Chapter 406: The Ninth Volume

The ninth volume lay open on the table. Sixty-four pages—the thinnest of the nine. The date range on the spine was written in her father's own hand, and the final "August" was pressed heavier than the rest.

The desk lamp was nudged inward, its light falling across the middle band of the page.

In the living room, Zhi'an was doing homework; through the gap in the door came the soft scrape of an eraser against the desk. A while ago he'd brought in a cup of hot water and set it at the corner of the desk. "Water's here," he said, then walked out, pulling the door nearly shut, leaving a crack. The steam from the cup thinned, little by little.

First page, header: June 12. Below it, a single line—7:40, signed. Released on guarantee.

She turned back to the last page of the eighth volume. That page read Case filed. Released on guarantee, dated June 12 as well. The edges of the two volumes matched perfectly—not a seam between them.

She set the eighth volume back by the bed and returned to the desk, reading from the beginning. She'd long since grown familiar with her father's method: date and time at the top of the page, one event per line below, written only as far as he'd gotten, never amended, never blotted. If a line ran out, he continued on the next; in the margins he sometimes wrote "see volume X."

June 15, 9 a.m., reported to the office, signed name.

June 17, afternoon, picked up medicine at the pharmacy, blood pressure measured, 150. Doctor said less salt.

June 19, 10 a.m., phone call asking when the materials would be delivered. I said next week.

June 22, 3 p.m., materials delivered, one receipt, tucked in the volume.

June 25, morning, looked over the receipt again. It doesn't say how many items.

June 28, rained at night, got up to close the windows, flipped through the June pages while I was at it.

She turned back to June 22. She ran a finger along the seam and pulled out a thin slip of paper: the receipt. Palm-width, the edges worn, the ink thinned by the paper's absorption. Only the character for "received" and the line beneath it were still legible. She tucked the receipt back into place and smoothed the page flat.

That line—It doesn't say how many items—she read twice. It didn't sound like business; it sounded like a man leaving himself a note.

July 3, 10 a.m., questioned for three hours. Sun was blazing when I came out. Bought a watermelon at the intersection, four and a half jin, came back and cut half.

July 5, afternoon, delivered one sheet of paper. Didn't ask the name of the person who took it. Kept the return receipt.

July 8, sorted the two sheets in the volume by date. Sorted them twice.

Her reading quickened. The July days pressed one against the next, not a page left blank. She'd planned on five pages a day; she reached July 10 on the first night.

The entry for July 11 ran longer than the rest, spilling onto a second page. No "see volume X" in the margin. The characters crowded tighter than before.

July 11, morning, Cen came.

He says he wants to sue his work unit—the director removal matter. He says he doesn't accept it. In April he was still doing the director's work. The report was signed by him; he'll take responsibility.

He wouldn't give me the second one. He said: "If I give it to you, you holding it will only hurt that child."

He said he's put it in the court files. No one can take it away once it's there.

Which file—he said we'd talk after he's done with his suit.

She pressed her finger down on the phrase put it in the court files, holding it there for a long moment. The paper was faintly damp. This line was pressed harder than the lines around it; the pen had hesitated at the words "can't take it away"—she could feel the ridge through the back of the page.

The questions the woman at the Intermediate People's Court window had asked—after all these days, they surfaced from this page: Where is the original? Who can confirm it?

[Thud. He said the place. He didn't say the building number.]

She lifted her hand. The pressure mark from the page's edge lingered on her fingertip, slow to fade.

Who "that child" was—her father didn't write it on this page. Beneath this entry he'd left several blank lines before starting the next one. He never left blank lines. She ran her finger down each one: no characters, no pencil marks. As if he'd been waiting for a sentence to land, and when it didn't, he'd moved on to the next entry.

After he's done with his suit. Whether he'd finished—the pages didn't say. He'd passed away on June 14, two years ago. A heart attack. Gone quickly. Auntie Wang had asked in that room whether the sixth page had been found; Cen Hong read it aloud, and he'd pressed his fingerprint. She already knew all that. But this line on the paper—she only learned it today.

She turned further. July 16, Zhixia called to ask how things were at home. I said fine.

She stopped on this line. That July she'd made such a call, a few minutes long. What she'd asked—she couldn't fully recall. Her father had recorded the call for her, written it onto paper that belonged to those three months of his own.

July 19, fixed the bicycle, replaced the chain with a new one, got back at 8.

July 22, copied the chart from the hardcover notebook, got to the second batch, stopped here.

The July 24 entry sat high on the page—only four lines. Below them, the bottom two-thirds of the page lay blank, the paper whiter than the pages before and after.

Hengzheng, first floor. My name is on the wall.

I stood beneath it for a while.

Told him about that child. He still hasn't gotten his license.

No one spoke on the bus home.

She stared at the third line. He still hasn't gotten his license.

May 13, afternoon, the reception room on Hengzheng's first floor, the glass door facing that wall. The voice on the recording had said: He confessed. He signed it. He won't say anything else. And one more sentence—Your father's three years, in exchange for one lawyer's license.

What her father wrote himself was He still hasn't gotten his license. The voice on this year's recording said "exchange." The paper said "still hasn't gotten." One was someone else's words from this year, the other his own pen from that summer. They spoke of the same thing.

She lifted the page toward the lamp. Nothing on the back. Flipped it over—blank.

Cen had come on July 11, and on July 24 he'd gone to Hengzheng's first floor. The thirteen days between were filled with medicine, a watermelon, a bicycle chain, her phone call. She turned those pages back and forth, rubbing the corner of one page twice with her finger.

The three lines she'd written in her own notebook on May 12—the first question, Why did Dad confess—had an answer on paper now. Not "because he was wronged," not "because of someone." It said He still hasn't gotten his license.

[Thud. The first question. He answered it.]

In the living room, Zhi'an turned a page and suddenly said, "Sis, I'm sweeping the floor tomorrow. Move the notebooks on the table."

"Moving them."

"Dad's stuff again?"

"Dad's own matter."

"Did he finish writing it?"

She looked at the four lines. "He finished."

"I soaked the rice porridge. Don't say you're not eating breakfast again."

"I'll eat."

The light through the door crack dimmed by half, then brightened again.

* * *

At noon on May 29, she went downstairs for noodles. He Xiufen set the bowl in front of her, the spoon clinking against the rim.

"Finished reading?"

"A little left."

"Take your time." He Xiufen slung the rag over her shoulder, walked two steps, then turned back. "He wrote every single day. Never missed one. The three years he copied materials for me, he noted down which document went out on which day. He used to say—if paper's going to speak for itself, someone first has to remember its dates."

She made a sound of assent. The noodles were scalding; she blew on each bite. When He Xiufen collected the bowl she patted her once on the back of the chair, then left.

On the night of May 30, she reached August.

August 5, sorted the papers needed for the hearing. Not one extra, not one missing.

The August 17 page bore a header first: Three questions to ask. Beneath it: one, two, three.

All three lines were empty. Nothing after "one," nothing after "two," nothing after "three." She'd seen these three questions fully written in other volumes: set down the night before a hearing, asked the next day; once asked, sometimes a checkmark in the margin, sometimes the note Didn't ask. Ask next time. On one page of the sixth volume, after question three, he'd written Didn't ask. Ask next time. On this page her father had written only the header, then drawn one horizontal line beneath it, extending all the way to the page's edge.

August 18, arrived 9 a.m., finished at 2 p.m. Everything asked was answered. Came home, slept the afternoon.

Not a single checkmark above that line. In August he'd still noted the grocery shopping, still noted locking the bicycle in the stairwell, still noted the road work downstairs keeping him from his nap. The days kept being recorded—but not one of the three questions was asked.

She turned to the final page. August 30. A single line in the exact middle of the page.

I signed it. I won't say anything else.

The characters were small, the ink the blue-black of his fountain pen. The period was pressed hard, leaving a tiny pit in the paper. She set her fingertip over it—she could feel the indentation—and held it there a moment before letting go.

At the dinner table that time, spreading his photocopies, he'd said: I signed it, but I didn't write the report. By the time it reached this page, the second half had become I won't say anything else.

Below that: no further characters. The bottom margin empty. The "August" on the spine ended here.

She closed the volume, then opened it again, running through it from the first page: sixty-four pages, complete. Her father's three months—all here.

Inside the flyleaf of the first volume was the table of contents: four columns—volume, date range, page count, what's inside. She pulled it out. Nine rows. The final cells of the first eight rows were all filled in; the ninth row's last cell was empty, the pencil leaving a small white patch on the paper.

She took a pencil from the holder and wrote, stroke by stroke: His own matter.

When she'd finished, she looked it over. The characters crowded tight in their box; the last stroke ran past the line.

[Thud. Table of contents—nine rows, complete.]

[Thud. Three items—not one in hand yet.]

The paper was full, and her hands were empty. She returned the pencil to the holder; it rolled a half-turn and stopped against the cup.

At 10 p.m., she pulled out the notebook where she'd copied Han Chongli said, turning to those pages. Fifty minutes, one line per sentence, her hand shaking the whole time, the characters large and small.

Beside two of the lines she added a source, in light pencil:

"Your father's three years, in exchange for one lawyer's license." —Volume Nine, July 24.

"He confessed. He signed it. He won't say anything else." —Volume Nine, August 30.

When she'd finished, she sat still. Outside, the convenience store's roll-up shutter came down, metal scraping against the ground with a shriek, and then the alley went quiet. The water in her cup had gone cold. She raised it, took one sip, and set it down.

She closed the notebook. She picked up the eighth and ninth volumes and placed them one by one at the bottom of the stack. Nine volumes, aligned, spines facing out, the rows of dates running on and on, stopping at August with the last. She counted the spines once, then counted again.

At the top sat the first volume, wrapped in those two sheets of old newspaper. The newsprint's edges had yellowed under the lamplight, curling and fraying. She knew the masthead line by heart. She did not peel it back.

She reached out and pressed down a corner that had lifted. Under her finger, a small piece of the paper crumbled away and fell between her knuckles.