Chapter 414: The Sixth Page Is Missing

The archives room was at the east end of the second floor. Inside the side door, a half-flight of narrow stairs, the handrail cold against her palm all the way down. A wooden desk stood at the foot of the stairs, a sheet of glass pressed over its top. Beneath the glass lay the Archive Access Guidelines, and taped to one corner was a slip of paper reading: "Reading Room at the East End."

Comrade Chu stood behind the desk, white cotton gloves already on, checking each item in turn: her practice certificate, the firm letter, the original power of attorney, and finally the originals of the two certificates from the thin envelope. She spread both certificates flat, studied the names on them for a moment, then matched them against the three names on the power of attorney before giving a slight nod.

"These two, I saw them last time." She pushed the envelope back. "Keep them safe. When you're done with the file, I'll return everything to you, one item at a time."

An access register lay open on the desk corner. Comrade Chu flipped to the current day's page, slid it over, and handed her a pen: "Name, time, which volume." She signed her name and wrote 9:30. Comrade Chu took the register back, glanced at it, and closed it.

She asked whether she could bring a pen and notebook inside. Comrade Chu said yes; taking notes was allowed, but no writing on the paper, no folding corners, no removing pages. "The file doesn't leave this table." She tilted her chin toward the door. "Bags go in the locker. Phones can't take pictures. If you need copies, come find me."

The metal cabinet door stood open, the middle shelf empty. She placed her bag inside and pressed the door shut. Her phone had been left at home on the desk corner the night before. The cabinet had an old-style latch, the kind that needed a key.

"Key's with me," Comrade Chu said. "I'll open it when you leave."

The room at the east end was not long. A long table sat by the window, which faced north. White light fell on the tabletop, the wood grain showing line by line. One chair at this end, one at the other; at the far end sat a register, a bottle of ink, and a pen. Along the wall stood a row of iron cabinets, numbered one by one up into the teens, the paint worn off. Footsteps scraped against the concrete floor out in the corridor, faded into the distance, and the room went quiet.

Comrade Chu followed her in and sat at the far end, opening the register. "I've noted the file number. This volume goes out and comes back in, I record it each time."

She stepped out and returned moments later, holding a main file in both hands.

Kraft paper cover, edges worn white, a crease down the spine. Three strands of cord threaded through the left side, the ends trimmed neatly, the knot flattened. She set the file on the table and pushed it half a palm's width closer, hand still resting on it. "The plaintiff's evidence is in the first volume, first page of the index. When you finish this one, I'll bring the next."

"Are there staples in it?"

"No. Don't add anything to it, and don't take anything out." She released her grip and withdrew to the far end, sitting down. "When reading, don't press the words. The paper's brittle."

She pressed her hands against the seams of her trousers before reaching for the cover.

The cover was printed with a grid: cause of action, parties, year, volume number, each filled in box by box. The archiving column was handwritten, the strokes blunt, the ink faded gray, the date more than a month after the day of judgment. She lifted the cover and turned first to the inside back cover.

A borrowing form was pasted to the inside back cover. Date, borrower, purpose, return—four columns, the grid printed tidy. The top row was empty, and every row below it empty as well, the paper glaringly white, only a faint fold line along one edge. Whoever had flipped to this page had not turned further.

"This file's been archived. Has anyone borrowed it?" she asked.

"If it's not written on the form, then no." Comrade Chu looked up. "Borrowing requires a page count. If the count doesn't match, it has to be reported. After this volume was approved, I took it out of the cabinet once to count the pages. It never left this room."

She let that sentence sit there without writing it in her notebook. The notebook only recorded what was on paper.

One page of file index, four columns: sequence number, material name, starting and ending page numbers, remarks. Complaint, Notice of Case Acceptance, fee payment receipts, plaintiff's evidence, defendant's evidence, hearing record, judgment, proof of service—lined up row by row. The row for plaintiff's evidence had its starting and ending page numbers written clearly, the remarks column left blank.

She turned pages by number, using only two fingers on the corner of each page, smoothing the paper flat after each turn.

The first few items were photocopies: Qingyuan Company's decision appointing him as center director, thin paper, edges curled in a ring, the company's red seal stamped at the end, the seal overlapping half a date; several months of payslips pasted onto a single page, arranged horizontally, pressed flat, the tape at the edge of the last one yellowed; attendance sheets with checkmarks in the boxes, every checkmark angled the same direction, column by column. All gray, all thin, edges frayed. She copied the half-date into her notebook, only the date, nothing added.

Further back, the paper changed.

Five pages. Thicker than the ones before, slightly rough to the touch, edges uncurled. Court-stamped page numbers pressed into the corners, a row of figures, pressed neat. Cord threaded through the left side, five holes on one line, the holes round and even. The words from the courier hub surfaced again: the hole punch was something I lent him.

"These page numbers in the corners—were they stamped by the court?" she asked.

"Stamped at the time of filing," Comrade Chu said without looking up. "Punched after stamping, then threaded."

Page by page, hole by hole, threaded into a volume, threaded even neater than the photocopies. These five pages had been checked once in court nine years ago, and never turned since.

The first page bore the printed header "Jiangzhou Qingyuan Testing Center," below which the horizontal lines were filled in blue-black ink, the handwriting thin: Sample name, Baixi Village well water (second sample). The testing item column read "Cadmium." The conclusion column was written larger than the rest—Exceeded Standard.

Pages two and three were the numbers, listed one by one: cadmium, detected value in one box, standard value in another, the two boxes side by side, no calculation needed to see which was higher. A few lines below read Not Detected, Compliant. Page four was methodology and explanation, line after line of small characters, densely written, the line spacing squeezed.

Not a single villager's name appeared in the five pages. What was written was a well, was water, was a number.

Page five.

In the issuer column, blue-black ink read "Cen Shouye." Heavy pen pressure. She tilted the paper toward the light; the strokes stood proud on the back, visible without touching. To the right of the signature was a round red seal, the ring of characters legible, even the small emblem within it legible, red showing through the rough grain of the paper. The five scanned images on the hard drive—she had zoomed in on them many times—the red seal was just a red blur. Here, every character in the ring was there.

Date: April 1.

She let this page sit a moment longer before turning back to the bottom of the first page. A line of small print, one size smaller than the body: This report comprises six pages (including one attachment page).

At the end of page five, a separate line: Attachment: Sample Handover Form (photocopy). She copied the parenthetical exactly, nothing else added.

She turned further, her fingers pausing at the page corner. The sixth page was not there. After page five came the defendant's stack of evidence, a different header, different paper, and again a new run of page numbers in the corners.

The count of pages in the plaintiff's evidence row of the index was exactly five.

The July 11 entry in Volume Nine—that was this file.

[Thud. The original stepped onto the page.]

[Thud. Old Case Retrial, three items, one arrived: Original True Sample.]

She sat still. The lamp on the table was off; white light came through the window, the paper white enough to sting the eyes. At the far end, a pen nib moved across the register—Comrade Chu writing another line. The clock on the wall reached 10:20.

Numbness spread from her pinky to her wrist. She spread both hands flat on the table's edge, squeezed them, then reached for her notebook.

She lined the three items up in her mind: the original had arrived; the sample delivery record was absent; the name she needed was still absent.

She listed what needed copying: header, sample, testing item, conclusion, issuer, date, the line of small print at the bottom, the line at the end of page five. She moved her notebook beside the file, an inch of space between them, elbows pressed to the tabletop, not onto the paper. She copied from the page exactly, "Exceeded Standard" copied as "Exceeded Standard," "photocopy" copied as "photocopy," not a word added anywhere, not a comment written. She reached "This report comprises six pages (including one attachment page)," and her pen stopped. She checked that line against the original twice, then a third time, her finger tracing the characters in the air above the paper.

Auntie Wang's voice sounded in her ear: the sixth page—if you find it, read it to me.

It wasn't here either.

She turned back past the index, looked over the blank form on the inside back cover once more, and the five pages again: there was not one word of her father's in this volume. He had chosen this file, placed the thing inside, and written nothing of himself, nor told anyone which volume he'd picked.

She turned on, past the defendant's stack, to the hearing record.

The first page was printed with the hearing's time, place, the names of the judge and court clerk, the parties present: the plaintiff himself had come, two people for the defendant. After that were printed questions and answers, each page signed at the bottom, signatures scrawled, no seals. In the plaintiff's statement section: he was still issuing reports on April 1, so that day he was still center director; removing him required a date. Requesting judgment ordering retroactive payment of the difference in post salary for the months after his removal.

The person on the defendant's bench, the record read "Authorized Agent, Section Chief of Qingyuan Company's Administration Office." His opinion was a single sentence: This report was never formally issued by the center, and is irrelevant to this case.

The judge's words were shorter still: Original examined in court, attached to file.

Elsewhere in the record was a passage asking when this report had been submitted to the court; the answer: the day of the hearing. She copied this line as well, nothing added after it.

Among the defendant's evidence was a removal decision, the date printed on it, earlier than April 1.

The court that day had asked only one thing: whether he had been the director that day. Which well the report described, whether it exceeded—no one in the record asked. In the "The Court Holds" section of the judgment, what was written was his status; the report's contents were not mentioned in a single word.

After that came the judgment, printed, dated September. The operative part: the defendant shall retroactively pay the plaintiff the difference in post salary for the months after his removal as center director. Behind the judgment was the proof of service, the signature column bearing his name, the same thin characters as his own hand.

She smoothed the hearing record page flat, then slid the index page over to compare page numbers—the two matched. She copied from the record, even copying the words "irrelevant to this case." When finished, she capped her pen and returned her hands to the table's edge.

"Door locks at 11:30," Comrade Chu said. "If you haven't finished, I'll give you another hour this afternoon."

She answered, okay. She read over the page she had copied, no additions, no alterations, and closed the notebook.

Her hand paused at the signature on the fifth page, not touching.

"Do you want copies?" Comrade Chu asked from the doorway.

"I do," she said.