, and the metallic texture is transmitted to your palm through the velvet fabric.

He opened the bag.

Inside lay a black, rectangular machine with slightly rounded edges.

The body was very thin, which was an amazing feat of craftsmanship for that era.

The surface is made of carbon fiber reinforced plastic, with a subtle and deep black sheen.

Above the cover, there is a thin LCD screen with several gold-plated letters printed next to it. Although they are somewhat worn, they are still clearly legible.

Sony Discman D-777.

Below this line of text, there is an even smaller line of text: 10sec ESP.

This is the Sony D-777, a legendary disc player released in 1995 and hailed by audiophiles as the "King of Discmans." In an era when most people couldn't even afford a cassette player, this thing was astronomically priced.

Chen Zhuo was taken aback.

"Teacher Zhou, this..."

"I'll borrow it from you."

Old Zhou sat in a rattan chair, took out a crumpled pack of Hongtashan cigarettes from his pocket, and lit one.

"This thing has been with me for almost seven years."

Old Zhou squinted, his gaze somewhat unfocused, as if looking through the smoke at some bygone, unfulfilled era.

"That was in 1995. I had just been named an outstanding teacher in the province and received a bonus."

Back then, I was only in my early thirties, ambitious, and felt I could still do some research, and even climb the ranks, maybe to the provincial level, or even Beijing.

Old Zhou chuckled self-deprecatingly and flicked his cigarette ash.

"Back then, I just wanted to buy something nice so I could listen to some elegant classical music and feel like an intellectual."

This machine cost me several months' salary at the time, and my wife argued with me about it for half a month.

"And the result?"

Old Zhou sighed, his voice becoming somewhat hoarse.

"I hadn't heard much about it after I bought it. After winning that award, I settled down in this laboratory."

I talk to a bunch of junior high school students about friction and Ohm's Law every day.

Scientific research? It was long ago worn away by the daily grind of life.

"This machine, if it's with me, is just a dust-attracting lump of iron, just like my brain, which is about to rust to death."

Old Zhou pointed to the machine in Chen Zhuo's hand.

"This trip to the provincial capital is long and involves many different kinds of people."

"I heard about the bus our school chartered. Although it's supposed to be a luxury air-conditioned bus, it's so well-sealed that dozens of people were stuffed inside, and the smell was..."

Old Zhou wrinkled his nose.

"And those kids, Wang Yang and his group, they'll definitely be chattering away nervously."

"Take it with you."

"If you find it annoying, just put it on. Physics requires quiet, and so does the mind."

Chen Zhuo stroked the cool outer shell of the aircraft.

He could tell that the machine was extremely well-maintained; even the headphone cord was neatly coiled without a single crease.

This is not a forgotten lump of iron.

This is a cherished dream.

A dream about "what if I hadn't just been a high school teacher back then" and "what if I could have gone to even farther places".

Seven years ago, a spirited and ambitious Mr. Zhou bought it.

Seven years later, Old Zhou, with a full beard, handed it over to Chen Zhuo.

"Thank you, teacher."

Chen Zhuo did not refuse, nor did he say anything pretentious.

He put the machine into his pocket, feeling its weight.

Old Zhou pulled another CD from the drawer and threw it over along with its slightly scratched transparent plastic case.

"And this too."

"Don't listen to pop songs, they'll only make your head spin, they're all just hormonal stuff about love and romance."

Chen Zhuo took the CD.

The cover features a black and white photograph.

Glenn Gould.

Goldberg Variations

1981 edition.

"This piece of music..."

Old Zhou exhaled a smoke ring.

"He said there's symmetry, recursion, and all sorts of messy structures in it. Anyway, it made me sleepy, like a lullaby."

"Take it and listen to it."

Old Zhou waved his hand, as if to shoo something away.

"Maybe you can pick out something from this."

Back to the present.

Chen Zhuo took the CD out of the box and carefully inserted it into the D-777's hinge.

"Click".

The sound of the lid closing was crisp and pleasant, carrying a sense of precision unique to Japanese electronics from the 90s.

He picked up the original, slightly yellowed Sony E741 earbuds and put them in his ears.

Press the small, round Play button on the side of the device.

There was no music immediately.

First came a slight background noise, like an electric current flowing through it.

Followed by.

A clear, aloof, and highly articulate piano sound flowed out like mercury spilling onto the ground.

That's an aria.

This is followed by a variation.

There is no excessive emotional outpouring, no romantic sentimentality.

Only the left and right hands are in counterpoint, only the melody and harmony are perfectly matched.

It's like two sets of precision gears meshing and rotating in a vacuum.

Chen Zhuo closed his eyes.

The sounds of Liu Xiuying and Chen Jianguo arguing outside the door, the barking of the stray dog ​​downstairs, and the honking of horns on the road in the distance...

Everything was shut out by this invisible wall of sound.

The world has become pure.

Both cold and affectionate.

Chen Zhuo took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

He put the CD player in the outermost side pocket of his backpack, the easiest place to reach it.

This is not a Walkman.

This is a portable silent force field that Lao Zhou lent him.

"Son! Are you ready? Come out and have a glass of milk! Drink it and go to bed early! We have to get up early tomorrow!"

The sound of Liu Xiuying's loud voice from outside the door interrupted the lingering notes of the piano.

Chen Zhuo took off his headphones and hung them around his neck.

He pushed up his glasses, his eyes returning to their usual indifference.

"They're here."

He responded and pushed open the door.