Chapter 418: The Half of a Name Scratched Out

On the evening of June 23rd, the steam from the noodle shop rose through the gaps in the floorboards to the second floor. The window was open, and the wind that blew in was hot. Shen Zhixia spread Ge Xiaoyu's case file out on the desk: the original Mediation Order, the photocopy of the consent form mailed back on June 15th, the filing fee receipt, and the two pages of handwritten claims breakdown. She added a line to the file index, dated June 22nd, each character pressed into the center of its grid.

She went over the Mediation Order top to bottom: the 14,000 yuan line, copied correctly; the ten-day deadline below it; the last digits of the receiving account matching the string Chai Guizhi had given her; and at the end, the names of the judge and the court clerk, the court seal stamped over the text. She held the paper up to the window light to look at the seal—red pressing over the characters, the ring around the edge slightly faded. Before June 22nd, this piece of paper did not exist. Now it was in the file. What remained was waiting for the money.

The photocopier sat against the west wall. After switching it on, she had to wait a while before it condescended to work. She opened the Mediation Order and pressed it flat against the glass, page by page, paper emerging from the other end still hot from the machine. Two copies. One to give to Chai Guizhi tomorrow—the car would pass through Qingshi Village, and she could hand it over standing by the ditch; the other to put in an envelope and mail to Guangdong. Ge Changlin had typed the address out to her line by line on WeChat that day. She copied it into the grid and then checked the factory name and dormitory number against her phone one more time.

Li Huilan came out from the inner office to refill her water, saw three things spread out on Shen Zhixia's desk.

"Filed?"

"Filed."

"When the money arrives, add one more line to the file wrapper." Li Huilan stood there holding her cup. "If he doesn't pay within ten days, let me know. I'm free that afternoon."

"The labor contractor's watching him. Song Qiming's watching him too."

"More people watching than that." Li Huilan went back into the inner office.

The phone rang a little past six. Chai Guizhi.

"Little Shen, that paper... is it in the court's hands, or yours?"

"The original is in my hands, filed. The copy, I'll bring up the mountain tomorrow and give it to you by the ditch."

"By the ditch?" The old woman thought for a moment. "I'll go tomorrow and see where they've dug."

"Perfect. Bring your cloth bag. Fold the paper and tuck it inside—don't shove it into that old ledger by the rice jar."

"I'll take it home. Have Xiaoyu read it to me."

"Have Xiaoyu read slowly. When he gets to the line about the money, ask him: when does it arrive?" She kept her tone even. "The paper has a date. The money has an account. Both match, then it's done. If they don't, call me. Don't go ask the company yourself."

"I've got it." Chai Guizhi hung up. There was a rooster crowing on her end.

She went downstairs for noodles. Two people sat in front of the stove, the fan blowing across the cooktop. He Xiufen made her a small bowl, scallions on the spoon instead of scattered into the broth.

"I'm leaving early tomorrow," she said.

"Tomorrow's Qingshi Village run—am I going or not?" He Xiufen asked.

"You are. There's room in the car. Cai Qingru said four to a vehicle."

"Then I'll ask the neighbor to watch the stove for half the morning." He Xiufen tapped her ladle against the rim of the pot. "All those years your dad was going to Baixi Village, he'd come back and sit at this table eating noodles, not saying a word. I asked him how it was up there. He said the water's no good."

"He said that?"

"More than once. Back then I thought he was just pained for those people."

The water's no good. She turned the phrase over in her mind and didn't press further.

She finished the noodles, pushed the bowl toward the side by the door, said she was heading out. He Xiufen answered from the stove without looking up.

Home at 19:50. Zhi'an was at the living room desk doing his test papers, the lamp low, a bowl of mung bean soup gone cold on the table.

"Sis, have some soup."

"Did you have any?"

"Two bowls."

She hung her bag on the back of a chair and walked to the stack of notebooks at the corner of the desk. Nine volumes stacked together, the first one still wrapped in those two sheets of old newspaper. Counting from the top, she pulled out Volume Eight and flipped to the page dated March 22nd.

At the top of the page, a date, the time after it, written smaller. Below it, the first word: Pump House. Then that night. Then the question and answer, and the last line: "He was afraid to say. No name written." The whole page had not a single surname on it, and there was no "see volume so-and-so" note in the margin. That was how her father kept notes—everything he saw, everything he heard, onto paper. Only who that person was, he kept in his head, and when the man was gone, it went with him.

She pressed her hand on the page and worked out the timeline. The night of the 20th, the boxes were sealed and the samples spent a night at the village committee; the morning of the 21st, they were taken away and sent to Qingyuan; the 22nd, he'd gone back to the village and walked to the pump house to ask. Three days in all.

She pulled the hardcover notebook out from under the stack. The cover was worn pale, one corner beginning to lift. On the title page was her father's name, and beneath it a line: "Evidence speaks for itself." She turned to the Baixi Village section: visit forms line by line—how many in each household, where the well was, when the water first turned cloudy. In the name column, some lines were filled, some empty; then came the sample receipt numbers, first batch copied up to the third, the writing denser with every line. That name sat in the middle, a stroke of the pen dragged down through it, and halfway down, the line veered back, leaving a ridge pressing through the back of the paper.

Only the left half remained, like the head of a character.

Two fingers pressed into that ridge, she traced it from top to bottom. The pencil was right there at hand. She picked it up, then set it back down.

She counted the blank spaces in the name column on that page: more than one. Her father had a habit when taking notes—if someone was asked and refused to say, their name column stayed blank, and beside it, a line of small script explaining why the person wouldn't talk. This time, beside the blank there was only one line of small script: He was afraid to say. Why he was afraid was not written. That stroke of the pen had lifted the whole person out of the page. Behind the village committee there was a row of houses. An old man always has a home, and the home was in that row. Her father put the pump house on paper to leave her the place; he took the name away because, back then, the name had never dared to land on paper at all.

She thought of the "still don't know" column in her own notebook. The first item was where page six was; the second had a checkmark, annotated "Volume Eight, March 22nd, asked"; the third was written in pencil: who was the old man at the pump house? She'd looked at those lines and left them alone. Once she met him, that line might get scratched out.

She opened the notebook. The entries written that night on the 20th were still there, a few lines empty beneath them. In the blank space she started a new line: First, ask about the row behind the village committee, ask about the people who used to watch the water at the pump house in the early years.

She wrote it, looked at it for a while, then, copying the way her father had written on the night before the hearing, she wrote "Questions to ask."

1. Who was in the village that night.

2. That night, did any cars come to the village.

3. What did my dad come to ask you.

4. Are you willing to talk.

After writing the four lines, she scratched out the second and rewrote below: That night, what was there to hear outside.

The scratched-out line held the answer she wanted. Beside it she added a small note: In asking, don't answer for him.

She set down the pen and thought through how to stand at the door tomorrow. A young woman on the stone steps, saying her surname was Shen—the door would mostly likely stay shut. A different person knocking, the door opens differently. She picked up her phone and checked the time: still a quarter to nine.

Zhi'an finished a page and shook out his test paper. "Sis, going up the mountain tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Coming back when?"

"Before dark."

"Is Auntie He going?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm keeping my mouth shut this time." He folded the test paper. "Last time I said I'd go with you, you said I had school. This time I won't ask."

"The congee?"

"It's on. Water boils, I turn it to low. When you get back, I'll reheat."

"I'll let myself in before ten. Don't wait up."

At 21:00, she dialed He Xiufen's number. It rang twice and connected. Water running on the other end, dishes clinking together.

"Director He, tomorrow I'm going up to Baixi Village to find an old man. Are you coming with us?"

The water stopped.

"I'm coming," He Xiufen said. "Old people recognize old people."

"After we look at the ditch, Cai Qingru'll drive us. About twenty minutes to the village entrance."

"What time is she picking us up?"

"She said before one-thirty. She'll turn around at the clearing by the village entrance."

"Then we'll still make it back to the city for dinner." He Xiufen said, "Who are you looking for?"

"Someone who used to watch the pump house behind the village committee in the early years. I don't know the surname yet."

"You can ask around in the village," He Xiufen said. "Anyone over seventy, ask one, and they'll know. Don't ask 'does anyone know?'—ask 'do you recognize him?' Ask straight, get a straight answer."

"Got it."

"I'll bring two bundles of dried noodles."

"What for?"

"Arriving empty-handed, the door won't open." He Xiufen said, "Dried noodles don't count as a gift. If he accepts them, no debt incurred. If he won't take them, leave them on the stone stool by the door, and make the trip again next time."

"Alright."

She paused: "Director He, what if the door doesn't open the first visit?"

"Then the next visit," He Xiufen said. "Let that thought settle first, so you don't end up standing at the door in a panic. An old man's door—whether it opens isn't up to you."

"I understand."

"You don't call that understanding. You call that having your head on straight." He Xiufen turned the water off. "I'll bring lunch. Don't buy anything. There's nowhere to buy water up the mountain."

"Director He."

"Yeah."

"Lawyer Lu will be in Qingshi Village tomorrow. He'll write up the record."

"I know. Cai Qingru told me."

"He knows I'm going up."

"You tell him?"

"No."

"Then say nothing." He Xiufen said, "You go up. I do what I do. If he asks, I answer. If he doesn't ask, I don't bring it up. Wear the thick-soled shoes. The stone steps grow moss."

After hanging up, she set the phone beside the notebook and turned back to the four questions, drawing a line under the last one. This trip she hadn't gone to the firm to get a letter. Going to identify a man—no letter needed.

She ticked through what to bring: the notebook, two pens, water, money. Not the hardcover notebook, not Volume Eight—she was going up the mountain to ask about a person. The paper stayed home.

She closed the hardcover notebook and pressed it down under Volume Eight. That half of a name was pressed beneath the paper, out of sight. She crouched down and set tomorrow's shoes by the door, flipped one over to look at the tread, then turned it back.

The living room light was off, the window still open. From the alley came the sound of someone pushing a handcart past, iron parts knocking twice, then fading.

Tomorrow morning, seven o'clock, at the mouth of the alley.